Hullo Russia, Goodbye England

Author:Derek Robinson [Robinson, Derek]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Quercus
Published: 2011-09-30T16:00:00+00:00

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.

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