A split-screen shot on the television showed a Muslim cleric leading prayers with a group of senior Alliance officers, and a Free Orthodox ceremony in a church with a black-bearded archbishop. It dissolved into the deck of a warship, where Pope Clement was bestowing benedictions in his brisk fashion on the assembled ranks of the crew. On the continent the Ecumenical Church had more of a Catholic flavour.
“A studio backdrop,” Legister observed wryly. “They’ve rather overdone the seagulls, don’t you think?”
“And me?” Owain said angrily. “What classification do I have?”
Legister didn’t even hesitate. “Verdächtig” he said.
It meant “Under Suspicion”. I was scarcely surprised.
The cabin door opened again, and this time a quartet of Sir Gruffydd’s personal guard entered. The pick of the commando squadrons. We were escorted along the corridor to the front of the aircraft.
A large cabin directly behind the flight deck was crowded with personnel from MPs to braided officers in grey khaki, navy and slate blue. It had an atmosphere that I could only think of as festive. People stood talking in small groups, holding glasses of wine as if at a party. Almost half of them were women, including a high proportion of non-combatants who wore military style jackets and leggings as though to blend in.
Owain’s uncle was perched on a collapsible stool next to one of the truss arches, talking to Henry Knowlton, who was wearing his old air marshal’s uniform. Stradling, Giselle and Rhys surrounded him, all with drinks in their hands. Rhys looked especially animated as he conducted a one-way conversation with Giselle.
“It would appear,” Legister said beside me, “that we’ve been invited to the première.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Above the door to the flight deck were mounted three screens, showing similar scenes to those we had seen earlier. No one was paying them particular attention. One of Sir Gruffydd’s guards detached Owain from Legister and Marisa and ushered us through the crowd. I glanced back, certain that Owain would have no further opportunity to speak to Marisa. Another of the guards was speaking to her. She looked frightened.
“Owain!” my uncle said heartily on our approach, rising from his stool. He reached out to grasp Owain’s epaulette and draw him properly into his circle.
“All clear, is it now, my boy?”
This last was spoken in Welsh. Had he anticipated what Legister was going to say? Had he been eavesdropping?
I let Owain nod and said, “The fog has lifte.”
Doubtless he’d guessed the likely outcome of putting Legister into the same room but hadn’t bothered to listen in. Too busy with more important matters. Didn’t view it as troublesome now that Owain was restored to his senses.
“Have to face up to the grim realities,” Sir Gruffydd said, this time in English. “Only way for it, eh? No matter how painful.”
So he had known. Had perhaps deliberately arranged it. As another test of Owain’s mettle.
Owain stifled an urge to salute. “Sir.”
“Here,” Sir Gruffydd said, lifting a wineglass from the tray of a passing waitress and thrusting it at us. “Take a drink. And for God’s sake don’t tell me you’ve sworn off alcohol again. Down your gullet. You’ve earned it.”
It was the same stewardess who’d come to the cabin earlier. She barely paused in her stride. Knowlton stared after her approvingly.
“The gang’s all here!” Rhys said with a brittle schoolboy enthusiasm. He raised his glass. “Happy centenary, uncle!”
“You cheeky devil!” the field marshal replied jovially, giving him a pantomime swipe that he easily dodged.
Rhys didn’t know the true story about their father’s death. Or he had been told and didn’t care. Everyone else was grinning, though Giselle had turned a shoulder away.
“The real balloon’11 be going up soon enough,” the field marshal said, subsiding back on to his stool. “Fortunate to have everyone on hand.”
He plainly meant his family. The three of us. Possibly Giselle as well, even though she was no blood relation.
It occurred to Owain that they might prove to be the last of his line. Rhys was only ever likely to become a father by making a donation to a Future Youth clinic, while Owain saw no prospect of having a family life again. His uncle might have his victory, but his bloodline would become extinct.
Across the room Legister and Marisa had been seated against the corridor wall near the door, still under discreet guard. No one was speaking to them, though the minister must have known most people in the room. Legister still looked quite contained, almost serene, given that his own hopes had also been thwarted: but he never showed great emotion. Marisa’s face was hidden behind the crooked arm of a rear-admiral, one of the navy representatives on the JGC. Other Council members would doubtless be aboard different aircraft to spread the risk, more or less immune to retaliatory missile attacks. And elsewhere across the skies of Europe, perhaps scores of aircraft would be keeping continental leaders aloft.
What would happen, I began to wonder, if the Americans had a miracle weapon ir own? A giant laser or ray that could make all the craft drop from the sky under the rapid sweep of its beam? Sending the entire upper echelon of the Alliance command crashing to earth? What then? It was a measure of the surreal atmosphere that I was able to contemplate such abstractions without finding them in any way fanciful.
I became aware that the conversations in the cabin had grown gradually more muted. There was a tinkling sound of metal on glass.
It was Sir Gruffydd, who had risen again and was tapping a teaspoon against an empty champagne flute.
“Officers and gentlemen and those of uncertain pedigree,” he began, pausing when the predictable spate of laughter ensued. “We are gathered here today to witness—no, damn it, I’m reading from the wrong script again.”
He tossed an imaginary sheet of paper aside to more laughter. It came easily enough, like a collective release of tension, and subsided just as swiftly.
The field marshal now studiously composed himself, his face taking on a solemn air.
“I want to tell you of the grave and pressing dangers we confront,” he began. “The United States and its subject dominions have been pursuing a vigorous campaign of territorial encroachment along our borders and spheres of influence. Protracted high-level negotiations have failed to resolve these issues—indeed, they’ve served only to buy more time to intensify their operations. All our appeals for moderation and plain talking have fallen on unreceptive ears.
He paused and motioned to Giselle, who promptly passed him his walking stick. He leaned on it with both hands but remained straight-backed, conveying a sense of someone physically burdened but not bowed by the weight of his responsibilities.
“The Americans have recently developed what they term ECO—Earth Cleaving Ordnance, better known to us as DPMs. These missiles, launched from submarines or high altitude bombers, can deliver nuclear charges at sufficient depth to underground sites to destroy them completely. They are instruments of an offensive war, intended to destroy our subterranean command-and-control complexes both at home and on the continent. Which is why, ladies and gentlemen, we’re presently up here and not down there.”
There was the merest flurry of laughter, another exhalation of relief. Sir Gruffydd conspicuously showed no humour.
“We pointed out to the Americans that these weapons are in breach of our most recent arms restriction treaty, which forbids development of any new nuclear devices. I have to tell you that they were implacable, claiming that the weapons were not new but merely a refinement of existing technology. This is not a view we were able to share. It is essential we take measures to protect ourselves.”