Operation Prospero [8]
Heard of some gravesites up by the highway/ A place where nobody knows
When we finally met the Swiss, they appeared friendly and grateful for their belated hospitality, if perhaps a little terse. They described to us, over dinner, their journey - it was clear that they had grown tired of telling and re-telling it to various officials, and stops and starts abounded when they tried to skip precious details.
Switzerland had been hit; neutrality, it seemed, was had been no defence. The winding streets of Bern were now but a memory, and the Red Cross had burned with Geneva. Mercifully, these were the only two hits upon the mountain nation, although rumours of duds turning up near isolated ski-resorts were flaring by the time Plan Bleu (the reconnaissance of Europe) was implemented. The entirety of the remaining Swiss Air Force was geared towards this; aircraft had been sent out of Europe's rocky heart in every direction - from Spain to the Baltic. Our new guests, the crew of the helicopter Failloubaz had not heard from these craft, but had accompanied another machine across France (where it landed near Versailles). The Swiss' description of the French situation, regrettably, fitted in with our own calculations, although a sticky encounter with two Mirages gave rise to hopes that someone, somewhere down there, had got organised.
It had seemed entirely alien to the Swiss that we had taken issue with their distribution of supplies - one must remember that the Swiss nation had got it very, very easy compared to us.
Our broadly jovial dinner-time conversation was darkened more than once by the discussion of the spree of murders plaguing the south of England. Whilst killings were a common occurence across the land, these were different; nothing at all was taken from the victims, and the brutality perpetrated upon them - all women - was far beyond the work of a looter...
*
The Secretary lets them lie in and he fills them full of hot food. Warm baths, and a change of clothes while their uniforms are purged. After weeks of sweat and dirt and chafing, their new American fatigues feel like silk and ermine.
Of course he's angling for something.
He broaches the question over drinks in his study. Small talk as he builds up and then - 'the way I see it, boys, we can both help each other. You were sent here to find out what happened to us, right? Well as it happened, I'm pretty curious too. And you guys are good - to have got this far, you're good. We're almost certain that the President made it to Cheyenne'
The sound of a pin dropping.
'Of course, I can't order you to do this. I'd send my own guys, but they've enough trouble guarding the farms. To be frank, boys - ' he leans towards them conspiritorially - 'you're ten times better at all this than them'
Interesting. There's a pause and then the Pilot downs his drink and 'We'll do it'.
The Commando disagrees - 'why should we? We've done our job, let's get home right now.'
'We have a job to do, and we're going to bloody do it!' - the Pilot starts out quiet and seated and ends up upright and shouting.
'You could at least put it to a vote!' - the Commando matches the Pilot's volume effortlessly.
'In case you've forgotten' - the Pilot jabs a finger into the Commando's chest, safe in full view of everyone - 'I'm the ranking officer here, and if the Secretary here can't order you, then I certainly fucking can - and that goes for the rest of you too!'
The Commando storms out.
*
The next week is spent preparing. The Pilot is haunted by dreams that taste like kerosene. The Commando is undisturbed by dreams because he doesn't sleep. The Scientist and the Doctor lose themselves in maps and charts - it's best to keep busy, isn't it.
In between cleaning weapons and sharpening the knives, the Commando develops a routine. Every morning, noon and night, as unfailing as an automaton, he complains to the Doctor of a terrible headache. He asks for something strong. The Doctor reluctantly rations out two pills each time.
It's the night before they set off, and the Commando offers to make the post-meal coffee. Alone in the kitchen, he prepares the Pilot's cocktail and adds sugar to taste. People do just drop down dead these days, and a wreck like the Pilot - well, it's a miracle he's made it this far.
He doesn't know how it happens, but there's a mix-up. His eyes follow the mug all the way up to the Doctor's lips. 'You know, this isn't half bad?' and then the man dies with a smile in his eyes. Regrettable, thinks the Commando, but at least the loose ends have tied themselves.
Who dares wins.
*
They almost laugh when they see it - a fat, sad looking Sikorsky, pulled out of storage after god-knows how many years. The Doctor was a shock but the show must go on. Someone has gamely painted an RAF roundel next to the old bird's white star. Well, that was nice.
The American is with them - he has eschewed the team's British uniforms in favour of his own, more comfortable clothes. It turns out he flew craft like this during a much more civilised war, many years ago.
Cramped between fuel and food and weaponry, the team sit in silence.
They do not look at each other.
They do not joke.
They do not wish each other luck.
Wheels up.
