“Skull is fond of Russian cathedrals,” Dando told Silk. “He knows where to find all the best ones.”
“Enough chat.” Quinlan was on his feet, impatient to go. “Are we done here?”
“One last word,” Skull said. “The flight plan is designed for your survival. Stray from it, and you may stray into the nuclear contribution of another bomber.”
“He says that every time,” Dando told Silk.
“Come on, damn it!” Quinlan said. He urged the crew out, rotating his arm as if winding them up. Silk was last. “What’s the rush?” he asked. “It’s only a session in the simulator. It’s not the end of the world.”
“One day it might be,” Quinlan said, “and I don’t intend to be late.”
Three hours later they were all back in the same room. “Shambles,” Quinlan said. “What went wrong?”
“What do you think went wrong?” Skull said.
“East Germany was like an air display,” Hallett said. “Our inward route was filthy with stuff.”
“But surely you flew above it? Sixty thousand feet?”
“We weren’t alone up there,” Dando said. “Somebody locked-on and took a pot at us.”
“You told us tactical nuclear strikes would clean out the Warsaw Pact area,” Silk said. “Well, they didn’t.”
“That was the plan,” Skull said. “Our Canberras and the Americans’ Super Sabres took heavy losses. Those who succeeded had to return and rearm and make a second attack.”
“Second attempt, you mean,” Tucker said heavily.
“Return and rearm where?” Silk asked. No answer.
“Tom reckons somebody hit the wrong town,” Quinlan told Skull.
“My radar picture doesn’t lie,” Tucker said. “We got routed smack over some other bastard’s mistake.”
“Which buggered up my lovely black boxes,” Dando said, “on account of they got a bath in electro-magnetic radiation.”
“The fog of war,” Skull murmured.
“Nothing foggy about it,” Quinlan said. “The Soviet missile defences saw us coming, clear as day.”
“Remind me of the plan,” Silk said.
“Our Thors should have cleared the way,” Skull said. “Maybe the Soviets moved their missile sites… Still, you got through and launched your Blue Steel?”
“Tula is no longer answering the phone,” Quinlan said. “And I’m completely knackered.”
“Yes, we thought you would be.”
“All those cock-ups were deliberate?” Silk said. “The plan was meant to be crap? What the hell does that prove?”
“All plans go wrong,” Skull said. “What matters is that you pressed on, at all costs. You scored highly there.”
“God speed the plough,” Hallett said wearily.
“And now, lunch.” As they left, Skull signalled to Silk. “Freddy Redman is here. You’ll find him in the Mess.”
It was a brief meeting. Freddy, on his way to a conference, just stopped to grab a sandwich and a beer. He wanted to know if Silk had settled in okay: any problems? Silk said he hadn’t expected to crew with a bunch of suicidal geriatrics, but the food was good. Freddy laughed. “Geriatrics I understand. Actually, when you joined that crew, its average age came down below forty. But suicidal? Surely not.”
“All our briefings are about outward trips. Nobody ever talks about coming back.”
Freddy took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks. “Not my department, Silko. Try Skull, he was always good at crossword puzzles… How’s your lovely wife? You see much more of her now, I hope.”
Silk said Zoë was fine, always busy but that’s how she liked it. Some women had bridge, some had astrology, Zoë had politics. All a total mystery to him. They had an understanding: he didn’t ask what she got up to, and she didn’t talk about it. One politician in the home was plenty.
“Absolutely right,” Freddy said. “Bang on target. Stay out of trouble, Silko. Politics is always trouble. Always.”
His gravity surprised Silk. “Well, you should know, Freddy. You’re a lot closer to it than me.”
“What I meant was… Well, talking shop is the death of many a marriage. You’re lucky you can’t talk to Zoë about… you know… any of this.” Freddy’s gesture covered all RAF Kindrick. “Especially to Zoë. I mean to say, security here –”
“I’ve had the lecture. Several times.”
“Of course you have. I must dash. You and Zoë have an open invitation. Sunday lunch, for instance.”
“Sounds good,” Silk said. But he knew Zoë wouldn’t come. She’d be busy. As usual.
Nat Dando and Silk walked slowly around their Vulcan. “There it is,” Dando said, pointing.
“I can’t see anything,” Silk said.
“That’s the beauty of it. Point zero one per cent is actually visible. All the rest is hidden inside the fuselage, especially in that bulge behind the tail. Tons and tons of magic boxes. The Vulcan’s a flying power station, with us out in front, twiddling the knobs.”
“So where does your Technicolour zoo fit in? Yellow Prawn and so on.”
Silk had spent part of the afternoon going through the notes he’d made during lectures on air electronic warfare at the OCU. He wasn’t good at electronics. His notes were heavy with acronyms and clumps of alphabet that now meant nothing at all. In the end he went looking for Dando and asked for a Cook’s tour of the AEO’s kingdom. Nothing too technical. Fifteen minutes, say. Twenty minutes, max.
“Yellow Prawn,” Dando said. “Sounds most unhealthy. You’re thinking of Red Shrimp… I’d better start at the beginning. The Soviets know we’re coming, right? Their early warning radars are looking for us. We blind them with jamming. Blue Diver is our jammer. Two Blue Divers, one on each wing tip, swamp their radar receivers with white noise. Their screens look like a really bad migraine.”
“Isn’t that a bit crude?” Silk said. “We sneak into Russia, shouting our heads off.”
“It’s a big country. They can’t defend it all. Anyway, it’s not just us. With a whole fleet of Blue Divers going full blast, they won’t know where to look.”
“Blue Diver. Strange name.” Silk went to the nearest wing tip. “Damned if I can see anything.”
“Trust me. Moving on: Blue Divers are hotly pursued by Red Shrimps. Russian flak uses gun-laying radar, which is very clever, so we can’t allow that, and we jam it with our Red Shrimps.” Dando led him to the jet pipes of numbers 1 and 2 engines, and pointed to a small flat plate between them. “See? Red Shrimp. There’s another on the other side.”
“Looks like a tea-tray.”
“Yes? I could brain you with a tea-try if I hit you hard enough. Red Shrimp radiates outwards at forty-five degrees. From fifty thousand feet that makes a huge footprint. Or two.”
“Fifty thousand feet is a hell of a height to send a shell. What makes you think the Soviets can do it?”
“What makes you think they can’t?” There was an acid sting in his voice that silenced Silk. “They also have missiles. Red Shrimp transmits on their frequencies too. Baffles their radars.”
“No flak, no missiles,” Silk said. “That leaves the field clear for their fighters, doesn’t it?”
“So we carry Blue Saga and Red Steer. One is a radar warning receiver that picks up the fighter’s signal, the other’s a tail warning radar transmitter that scans in search of the fighter. Your twenty minutes are up. I’ve got a squash court booked.”
Silk watched Dando stride away.
“Red Shrimp,” he whispered. “Blue Saga.” Joke names for deadly serious boxes of electronic counter-measures. Against which Russian boffins would have figured out equally deadly counter-counter-measures. Probably not called Green Caviare or Pink Vodka. No, definitely not Pink Vodka. Iron Gauntlets, maybe. Notoriously humourless, Russians. Especially when foreigners tried to kill them. Take Napoleon. Take Hitler.