This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Thirty-eight

(Saturday, October 15th)

We arrive at the Canadian sentry, who salutes when he sees the license plates. “No need to get out of your vehicle, Sir.”

“I have to report an incident on the US side of the border. May I speak to your OIC?” Richard asks politely, quietly and calmly.

The guard garbles something into his walkie-talkie; the walkie-talkie garbles something back. “If you would please pull your vehicle to the side of the shed, Major Canfield will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you.” Richard closes the door. “I have never been quite so happy to be on British soil. Fucking Yanks do tend to piss me off. Sorry, Ron.”

“No problem, Sir. Yanks piss me off, too, at times.” Ron chuckles to himself. “Ya didn’t tell him, did ya, Vince?”

“Tell me what?” Richard pulls into the parking space and shuts off the engine.

“Where d’y’all think that I learned to assemble and disassemble a Sterling L2A3, Mark 4, submachine gun blindfolded? In the Yank Army?” Ron’s laughter slides into the range of cynical delight. “The Yank Army can fuck up a wet dream. Look at how they’re doin’ in Vietnam.”

“Didn’t you say that you’re in the reserves?” Richard is now paying close attention.

“Yeah,” Ron laughs again sarcastically. “the Canadian Army Reserves. My unit is across the border in Manitoba.”

“What do you mean, across the border?” Richard seems confused.

Ron laughs at him. “Because right now, we’re in Ontario, Sir.”

And we can all tell by his crestfallen look, that Richard has had a long, rough day. When Major Canfield arrives, Richard gets out of the car, leans back in to snatch his thin leather briefcase and leaves.

I ask Raph to get out, and I go for my cigarettes. Aengus comes round the vehicle with his submachine gun slung over his shoulder, and he stands in front of me, as if he wants to block my path. I smile, and he smiles back.

“You know, Dan, it’s not that I didn’t want to kiss you.” His approaching me is costing him enormous effort. Aengus, the cool-as-a-cucumber sniper is trembling slightly. “Just the tornado gave me a bit of bad breath."

“You’re fine, Aengus.” I blow my smoke away from him, à propos bad breath. “Maybe we’ll get another chance, later on.”

“I’d like that.” The man is seriously bashful. Standing here under the sodium-vapour lamps, his face is the color of the setting sun in an Italian Western. “You and yer lad, Raphaël, are lovely blokes.”

“We think a lot of you, too, Aengus.” But I didn’t add that Raph still hasn’t washed his left hand.

Richard returns with the good Major Canfield, who wants to get statements from us. He comes around the Land Rover and stops in his tracks. “Is that you Sergeant Sinclair? Training isn’t until March.” He laughs and pats Ron on the back. “Guess you’re on special detail with Mr. Ashton, eh?”

But Raph and I know that before he was adopted by his stepfather, one Mr. Upton, his name was Ronnie Sinclair, and he was our adversary. So, I guess that his name in Canada is still Sinclair. But we no longer consider him an enemy. Raph and I like him, a lot. And apparently, Comrade Joe does, as well. People do change, I suppose. Or maybe it’s the situation, they’re stuck in, is what changes.

Major Canfield gets his statements, and we’re back on the road. Ron is now at the wheel and Vince is still shotgun.

I sense immediately that Ron is a professional driver. You can't tell when he shifts gears, it’s that smooth. There is no abrupt speeding up or slowing down. Everything is very even. So much so, that I go back to sleep.

***

I have no idea where we are, when Aengus wakes Raph and me. The only things glaringly clear are the lights. We must be at or near an airport.

There’s an abrupt knock at the back door of the Land Rover. I wipe the window clear of fog and see Dad’s bright grin shining amongst the flood lights. The door is hard to get open, particularly by frantically fumbling with it. Raphaël manages the latch and we’re out.

“Feckin’ glad to see you lot.” is Seph’s welcoming.

And an amazingly strong hug from Marty takes our breath away in the cold night. “We were worried about y’all getting caught in that tornado down in Iowa.”

Raph, wiping sleep from his eyes, spouts calmly: “Dan drove us right through it.”

“Come on.” Marty laughs. “Nobody drives through shit like that. According to the reports on the radio, it wiped out Belmond, Iowa, killing a whole slew of people. There’s no way Dan could have driven y’all through it.”

“He had the sense to wait for it to pass. Calm as a Hindu cow. And then he got us the Hell out.” Richard says with a twinkle in his eyes. “Having said that, I have never been so close to a twister, nor do I care to be, ever again.”

“We saw the big one forming, about five miles to the southeast of where we were.” Ron brings some calm clarity into the conversation, reducing my superhero status to that of human. “A secondary storm crossed out path and then dissipated.”

“Excuse me, My lord, Gentlemen.” A smart man in a grey uniform with a saucer cap approaches and salutes.

“I do wish people would not call me that.” Richard’s voice has somewhat of a whine to it.

“Terribly sorry, Mr. Ashton.” The gentleman in grey apologizes “I was addressing Lord Mongrain-Bourke, the 9th Baron Bourke of Castleconnell.” The sly smirk reveals the fact that he knows that we’re in the dark.

“Whom?” Richard’s face pinches. He flashes a daggered glance at Dad.

“You should talk to Mr. Boswell-Harper.” He turns and continues with his stuffy accent, presumably from a cold. “This way, please.”

“Who is Boswell-Harper?” Dad asks from behind the man in grey.

The grey saucer cap turns slightly. “A representative of St. James’ Palace, My lord.”

“And who are you?” Dad’s accent becomes noticeably more English rather than his recently exposed educated Irish. Marty is holding onto his hand for dear life.

“Flight Lieutenant Chance, My lord.” He chuckles. "No. 32 Squadron RAF. Your pilot."

I look at Dad; he shrugs; we walk.

Flight Lieutenant Chance leads us to a hangar, where a twin-engine, business jet is on standby with its lights flashing. A door to an office beyond the aircraft is standing open, where two men are waiting. They do not attract as much of our attention as does the aircraft. “She’s a Hawker Siddeley, HS-125. On loan."

“And I’m Oren Smithey, Her Majesty’s High Commissioner to Canada.” He manages to get our attention without a fit of coughs. “The Governor General couldn’t make it.” This causes the Flight Lieutenant, Richard and a rotund man in his sixties, presumably Mr. Boswell-Harper, to chuckle. The rest of us smile out of politeness.

“Let me hand this over to Mr. Boswell-Harper, so we can get your flight underway.”

“This is rather unorthodox,” He clears his throat and tries to snuggle more deeply into his thick parka. “both in setting and reason. But Her Majesty desires this clarified before your return home.

“The Court of St. James shall decree, pending your acceptance, to reinstate the prescriptive barony, forfeited upon the death of your ancestor, William Bourke, 8th Baron Bourke of Castleconnell in 1691…”

“Stop! Right there, stop!” Seph makes no attempt to disguise his anger. He looks at Boswell-Harper askance, known to Raph and me as his Irish look, as if he’s just seconds away from smacking the ‘wee fecker’ upside the head.

“I beg your pardon.” At last, Boswell-Harper actually looks at Seph.

“Stop it, Harper! You’re playing silly buggers with me, and I won’t stand for it.” Seph’s temper is just below seething, the gritted teeth being the dead giveaway. “I’ll have no part of your anachronistic travesty.

“This very issue came up during the rather brief reign of Edward, the Nazi lover, when my late sister petitioned the crown for reinstatement. Owing to much the same foresight, which had compelled my father not to become a Name at Lloyd’s a year before the Titanic went down, he declined this totally worthless, if not cynical gesture, as well. And now, I decline, Harper. No Name. No peerage. End of bloody story.”

“But Joseph, a peerage.” Richard seems close to fainting. “You’re declining a peerage. Just think of the free lunch for life at Westminster – not to mention the connections.”

“No, Mr. Ashton." Boswell-Harper clicks his tongue. “This would have been the reinstatement of a peerage of Ireland, not a peerage of Great Britain. He would not have been entitled to sit in the House of Lords.”

Seph nods at Richard with an I-told-you-so smirk; Richard turns on his employer’s representative, incensed. “So, what’s the point? This man was sent out as a spy under George V, for Christ’s sake, forfeiting a comfortable life, his home and career as a classical musician. Now, three reigns later, you want to give him a token peerage?”

“To which Mr. Mongrain-Bourke is the rightful heir, had he accepted.”

“Sasanach dúr!” Richard foams at the mouth; Seph and Aengus chuckle. “Sergeants Maccan and Sinclair, Corporal Matthews, we are indeed finished here.” He gathers steam while looking kindly at Martin and Joseph. “This is for you.” He hands Marty the envelope with his papers in it. “And I’ll be in touch. When is the funeral in Paris?”

“On the 24th.” Dad sounds surprised; then, he becomes assertive as he shakes his hand. ”And ta, Richard. You’ve been remarkable in everything you’ve done.”

“All in a day’s work.” He gives Dad a pat on the shoulder, “See you on the 24th.” and motions to his soldiers.

“Did Richard know Maurice?” Marty asks softly.

“No, but he’d heard from his predecessor about my depression, misery and the boozy nights at their residence,” Dad leans his head toward Marty’s ear and fails to see Ron wave him good-bye. “which, of course, stopped, when I met you.”

Messrs. Boswell-Harper and Smithey wish us a perfunctory farewell. Taking over command, Flight Lieutenant Chance gives his co-pilot, who is waiting in the cockpit, thumbs up.

“Gentlemen, this way, please.” He walks us around to the other side of the dark blue plane, where the door containing the stairs has been lowered for us to board. Inside there are six, large, grey-blue leather seats and a light blue interior. This is not what I expected. This is not what we see in the movies. This is grand style.

As Flight Lieutenant Chance is preparing to board, I see, through the rounded square window, two figures running toward the plane, shouting, waving frantically. When they come closer, I see that Ron and Vince have, what I presume to be our backpacks. When they come even closer, I see that they are each carrying two packs. But, since they are both grinning, I assume that nothing is amiss.

The Flight Lieutenant motions for them to climb aboard. They come down the aisle grinning, almost to the point of bursting. “Mr. Ashton gave me a fortnight's home leave, just like he said he would." Vince informs us.

“And Major Canfield is telexing leave travel orders for me to RAF Northolt. So we’re coming with y’all.”

“That means that Richard and, uh, the one soldier…” Seph tries to remember his name.

“Sergeant Maccan. Aengus.” Raph helps him out.

“Yeah, thanks.” He clears his throat. “Will they be travelling alone back to Kansas City?” Seph appears to be very worried.

“No.” Ron explains. “My CO…” He looks at Raph’s and my bewildered faces and chuckles. "My commanding officer, Major Canfield, is calling up the grizzlies to accompany them.”

“Grizzlies?” I wonder if this might not also be some military term.

“Two huge motherfuckers, who work as lumberjacks in their civilian jobs." He gives us a questioning look. "Hey, Guys, this is Canada. We have lumberjacks.”

Flight Lieutenant Chance gets our attention by securing the latch on the door. "We are about to depart, Gentlemen. Are there any amongst us, who have never been in an aeroplane?" Raph and I are the only ones to raise our hands. He squats between Raph and me and shows us how to fasten the across the chest seatbelt and explains the illuminated sign, and that there is an inflatable vest in the drawer under the seat. “And do we have anyone, who has never flown on a business jet of this size?” Everyone else, except for Seph, raises his hand.

The Flight Lieutenant stands again and gives us a fairly detailed description of the sounds we'll hear and of the motions to expect. Particularly, the thrust upon takeoff is much greater than with commercial aircraft and the manoeuvres are less cumbersome. He requests us not to smoke until he turns off the sign at the head of the cabin. “Do you have any questions?” There are none.

Since I’m facing Raph and am in front of Vince, I look over my shoulder at Vince, and the seat swivels. Dad reaches over across the aisle and straightens the seat. “There’s a lever under the left side, which you have to use to secure the seat for takeoff. As soon as the sign is extinguished, you can release the brake and swivel again. But if we encounter turbulence, you’ll have to secure it.”

Sure enough, there it is. I lift the lever, and the leather seat no longer swivels. “And since when are you such an expert on business jets?”

“Let’s see,” Seph grins in a way, I know, he won’t tell me everything. “the last time was in June of this year, when I had to report to C, directly.”

“Who’s C?” I want to know and wonder, whether he’s making this up, as he goes along.

“He runs Box 850 or the crowd that dare not speak its name.” He leans back in his seat, fastens his seatbelt and looks out the window at the inside of the hangar.

My curiosity and any further questioning is squelched by a jolt. Raph looks startled and is a bit jittery. I close my ankles around his. He smiles and sighs deeply. A glance out the window tells me that we are being towed out of the hangar. A man with huge earmuffs and two flashlights is giving signals.

“Gentlemen, this is Pilot Officer Grant,” the voice over the intercom sounds to be all of twelve years old. If that’s not reassuring: a pilot, whose name is Chance and a kid co-pilot. “Flight Lieutenant Chance will be starting the turbines, once we are clear of the hangar and the tow has been disengaged.

“Please make sure, that your seatbelts are secure and that your rucksacks are tucked under the seats. Our flight time to Goose Bay will be about three and a half hours, where we will stop to refuel. Our cruising speed will be approximately 480 miles per hour at an altitude of 35,000 feet. Both Flight Lieutenant Chance and I do hope you enjoy the flight.”

The very second, the co-pilot signs off, we hear the whining sound of the turbines. The plane is idle for a few seconds before we start to move. The ride to the end of the taxiway is bumpy.

Tension is rising, becoming nervous energy. My left leg jiggles. Raph chuckles silently, watching my leg.

We turn onto the end of the runway and onto a series of white stripes. The Flight Lieutenant doesn’t even attempt to stop from the turn. The whine of the turbines approach screeching pitch, and I sink into the seat. And we’re off, down the bumpy runway. Then, of a sudden, we’re floating, and I hear the buzzing sound of Flight Lieutenant Chance’s raising and locking the wheels.

I notice that Raph’s knuckles have blanched, while he digs his fingers into the leather-upholstered arm rests. I tighten my grip with my ankles to reassure him, that we’re in this together.

The smell of mothballs and sweat is rising out of my new field jacket. I would desperately like to have a smoke, take a piss and a shower, have sex with Raph and change into clean, civilian clothes. But I assume that it’ll have to wait until we get to Goose Bay for the shower and change of clothes, if we have enough time during the fuelling stop. Or until we get to England, if we don’t.

My mind is also in overdrive. I will it to settle down. And then there is the relaxing ping, accompanying the no-smoking-and-fasten-seatbelt sign being turned off.

I flip open the ashtray and pull out my cigarettes. To judge by their facial expressions, Dad, Marty and Ron all notice that they’re English cigarettes and not American. I take one out and pass the pack around.

Dad and Ron take one, and I pass the trusty old Zippo to them. Neither can get it to light. I fumble with my seatbelt and manage to get it open, flip the swivel lever and spin round, lean over and light theirs.

“Wouldn’t you rather have this?” I look to my right and think that my heart may stop. Vince is holding up the huge bag of Bob's home-grown dope.

“Holy mother of god,” Seph lets out a start, recognizing the bag. "where in bleedin’ Hell did that come from?” Marty looks nonplussed.

"My colleague Collin and I are responsible for checking everything coming on and going off the grounds of the Consul General’s residence.” He laughs. “So we checked the Lads bags before they went into the diplomatic shipment of household goods.”

“Why didn’t you just leave it in the suitcase?” Raph wants to know. “How are we going to get it through customs?”

“H.M. Customs and Excise will be checking you lot, since you’re civilians.” Vince’s voice goes conspiratorially low. “But Ron and I are military and don’t go through civilian customs.”

“Don’t you have military customs, like we do?” Marty asks and then blushes, correcting himself. “Like the Americans do.”

“Not really.” Vince smiles at Marty. “I can’t believe how much guts you have, Mr. Mongrain-Bourke.”

Marty blushes even deeper. “Have you heard about the trouble I had in Vietnam?”

“No, no, haven't heard about that. I meant changing your nationality, like you did and then helping a foreign spy, wanted by the FBI, to cross illegally into Canada." We can see moisture brimming in Vince’s eyes. “You’re a bleedin’, absolute hero in my books.”

“Hear, hear.” Ron’s head is nodding consent.

“And you, Mate!” Vince turns to Dad. “Renouncing a peerage. You aren’t a hero in my books, you’re a fucking saint.

“We talk a lot about bucking the class system in the military and all we do is to vote Labour. But to throw a nobleman’s title right into the face of a personal representative of the Queen and her fucking High Commissioner, puts you right up there at the top.”

“Same here, Joseph.” Ron has to wipe his eyes. “Don’t think that I’ve ever been so proud to know somebody, ever. You really do practice what you preach.”

“Yeah,” Raph’s voice is smooth and gentle. “Dad’s never reneged on a promise. He has always done what he thinks is right.”

“Okay, Lads,” Seph takes a deep breath. “I appreciate the adulation, but let me climb down off the pedestal. I crap and wank, just like you lot do.”

Vince and Ron chuckle. However, when Marty asks what ‘wank’ means, the group goes into a frenzy.

I finish the smoke and go for a piss. Raph is right behind me.

We both get into the bathroom at the end of the cabin with no problem. It’s the width of the plane with a good sized washbasin and a toilet and a bidet in it. A bidet in an airplane. Wow.

I sit to piss and Raph washes himself in the bidet. We change. Then, he kneels in front of me. He works my cock, almost to the point of distraction. I may well have to commandeer the oxygen mask stored in the trap door above the washbasin, according to the good Flight Lieutenant.

He feels me start to spasm and pulls off, forcing my mouth onto his. Becoming all the more excited, I descend.

Although his cock, balls and arse are freshly washed, the rest of his body smells of my Raphaël. This sends me into a spin, as if the aircraft were sharply losing altitude.

He shoots down my throat and I shoot into my underpants, which are around my ankles. Since I am squatting, the overly abundant load makes their removal necessary.

With Raph’s help, I manage to get out of them, which is, however, a manoeuvre a bit too involved for the confines of an aircraft’s toilet, no matter how luxurious. I have to sit on the commode to tuck my trouser legs into the combat boots. I fold my cum-filled underpants into the left pocket of my field jacket.

When we emerge, Pilot Officer Grant is serving drinks from the bar cabinet across from the aircraft’s door. “What would you like, Gentlemen?”

Seph already has his double whiskey half finished, Ron, Vince and Marty are each nursing a bottle of Dutch beer. Of course, my wise-ass father has to spout: “Why not Champagne to celebrate your new membership in the Mile-High Club?”

Pilot Officer Grant’s face turns to stone, but he isn’t quite able to stifle a snort. Marty giggles into his bottle of beer. Dad looks very pleased with himself. And Ron and Vince have questioning looks plastered across their mugs.

“Why not.” is Raph’s reply, slightly erasing the grin off Seph’s face. “I could imagine, we’re not the only members aboard.” He smiles pointedly. “Care to share any stories, Dad?”

“Not today, Son.” He giggles along with Marty. “They’re classified.”

“What the Hell is the Mile-High Club?” Ron must be feeling left out. Then he thinks about it for a second. “Holy shit, you guys didn’t…?”

“Anything else, Gentlemen?” Pilot Officer Grant rescues decorum. “We shall be having a bite to eat in the VIP lounge at Goose Bay.”

“Excuse me.” I raise an index finger rather than my whole arm and hand. I am improving. “Could I get a shower and a shave in Goose Bay?”

“Of course, Sir. The VIP lounge has excellent facilities. Our lay-over will be about two hours.” Pilot Officer Grant looks at the others to take a request. When there is none, he returns to the cockpit. Several moments later, we hear a good gut laugh coming from up front.

Nipping on the Champagne, I swivel toward Dad. “The British Embassy was informed by the American government, that you’d been shot and killed trying to cross the border.”

“Yeah, they’re also trying to inform the world that they’re spreading feckin’ democracy in Vietnam.” Seph drains his whiskey and laughs sarcastically. Marty joins in holding up his beer bottle in an approving toast.

“We sort of knew it was a fluke, since there was no mention of one certain Martin George Mortimer Maurice Mongrain-Bourke.” I toast Marty back. “By the bye, did you get your old passport from Richard?”

“Yeah, thanks, Brother Dan.” Marty’s breathing is clear, not a sign of wheezing.

“But what happened, that they knew you were leaving the country.” I turn back to Dad.

“Either somebody ratted,” He sets his empty whiskey glass in the holder next to his seat. “which is unlikely. More than likely is that the FBI agent, who was chatting you two up, did more than just look into our backgrounds. Ron tipped me off, that they were coming after us.”

Everyone looks at Ron with raised eyebrows. Since mine are more emphatically raised, he addresses me. “My girlfriend…, Uh, well, my ex-girlfriend, now…” He blushes and glances at Vince. “You know, Vicky’s sister, Cherie? Well, she’s a secretary at the Kansas City Division of the FBI, and she told me that you and Joseph was on the wanted list. She reca’nised your name from high school."

“That’s when I phoned Richard to have him take you under his wing.” Seph chuckles. "Did you have fun at the residence?”

Raph smiles and winks at Vince. “Yeah, we did. Got a free uniform to prove it.”

I get us back on track, since my main focus is the enigma of Ron. “And why are you Canadian?”

“First of all, I was born in Canada, and my father moved back home after the divorce." Ron seems thoughtful. “My adoption by Jack Upton wasn’t recognized in Canada, since Dad didn’t give his consent. The whole thing was a real mess for me as a kid. That’s why I now carry my Canadian Army ID with me at all times, in case the Yanks decide to try to make me one of theirs.”

“Funny, I always thought you were American.” I laugh.

“That’s odd.” Ron grins. “I never once thought you were. Word had it at school that you’d refused to say the Pledge of Allegiance.”

“And what a stir that made,” Seph tells Ron over his shoulder. “in the middle of the feckin’ McCarthy purge.”

“I never had that much guts.” Ron sounds somewhat resigned. “Even when the FBI tried to stop me, when I was goin’ onto the residence’s grounds, I damn near pissed my pants.”

“What did Richard do?” Seph wants to know from Vince.

“He had the RMP with dogs out, and Aengus and Taylor up in the snipers' nest to take them out, if they'd tried to come onto the grounds."

“That mild mannered guy is a sniper?” Marty is shaking his head in disbelief.

“One of the best.” Vince explains proudly. “He can shoot the core out of an apple at five-hundred meters.”

“Wow!” Marty is visibly impressed. “And they would have actually shot FBI agents, within the United States?”

“Not quite.” Vince moves into sentry mode. “The grounds of our Consul General’s residence are under territorial jurisdiction of the United Kingdom."

“That’s how Richard could get Raph and Dan into safety.” Seph relates to Marty. “As long as they were on the grounds of the residence or in one of the official vehicles, they were on British soil. Exactly the way we are inside this aeroplane. We’re flying under British flag.”

“Uh,” Vince seems to want information but afraid to ask. “Hmm…”

“What is it, Vince?” I feel it my duty to help him out, since he is struggling with conscience.

“I wanted to ask Mr. Mongrain-Bourke…”

“Which one?” Seph laughs.

“You, Sir.” Vince tries to approach the subject, but Seph puts a stop to it.

“Please, do not call me Sir, Lad.” He readjusts himself in the leather seat. “Your name is Vince and my name is Seph or Joseph, whichever you care to use. There’s no ‘Mister’, no ‘Sir’ and for Fuck’s sake, no ‘My lord’.” This seems to break the ice sufficiently.

The sentence cascades out of Vince’s mouth all at once. “Umm, I wanted to ask you why you declined the peerage.”

“The main reason is that I consider the monarchy and all the trappings, like a peerage, to be out of date. As a matter of fact, I think it’s so far out of date, that it’s down-right medieval.” He looks at Vince to judge his reaction, so far, before he continues.

“A parliamentarian democracy is the way to go. But not the way the Yanks have gone, with the head of state and the head of government being the same person, but the way the Germans and Austrians have it.

“They replaced the Kaiser with a president and elect a separate head of government. Ideally, the Swiss have the best one going.

“They also have separation of state and government. Every time an important issue comes up, or a law has to be changed, they hold a referendum and ask the people directly what they want. But I don’t think that would work in Britain. Too many of the old school still arsin’ about in government.”

“I thought you’re a Communist.” Vince seems befuddled.

“Ah, Vince, me Lad, don’t confuse the political system with the economic system. They are unrelated, no matter what the Queen and Brezhnev would have you believe.” Seph snickers. “Just because she’s a bleedin’ capitalist, doesn’t mean that the country has to be.”

Vince seems nervous to have his old thoughts challenged. “But don’t they go hand in hand?”

“Look at Sweden.” Seph sighs and gazes longingly at the bar cabinet. “They have a monarchy and their economic system is pretty much Marxist.

“But again the West-Germans have it hands down. They have large state-controlled industry, and what they call a ‘Sozialstaat’ is anchored in their constitution. They call it 'sozial' as not to be too much like the East-Germans, who think they’re Socialists.”

“Aren’t they Socialists?” Vince is becoming intrigued with Seph’s insights.

And, as if reading Seph’s mind, Pilot Officer Grant appears and opens the bar cabinet. "Would the Gentlemen care for another drink?" He sees Seph’s longing face. “The same?”

“Please.” He hands over the glass. Pilot Officer puts it aside and gets a fresh one. “Use the same glass, if you would.” The co-pilot looks at him questioningly. “Didn’t have time to wipe off me fingerprints.”

Polite chuckles ensue, but Pilot Officer does as requested. Two fingers of single-malt Glenfiddich, no ice, no water.

Seph returns his focus to Vince’s question, as soon as they both have their drinks. “The East-Germans have a brand of socialism. Their economic system is Marxist theory as interpreted by the Soviet Union. Their political system is a Stalinist dictatorship, run by one old fart at the helm with a table-full of old farts to back him up.”

Ron wants Seph’s opinion on the advantages of a Chairman and a Central Committee, as Mao has in China. “But wouldn’t that be an alternative to the monarchy?”

“Ah, fer Christ’s sake, Lad.” Seph releases his seat’s brake and swivels around. “That would be no alternative. It would be the same as the Queen and her Privy Council, just without all the pomp. That’s not democracy. And that’s why I refuse to be a part of it."