“You’d show them everything,” Freddy said.
“I’d have a Soviet general living on every bomber base. No secrets, no misunderstandings, no doubt in anybody’s mind about what would happen if.”
“Interesting.”
“Secrecy isn’t a weapon. We don’t want the enemy to guess what we’ve got. He might guess wrongly.”
“Life is a lottery,” Silk said. “Take my wife…”
“Let’s be specific,” Freddy said. “The QRA system: you’d tell the Soviets how that works?”
“They know already,” Skull said. “How many bomber fields have main roads running past them? Anyone with a stop watch can time the scrambles. We want them to know.”
They had reached a line of Vulcans. “Magnificent beasts,” Freddy murmured. “You chaps don’t know how lucky you are…” He walked to the nose of the first bomber and enjoyed the great sweep of the wings. “Incomparable,” he said. “Destined for the scrap-heap all too soon, I’m afraid.”
Silk was chewing the inside of his lower lip. His teeth nipped the skin. “Scrap-heap?” He tasted warm and salty blood. “Don’t be bloody silly, Freddy.”
“No joke, old chap. Vulcans were made to fly so high and so fast that they were untouchable. No longer. Soon you’ll switch to low-level attacks. Probably high-low-high: high approach, go low to slide under the radar and release Blue Steel, then high, lickety-split.”
“Under the radar,” Silk said. “Christ Almighty. They’ll be chucking vodka bottles at us.”
“Gary Powers was ten thousand feet higher than you when they clobbered his U2. And that was two years ago.”
“Exactly,” Skull said. There was a note of triumph in his voice. “The Soviets demonstrated their deterrent power, so we took them seriously. That’s how deterrence stops wars!” He tried to kick a dandelion and missed.
“Nobody’s going to scrap the Vulcan,” Silk said. “It’s a winner. How can you scrap a winner?”
“I’ll tell you how,” Freddy said. “The oxy-acetylene cutters burn through the wing roots and the wings hit the concrete with a bang that breaks your heart. Now let’s eat before you pair destroy my appetite entirely.”
“If you scrap the Vulcan we bloody well deserve to lose.”
They sat on the grass and worked their way through the sandwiches. Nobody spoke.
Freddy lay on his back and watched a highflying buzzard make large, slow circles. Silk chewed a toothpick to tatters. Skull found himself thinking about his pension, felt slightly ashamed for not worrying about Cuba, then felt annoyed. He’d earned a pension, hadn’t he?
“In an ideal world, Skull,” Freddy said, “life would be a damn sight easier without secrets between us and Moscow.”
“But,” Skull said. “Here comes but.”
“Their bombers aren’t a patch on the Vulcan,” Silk said. “That’s no secret.”
“But it’s not an ideal world. And one reason we’ve got to keep our defences secret is the famous four-minute warning. In itself it’s fine, we’d certainly get four minutes’ notice of an attack. But how many Vulcans could respond?”
“QRA works,” Skull said. “Airborne in under two minutes.”
“And how long does it take to prepare the kites?”
“Hours and bloody hours,” Silk said. “Fourteen fuel tanks to fill, pre-flight checks. Make the sandwiches, Hoover the carpet. Then you’ve still got to kick the tyres.”
“And remember Blue Steel,” Freddy said. “A couple of hours’ work there. That HTP: nasty stuff. Can’t be rushed.”
“There’s two hundred and thirty gold studs connecting the weapon to the bomber,” Silk said. “Bugger-up one connection and the whole thunderbox has to come off and start again.”
“Well done, Silko,” Freddy said. “Full marks.”
“I read it in Woman’s Own. Very hot on stand-off missiles, they are.”
“We’ve still got loads of Thor missiles,” Skull said. “Thors never sleep.”
“But they can’t be kept in immediate firing condition day and night,” Freddy said. “The fuel is very volatile, liquid oxygen, it leaks out, you’ve got to keep topping it up. Face it: Thors or Vulcans, the unhappy fact is that if we want to retaliate effectively, we must have several hours’ warning first. Not a secret we’re about to tell the Soviets, is it?”
“We’re all doomed. Well done, Freddy,” Silk said. “Drinks on you.”
“Far from it, old chap. You see, that’s not the whole story. We assume that any nuclear strike would be preceded by a state of mounting international tension.”
“That ran off the tongue very smoothly,” Skull said.
“Did it? I’ve read it so often, in strategic planning papers. Written it, too. State of Mounting International Tension: SMIT. Acronyms rule the world nowadays.”
“Is this Cuban thing a SMIT?” Silk asked.
“Definitely. It’s given us the breathing space we need to put all our defences on high alert.”
“So Kruschev won’t attack now,” Skull said.
“Worst possible option,” Freddy said. “He may be pugnacious but he’s not suicidal.”
“You sure he knows about SMIT?” Silk asked. “I mean, if Skull’s right, shouldn’t we tell Kruschev this is a bad time to blow up the world?”
“Now you’re being facetious,” Freddy said.
“Am I?” Silk looked at Skull. “Don’t just sit there. Have a brainstorm. Have two.”
Skull pointed a bony finger at Freddy. “We need a SMIT to give us the essential time to prepare. Yes?”
“Correct.”
“And a Soviet leader would have to be a maniac to order a first strike during a SMIT.”
“A very stupid maniac.”
“Therefore it follows that an intelligent maniac would strike when there is no diplomatic crisis? No SMIT? A bolt from the blue?”
“Why would he do that?”
“Silly question,” Silk said. “He’s a maniac. He can do what he likes.”
“World leaders aren’t maniacs,” Freddy said. “Nuclear war kills everyone.”
“Maniacs don’t think they’re maniacs,” Silk said. “Maniacs believe they’re doing God’s work.”
They walked back along the perimeter track. “Puts the whole silly nonsense in perspective, doesn’t it?” Skull said.
“They can’t scrap the Vulcan,” Silk said. “Unthinkable.”
A SCANDALOUS ROMP
Soon the Cuban Crisis ended. Kruschev agreed to remove his ballistic missiles and Kennedy pledged not to invade or attack the island. Secretly, he also promised to take all the American Jupiter missiles out of Turkey. So: no World War Three this year. Air Force General Curtis LeMay was furious: he believed Kennedy had missed a wonderful opportunity to destroy Communism. The rest of the world stopped holding its breath and got on with its life. This included Squadron Leader Quinlan’s pregnant wife, who showed signs of premature delivery; very premature. She telephoned Kindrick late at night. Quinlan was granted compassionate leave and was gone by midnight. Next morning, the CO stopped Silk as he went into breakfast. “You’re acting captain,” he said. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
All the crews gathered in the biggest room in the Operations Block, on orders from the station commander. Must be something big.
“One or two impetuous newspapers have announced the phasing-out of the Vulcan,” Pulvertaft said. “I can tell you that news of its death has been considerably exaggerated. The Vulcan will be part of Britain’s front-line defence for some time to come. Missiles are all well and good, but no missile can do what every manned bomber can do, and that is take orders in flight from commanders on the ground. So your role in the Vulcan will always remain unique. However…”