Derek Robinson - Hullo Russia, Goodbye England

For twenty minutes, Silk jinked the Vulcan from side to side. Working the throttles was a crude alternative to using the flying controls but it was all he had. Tucker second-guessed a MiG’s attack, Silk dodged its fire. The fighter had to stay level and steady in order to hold its target. The swerving Vulcan flung back a stormy wake of air. Such flying was heavy on fuel. One by one, the MiGs gave up.

“Next time they’ll collide,” Silk said. “With me, I mean.”

Skull said nothing. Constant swaying and wallowing had made him sick. He had filled his handkerchief and it lay on his lap, soaking into his trousers.

“We’re off track,” Hallett said.

“And somebody down there loves us,” Dando said. “We’re radar-illuminated. Maximum jamming now.”

The jammers were electronic but they generated a range of sounds. Some whined, some crackled, some bleeped. The crew welcomed them as signs that the gear was working. Skull’s head throbbed from his vomiting. One particular jammer made a furious, metallic tearing noise, like a train coming off the tracks. Skull’s jaws ached. The racket climbed to a screech, almost a whistle, sank and climbed again: a fire siren gone berserk. Simultaneously a mob with hammers was smashing glass, enormous sheets of glass that boomed as they shattered. The mob fought the train wreck. Skull took off his headphones. “No!” he cried. “Madhouse!” He ripped off his eyepatch.

“Put that bloody thing on,” Silk ordered.

“Go to hell.” Skull tried to undo his seat belt and failed. His hands were shaking too much.

“Sit down. Shut up. You’re a crew member. Act like one.”

“You maniacs can…” Now his head was shaking. At last he got the belt undone, tried to stand, remembered his vomit-filled handkerchief and grabbed it just as Silk’s fist hit him in the mouth and knocked him sideways. The loaded handkerchief fell behind his seat. There was a modest bang and all the lights went out.

“Trust you to hit the fusebox,” Silk said. “And you owe me a fiver.”

It was only a split lip, but rank has it privileges and the Senior MO himself examined Skull, while a medic discreetly wiped away the evidence of vomit. No stitches were necessary. A strip of plaster, two aspirin. Avoid alcohol. Get some rest.

Silk walked him to his quarters. “You forgot to do the debriefing,” he said.

“Who cares? It was just a damnfool trip in a simulator.”

“Of course it was. Still, you got quite excited, didn’t you? Pity it had to be cut short. Tell you what: let’s do it again tomorrow, double or quits, how about that?”

Skull tried to kick him, but Silk dodged. Skull was looking ill: white about the chops, strained about the eyes. “You were always a rotter, Silk,” he said, “but now you’re an utter shit.”

Silk gave a grunt of surprise. He had never heard Skull use that word before. “Right first time,” he said. “It’s a shitty job, so it takes an utter shit to do it.”

“You flatter yourself. Scrambling a Vulcan on QRA isn’t a job, it’s a charade, it never makes a damn bit of difference, because nobody’s going to drop the bloody bomb. You’re getting paid to be frightened, like the Soviets, it’s a balance of terror. Where’s the war in the Cold War? Doesn’t exist. Can’t exist. So – no glory, no victory. Just a perpetual output of fear. What a monumental waste.” The plaster had fallen off, and Skull’s lip was bleeding.

The late afternoon had turned grey and cold. RAF Kindrick looked dull and functional. Well, RAF airfields were not made to look thrilling. Silk decided to spend the night at The Grange. No point in being married to a five-star heiress unless you drank her claret from time to time. He changed into his best uniform, and as he walked to the Citroën he met the rear crew. All three.

“Hullo!” Hallett said. “No cello?”

“I met a Polish vicar who tried to blackmail me for gross moral turpitude,” Silk said, “and a passing spy brained him with the cello.” He kept walking.

“So don’t tell us,” Dando called. “See if we care.”

He drove through the Lincolnshire countryside, now starting to lose its leaves. Skull’s profanity stuck in his mind. He’d have given long odds against that ever happening. Maybe the poor sod was losing his grip.

Stevens came out to meet him.

“Don’t say anything,” Silk said. “The queen is in the parlour, eating bread and honey.”

“Her ladyship is in the gazebo, sir, for which there is no rhyme in the English lexicon.”

“I bet there’s no rhyme for ‘lexicon’, either.”

“Try ‘Mexican’, sir.”

Silk headed off, then stopped and came back. “Talking of Mexicans,” he said, “what happened to the Pole?”

“He’s in limbo, sir.”

“I see. Dead or alive?”

“Does it matter?”

Silk set off again, in no hurry, wondering what he would do if Zoë punched him in the eye or, worse yet, started crying. It was a woman’s secret weapon, sobbing and weeping. He had no defence against sobbing and weeping. A double DFC was no bloody use against sobbing and weeping. He ran up the gazebo steps in order to get it over with quickly, and she smiled, gave him a hug and a good kiss. “I should have knocked,” he said. “You might have been up to no good with the American piano-player.”

“Not impossible. He’s great fun.” She had been writing. She scooped up the pages.

“Sounds ominous. Don’t tell me –”

“Tell you? I shan’t tell you, Silko.” She slid the pages into a briefcase. “If I decide to have a fling with someone, I certainly shan’t consult you first.” He felt as if a large stone was settling in his gut. “You didn’t ask my permission,” she said. “That would have been a very peculiar conversation, wouldn’t it?”

“I didn’t know it was going to happen. Anyway, you told me to have a hobby.” He looked at the bed. After a long, hard day defending the realm, surely he deserved a reward.

“Listen here,” Zoë said. “You must understand that you matter more to me than anyone. I hate mountains. They frighten me. I would climb any mountain to save you. You alone. We had some lovely years when we were in love, and young, and lust conquered all. We’re not in love now. I’m very fond of you, but given the choice between a day in politics and a day with Silko, I’ll take politics every time. Now beat it. I’ve got a load of letters to answer and a train to catch.” She kissed him, very thoroughly, and pointed to the door.

After that, he didn’t want her claret. He drove to Tess Monk’s farmhouse instead.

A man was washing the windows, a thin chap with not much hair. He didn’t look around when the car stopped. Silk sat and watched; there was nowhere else he wanted to go.

After a while Tess came out. He wound his window down. “Please buzz off,” she said.

“He’s making a rotten job of it,” Silk said. “I can see the streaks from here.”

“I’ll set the dog on you.”

“Dog’s asleep. I can hear him drooling. Or have you left a tap running? Who is this bloke, anyway? He’s obviously not a window cleaner.”

She ran a finger along the line of his jaw. “Clean-cut. It’s the only clean thing about you, Silko. Everything else is corkscrew. Well, this is straightforward. He’s my husband. Just out of prison.”

“You said he was dead.”

“Did I? Must have got that wrong.”

“Drunk, drove too fast, crashed, you told me.”

“You looked as if you wanted to know.”

“Prison… What was he in for?”

“Fornication on Sundays.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“Then don’t tell him. You’ll break his heart.” She reached in and turned the ignition key, and tweaked his ear and walked away.