XIX - Jumping Someone Else's Train
It won't take you long to learn the new smile/ You have to adapt or you'll be out of style
Much is made in mid-April of the relaxation of the Telephone Preference Scheme. Steps were taken during the Transition-to-War that limited the use of the telephone system to Category 1 (War Use); this entailed only 1 or 2% of phone users; these included the Forces, the Police, Central and Regional Government, BBC, as well as less obvious choices such as the Coast War Watching Organisation (which is in nobody's good books following an enemy nuclear submarine ploughing into a seaside town) and the NCB. It remains a little known fact that, despite being unable to make calls, private houses during the Transition-to-War were still able to receive them (the fact that only a very limited minority of government agencies could actually be calling them meant that few found this out). Since the downing of the Dutch airliner just before the start of hostilities, time fans found themselves unable to phone the speaking clock; British Telecom used the same lines to deliver attack warnings.
The relaxation of the scheme, authorised by CHANTICLEER, is cited by most regional governments as a great sign of 'reconstruction' (a buzzword) and a step towards 'normality' (another). The truth is less rosy; the restriction is still Category 2 - just less than 10% of the prewar population; pillars such as Judges, the Forestry Commision and the private residences of Lifeboat Officers are now able to make calls at their leisure - or such is the theory. Private citizens or nominal businesses are still shut out. The telecoms system need not fear overload for a good few reasons. The grid is still smashed after the Exchange - communications over anything less than the strongest military transmitters are still very sketchy. Few (even amongst the few in Category 2) actually still have a working telephone, much less power for it.
Survivors may, therefore, be forgiven for not being as ecstatic as the powers-that-be had hoped.
An army patrol outside of Middlesbrough stumble upon an ROC Post during a routine sweep. It had not transmitted after the Exchange (the radios may have failed), and was forgotten about. The three observers inside are dead of starvation. The hatch was closed when the warning sounded, and somehow failed to open after the all clear. Apparently some rudimentary group suicide had been attempted using a claw hammer. The soldiers throw in some (precious) petrol and a Swan Vesta and then close the hatch.
On what seems like the other side of the world, but in what is actually (just outside) Portsmouth, the SAS President Pretorious suffers an ammunition explosion in the early hours, which breaks many of Portsmouth's remaining windows. Given the shocking state that the vessel was in, there is no reason to believe that this was an act of sabotage, no reason to believe that CHANTICLEER wanted to draw a line under a sticky problem and no reason to believe that one of the few remaining units of the SBS was operating in the area that night.
Even further afield, on another planet, a Royal Navy destroyer on an ASW sweep (these have been stepped up following the surprise at Whitby) in the North Sea picks up a looped transmission from the Belgian Government, who have been sitting in a chalk mine near Ypres. Whitelaw personally signs off a liason flight from Yeovilton; Operation SILVERSIDE is inglamorous even by PROSPERO standards; a Short Skyvan filled with a few paratroopers and a couple of diplomats which lands on a dirt-strip.
The Belgians, intriguingly, claimed to be in contact with some real-life, living Germans, though the group encountered by SILVERSIDE weren't yet sure of the details.
One more tangible sign of reconstruction is visible in the form of the railways. Following the Exchange, the East Coast Main Line resembled something like a snake cut into pieces (mainly around critical target areas). Whilst railway lines are very hard to destroy with anything bar a direct hit, the infrastructure around them - signalling etcetera, was badly damaged. Overpressure from doomsday devices has imploded some tunnels, also. Neglect has also been an issue; the line has more or less been left to rot since Feb. 22nd.
The line has been a priority since reconstruction efforts began. It is much easier to repair than STAG (the new Military Road Route designation for the A1) - it passes through (and past) less target areas. It is also deemed more useful; trains can carry more freight/troops etceterta more efficiently than lorries. The only other possibility for transportation comes from the Air Despatch Wing, a rag-tag assortment of basically whatever aircraft is left, be two-man helicopter or Hercules transport, under the auspices of the RAF. This is inefficient, expensive, and difficult, however, and large scale transport operations (disinfectant spraying and reconnaisance by little helicopters and light aircraft are more common) ar reserved for emergencies.
'Volunteers', therefore, have broken their backs and more to clear the rubble from the tunnels, get the infrastructure back together and generally sort the railway out. The process is smoothed by the fact that a British Rail Officer has been present at the Civic Centre since the outset; he was becoming very worried that he was to become obsolete. He feels genuine pride, and purpose, therefore, when he is able to tell his County Controller that the line is now useable between Gateshead and the Scottish Border.
Rolling stock is, in general, very sturdy, so it is unsurprising that a lot of it survived the attack. All electric locomotives are out, however, due to the appaling damage to the grid. Many other trains are without trained crews, either due to their having been called up as reservists or their having been vapourised. It is decided, therefore, that the Royal Corps of Transport will have primacy on the line 'for the forseeable future' (British Rail staff are still in evidence across the line, at all levels, including, tellingly, the Mobile Control Train). There are compelling reasons for this; the army has a self contained pool of reliable crew and staff, as well has its own rolling stock (the emergency stock of old diesels and rolling stock was dispersed across the country during the Transition-to-War). The RCT is also drilled in exactly the sort of thing that the line is needed for - the movement of troops, ammunition and the like. Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, the line (known at the moment as the East Coast Main Line [North-East] ) passes through territory that is, to put it euphemistically, 'unfriendly'; no-one misses how close the line passes by places like Felton. Even so, this order was a reluctant one on behalf of the County Controller; he is extremely suspicious of military control of anything following the attempted coup by elements loyal to a local Captain.
Although legends of a 'Strategic Steam Reserve' have turned out false, there has been something of a halting return of steam engines in a couple of secondary roles. Austerity 0-6-0s, for example, may be seen shunting in the Gateshead marshalling yard that marks the southern extent of the ECML[NE]. The little saddle tanks were taken from an NCB yard too flooded to re-open; coal-power is more efficient for shunting - the job requires constant idling, an unforgiveable waste of diesel. Coal is hardly in abundance, but it's certainly less precious than petrol or diesel. Steam locomotives in private collections have been tracked down and given protected status by the Regional Government. As of yet, however, there is no use for them; the railway infrastructure cannot support main-line steam. The depot at Heaton...
*
The Controller frowns as he looks at the dirty blue Class 47 that sits grumbling in front of him. It's not the grey, grinning face that someone's painted on the front, but rather that someone's called the thing 'Thomas'; they could have at least called it 'Boco' or something, he thought, doesn't even make sense like this. Well, thinks the Controller, looking at his one remaining arm, if that's the worst thing that happens to me this week, I shall consider myself lucky.
He is not happy that he has to give a speech, but the whole bunker seems to think it's a good idea. He's especially unhappy that he has to deliver that speech in a drizzly marshalling yard in Gateshead of all places. Still, if the roof at Central Station's not safe, then it's not safe.
There's just a small crowd in front of the makeshift podium in front of the Control Train. It was supposed to be just a couple of radio technicians and a few officials and journalist, but a crowd inevitably gathers. His podium is surrounded entirely by police officers, with no soldiers visible. They might run the railway, thinks the Controller, but they won't be running the bloody show, that's for sure. He wouldn't have minded the young Lieutenant by his side right now, though. He'd sent him up to Morpeth a few hours ago, however; the Police there had requested twenty men to deal with a food riot; the very route the Controller was taking today went just about right through the town, so he couldn't very well refuse. He shakes the hand of the Rail Officer and the other tired men assembled on the stage. It was a sheer stroke of luck, thought the Controller as he stepped up to the single microphone, that the ADW had a helicopter free, or they wouldn't have got there in time.
Clears his throat.
'Gentlemen', he tries to make himself heard over the train's engine, 'and ladies...'
'It would be easy, in times like these, to give in. To surrender to despair, or apathy, or despondence. To lay down and pray that the afterlife holds something better. We have all lost friends. We have all lost family. We have all lost something' - he gestures with his non-arm - 'This railway, however, is proof that we have not lost hope. We are surviving, and we are rebuilding. I am not going to lie to you, ladies and gentlemen; there are hard times ahead - the luxuries of the good old days are gone. But perhaps, with this railway, and other acts of reconstruction across the county and the country, we can perhaps put the bad old days behind us, too. Even now, I am to take this train up to the countryside, to see how our agriculture is recovering. I can tell you now - we are making leaps and bounds. I would like, now, to take a moment to thank...'
*
'Jesus Christ', thinks the Constable, 'this man does go on'. He is one of the policemen surrounding the podium; shoulder to shoulder with his colleagues, he holds his flat plastic shield up and his truncheon ready; he keeps an eye on the gathering crowd. Thankfully, they don't look hostile. Bored, yes, but that's perfectly understandable. 'For fuck's sake', thinks the Constable, 'the way that man goes on, you'd think the MetroCentre'll be opening next week and all. They've cleared a few miles of railway line, for God's sake, and he's treating it like the Orient Express. Warily, he stares at a few soldiers in the distance; they're loading what looks to be a couple of light tanks onto some flatbeds while their mates warm up a couple of boxy green diesels.
'...and the hard work of everyone here, working under extreme pressure...'
Still, I might catch some sleep on the train.
'...better than could have been expected...'
Well, seems like he's wrapping up. No trouble either, that's novel.
'...and all that remains to be said is...er... full steam ahead!'
A couple of scowls in the crowd. Ha'way, thinks the Constable, it wasn't that bad a gag.
'Herod!', a man screams, hurling a rock towards the podium.
'Alright lads!', shouts the Sergeant, 'lets get our hands dirty!'; some scuffling begins.
*
The Controller is hurried onto the train; another missile bounces of the wire sheet placed in front of the window. At least we're prepared. Frantic activity all around him.
'Well, sir', interjects the Rail Officer, 'I suppose now's as good a time as any to show you around.' He gestures round the first coach, filled with desks, maps and papers - 'This is the office coach...er...as you can see...' he moves through - 'here's the generators etcetera' - he waves his hand dismissively and through into the next coach - 'comms coach -' he gestures at a moustachioed man chain-smoking in headphones, who grunts back - 'so you can keep in touch with Civic and here and the army and so on - ' and through again '- and here's where the escort will be sitting -' the Controller and the Rail Officer get in just in time to see a couple of soldiers pulling some policemen with shields in through an open door. The Controller realises that they are already moving. The Rail Officer motions back up the train, nervously - 'shall we?'
*
'Fucking hell', pants the Constable; he'd almost forgotten to get on the train. He wipes spit and blood from his tunic and rests his head on the window. He'd love to steal some sleep, but his is hardly business as usual however hard the Controller tries to spin it. There's a gas mask under every seat, and it's the Constable's job to go up and down and make sure everyone's wearing theirs when they pass near Boulmer.
*
Almost forty minutes later, the Librarian puts her ear to the forest floor and feels the tremors swell. Through an old pair of binoculars, she peers at the bridge astride the turgid Coquet. Shifting her weight, she peers at the blue box rapidly closing the distance.
'You're late', she mutters.
