After that it got quite exciting.
Eventually the War Game ran out of time with no definite result, just at the point when the Soviet Pacific Fleet had begun to bombard Los Angeles. The officers went back to their duties. Leppard thanked Skull for taking part.
“I didn’t do much, I’m afraid. Photo-reconnaissance missions, mainly.”
“But your information was invaluable.”
“Was it? I’m not sure your chaps trusted my chaps. Nothing goes as planned, does it? Violence begets violence which begets a nasty surprise all round. Rule one of war.”
“Uh-huh. Still, it made the guys think.”
“And a very painful experience it was,” Skull said. “Thinking hurts. Bombing, on the other hand, is fun. Nuclear bombing is the most enormous fun.”
“How about a drink?” Leppard said.
Freddy had been right: Sunday lunch at the Redmans’ was good. It left Silk feeling relaxed, a little sleepy.
Freddy got out the deckchairs. “I’m sorry Zoë couldn’t join us,” he said.
“Yes. Bad luck. Sends her love, and all that.”
“Very active, I see.”
“Non-stop. I’m told she’s good on television. I can’t keep track of her. She racks up more flying time than I do, probably.” He laughed, briefly, just to show it didn’t matter.
“But you’re still together,” Freddy said. “That’s the main thing.”
“Thanks to you, pal. You got me posted to 409, didn’t you?”
“It was an obvious move. No. I’ll be honest. It was an obvious move then, before Zoë… well, you know.”
“I know. I’ve dropped you in the clag, haven’t I?”
“It’s nothing you’ve done, old chap. Everyone’s got absolute confidence in you. But…”
“But I’m an embarrassment. Life at Air Ministry would be easier if I quietly vanished. You don’t want to lose a Vulcan, not at that price, but if I wrapped the Citroën around a tree, a sturdy English oak, that would solve a big problem.” Silk waved away a wasp. “Remember Black Mac? Armaments Officer on 409 in, when was it, ’41? Nasty piece of work. We used to say why doesn’t Black Mac do us all a favour and kill himself.”
“Yes. It was an accident during bombing-up, wasn’t it?”
“Hell of a bang. He never felt a thing. Sandbags in the coffin.”
“Nobody wants you to get killed, Silko, but we’re in a very delicate situation. Suppose we found that another Vulcan pilot was regularly attending CND meetings. That’s dodgy. That’s something to worry about. See what I mean?”
“Zoë’s brainwashing me. Is that it?”
“You tell me. Do you discuss nuclear war over the breakfast table?”
“She does. I stonewall.” The wasp was back. “This little bastard’s in love with me. Shoo! Go and sting Freddy.” He flapped his handkerchief. “She’s very well-informed.”
“Westminster leaks secrets like a rusty bucket.”
“I’ll tell you what. If it’s a matter of national survival, I’ll kill Zoë for you.”
“Not a funny joke, Silko.”
“Who’s joking? If it’s a matter of national survival, you expect me to kill myself. When the battle begins, we just might hit our target. And then? No turning back. We shan’t see England again. Nothing to see. All the Vulcans will go down, one way or another. And Zoë didn’t tell me that. I worked it out.”
“Disagree. Too pessimistic.”
“Relax. It doesn’t matter. I’d still make the trip, just for fun, just to see what a basket of sunshine really looks like when it takes out a city. We all owe God a death. Who said that? I don’t care. It’s true.”
Freddy rolled up a newspaper, swung hard and missed. “People have been killed by a sting,” he said. “Obviously this little bastard has been briefed to see you in hell.”
Zoë’s office phoned Freddy’s office and between them they agreed on lunch at the House of Commons.
They swapped the usual smiles and chit-chat, and ordered food, and she said: “An American pilot spent twenty-four hours as my guest at The Grange and by the following day he’d been shunted back to the States. What’s the game, Freddy?”
“I’ve no idea.” He snapped a breadstick. “It’s rather flattering, though, isn’t it? I mean, if the US Air Force thinks you’re so dangerous?”
“You could find out.” Just a suggestion. Not a challenge.
“They’ll tell me it was a routine posting.”
“And you know that’s all balls. Are you planning on giving Silko a routine posting soon? Since I’m so dangerous, I mean.”
“Ah, there’s no escaping you, Zoë. I saw you on television last night. What was all that about Blue Steel’s design problems? Made my flesh creep, you did.”
She leaned forward, and so did he. “You know I’ve signed the Act, Freddy,” she whispered. “I get my information on a need-to-know basis. If you don’t know already, then I can’t tell you, can I? That’s how the system works.”
He straightened up. “And where do you get your information?”
“I make it up, Freddy,” she said. “And if you quote me on that I shall deny it.” Waiters arrived.
“I seem to be in rather a hopeless position,” Freddy said.
“That’s what CND has been telling you for months,” she said. With a smile.
BANG SEATS
409 trained hard, and Silk saw nothing of The Grange for a week; until Quinlan’s crew got sent to bomb Rockall.
This was a lump of granite too small for anything bigger than a seagull to land on, and even a gull might get washed off by a sudden swell. It was about 180 miles west of the Outer Hebrides, which were the nearest landmark. Elsewhere was all Atlantic. Bombing Rockall was a test of navigation. The mock-attack was with a free-fall nuclear bomb, not a Blue Steel, so they would go all the way.
They flew to Land’s End and then north-west around Ireland and north to the Hebrides. From top to bottom, the chain of islands diminished in size; it looked something like the skeleton of a dinosaur’s tail. From fifty thousand feet, Tucker got excellent radar pictures. The Vulcan’s navigation and bombing system was computerised. It led them to Rockall and opened the bomb bay door and, in theory, left an area of boiling sea and a million blind sea birds.
The rest of the exercise was routine. They flew around the north of Scotland and down into the North Sea, losing height to thirty-five thousand. Four Hunter jets intercepted them and Quinlan enjoyed twenty minutes of what was known as fighter affiliation: the Hunters failed to destroy the Vulcan because it could out-turn, out-run and out-climb them all. Then home to Kindrick. Quinlan gave Silk the controls. It was an almost perfect landing. The Vulcan floated down the runway, gradually losing the cushion of air under its vast wings, until the main wheels touched and ran, the nose wheel felt for the ground and found it and ran, and the aeroplane was slowing nicely when the nose-wheel tyre burst. Shredded rubber got flung aside like dung from a muckspreader. Briefly the wheel rim ran on concrete, spraying sparks. The cockpit vibrated so hard that the instrument panel was a blur. Then the wheel strut quit, folded, collapsed, and the Vulcan fell on its nose and skidded, spitting out bits of fuselage. It skidded a long way. When it stopped, the pilots were leaning forward into their straps, looking at the runway. Silk had killed the engines. Everything was very quiet.
“How are the boys in the back room?” Quinlan asked.