Chapter 18

The TV screen faded to a soft green blur and drifted into salt and pepper fuzz. The video recorder clicked off and the screen went black. 'And that, gentlemen, is Plan Canute!' barked General Cappell. He grasped the lapels of his heavy tweed jacket with obvious pride. 'Any questions?' he asked.

Peters shot me a steely warning. I glared back at him but kept my mouth shut. Sheer cowardice. 'I shouldn't think so, Tom,' preempted Sir Anthony. 'That was a most comprehensive briefing; most enlightening, thank you.'

Arthur twitched nervously and straightened up. 'Ah, excuse me, General,' he said. His right eye fluttered noticeably.

The General glanced nervously at Sir Anthony. Sir Anthony smiled and inclined his head almost imperceptibly in assent. 'Yes?' replied the General.

'Exactly how does the Army intend to keep the population,' Arthur glanced quickly down at his notes, 'Quote, "calm and in situ", unquote, once it is obvious that sea level is rising rapidly?'

'I think the film explained that perfectly well, Arthur,' interrupted Sir Anthony.

Arthur raised his chin. 'What if the "psychological pacification" techniques mentioned in the video prove to be inadequate?' he asked softly.

'Barriers currently are being erected, Mr Summers, at constriction points within the low ground. These are designed to impede population flow and migration into the restricted areas,' replied the General. 'Strategically placed bridges, tunnels, flyovers and motorway accesses will be made inaccessible by controlled demolition charges on signal. Access into the high ground itself will be directly controlled by Army personnel.'

'What if those measures cannot contain large crowds of panic-stricken people trying to escape the flooding?' questioned Arthur.

'You will remember that getting people moving from their homes was the main problem at Weymouth, Arthur,' reminded Sir Anthony. 'It was the same at Southwark; some of them are still living in the upper stories and pottering about in makeshift rafts.'

'Yes, but what if they decide to move this time?' he insisted.

'Then the Army personnel will contain the high ground, my dear chap,' explained Sir Anthony.

'Yes, but exactly what will that containment entail?' persisted Arthur. Sir Anthony was silent. Arthur stared at the General. 'What exactly will that entail, General?' he repeated.

'That means that our troops will employ the minimum amount of physical force necessary to exclude unauthorised migrants from gaining access into the high ground,' replied the General.

'Will your soldiers be armed?' asked Arthur.

'Naturally,' replied the General.

'Will they be authorised to fire upon these "unauthorised migrants" if necessary?' he asked.

'Under carefully defined conditions, yes,' said the General

Arthur coughed jerkily. 'And what conditions might those be?'

'If, in the judgement of their officers or NCO's, there is no other means possible to achieve containment, they will be instructed to fire,' explained the General.

'Do you have any idea of the size of crowds which might attempt to rush your barriers?' asked Arthur.

'We anticipate that they could be quite large in certain areas,' agreed the General.

'Then how can crowds that large be stopped?' demanded Arthur, more aggressively now.

'You may be assured that modern small arms and antipersonnel weapons are extremely effective, Mr Summers,' said the General.

'Effective enough to stop crowds of 10,000 people or more?' he snapped.

'Armoured vehicles and tactical air power will supplement our containment measures, where necessary,' said the General grimly. 'Non lethal chemical agents will be available to support our troops.'

Peters gave Sir Anthony a warning look. 'I think we really might prefer to submit any further questions in writing, Arthur,' Sir Anthony murmured.

Arthur ignored him. 'But surely, General, wouldn't it make a lot more sense to use the tanks and planes to hit the low ground before the crowds form?' he asked. Peters relaxed and flicked his hand at Sir Anthony to allow Arthur to continue.

'Preemptive strikes have been modelled by our planning staff, Mr Summers,' said the General, relaxing slightly. 'Models suggest that premature tactical intervention is more likely to create panic situations and, thereby, to stimulate migration of unauthorised population than it is to reduce the potential for it.'

'Even napalm?' asked Arthur brightly.

'Yes, I'm afraid it would not be entirely effective,' admitted the General.

Arthur nodded his head sagely. 'And what about nuclear weapons?' he asked.

'The destructive power of nuclear devices, even the lowest yield ones, is far too great for suppression of unauthorised migration on the local scale expected. In the highly populated urban areas, simple constriction of transportation routes is expected to be sufficiently effective to contain the bulk of possible migration,' explained the General seriously.

'Poison gas? What about that?' suggested Arthur tensely. Even the general was beginning to suspect he was taking the piss. Just as well, too, I was beginning to get pretty hot under the collar from all this megadeath crap for the unlucky ones.

'Again, gas is really very difficult to control in close tactical situations, especially in bad weather. Also, it creates serious operational difficulties for our personnel,' replied the general sedately. 'Full CBR kit reduces mobility and time-in-field.'

'And so you think your soldiers will be able to just shoot down enough of these poor people down to stop them coming through your barriers, hey?' hissed Arthur, his voice cracking slightly and both eye lids fluttering.

The General lifted his head in warning. 'We are primarily talking about a crowd control situation here, Mr Summers. The use of firearms is only anticipated as a very last and extreme measure.'

'And do you really think that British soldiers will just mow down their own people, General? Gun down women, children and old people, who are doing nothing more disorderly than trying to save their lives?' shouted Arthur. 'Do you, hey?'

The General recoiled in disgust and glared at Sir Anthony. 'Look here, I ... I didn't come here to be treated like this by your staff, Tony,' he huffed indignantly. 'I'm going.'

Peters was already standing. 'Now that's enough, Mr Summers!' he snapped. 'Enough!'

'You're too bloody right it's enough!' howled Arthur. 'This is total insanity, by God! You've all gone out of your sodding tiny minds, you lot! Do you really think 40 million people are going to sit calmly in front of their dead tellies, eating defrosted fish fingers and chips, while the sea washes gently over them? Do you?'

'Psychological pacification techniques will work, Mr Summers!' protested the General.

Arthur pushed over his table and jumped over it. Pens and papers spilled all over the thick beige carpet. He stepped up to the General. He just about came up to the General's granite chin. 'You fucking military moron,' he screamed, his Welsh accent thickening. 'So you think you'll push a bloody little red button and your men will cheerfully murder millions of innocent civilians like robots, hey? People who's only crime is not making enough money to be let through the gate? They'll be a lot more likely to turn and kill the fat bastards like you, boy-o!' Arthur pushed the General on the chest with the flat of his palm. 'Like this, see!'

The General shoved Arthur back, hard. Arthur pushed him again. 'You're damned right they'll do it, Mister!' shouted the General. He pushed Arthur again, harder. 'They're good troops and they'll do exactly what they're told to do and when they're told to do it and how they're told to do it. They'll do the job and they'll sleep like babies afterward.' Arthur doubled up his puny fists and took a swing at the General. The General ducked and bobbed forwards aggressively, his fists up.

Peters came around the table and pinioned Arthur from behind. 'All right, Mr Summers,' he growled, 'Just calm down.' The General surged forward and briskly jabbed Arthur twice in the chest. Arthur wheezed and doubled over - or as much as he could under the circumstances.

I jumped up, upsetting my chair. 'You bloody rotten sneak!' I cried, 'Stop that, right now, General!'

Even Peters looked appalled by this cowardly attack. He half twisted Arthur to protect him from another blow. 'All right, sir, that's enough, now, please,' he commanded. Only Sir Anthony was unperturbed by all of this.

'The blighter hit me first, dammit,' snarled the General, panting. He lowered his fists. 'Always hit the enemy when he's down, dammit.' He reluctantly stepped back to the podium and straightened his regimental tie.

'He's not the enemy, you red-striped idiot,' I shouted, 'He's a Cabinet Secretary.'

'Permanent Under Secretary!' cried Arthur. Tears streamed down his face.

Peters half-carried Arthur to the door. 'I'll just lock him in the interview room until he cools down a bit, Sir Anthony,' he grunted.

Arthur grabbed the door jamb and pushed his head back into the room. 'Coward!' he shouted at the General. 'Murderer! Fascist beast!' Peters pushed forward and Arthur's head disappeared.

'Well, Tom,' asked Sir Anthony cheerfully, as if nothing had happened, 'Do you think we've covered just about everything?'

I broke in. 'I have a question, if you don't mind,' I said quietly.

'There's been quite enough trouble already, Dick, thank you,' warned Sir Anthony.

I waved my hand at him. 'It's nothing at all like that, Tony,' I protested, 'Just a few things I'd like to clear up. Honest.' Sir Anthony fluttered his hand in tired defeat. I turned to face the General. 'You are doubtless aware, General, that a great many environmentally sensitive installations, such as nuclear power stations, chemical plants, chemical weapon dumps and the like, are located near the sea.'

'There are exceptions, but that is generally correct,' agreed the General.

'I understand that the Army is in control of dealing with these installations,' I said.

'Yes,' replied the General. 'These are being deactivated, proofed against marine submersion or relocated into safer areas. The weather, I need hardly say, is making these operations extremely difficult.'

The door flung open and Peters stalked back to his chair. He sat and fixed his most baleful stare on me. Discretion high-jacked my tongue. 'Well, that certainly sounds most satisfactory, thank you, General,' I finished unctuously.

'Everything all right, sir?' rasped Peters.

'Yes,' replied the General nastily. 'I hope you've put that horrible little man where he can do no more damage.' Peters just smiled; smirked, really.

'Oh, just a bit of high jinks, Tom,' laughed Sir Anthony. 'Our chaps here are getting jolly pent up after simply months and months of being caged up here, thinking and planning and whatnot. Nerves, just nerves. Pay no mind to it. Arthur was just letting off a bit of well-earned steam.'

'Well, if that's all you want, Tony, I'll be off,' said the General coldly. 'I've got things to do.'

'Thanks and remember to hang onto your hat in this wind, Tommy,' warned Sir Anthony jovially.

'I'm in civvies, Tony,' replied the General curtly, 'I'm not wearing a hat.' He picked up his coat and marched from the room.

Sir Anthony made a wry face as the door closed. He turned to Peters. 'How's Arthur?' he asked. 'Has he calmed down? I say, I've never seem him lose his bottle before. It really must be nerves.'

'Ah, he's very much quieter now, sir,' murmured Peters. He looked at me. 'You can go let him out, Professor. Room 112.' He threw me a key.

I rose and hurried out of the room and down the corridor. I tapped on the door of 112 with the key. There was no answer. I opened it, somehow already knowing what I would find. Arthur dangled limply from a thick green heating pipe. His head rested, skewed oddly, along his chest. One of his shiny black loafers had fallen off. His big toe showed through a hole in his bright blue sock. I couldn't bring myself to touch him or even bear to look at him again. I just stepped back into the hall, closed the door gently and began to weep.

* * *

Pretty pathetic, huh? I'll bet that's what you're thinking. Right? Here's these bureaucratic monsters planning to administratively murder about two-thirds of the population of Great Britain so that the other third can survive in relative comfort. All for the good of the Realm, employment and the economy. And one of them's snivelling because his mate's gone and topped himself. Or gotten himself topped; whatever.

Yeah, well, that's how it is, you know. Even in the midst of great events, we're only really, affected, deep down inside, by what's right around us, what's a real part of us. Everyday, trivial crap, not grand schemes and ideas and theories. Hitler kills off a good part of Europe: he's worried sick because his poor doggie can't do his pooh-poohs; angry, he orders his divisions forward. Stalin's terribly upset because the film projector's broken and he can't see the cowboy film tonight: he signs another couple hundred death warrants instead. The pile of skulls just doesn't seem as pretty as it was yesterday and so we're sad: we sack another city and make the skull pile bigger, we feel happer for a moment.

Well, that's how it is, dear reader, and that's how it always has been - even for mass murderers like us.