Derek Robinson - Hullo Russia, Goodbye England

Silk did Suilven in eight minutes.

After that he did the An Teallach range, wandered around the coast and did the Beinn Alligin ridge, hopped over Wester Ross and stooged down Loch Carron and up Loch Alsh, frightening the yachtsmen, and did the Five Sisters of Kintail.

“I don’t want to spoil your fun, skip,” Hallet said, “but this ultra-low-level stuff must be drinking our fuel like there’s no tomorrow.”

“Glencoe,” Silk said. “Can’t leave out Glencoe.”

“You do Glencoe,” Dando said, “and we might not reach Kindrick.”

“Glencoe tops are probably fogged in,” Young said. “They often are.”

Silk took the Vulcan up to three thousand. “You drive,” he said. “I’m knackered.”

“Steer one-six-five,” Hallett said.

The identification letters and numbers on the fin of the aircraft were easily readable. Bird watchers on Ben Strome had binoculars; they looked down on Silk’s Vulcan thundering past and abandoned any hope of seeing snow buntings, peregrine falcons, greenshank or golden eagle. They scrambled down the slopes and looked for a telephone. Theirs was one of a stream of complaints that reached Air Ministry.

While the Vulcan was still cruising south, Freddy phoned Pulvertaft, gave him the ident and was not surprised to hear that Silk was the pilot.

“How low?” Pulvertaft asked. Freddy told him. “The man has a death-wish,” Pulvertaft said. “He’s a menace. I’ll place him under close arrest the minute his wheels touch down. I don’t want to prejudge, but he’ll be stripped of his commission and go to prison, that I can guarantee.”

“Wait. We still have a little time,” Freddy said. “Do nothing. It’s not as simple as it looks. I had enough trouble with Skull. Silko could be infinitely worse. I’ll call you again in fifteen minutes.”

He talked to a few colleagues, veterans of crises, and then got back to Pulvertaft. “Agreed, Silko’s got to go. But absolutely no fuss, no close arrest, leave the Provost-Marshal’s office out of this.”

“Surely we should make an example.”

“Never forget: his wife is Mrs Silk MP. Very big in CND. They’d love a big court-martial, they’d squeeze every drop of juice out of it. Nuclear Pilot Goes Berserk: I can just see the placards. No, we tread very softly-softly. When he lands, have a car ready. Take him at once to Bomber Command’s medical centre, the place where we test would-be Vulcan pilots. Someone will meet him. And pack his kit.”

The man who met him was Group Captain Evans.

“Silk,” he said. “Slippery stuff. I thought I might see you again. Hoped not, but… here you are.”

“Here I am, sir.” It was dusk. Hours ago, sweat had dried on his face: low flying could be hard work. A wash would be nice.

“We’re worried about your eyesight, Silk. It’s not good enough, is it? Anyone who goes looking for trouble, the way you did, and finds it, must have rotten eyesight. Agree?”

“I could do with a drink, sir.”

“You still owe us for half a bottle of claret. Follow me.”

They went to his office and Evans gave him a whisky and water. “So you’re leaving the Service,” Evans said. “Retiring on medical grounds. In fact you’re out already – the paperwork was completed while you were still in the air. Slightly irregular, but I’m sure you can see your way clear to accepting the change.”

Silk stirred his drink with his finger, and sucked the finger. “I can barely see you, sir. And I don’t know what’s become of that bottle.”

Evans gave him another half-inch of Scotch. “The first time I saw you, I warned you that Vulcan duty was no piece of cake. I told you that any weakness was terminal, it would eat away at you until you cracked. And here we find you playing silly-buggers at sea level in the wildest corner of the Scottish highlands.” There was no anger in his voice; only flat amazement. “What went wrong?”

“People kept disappearing,” Silk said. “And I worked it out – I’ve got fewer years ahead of me than behind me. And they’ll scrap the Vulcan soon. I knew I’d never get another chance like today. That’s all. Now I’d like to wash my face.”

When Silk came back from the bathroom, Evans said: “The best thing for all of us would be if you were to disappear. Go a very long way from Britain. I’ve looked at your file. You must know people in Air America.”

“Barney Knox was my boss. The last I heard, he was in their California office. Los Angeles.”

“The West Coast.” Evans looked at his watch. “Eight hours difference. It’s worth a try. Here’s their number in LA.”

Silk took the slip of paper. “You know everything, don’t you?”

“It’s reciprocal.”

Silk made the call. Naturally, Knox was glad to hear from him. Surprisingly, his old job was available. “Preferably somewhere not a million miles from Seattle,” Silk said. Knox suggested Vietnam; plenty of Air America work there. Silk said he thought Vietnam was quiet now the French had gone. “Think again,” Knox said. Silk took the offer.

He handed the slip of paper to Evans but he didn’t release it. They stood in the middle of the office, each holding the end of a piece of paper. “You had this ready,” Silk said. “You didn’t write the number and give it to me. It was all prepared.”

“I spoke to Knox an hour ago. He was waiting for your call.”

Silk let go. “I feel somewhat manipulated,” he said.

“Well, you manipulated Bomber Command, Silk. So now we’re quits. We’ve booked you onto a plane to LA tonight. Ticket and passport will be at the check-in. Hungry?”

They walked down the corridor, to the mess. “Vietnam,” Evans said. “Jolly good. Don’t come back soon, will you?”

Hullo Russia, Goodbye England is a fiction based on fact. The reader is entitled to know which is which.

The major events are true. References to Bomber Command’s operations in World War Two, the formation of Vulcan bomber squadrons by the RAF, the policy of nuclear deterrence in the Cold War, and the American attack on Cuba at the Bay of Pigs, followed by the Cuban Missile Crisis of October 1962 – these all happened in much the way I have described. However, there was no Vulcan squadron numbered 409, and no RAF Kindrick in Lincolnshire. Air America was only one of many CIA-owned airlines; for the sake of simplicity I allowed it to represent them all.

Accounts of the design and performance of aircraft are as accurate as I could make them. This includes details of the Blue Steel stand-off nuclear weapon, the Thor ballistic nuclear missile, the AEO’s jammers (Red Shrimp, Blue Diver and so on), simulators, Micky Finn exercises, electromagnetic pulse, nuclear targets in the Soviet Union, and Vulcan training flights to Benbecula and to Rockall, including the presence of Russian trawlers engaged in electronic snooping on Nato activities.

The characters are fictional, although some of them have been around for years. Skull and Air Commodore Bletchley first appeared in my novel Piece of Cake , and then turned up again in A Good Clean Fight , while Silk played a big part in Damned Good Show , as did Zoë. Silk’s morale-boosting tour of American war factories, and his visits to U.S. Air Force flying schools, are invented; so is the hectoring interrogation he gets when he rejoins Bomber Command.

But Silk’s generous treatment by Ronald Colman fits the facts. During the war, the British colony in Hollywood was very hospitable to passing RAF aircrew, and I have not exaggerated the warmth of the welcome that beautiful stars gave to young pilots.