ALL HOUSE-TRAINED MANIACS HERE

1

Some bloody fool had left a tractor parked beyond the end of the runway. It was the tractor that was used to mow the grass. Hooked up behind it was a triple gang-mower, capable of cutting a swathe twenty-five feet wide. Well, RAF Kindrick was a big airfield.

Four Vulcans stood on the Operational Readiness Platforms, short strips of concrete that angled into the runway. At 1637 hours, Bomber Command Ops Room ordered a scramble. The crews spilled out of the QRA caravan. An umbilical cord linked each Vulcan to a massive trolley-load of batteries. As each captain reached his seat, the crew chief pressed a button that released a flood of electricity which simultaneously fired all four closely-grouped jet turbines and thus released the makings of seventy tons of thrust. The cable fell away. Wheels rolled.

The first Vulcan to swing onto the runway, using far less than maximum effort, blasted the tractor and mowers off their wheels. The next Vulcan hurled them thirty yards back. Quinlan’s Vulcan came third. He opened his throttles, and the wreckage smashed through the perimeter fence and killed three rabbits in the next field.

Pity about the rabbits. They’d grown accustomed to Vulcan take-offs. The air thundered, the ground shook, the rabbits flattened themselves until all faded and they went back to their dandelions, lightly flavoured with sweet kerosene. But a savage attack by a mad tractor was different. That was a hazard they were not prepared for.

The last Vulcan was airborne one minute forty-seven seconds after the scramble order: satisfactory. Within half an hour they landed at their dispersal airfield, Yeovilton in Somerset; turned; taxied back up the runway; parked on the ORP. Nearby were operational caravans where the crews could rest, wash, get a hot meal. A supply of fresh underwear was available if needed. Nobody knew how long this exercise would last.

At midnight, Jack Hallett and Nick Dando were playing chess. Quinlan was reading a book on the Korean War. Tom Tucker was playing with his sliderule. Silk had just finished writing a long letter to Zoë. He re-read it, and looked up. Tucker had found an answer on his sliderule. Or perhaps it was a question, because he was using his forefinger to write an invisible calculation on the armrest of his chair. He didn’t like the result and he rubbed it out, although there was nothing visible to erase. He saw Silk watching. “Jack’s fault,” he said. “His threes look like eights.”

“He always says that.” Hallett said. He moved his bishop.

Silk flicked through his letter. He tore the pages in half, and in half again, and dropped the bits in a metal waste bin. Quinlan turned his book sideways to look at a photograph. Silk put his pen away.

Tucker said, “I bet Special Branch cleans these rooms when we go.”

“It was nothing special,” Silk said.

“Special Branch specializes in nothing special. They’ve got a file on you marked Nothing Special.”

Silk took the waste bin outside and set fire to the bits. They made a fierce little blaze. When he came back, Tucker looked at the bin and said, “You’ve gone and blistered the paint.”

“Tell you what,” Silk said. “Stuff it in the bomb bay and tomorrow we’ll drop it on Minsk and nobody need ever know.”

Tucker cracked his knuckles and went back to his sliderule.

An hour later, an airman brought them sandwiches and coffee. “What’s the score, laddy?” Quinlan asked. “When do we get out of here?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“Poor show. In the war, cookhouse always had the gen on ops before anyone else.” Quinlan peeled open a sandwich. “No mustard. How d’you expect us to biff the Russkis without mustard?” The airman left.

“Maybe this isn’t an exercise,” Silk said. The others chewed, and seemed not interested. “Oh well,” he said. “I don’t suppose it matters.”

“What is it, if it’s not an exercise?” Quinlan said. “This is your bog-standard Micky Finn.”

“Very quiet.”

“They’ll call us when they need us,” Tucker said.

“Relax, Silko,” Hallett said. “It’s a routine panic. A no-notice recall and dispersal. God knows, we’ve done it often enough.”

“So we’ve dispersed to our wartime launch base,” Silk said. “That’s what this is.”

“Obviously.”

“If there’s a threat of war, we’d follow the exact same procedure.”

“It’s a Micky Finn, my friend,” Dando said. “That’s what Micky Finns are all about. Who’s got the sugar?”

Silk thought of giving up. Nobody cared. It was just a routine panic. But there was a long dull night ahead, probably, so he persisted. “For all we know, there really is a threat of war. Maybe they ordered a Micky Finn to get the squadrons onto their dispersal fields but they don’t want the crews hanging about wondering if enemy missiles have already arrived, back at base.”

That caused mild amusement. “If enemy missiles had arrived, you wouldn’t be standing there, enjoying your ham sandwich,” Quinlan said. “You’d be sitting next to me, twelve miles over Russia, making Mach point nine.”

“That’s assuming we had a basket of sunshine in the bomb bay,” Tucker said. “Which we haven’t. It’s a dummy.”

“You didn’t see it loaded,” Silk said. “None of us did. We could be carrying the real thing.”

“Or it could be a barrel of tar,” Quinlan said. “Your trouble, Silko, is you spent too long playing cowboys with that cloak-and-dagger Yank outfit. There are direct lines to all the dispersal fields. If an international situation boils over, Bomber Command and Group HQ will be on the blower giving us the gen, keeping us on our toes. Right?”

“Right, yes, absolutely.” Silk reached for the coffee pot and then stopped, arm outstretched.

“Try again,” Dando said. “Take a run at it.”

“Suppose the situation boiled over while we were in the air,” Silk said. He left the coffee pot. “Suppose the Kremlin wants to get it over with in a hurry, so they press the red button and in the time it takes to boil an egg, Soviet tactical nuclear missiles take out Command HQ, Group HQ, Air Ministry and while they’re at it, RAF Kindrick too. Leaving us in the lurch. Whatever that is.”

“You’re very generous with your supposing,” Quinlan growled.

“Technically possible,” Tucker said. “Landlines wouldn’t survive missiles. But there’s always radio.”

“Well...” Dando began. He screwed up his face as if he’d found a bad smell. “Not always.”

“I don’t want to hear about the electromagnetic pulse,” Quinlan said. “Nobody’s done it. When somebody can show me EMP at work, I’ll listen.”

“That’s the problem,” Dando said. “Nobody can show it unless they do it. But I haven’t the slightest doubt that if you detonate a hydrogen bomb at great height over, say, Paris, it will generate enough EMP to turn every piece of electronics in Europe into fried spaghetti.”

“The first time would be the last time,” Tucker said.

“I know how to baffle EMP,” Hallett said. “Switch off all your gear two seconds before the big bang.”

“Then what?” Dando asked.

“Put your fingers in your ears.”

“This room smells of old socks,” Quinlan said. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

They went outside and looked at the stars. “If worse comes to worst, I can always navigate by that lot,” Hallett said.

“You’re very quiet, Mr Silk,” Quinlan said.

“I was thinking of the night I met Ginger Rogers,” Silk said. “She had an electromagnetic pulse you could grill a steak on.”

“That’s nothing,” Dando said. “I nearly got Hedy Lamarr’s autograph, once.”

They went back inside.

At 3 a.m. an order came from Command: all crews to cockpit readiness.

Quinlan and Silk went through the familiar pre-flight checks, a drill that was almost as familiar as shaving. No warning lights glowed except the ones that were meant to glow. Mist coated the narrow windscreen. Quinlan let it. There was nothing to see out there.

After twenty minutes’ silence, he said quietly: “Those three chaps in the back... they don’t care. All that bullshit you were spreading about tactical missiles buggering-up our communications – it doesn’t worry them. They know what QRA means. It means getting the hell out of Kindrick before Kindrick gets wiped out in one almighty flash. So what? They know we won’t come back to family or friends. Who cares? The odds are we won’t come back at all. Hullo Russia, goodbye England. Don’t think they haven’t got any imagination. The difference between them and you is they’ve learned how to keep their imagination in a bottle with the top screwed tight. So lay off. They’re professionals. They know their job. If you want to have a fit of the scruples, go to Skull and weep on his shoulder. Better still, get out of 409 Squadron. We’re all house-trained maniacs here. We don’t need you crapping all over the asylum.”

“I knew a maniac, once,” Silk said. “The CIA man in Macão. He dressed up as a ballet dancer and painted his hair green and hit the bishop of Hong Kong with a croquet mallet.”

“Oh, shut up,” Quinlan said.

“Do you play croquet?”

“No.”

“I could teach you. We’ve got an international croquet court at The Grange. Lady Shapland and the under-butler would make up a foursome.” Silk stopped. Quinlan was reading his book on the Korean War.

They were released from cockpit readiness at six: sooner than usual, Dando said. The Micky Finn ended at seven. The four Vulcans flew home. Twenty-four hours without sleep was enough. The crews stood down for the day.