“Take one out Eddie.” The air in Marisol was tense now. Korrina made his final adjustments, locked one of the two ASM-10s on then stroked the fire button. After all the simulated shots, it was shocking to see the smoke trail streaking out in front of them. The ASM-10s had been tuned to the Fire Can frequency before take-off and the attack profile pre-selected. The missiles angled up and climbed to over 80,000 feet before rolling over and diving on the radar set underneath. The radar was blind in the arc directly over the set and the crew never saw the missile coming. In a powered dive, the anti-radar missile streaked into the clouds underneath. A few second later, the target radar blinked out.
“Radar transmission ceased at predicted time of impact Marisol. There are radio transmissions all over down there. You got it.”
“Thanks Sweet Caroline. Marisol, you aren't a virgin anymore.”
The familiar voice came over the intercom system, now throaty and lazily accented. “Well boys, was it as good for you as it was for me?”
Hill Kumon 541, West of Myitkyina, Burma.
The radar on top of Hill 541 controlled six twin 37 millimeter cannon on the eastern slope of the hill. The guns overlooked Myitkyina airfield and had already accounted for three transport aircraft. The radar wasn't working now though, the duty set was a little further to the north on Kumon 525. Lieutenant Wu Si Bo was looking at its position when there was a streak of light from the black monsoon clouds overhead, followed by a shattering explosion. The radar had gone, blasted into a blackened ruins. Behind the Lieutenant, the gun and radar crews were muttering anxiously.
“You see that sir, the stories are true.” For weeks now, stories had been circulating about their radar fire control sets. Nobody knew where they had come from, they were all of “my cousin's friend's sister's boyfriend” type. But the stories all agreed on one thing. If one operated a radar set in a thunderstorm, the antenna attracted lightning and the explosion destroyed the set. And its crew. It was time to do something about morale, the situation could not be allowed to continue.
“Men, the stories you have heard are absolute nonsense. Of course our antenna does not attract lightning.” Lieutenant Wu Si Bo hooked his foot around a power supply cable and yanked it firmly out of its socket. “And even if those stories were true, it wouldn't matter, Our radar isn't working.”
Viceregal Palace, New Delhi, India
There was something about India that drew its visitors in, that got a hold on their hearts despite all the obvious problems, difficulties and discomforts of a country that was hot and swarming with people many of whom lived barely at the edge of subsistence. A grandeur, a vision of what this country had once been and could become again. A richness of spirit that offset the physical poverty that was everywhere. General Dedmon looked out of the windows of his limousine at the crowds of people that thronged the street and marveled that so many could live in such a small area. Whole families lived on the street, handing their rights to sleep on a specific stretch of sidewalk down through the generations.
The limousine was met by two attendants, tall Sikhs in white uniforms. There was a great debate over who made the better soldiers, the big Sikhs with their beards and turbans or the small wiry Gurkhas. One thing professionals agreed on, it was a bad day when one had to tangle with either. One of the Sikhs held the door of the car open while General Dedmon climbed out. On the steps above the car, Sir Martyn and Lady Sharpe had come out to meet him.
“Welcome, General. May I introduce my wife, Rebecca. Rebecca, this is our friend from America, General Bob Dedmon.”
“I'm delighted to meet you Lady Sharpe. I've been looking forward to this evening ever since Sir Martyn made the invitation. It’s not often that an American gets to be a guest in a real honest-to-God Royal Palace”
Sir Martyn laughed warmly while mentally complimenting himself. For rabid republicans, the Americans were suckers for anything that had a Royal connection. “Come on in, General. I'll show you around although, to be honest, this place hasn't been a Royal Palace for over a century. We've plenty of time. Dinner will be served at 20:30. I hope you like Anglo-Indian food?”
“Anglo-Indian Sir Martyn?”
“Anglo-Indian started as a mixture of English and Indian food, originally an attempt to make English traditional dishes with the ingredients that were available in local Indian markets. As the confidence of the Indian cooks grew, they started to experiment with the recipes, adding here, subtracting there, changing a little this, a little that.
“Soon, they had developed an entirely different style of food, neither English nor Indian but something unique to itself. A meal that could be eaten by Englishmen and Indian alike, both feeling that they were at home, with meals that were comfortable and familiar.
“In many ways, it is a microcosm of what we are trying to do here in India today. To take the best that both India and England have to offer and use them to create something new and unique that we can all share and that will benefit everybody.”
Sir Martyn turned out to be an excellent tour guide, able to describe the history of the building and the artwork it contained. In fact, he seemed to know an amusing anecdote about events that had taken place in every room. Dedmon was stunned by the residence. He'd heard about the opulence of the Indian princes and the almost unimaginable luxury in which they lived but this was beyond anything he dreamed.
It made a stark contrast with the poverty and squalor he'd seen in the streets outside. It was a contrast he found hard to accept as being part of the middle of the 20th century. How did anybody manage to live surrounded by either extreme?
“Lady Sharpe, I must confess, if I lived here I would be too terrified to move in case I broke something priceless.”
“Call me Becky, please. All my friends do. Martyn and I do not live in this part of the Residence, we have apartments on the top floor with our own furniture from England.” She seemed sad for a second, probably remembering a way of life that had gone forever. It must have been hard for her to leave behind everything she knew and loved for a strange country. And then to be trapped there when her whole world fell apart in 1940. Dedmon wondered whether Sir Martyn had ever really understood the sacrifices his wife had made. “But, General...”
“Bob, Becky.”
“Why thank you Bob, you have something equally precious to care for. Did you bring Texan Lady over with you?”
“No Ma'am, she's in our Air Force museum now. I go and see her regularly though.” A gong rang, summoning the party to dinner.
Dedmon didn't know what impressed him the most, the dining room or the food. The dining room was exquisite, the table richly polished teak, decorated with superb silver ornaments and laid with starched white linens. They'd been joined by Sir Eric and Lady Haohoa. Sir Eric was the Indian Cabinet Secretary and the couple were long-time friends of Sir Martyn. Dedmon sternly reminded himself that being the Cabinet Secretary also made Sir Eric the head of the Indian intelligence services. He gave the impression of a traditional, self-effacing British civil servant yet all the reports made it clear he was very far from being that. He was a man it was very foolish to underestimate.
The food was as Sir Martyn had promised, a magnificent blend of English and Indian styles that contrived to be both yet neither. What appeared to be a familiar English dish would have nuances of seasoning and cooking that turned it into something exotic yet there would also be something strangely familiar and reassuring about even the most mysterious. About half way through the meal, a servant came in with an urgent message. Sir Martyn read it and his eyes widened.