Omega (61 page)

The Admiralty had been incredulously joyful to learn, by atmospheric-laden radio, that they actually had a seagoing ship under their command, in full working order. They had ordered MacLeod to Stornoway, which was known to be usable and relatively clear of wreckage and MacLeod, a Hebridean himself, had been glad to comply. There, he was to await further orders, which were unlikely to be forthcoming until Operation Skylight.

There had been much to keep MacLeod and his men busy, for the Isle of Lewis had been hit by earthquake, tidal wave, and one - fortunately localized - Dust outbreak.
Ringo's
greatest gift to the island's survivors was her nuclear engines which could run virtually for ever. Within three weeks they had rigged a power supply to Stornoway itself and in the following months had steadily extended it to neighbouring homesteads. There had been nine marriages, during the winter and spring, between members of the ship's company and island girls, for the tidal wave, catching all too many Lewis men at sea or vainly trying to secure their precious boats at the last moment, had left many widows. MacLeod himself had every reason to believe that he was a widower, and only the impossibility of confirming the fact had kept him back from regularizing his very satisfactory relationship with the Provost's eldest daughter.

The warning order for Operation Skylight had seemed to come from an unreal world, but it was an order, and MacLeod and his officers had made the necessary preparations.

When the operational order came, MacLeod and half a dozen ratings were a kilometre outside Stornoway, puzzling over the problems of a blown-down power line that had to cross some awkward terrain, and for which new poles, which were in short supply, would somehow have to be improvised. The Yeoman of Signals came hurrying up the hill on a bicycle and handed the signal from to MacLeod.

'From C-in-C Home Fleet, sir.'

Commander MacLeod found himself strangely reluctant to look at the signal. He was aware, too, of the sudden anxious silence among the men at his side. With an effort, he read the signal - for some reason, aloud, which was not his habit.

'C-IN-C HOME FLEET TO HMS RINGO. PROCEED FORTHWITH TO STRANRAER WIGTOWNSHIRE AND PLACE YOURSELF UNDER COMMAND OF ARMY OFFICER I/C STRANRAER AREA TO ASSIST IN CONTROL OF CIVILIAN POPULATION.'

MacLeod looked around the faces of his men. He looked at the fallen line. He looked d
own the hill at the little harb
our town. Then he turned back to the Yeoman of Signals who stood with signal pad and ballpoint ready.

Commander MacLeod said, loudly and firmly: 'Make:

"HMS RINGO TO C-IN-C HOME FLEET. NO THANK YOU. WE LIKE IT HERE." '

At Windsor Castle it took a little while longer than elsewhere for the position to become clear. For an hour or two, the wary defenders could hardly believe that the soldiers who strolled in the garden at the foot of the Round Tower were not setting some devious trap to tempt them out. When this misunderstanding was finally cleared up, the lingering military instincts of the assault group were a little disappointed that the King would not allow them to mount a ceremonial Royal Guard until
after
lunch. In the event, the mounting of the Guard was put off until the following morning, for the King decreed major inroads into the hitherto carefully rationed Castle wine cellar and the lunch - with soldiers, witches and the Royal Family amicably intermingled - became celebratory and somewhat prolonged.

General Mullard's professional nose told him that something was going wrong long before the truth penetrated Harley's megalomaniac euphoria. At first it was only a vague feeling; the sense of gathering momentum which always marked a well-conceived operation was taking longer to reach him than it should have done. The big Ops Room map was full of symbols, indicating units already airborne and reporting their positions en route. The progress chart on the opposite wall to Mullard's high desk had also begun to fill up on schedule; it listed the designated HQs and special objectives by name, and had blank columns for 'Take-Off', 'Landing', 'Occupation Achieved', with a wider one for 'Remarks'. Similar but smaller charts flanked it, for reports from regional Hives of the progress of their own operations. On all of these, actual departure times for the first waves had been entered in the 'Take-Off' column with commendable punctuality. The 'Landing' column had also begun to fill but too many of the times were anything from five to twenty minutes later than the ETAs laid down. If the weather had been bad, Mullard could have understood this, because the ETAs had been calculated on the basis of normal June flying conditions. But the day was fine, clear and almost windless everywhere. Some unknown factor was slowing down the flights by a roughly uniform percentage and the puzzle nagged at Mullard's mind.

As the shuttle proceeded, the delay was becoming cumulative. Second-wave entries were beginning to appear in the 'Take-Off' column and they were all behind schedule -some of them even more so than could be accounted for by the mysteriously longer flying times. Delays were taking place on the ground too, at the helicopter bases where all should have been going like clockwo
rk. The general detailed a GSO1
to chase up the bases and the other Hives for explanations. The replies were all blandly reassuring; the shuttle was going smoothly, any delays were due to the late return of the first shuttles, there were occasional technical or refuelling problems but nothing more than had been allowed for in planning. General Mullard did not like it. Even the tone of the reports lacked the note of slightly nervous self-justification normally to be expected when the top brass asked questions. They were
too
bland and it was the general who felt nervous.

Beside him, Harley clucked with delight every time a new entry was made in the 'Take-Off' or 'Landing' columns. After a while Mullard felt in duty bound to remark 'The reported times are lagging behind schedule, you know'.

Harley brushed it aside. *What's a few minutes here or there? This is a military operation, General, not Trooping the Colour. Your boys are doing splendidly.'

Maybe, Mullard thought, with a sudden angry flash of dislike for the man beside him. But all he said was: 'There should be more in the "Occupation Achieved" column by now.'

'There are three - no, four. The others are probably too busy to report.'

'A force commander,' Mullard snapped, 'whether he's a lance-corporal or a bloody general, is never too busy to report.'

Harley smiled loftily. 'You're an old Blimp, Mullard.'

Mullard bit back a retort and instead snatched a phone. 'Get me Needham Market,' he barked, having picked one of the four 'Occupation Achieved' names at random. It took about seven minutes for him to be put through, announce himself and demand to speak to the force commander, and another two for a mere lieutenant to be brought to the radio.

'Sorry, sir, the OC's busy. The committee chairman's showing him around the place.' The boy's voice was amiably casual.

'Are you in charge in his absence, Lieutenant?'

'I suppose so, yes.'

'You
suppose
so.' The general's voice was pure ice. 'Then give me your own progress report.'

'Oh, we're settling in nicely, General. Nice place, nice people.'

Some instinct warned General Mullard not to react as he would normally have done to this incredible conversation, but to handle it like a nurse with a slightly delirious patient. 'Any casualties?' he asked calmly. 'On either side?'

'Oh, no. Of course not.'

'So I take it you have established control without trouble.'

'The question doesn't arise. I don't think you quite realize how things are, General. The war is over.'

This boy is mad, the general told himself. He's
got
to be. 'Is there any other officer with you at HQ at the moment, lieutenant?'

'Yes, sir. Lieutenant Spillman.'

'Put him on.'

After a pause, another voice. 'Spillman here.' 'Lieutenant, this is General Mullard. Did you hear the ot
her end of this conversation?' ‘Ye-es.’

'Then you will realize that your brother officer's mind has become unhinged, for whatever reason. You will place him under arrest and have your commanding officer report to me personally by radio the moment he returns.'

Spillman's laugh was relaxed, genuinely amused. 'Oh, really, General Mullard. Get stuffed.'

The radio went dead.

Mullard stared at the telephone in his hand. In that moment, with awful certainty, he knew that he was not dealing with one mad officer or even two or even with a mutinous unit. He knew, and he could not tell how he knew, that Operation Skylight faced total, irretrievable, inexplicable collapse.

Like an automaton, he had himself connected by radio with Ashford in Kent, Ripley in Surrey and Lechlade in Gloucestershire, the three other names that had so far appeared in the 'Occupation Achieved' column. He deliberately watched his words because Harley was within hearing and he did not want to be involved with him for the moment. At Ashford he got a sergeant. At Ripley, he actually got the commanding officer. At Lechlade, a platoon commander's batman. To each, he listened carefully.

When he had finished, he put down the telephone and turned to Harley.

'Sir Reginald,' he said, 'your dream is over. Operation Skylight no longer exists.'

Harley stared at him. 'What
are
you talking about? Have you gone mad?''That's a question I'll have to go into with myself, later. But I am telling you. All four of those units have torn up their orders and laid down their arms. They have not merely fraternized with the local civilians - they
are
busy merging with them. They are not
rebelling
against Beehive. They have merely brushed Beehive aside as irrelevant. And you can be absolutely certain that all the other units and assault groups will be doing exactly the same. You're finished, Harley.'

Harley had jumped to his feet. 'Finished?' he hissed. 'You don't know what you're saying! .
..
Get me the man at Stonehenge!'

Mullard shrugged and picked up the telephone. 'Get Captain Brodie, in the helicopter standing by at Stonehenge.'

While he was waiting, a stunned-looking Admiralty officer appeared at his elbow with a message in his hand. Mullard took it from him, read it, and laughed, passing it to Harley.

'Far-called, our navies melt away;

On dune and headland sinks the fire:

Lo, all our pomp
of
yesterday

Is
one with Nineveh and Tyre
. ..'

he quoted softly, and then into the phone, 'Yes? . . . Thank you.' He laid down the receiver. 'There is no reply from Stonchcnge.'

Harley screamed 'Colonel! Take over command! General Mullard has been taken ill!'

Th
e GSO1
came running and looked at Mullard in bewilderment. The general stood aside, gesturing towards the command chair. 'You heard the man, colonel. Take over. For what it's worth.'

General Mullard walked out of the Operations Room without looking back. He went to his quarters and changed into civilian clothes. While he was doing it his wife came in. She looked at him, at first with astonishment but then with dawning understanding, though he had said nothing, only smiled at her.

'Where are we going?' she asked.

'Wherever the sun shines, Debbie.'

Deborah Mullard nodded and started packing two rucksacks. They hadn't used them since their last rambling holiday, three years ago. Her husband had often teased her for the nostalgia which had made her bring them to Beehive.

'You're taking it very calmly,' he said.

'Service wives are always ready to move, darling! . . . There's only one thing worries me, a little. Your face is well known. Might someone up there feel like taking it out on you?'

'If they do, my love, I've asked for it. But do you know what? Up there, I don't think anyone will be bothered.'

The WRAC corporal let the long rake with which she had been pushing symbols about fall disregarded on to the huge map. The map had become meaningless, anyway, and it was much more interesting to watch the Big Chief going mad, bellowing that single word over and over and over again.

'How about getting out of this mess?' the young flight-lieutenant beside her asked. 'We might as well, now. Coming with me?'

Dear Ned, of course she was going with him. If he didn't know that yet, he never would.... They elbowed their way out of the disorganized crowd into the corridor, Har
ley's monotonous cry fading gra
d
u
ally behind them as they went.