dramatic change. And across the other side of the world an economy feels the shock waves; like an atomic bomb exploding. And soon we have a rolling, domino effect. Your father's newspaper alters the peoples' choice, a new government takes office, the economy suffers and other men lose their jobs, their pride, and their self-respect, in your father's pursuit of ever more money: more money than he could ever want or ever spend. In 1979, your father backed the Tories; they subsequently came to power, my father's job in the shipyards became surplus to requirements.
When the yard shut he lost everything, and then six months later, I returned home on leave from my regiment. We couldn't find him, because of fits of depression, so I went to look for him. I knew where he'd be. He'd be at that dirty old shipyard, with its empty, abandoned buildings, its huge lifeless cranes and the haunting, distant voices of two hundreds years of workers comments resonant on the wind."
"And did you find him?" Asked Mark, who listened courteous.
"I entered shed number 2. There he was in the middle of a huge, empty building that must have been as big as five football pitches. He hung from the rafters by forty foot of rope, carefully placed around his neck, his body slowly turning in natural motion, as the taught rope, creeked and cracked from his weight. His lifeless corpse hung limp. You know why he did it?" Said Bullit.
"You said, 'depression'," replied Mark, softly.
"No. He committed suicide because he could no longer look in the shaving mirror, because he couldn't stand the indignity of walking to the post office every other Thursday to cash his Giro; his handout from the State! Even though he paid in, with not a day's sickness in forty five years, he still couldn't bring himself to stand in a queue of fifty people, hand over his dole cheque and take charity. He couldn't look the counter clerk in the eyes and accept his failure. It was his way of making a protest, releasing himself from the slow, immoral denigration father's like yours levelled against him. But people like my father didn't matter under your father's obsessive pursuit of riches. They're drones, expendable drones: machine gun fodder in the time of war, factory fodder in the time of peace; a usable, expendable commodity of the rich."
It all sounded very noble, as Bullit sat there, and made the room feel guilty, as he did with me when I first met him. He recounted the same story then, with the same glazed eyes and sought to exploit the sympathy bestowed. But a biographer of Bullit did her research well two years earlier and found a whisper campaign. When I read the manuscript before they tried to publish, a different picture emerged.
Bullit's father did lose his job, but not because of redundancy, but because he was an alcoholic, wife beating drunk. He was a man who liked nothing better than to get very physical with his fists, and apparently, Bullit from the age of a small boy was often on the receiving end of them and his father's thick leather belt, and pugnacious behaviour.
Bullit had reinvented history to suit his own politics, and I guess his own unstable state of mind. I always assumed he was ashamed of his past, his father's abusive behaviour and the rumoured acts of sexual abuse against him by his father. And maybe that's why Bullit was the way he was. And I could sympathise with Bullit. The manuscript was destroyed, the author imprisoned!
"But enough about me," declared Bullit, and changed the subject. He looked towards Jackie with a huge, broad smile, and said "So what plans have you got?" Jackie, responded in a surprised, but open way.
"I just intend to spend some time with Michael, see the sights, and maybe write a few articles for the folks back home."
"D'you think we've done a good job?" Probed Bullit, as he searched for more adulation. Our meal was served on a huge, oblong, mahogany dining table, with matching regency chairs and ornate silver table decorations, all offset with the finest gold rimmed Royal Dalton crockery and gold plated cutlery, and a central explosion of wild flowers.
Staughton, paid a belated comment as we moved across, as he seated himself next to Mark, and I found myself next to the insufferable Christine. Bullit caught Jackie by the arm, and dragged her to the far end to sit on his right, as he positioned himself at the head of the table.
The night progressed much the same as any dinner party in suburbia, with any section of the chattering classes trying to resolve the world's problems, and seek solutions to seemingly insoluble conundrums, whilst simultaneously delving Into each others' private lives to discover those little hidden eccentricities we all conceal.
Bullit treated the evening like he was still in the officers mess. He was loud, raucous, full of life, and enjoyed being the centre of attention, whereas I remained as aloof as possible. I tried to remain sober, even though the wine flowed like a river. It seemed unrelenting as Bullit constantly snapped his fingers, and demanded bottle after bottle of some of the country's most expensive vintages - and constantly showed-off.
Mark appeared to have an unhealthy interest in our military build-up, and steered the conversation whenever possible in that direction to obtain as much information as he could. And I believed, although couldn't be certain that most would go back to the Pentagon. British intelligence monitored military traffic from its enormous listening post at Cheltenham for some time, and occasionally it belied belief that we were all on the same side.
"You think the Surface Raiders are a good idea?" Asked Mark, casually, as he partook a fork full of quail, and then masticated as Bullit started to talk about his favourite subject, military equipment and its potential capabilities.
"The Surface Raider is a formidable piece of kit," said Bullit, loudly.
"But antiquated," replied Mark.
"It's relative," argued Bullit, and expanded, as he held a glass of wine in his hand. "The minute you let a large Surface Raider prowl the open seas it has a psychological effect on every man, on every merchant ship, unlike a submarine that tends to hunt by stealth. Also, our Surface Raiders are equipped with large forward guns that can lay down a barrage eighteen miles away, rip a beach to pieces for assaulting, amphibious troops or they can simply terrorise any costal port or town. We can also launch cruise missiles from them."
"They didn't do the Nazis much good," commented Mark.
"Nonsense," growled Bullit, as he blindly filled his glass. "The Bismarck sunk HMS Hood with a single shell, and The Prince of Wales. The Graf Spea practically controlled the South Atlantic, as did the Terpitz, and the Scharnhorst and Gneisenau stationed in Brest played havoc with allied shipping." Boasted Bullit, as he boasted his admiration for a navy, long since extinct. But Bullit resurrected that navy under the white ensign.
"That's how you'd deploy your ships?" Enticed Mark.
Bullit told him with a chastising finger, that he was a mischievous boy, and if he wasn't Jackie's brother he would have been expelled from the country for attempting to extract that kind of information, and when Mark protested his innocence, Bullit told him directly he knew exactly what section of the Canadian government he worked for. Mark smiled, yet remained reticent to his association with the Canadian secret service. But Bullit wasn't adverse to using those situations for his own advantage, and I thought that was probably why Bullit invited himself to dinner. Bullit, knew he could feed Mark false information, and allow it to locate naturally in the US military archives.
"I would deploy them tactically, and allow them a sense of autonomy, and give them explicit instructions to sink oil tankers, espouse that with pack submarines at definitive points and your enemy has no alternative but to convoy their ships. No navy, regardless of its capacity can be in all places at once," said Bullit, trenchant. "The moment you allow rogue elements to enter the equation they act like a sponge. The opposition either has to protect its merchant shipping, or its ports and costal towns. It can't do both. While they hunt the Surface Raiders they leave your carriers alone, or they deploy their ships to attack your carriers, and permit your pocket battleships open season on their cargo vessels. In other words, they become a bloody nuisance."
"I could achieve the same results with modern, faster surface ships which carry high-tech' surface-to-surface missiles," Said Mark, authoritatively.
"But not install a psychological fear. Caesar suggested 'the greatest fear you can install into anyone is fear itself': I believe him to be absolutely right," said Bullit, as he enjoyed himself. And if Mark wasn't careful he would find himself linked to a new, and special friend: Bullit!
The fact Mark was attractive convinced Bullit to take a close inspection, and as Mark was a military man, who previously attended Sandhurst on an exchange package, it made Bullit draw even closer. We'd have to be careful, I thought, as I watched the two of them grow to like one another! And I'm sure Bullit flirted.
It was pointless to try and change the conversation, as Bullit would only steer it straight back in the direction he wished to take it, or worse, he'd insult someone, and so it seemed more appropriate to allow the two men to discuss military tactics, while Jackie and myself exchanged sexual eye contact the length of the table. I raised my eyebrows and winked.
"Tanks!" Said Mark: "There's another area you seem to be leading the country backwards in," he added.
"Again," emphasized Bullit, strongly: "It's relative to your operation. If you intend to utilise or deploy in a scenario, say like in Africa, why spend billions on technologically superior kit, its maintenance costs and years of training for the operative, when simple logistical hardware will suffice. For the same economic cost you can purchase more equipment and open up many more theatres of attack. You can overwhelm people be sheer volume of numbers."
"But they're easily defeated by modern weapons," scoffed Mark, and seemed disappointed at Bullit's military strategy.
But the Field Marshal was anything other than lacking in military tactics. Bullit, had a resolve that could out fox even the most experienced tactician, and would eventually show the world just how competent he actually was, when the United Kingdom decided to expand its borders and boundaries a year later.
"Look," growled Mark, and used his fingers to help him count. "You have built Surface Raiders, armoured tanks and personnel carriers, diesel powered submarines and fast attack motor-torpedo boats. It's like a second world war armoury you've got..."
Mark wasn't fully appreciative of our military arsenal, nor did I expand on its awesome potential or capabilities as I already decided Bullit divulged as much information as he wanted Mark to deliver to the Americans. But I could have elaborated for him if I so chose.
British military combat kit had been honed and adapted for different areas of operation, and although Mark accurately identified specific equipment, he obviously missed other production techniques that would eventually play a vital role in Field Marshal Bullit's military mobilisation.
The Field Marshal spent several billion pounds, over several years on what might be seen as outdated equipment, but what lurked ever menacingly behind that outdated exterior was a powerful recognition of modern warfare, developed by British technological genius. And Bullit, was just itching to do battle with foreign counterparts.
Mark mocked the Surface Raiders we constructed, but failed to identify how Bullit had ordered a production line process of the new Searaif, frigates, a stealth warship that could simply vanish in a vaporous sea mist. Mark, also mocked the fact Bullit increased production of Harrier jump-jets and low level attack Hawk jets, but never understood how our aircraft factories worked around the clock, seven days a week to produce the new Typhoon fighters, the fact we had purchased Mig 29 Fulcrums, and a variety of American F16s, 18s, and 15s. We also had the long range AWAX surveillance aircraft, the ultra secret British HALO (Hawk Low Observable) in multiple production. And we used our technological skills to produce nuclear hunter killer submarines on mass; and infiltrated computer systems to such an extent, we could simple block traffic flow to any country with multiple e-mail signalling.
When Bullit ripped up the UN non-proliferation treaty, our chemical and biological weapons division expanded ten fold, and unbeknown, even to the British public, our scientists were on the verge, after ten years in power, of discovering matter-antimatter fusion. Bullit's apocalyptic, suicide weapon.
The process was a devious one, based entirely around the parameters that, if our plans failed during their fledgling stage, and we faced defeat ourselves, then a bomb with the most awesome destruction capability would be located centrally in the United Kingdom, five miles below ground, and detonated rather than let us become occupied. (Project Prometheus.) And Bullit, was seriously prepared to push the button.
At that decisive moment the entire solar-system will simply evaporate, and humanity and its planet will cease to exist, along with every other species upon it. Bullit's vision of Armageddon was no longer a dream motivated by literature, it was on the cusp of reality, and Mark still belittled his ideological belief, with some contemptible arrogance.
Hidden within Mark's psyche was a disbelief a tiny landmass like the UK could achieve such things, even when a panoramic view of the world might have justified its superior endeavours throughout the aeons of time. How its scientific technology constructed and built the world in which we now live. But why should I have spoilt his fun?
"You're no more than a caged tiger," said Mark, dissmissive. "What have you really achieved after what, nine years of revolution?" He challenged .
"Nearly ten!" I said, correcting him.
"We've changed the entire school structure," declared Bullit. "Our children are now taught in single sex schools, and their academic standards have doubled. They get more exercise and as a consequence are fitter, and healthier. They have a pride in themselves, and their sporting achievements are accelerating beyond our wildest dreams." (It was all true.)
"You achieved that by gender separation?" Retorted Mark, frustrated, and pushed his plate away as he did so. A waiter asked him if he'd like his sweet. Mark, accepted with a slight hand shuffle, and continued to scold Bullit, as Bullit drunkenly, declared with his usual racist retort.
"Not just gender separation, but also the removal of the blacks, they held the white ones back, and with their disruptive influence removed, the more astute Arian species pushes its way forcefully to the front. Espouse that with a stronger interference from party politics, suppress the teachers, and abandon political correctness, and we gain a generation to be proud of."
Jackie, raised her eyebrows as I viewed her distantly at the far end of the dinner table, and Christine, decided to contribute with a personal observation.
"But can they continue to make the necessary communicative skills everyone needs if they are actively going to contribute to society?"
Christine even surprised me with her observation, and perhaps she wasn't the empty headed blonde bimbo I suspected her of being when she first entered my home. Her contribution was valid, a well thought out piece of philosophy that suggested, with single sex education the individual child loses his or her ability to communicate effectively with members of the opposite sex.
"Shut up!" Growled Bullit. "I'm speaking."
Bullit, looked disturbed as Christine blushed with embarrassment, and I tried to defuse the situation before it degenerated into Bullit throwing a tantrum. And just when I thought I got it under control, Staughton interrupted:
"The Field Marshal has taken the greatest step forwards in the educational arena since the fifties, and to deduce a modern society can be formulated on the principle of sexual encounter is one of the most pedantic observations available. Not even worthy of retort." He belittled.
"More wine, anyone?" I offered, and lifted a bottle.
As I hurriedly filled their glasses, I hoped Christine's educated donation to the evening might quickly pass. Jackie inflamed the situation by declaring her right, and I couldn't help but think, none of those people except Staughton and myself understood the volatile nature of Bullit.
He sat there drunk, enjoyed his clash about military procurement with Mark, but now endured the female dimension of the dinner table, and any contribution by women usually made Bullit overreact.
When Emma Preston incited him nine years ago she was arrested, tortured and eventually executed, and although I didn't believe he would behave like that around the dinner table, I did believe we might be in for a temperamental explosion of his unstable temper. Anything was possible.
"Your valuable comment has been logged, Dear." Said Bullit, to Jackie.
And If I hadn't heard it with my own ears, I wouldn't have believed it. Bullit, either tried desperately to appease me by placating Jackie, or he wanted a closer association with Mark. But which one?
"We managed to improve the health service as well," interjected Staughton, as he raised a glass of claret to his lips and sipped gently.
"At what cost?" Barked Mark. "The only reason you've reduced your health service waiting lists to almost zero, is because you no longer have to treat immigrants, and asylum seekers. Anyone not indigenously British is refused all medical assistance, and they're forced to make other provisions."
"We've spent billions treating them at Camp 51." Bullit, lied.
"Heaven help a plague like that inflicting us," muttered Mark, selfishly.
"But unlike you," continued Bullit, "we've introduced national service for young women and they work as nursing auxiliaries, and thus allow us to redirect valuable resources into patient care. We've expanded smaller, peripheral care centres into local shopping malls and high streets; and then empowered the patient to receive any treatment within 28 days. A remarkable piece of political service the nation is now proud of."
"Providing you're not Black, Asian or Jewish," mumbled Mark, his glass shielding his face as he said it, and Bullit responded. He growled:
"What right does any black have to treatment here when they've contributed nothing, when most entered our country illegally, are fed parasitically on welfare or been protected by the bourgeoisie, while their habitual criminality, and self-promotion keep the local white population under house arrest. Individuals, couldn't even walk the streets of their own country until we came to power: a country their kith and kin fought and died for? Their contribution is worthless, therefore they should be treated accordingly the same. Worthless."
"So Ebola was a Godsend?" Asked Jackie, journalistically.
"Like the AIDs plague, my dear, God's chosen, selective arrows."
I sat there trying to attract Jackie's attention, and as her eyes captured mine I shook my head deliberately, indicating she should moderate her language in the Field Marshal's presence, because although I instinctively knew Bullit liked her, his phoney friendship could turn to an uncontrolled aggression almost instantly. But thankfully, Jackie backed off.
"Our policy on law and order," deviated Bullit, changing the subject, before he inadvertently revealed the truth about Camp 51. "Is another example of how the State should work for the people, rather than the people work for the State."
Bullit's philosophy, that the State turned logic on its head introduced a paradoxical assumption that the people were its servants, was straight out of Mein Kampf. And Bullit always began to spout theories of National Socialism the moment he was drunk or enraged. "The State should be no more than a tool to do a job," he slurred, as he continued to bore. Jackie, checked her watch, while Mark told him his policies on law and order were nothing more than bully boy tactics that forestall the real problem, not resolve it.
"They're the same as American doctrine," stated Mark. "You lock people up, the crime rate falls, release them later and the crime rate naturally rises. It's rollercoaster figures designed to appease the media; and the uneducated."
"Crime on our streets is practically unheard of now," said Bullit forcefully. "There are no more muggers, and no more murders..."
But that was because Bullit had shot them all.
"Except by the State," muttered Mark, beneath his breath. Bullit, demanded to know what he said, and arched his body over the table so he could listen more closely.
"I said, it must be fate," replied Mark, strongly.
"You're right," shouted Bullit, and slumped back in his seat: "It's fate! Fate the British Independence Party came to power, fate I led them to power, fate we'll dominate the world."
Staughton viewed me tacitly, and both of us knew Bullit was about to become problematic. And at that point I decided to bring matters to a close with a few subtle hints and suggestions. I reminded Bullit he had a meeting with the Russian ambassador in the morning. And when I did he reprimanded me.
"Can't you see I'm talking, Michael?"
" Of course, Sir," I replied, menial.
"Where was I?" He mumbled. "Oh, yes, right, you talk about law and order, Mark being a cosy policy of crime statistics, when you don't have to live with it. It's the arrogant face of the middle-classes; who convey a message to the public, telling them to accept things, and people like you will make it all better. But what have your kind given the working classes over the years, as you live in your posh houses in your flash suburbs; nothing but grief, that's what you've given them. Nothing! You come into the city each morning, sign bits of paper allowing our nations to be flooded by wogs and niggers, and then go back to your cosy lifestyle while the ordinary man and women in the street suffer the indignity of your personal ideology. You've got no understanding of the damage you cause, how you create endemic narcotics use, how crime precipitates to pay for it, how the old and the frail can no longer venture out: not one of you could give a damn, admit you're wrong or apologise for the damage you've caused. It's someone else's fault; the guy down the pub who speaks out, the kids in the playground who lash out or the local activist who simply disagrees with your methodology; and where are your motley crew: living the high-Iife around a fancy dinner table like this one. Well God bless the revolution," growled Bullit. "We're in charge now, the peasant stock, those who doffed their caps, and tugged their forelocks down throughout the generations, those who asked nothing in return except a touch of civility towards them, a decent education for their children, a steady job and a decent bit of medical treatment when they need it. They want the pensions they paid in for, but more importantly, they want peace of mind, they want to feel safe in their own country, not to be sidelined or treated like second class citizens whose lives are spent kowtowing to blacks and your Jewish world danger; the poodles who call themselves the bourgeoisies. Ourrrrr betters!"
Field Marshal Bullit dabbed the corners of his mouth with a serviette, threw it protestingly on to his plate, knocked back what was left in his wine glass, stood deliberately forceful, and told Staughton they were leaving. His departure was theatrical to say the least.
Bullit's long leather coat was draped over his shoulders so it hung cape like, and he told me he would speak to me in the morning. I took a deep breath as both he and Staughton vacated my apartment and I closed the door silently shut behind them.
"That went well," I said, and returned to my guests.
"Jesus!" Said Jackie, surprised, as we all moved back to the sofas, seated ourselves casually around them, and I poured the Brandies in large Waterford crystal bowl glasses.
"How the hell d'you put up with it?" Asked Jackie, flabbergasted, as I offered her a drink. "What was all that shaking your head stuff over dinner?"
"He's prone to bouts of rage," I excused. "It doesn't take that much to set him off: one moment he's fine the next he just sees red for no discernible reason; even cabinet and the joint chiefs-of-staff are starting to worry about the consequences of Bullit with his finger on the button." I muttered.
"What button?" Asked Christine, obtusely.
"The nuclear one!" I mouthed. "And he'd use it if he has too. If you are reporting back to the relevant department, Mark, make sure they don't upset him, because he's very liable to do something stupid if they do." I impressed.
"Your not serious, are you?" Asked Jackie, and from the evident way concern crossed her face, I sought to defuse the situation. I told her I might just be imagining things, but when she and Christine left the room to make some coffee, I called Mark close and moved forward to the edge of my seat, and when we were at touching distance, I made my voice furtive and small.
"You are still with the Canadian secret service, I take it?" I inquired.
"Well," hesitated Mark, ambiguous.
"Look," I warned, "I don't have time for all this cloak and dagger stuff. If you people want to know what's happening over here, you had better get your act together. Set-up a series of dead-Ietter boxes. That way I can keep you informed; there won't be any misunderstandings."
"There's speculation they might try to take Bullit out," revealed Mark.
"For God sakes, don't let that happen," I blurted, alarmed. And added: 'You do that we'll get George Shaw replace him. The Angel of Death. I can manipulate Bullit, but Shaw is a different quantity altogether. If rattled, he'll purge those around him to stabilise his own position in party ranks. We'll all get the chop if Bullit goes. Let us deal with our own internal problems, Mark. Advise the Americans to keep the hell out of it. There's already plans afoot," I concluded, as Jackie and Christine returned with the coffee, and I leant back on the sofa, expressing more with my facial features than I did with my words. My expression emphasized my own resolve to change things.
For the next hour or so we enjoyed each others company, before Mark and Christine decided to leave, and as they left my home, travelled downstairs and hailed a taxi, I watched from the balcony, a classic black Secretariat vehicle tail them.
And I knew, if I was to be associated with Mark, it would have to be with the utmost caution, as George Shaw already took a personal interest in Mark Spooner's activity in the UK. But then again, The Angel of Death took an interest in everyone's activity in the UK. There was no door in the United Kingdom, the Secretariat didn't have its big suspicious ear stuck too.
