by David Holman
Swan explained how he thought he had his suspect, but has since changed his mind about them.
When Stratton asked for a name, it was one he was familiar with. ‘Damien Wyatt was my opposite number in BOSS a few years ago. I met him a couple of times. Quite a nice chap. I remember him telling me about all the corruption going on within the service. I expect he was glad to get out when he did.’
Swan was now even more convinced Wyatt wasn’t a suspect, and would even perhaps make a valuable ally. ‘He’s offered his help, said he could have a strike force assembled within an hour.’
Stratton agreed. ‘Bit of a better option than going after the perpetrators yourself, Alex. Why not let the Rhodesians deal with the problem. Your work is done, surely?’
There was a lengthy pause between the two men at either end of the line, and it was Swan who finally broke the silence.
‘Well, actually, John, Andrew and Peter Cunningham have gone there with Phillip Munroe.’
Swan heard his friend suddenly take in a large breath.
‘The elusive South African is with them?’
‘Yes, he is. Don’t worry, John. He’s on our side.’
‘Well, I’ve never questioned your judgement before, Alex, so I’ll take your word.’
Swan reinforced his statement. ‘Trust me, John. Munroe wants nothing more than to prevent this from happening. Especially, after seeing what is at stake.’
‘Nevertheless, I suggest you take up Wyatt’s offer, that’s if he hasn’t already taken the matter into his own hands.’
‘And what about Henry Mallinson?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about him. We’ve got all we need to see he goes away for a long, long time. I organised a little burglary at his home, and my operative came up trumps with some rather incriminating evidence.’ Stratton shuffled through the photographs taken by Sophie Lewis, ‘you were right all along, Alex, the target is the Kariba Dam, and Jericho Kuwani.’
*
Leaning against the heavily camouflaged Leopard, Andrew Gable was enjoying another well-earned cigarette, talking to Cunningham, when an excited and almost breathless Munroe burst through the brush.
‘It’s there, man,’ he announced excitedly referring to the aircraft, ‘just been towed out to the runway.’ He turned to the NIS man. ‘Your missiles are on it, Peter, and there’s something else, I think they’re about to blow the place. I saw some men who could be laying charges.’
Gable stubbed out his cigarette. ‘How many men did you see?’
‘I counted eleven on site. I reckon there could be more up at the farmhouse. Most have automatic rifles, South African made by the look of them. The good thing is, I didn’t see anything bigger, like a heavy machine gun or a fifty cal, mounted on a jeep.’
‘How far away from the plane is the farmhouse?’ Gable asked.
‘It’s over on the other side, probably take a few minutes to reach the area, should we stir up a hornet’s nest.’
Cunningham stepped forward. ‘So, what’s our plan then, gentlemen?’
Munroe looked around and then picked up some sticks. He then broke one into four pieces and laying them on the ground, he set about to form a plan view of a crude-looking aircraft.
‘This is the Buccaneer,’ he broke one of the smaller pieces in half again and placed them on either side of what represented the fuselage, ‘here are the missiles, they’re on the inner pylons of each wing,’ he used another stick to draw in the dirt, ‘here, we have the hangar, here is the start of the runway and here is the farmhouse.’ He now had the others full attention, their eyes fixed on the improvised model as he continued. ‘There’s a perimeter fence here, it’s either alarmed or electrified, I saw the wires running in line with it.’ He looked up at them to ensure they understood. ‘I suggest using the element of surprise, we burst in through the fence here with the Leopard, use the grenades on the plane and escape along the runway. At any point if it gets nasty, we can bash through the fence again and use the bush to get away.’
Gable glanced at Cunningham. ‘I think this is doable,’ he announced with confidence.
Cunningham had other thoughts. ‘It’s bloody suicide man! We might as well crash in there and ram the plane for all that’s worth.’
‘Now that’s not a bad idea, Peter,’ Munroe teased.
Gable intervened. ‘Come on chaps, let’s be serious about this,’ he turned back to Munroe, ‘is there no other way, Phillip?’
Munroe spat on the floor and shook his head. ‘This is our best option. If we can get enough speed when we hit that fence, we’ll be in and heading down the runway before they can train their rifles on us, leaving behind us a lovely glowing fire.’ Cunningham suddenly showed his concern on another matter. ‘What about this Locust Rain stuff inside the missiles? What happens to it?’
Gable recalled the lecture at Porton Down. ‘It should be eradicated by the burning fuel.’
Munroe spat again. ‘So, there we have it then, guys. I say we get into the Leopard and check our equipment. Then we go.’
Gable was about to say something, when the sound of the early morning bush chorus around them, was suddenly shattered by a high-pitched whining. The three men stared at one another with a look of horror on their faces. The whining could only mean one thing; the Buccaneer’s two Rolls Royce Spey turbofans were firing up.
28
At Haldenbrook Farm, Toby Gifford sat in the front cockpit of the Buccaneer. In an almost mesmeric state his thoughts were with his family and how he would soon be reunited with them.
Behind him, strapping himself in, was Chris Campbell. He too would be glad to see the end of his time here. It wasn’t the same country he had thought so gallantly for in the Bush War. This was his final mission, a mission he could retire and be proud of. He had had a relative who had taken part in Operation Chastise, the secret raid to breach the Ruhr dams during World War 2. It was this man who had inspired him to join his air force.
As Campbell sat in the cockpit, his thoughts were with his old uncle who had been one of the survivors. He thought of how he must have felt, lying on his stomach, looking down at the black water and holding up the crude, but effective little tool to check the distance away from the towers of the Mohne Dam, before dropping the spinning Upkeep mine weapon at the specific point. It was a vision his pilot would be replicating, when dropping down to almost the same height to attack this dam. Even having to do the sudden pull-up to clear the area, would be reminiscent of the manoeuvre those brave pilots of 617 Squadron had had to perform with their lumbering Lancaster bombers.
Earlier, they had walked the two hundred yards from the house to the hangar for the last time. Gifford had spoken again to his security chief to check everything was ready, and then both men had conducted a walk around of the aircraft, checking the control surfaces were in working order before climbing up the twin ladder platform to climb into their respective cockpits.
Inside the aircraft’s “office”, Gifford put on his helmet and started up the engines. He then pulled over the oxygen hose and connected it into the side console.
Behind him, Campbell had done the same. He reached for the flight map, holding it in his gloved hand as the sides of it creased against the walls of the narrow cockpit. In the Lancaster, they would’ve had a table to place this on, he thought. His job was to make sure they got to the target and delivered the weapons. He hadn’t slept, and instead, had just laid on the bed in one of the rooms in the big house, going over and over the route in his mind.
Gifford hadn’t slept either. What they were about to do would be read in future history books. The topographical map of the area was about to be altered forever. But he was ready. It had to be done. Would his slain parents have approved of this action? The deliberate cover-up of their deaths was something he had lived with since being involved with the heist of the aircraft of which he now sat. He saw this act as one of vengeance. A new life awaited him.
He looked at his watch. Although, they had
set a specific time agreed with Mallinson, the waiting was like a knife slowly stabbing his heart. He looked at his gauges. The engines would reach full compression soon, enough to give the order for them to take off. He then looked through the windshield at the beckoning long black strip, eager to release the brakes and roll down it. His reverie was suddenly distracted by one of his men rushing towards him.
Clambering up the ladder, the man was almost out of breath as he shouted to him over the noise of the idle-running engines. ‘We’ve just received a call from Salisbury. There’s a force of helicopter gunships on their way here.’
Gifford held up his hand in acknowledgment. The choice of waiting was over. He spoke into his radio. ‘Chris, we’ve been compromised. Gunships are on their way.’
Campbell didn’t hesitate. ‘Then let’s get the hell out of here, Toby, or we’re a sitting duck.’
He reached above his head and pulled the canopy over him, and then Gifford locked it into the windshield, securing it. He gave the rehearsed sign for the chocks to be removed and seeing his two men pulling them away, released the brakes, pulled the lever to lower the wings for flight and gripping the throttle, eased it forward.
As the Buccaneer moved closer towards the glistening black tarmac strip, vegetation behind it veered away from the jet wash.
Inside the pilot’s cockpit, Gifford was transfixed physically and mentally through the windshield, on the perspective road ahead. He placed his gloved right hand up to give his men indication everything was okay, and then he concentrated on his instruments. This flight would not be using any external fuel tanks; the internal fuel capacity would be more than enough for this one-way mission. Gifford pushed the throttle further forward, the whine of the engines now began to increase to a low roar, causing the men behind to move away from the rushing warm air. Acrid black smoke belched from the two exhausts and disintegrated into the heat of the rising sun. He moved his head either side, checking the outer wings were locked into place, then moved his control column to test the flying surfaces, both ailerons and the high-mounted taileron were working as normal. He then pushed down on the pedals beneath his feet and on cue the rudder pivoted on the rear of the fin.
From the outside, the Buccaneer resembled an athlete, flexing up before a 100-metre sprint.
The final task was to check the air brake, and pulling on the handle, the two pieces of tail fairing divided and flayed out on cue to his touch. In his previous career as a test pilot, this would be the moment he would hold the aircraft until gaining clearance from the control tower, but because there was no authority, he found he had to make this decision to take off, himself; he was clear to go, and it was now or never.
The engines were at fever pitch as the aircraft started to roll forward, moving rapidly towards the ‘point of no return’ marker. In a few moments, it would be lifting into the cloudless sky and turning for the target.
Behind Gifford’s Martin Baker Mk 6 ejector seat, Campbell glanced down to study his knee pad map, but then took his eyes off it when he suddenly noticed a section of the perimeter fence on his right give way to a vehicle he was more than familiar with.
The Leopard burst through, sending sections of wire and sparks from the fence’s electrification in all directions and bounced onto the tarmac about twenty feet behind the speeding plane.
Inside the vehicle, Cunningham gripped the steering wheel tightly with dogmatic determination. Although the odds were now heavily against them doing so, he had to stop this aircraft. Behind him, Munroe stood with the Sterling in his hands, while Gable sat strapped into his seat.
On hearing the jet engines being started, their simple floorplan was quickly erased, the Leopard’s wheels driving it into the baked soil of the clearing, flicking the sticks of the improvised Buccaneer model into the air causing the camouflage of branches fly off the vehicle in all directions.
Cunningham had then put his foot to the floor and accelerated up the track towards the farm.
Inside the cockpit of the Buccaneer, Gifford jolted to the sound of his navigator shouting into his headphones.
‘Bloody hell, Toby, the Army are here!’
Gifford looked above into the rear-view mirror to see the Leopard swerving near to the port wing of his aircraft. He then saw a man emerge out of the canvas roof, handling a machine gun and swinging it in his direction.
Munroe brought the weapon to bear on the speeding plane, but finding it difficult to aim from his position, fired a few bursts wide of his target. He shouted down to Cunningham.
‘Peter, try and keep her steady!’
Cunningham was struggling to keep the Leopard clear of the jet wash while just ahead of them, the Buccaneer was now almost at take-off speed.
Andrew Gable held on to the side rail with one hand. There wasn’t much else he could do. They were now about ten feet from the wing. He stared out through the small narrow windscreen as if willing them to go faster. They needed more speed, but the complaining howl of the V8 engine, told him they wouldn’t be able to find any. Then, to his horror, the tail of the Buccaneer began to dip; it was about to leave the ground. They were too late.
Cunningham suddenly felt nauseous, despite his right foot ramming the accelerator pedal to the floor, there was still not enough power to reach the plane and line up to launch the grenades.
Suddenly, Gable’s arm appeared in front of him and his hand pushed on the red-taped button Nash had warned them never to touch.
As if they had just been kicked by a mule, the nitrous-oxide booster surged them forward, smashing the Leopard into the big wing of the Buccaneer as it lifted off the ground and started to claw its way towards the sky.
Cunningham grappled with the steering wheel, but with the Leopard going too fast for him, he lost control, propelling Munroe through the open roof as it skidded on the tarmac and rolled over onto its side.
The two men inside were thrown about in their seats, Cunningham hitting his head. Munroe had landed safely and turned over onto his stomach to witness the aircraft climbing higher and higher into the clear blue sky.
Gable had now managed to release his harness and helped Cunningham get free. They clambered out to the roar of the Buccaneer and could only watch frustratingly as it began to bank to the left, away from them. But something was wrong. The aircraft began to act strangely as if fighting with itself to keep stable.
Inside the cockpit, Gifford battled with two hands on the column trying to regain control. In all his days as a test pilot, he had never encountered anything like this. Why was the Buccaneer now yawing heavily to the left with its nose dipping? He turned his head to soon realise what was causing it. The outer folding part of the port wing was fluttering violently in the slipstream, then suddenly it wasn’t there anymore. The machine suddenly went into a dive.
Through his windshield, the former test-pilot saw it was plunging towards a tobacco crop full of pickers, all staring upwards at him. He continued to wrestle with the control column, gripping it with all his might – somehow he had to veer it away from the plantation.
Behind him, Campbell pressed his hands into the walls as his world spun before him. He too could see the rapidly-approaching spectacle below. He then heard Gifford shouting to him through his headphones, words he’d always feared of hearing in all his days of flying.
‘Go Chris, eject, eject!’
Down on the ground, the three men observed as the section of the wing that folds, detached from the rest of the plane and fell towards the Earth. They stared at the plane as 1000 feet above them, the Buccaneer juddered into a spin.
Gable gasped, seeing the canopy flick off, igniting a small fire, followed by one of the seats ejecting upwards, away from the spiralling machine. He waited anxiously for the other one to appear, while darting his eyes to his right to watch the slowly descending plume of white silk of the first parachute.
Still spinning, the aircraft plummeted down, its nose pointing at the ground, the engines screaming in protest. Then, at
the sound of a massive explosion, a cocktail of raging flame and acrid black smoke now bellowed from a hole in the hillside, where the Buccaneer had just drilled into it.
A mile away, the frantic tobacco workers had dived for what cover they could as the screaming plane had fell towards them. In sheer panic they had grabbed for their loved ones, as if in a final death throe. Then to their relief and grateful for their god right now, it had swayed over to the right of the plantation and smashed into the ground. There had been no second-seat ejection. The pilot had sacrificed himself, to save them.
Back at the farm, Gable and Cunningham stood on the tarmac, mesmerised to the site on the hillside as the fire raged on. They turned to see Munroe emerge from the long grass at the side of the runway, brushing himself down. Before they could say anything to him, gunfire screamed from behind them, followed instantly by bullets bouncing off the armour of the Leopard.
In the distance, armed men were running towards them from the hangar area, their guns blazing in retribution for what had just occurred.
Munroe’s Sterling was too far away, back down the runway where he had lost it to the sudden jolt from the nitrous-oxide. All they could do now, was shield themselves behind the safety of the vehicle.
Cunningham cursed himself for earlier removing his shoulder holster containing the Russian Makarov pistol. If he could clamber inside, he could get it. At least they would have something to retaliate with.
Gable had also left his gun inside. In the rush to catch the plane, he had placed it into a small webbing holster fixed to the side near his seat. The salvo of bullets was now thicker and Gable peered through the wheel-well to see a jeep approaching. Two men carrying automatic rifles were standing on the back of it, their heads peering over the cab.
Munroe knew the mind of a mercenary. Some would be happy to see the end of their contract and walk away knowing they had been handsomely paid for their loyal services, while there would still be others worthy to whatever cause they had signed up for. Even though their employer was probably now dead.
