Derek Robinson - Hullo Russia, Goodbye England

“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.”

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…”

He picked up a clipboard, glanced at the page, put it down. Nice bit of theatre , Silk thought. Make ‘em wait, make ‘em think .

“Times change, and we change with them,” Pulvertaft said. “Your Vulcan was designed to fly too high and too fast for enemy air defences, and it did. Now their defences have caught up and that superiority has gone. We can no longer fly above the enemy’s reach. Therefore it has been decided that you shall fly beneath it.”

That stirred them. Pulvertaft allowed the rumble of comment to fade, and said, “Here it is in simple English. You will fly at height to the point of detection, then dive to extreme low level and make your entry below their radar coverage, release your stand-off weapon, and climb to maximum height to exit the area. High-low-high. The Operations Officer will explain more fully.”

This he did, and answered questions. What everyone wanted to know was how low was extreme low level. “Certainly below five hundred feet,” he said. “Possibly much lower.” And where would low-flying training take place? “I can’t yet say. Canada and Arizona have been mentioned.” Any further questions? None. Everyone wanted lunch.

Silk’s crew were standing around, outside the mess, talking about High-Low-High, wondering how fast a Vulcan could dive from say fifty thou to five hundred without ripping the wings off, when the adjutant came over and introduced Flying Officer Young. “Your co-pilot during Mr Quinlan’s paternity leave,” he explained, and went away.

“Too bloody young,” Tucker said.

“That’s what passes for a joke around here,” Silk said. “On the other hand, you don’t look terribly old.”

“Thirty-two. Married, with children. The usual story.”

“Another damn Scotsman,” Hallett muttered.

“Young isn’t a very Scottish name,” Silk said.

“I’m a MacAskill on my mother’s side. Part of the clan McLeod, from the Isle of Skye, originally.”

“Hope you can play bridge,” Dando said. “We need a fourth.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” Nobody spoke. The crew had lost its Combat status when Quinlan left. Not Young’s fault, but to them he represented bad luck. He felt the need to say something, to justify himself. “Mountaineering is my thing. I’ve climbed all the good peaks in Scotland.”

“What a shame,” Silk said. “We’ll be going into Russia at extreme low level, very boring for you. Bring a good book.”

Zoë telephoned. She was at The Grange, come and have dinner. A rare occasion nowadays. Not to be missed.

When Silk parked the Citroën, Stevens was waiting at the front door. “Remember me?” Silk said. “I’m still the under-husband.”

“Mrs Monk’s bull terrier is no more, sir. Chased a rabbit, collapsed. A noble death.”

“Did Tess tell you that? She’s a pathological liar. I saw her dead husband cleaning her windows.”

“Almost true. An exchange was arranged. One shop-soiled Polish agent was traded for Mr Monk. He’d been in an East German jail for seven years.”

“Tess married a spy? The windowcleaner was a spook? I find that very hard to believe.”

“Good,” Stevens said. “That makes it all the easier to forget.” He held the door open for Silk to go in. “Along with Wing Commander Skelton, of course.”

Silk took off his hat, spun it on his finger, put it on backwards. “I’m sick of your bloody silly hints and riddles. Either speak up or go to hell.”

“Nothing is worse than being wrong,” Stevens said, “except being right.”

Silk headed for the stairs. “I need a drink. I need a bucket of booze.”

Zoë was alone and happy to see him, and still capable of giving his pulse a kick. Dinner was good. Nobody mentioned politics or Cuba or CND. Mostly they talked about things they had enjoyed together, in years past: trips, theatres, films, friends. Beds. All the dozens of different beds they had shared. “I notice you haven’t included the punt.” He said.

“I never got bedded in the punt.”

“That day on the river at Cambridge… If I’d agreed, would you really have…”

“Yes.”

He frowned as he pictured the scene. “Not a helpful setting.”

“But that was the whole point of it, darling. We’d have drifted into midstream and collided with dozens of other punts and probably capsized and got arrested for indecent exposure. All quite absurd, I agree, but… there was a reason. I had a wild idea that some gloriously scandalous romp would buck up our marriage, and if it failed, at least it would be an afternoon to remember. I’m going to Seattle, Silko.”