The man turned to Grant. ‘You have one chance. Ditch where I tell you in Norway and send a code message on the wavelength I shall give you.’ He spoke over his shoulder to the two stewards. ‘Get this navigator out of here. I want his seat.’
The men were dragging the limp body from the cockpit when Grant glimpsed Deirdre cautiously slip her hand under her dress. She pulled out the Parker 61 from the top of her stocking and deliberately pointed it towards Zero. Before Grant could speak she had pulled off the top and the tiny micro-rocket blew off part of Zero’s neck and the side of his face. In the same hair-split second the rocket crashed through the cockpit window light and the man was lifted off his seat as though he were a feather. Suction fastened him to the broken window and he hung grotesque against the glass while blood poured over the floor below.
Grant had never moved faster in his life. The stewards were bending over the unconscious navigator when Zero died. A double karate chop over their carotid plexuses knocked them against the rear of the cabin. A foot touched switches as they fell and cut off fuel to numbers two and three engines. Air speed slumped and the aircraft dropped unsteadily. The weight of a man’s body had slumped against Grant’s arms and Zero’s feet were dangling in front of his face. Blood had splashed across the dials and the Coronado dropped like a stone.
Grant heaved himself free and pushed Deirdre aside as she suddenly staggered against him. The aircraft tilted wickedly as a wing dropped and the sea soared alongside like a crazy nightmare.
Grant’s arms were free and he snapped out orders to Deirdre.
‘Get the cockpit clear. And stay clear.’
Headphones were again crackling and he blacked out everything except the crisp orders which were sizzling into his ears. He eased the throttles forward. One and three fired. Two choked and remained silent.
An airlock in the pipe, he guessed. Something had happened when she did that frightful list and slipped down a thousand feet. Stick and rudder were still intact. But number three engine was spluttering. Surely to God there couldn’t be two airlocks? Air speed had again dropped. The sea was rushing nearer with every second. He could see white horses and the tan of a sandbank.
As atmospheric pressure rose outside, Zero suddenly slumped from the window and crashed across his knees. His weight thrust the stick forward and the nose dropped. He was surging seawards at five hundred miles per hour.
He gritted his teeth and pulled himself together. Actions were almost automatic. He staggered upright and flung Zero bodily over his shoulder. And then hands and feet fought and nursed the Coronado into semi-controlled flight at six thousand feet on one engine.
Twenty-foot waves on the North Sea. White horses everywhere. A ship below and three others on the horizon.
Radio was almost useless. It was all he could do to concentrate on flying the aircraft.
Down and to hell with it.
He snapped out a message: ‘Mayday. Ditching. Critical emergency. Get hold of the Navy and some choppers.’
And then he switched off.
The sea was just below. He was losing height too fast by far.
‘Get parallel with a trough, Grant,’ he muttered.
The aircraft was responding sluggishly to controls, but flattened out slightly as he drew up the nose at a hundred feet above water. There was a strong gusty wind. He dipped his left wing to compensate.
Flying even but losing height at just on fifty feet per second.
He cut out throttle and stalled.
The aircraft dropped on her belly and a wave broke over her fuselage.
By God he had done it!
He moved fast. ‘Lifebelt, Deirdre. At the double.’
There was an inflatable raft.
The emergency hatches opened right away and he heaved the Professor into the sea. The man was well buoyed. Give or take a bit of luck and someone would fish him out.
The Coronado was sinking, its fuselage buckled by the crash which had torn open its belly. Already they were knee-deep in water.
Deirdre had pulled on her belt and Grant grabbed his in his left hand as he jumped after her into the sea.
The raft was a hundred yards away. Swimming strongly, he made it just as a wave slapped over the rubber.
Paddles were anchored to the bottom. He dipped them into water which heaved around in slopping hills which cut off visibility.
The girl was fifty yards away and swimming strongly.
Her father had drifted nearer the aircraft, but was sucked down as it sank. And then, a minute later, Grant saw him surface almost beside him.
He dipped the paddles frantically and grabbed the man’s coat.
Deirdre arrived in time to push him into the raft.
She was smiling. ‘We made it,’ she grinned. ‘We made it.’
Grant stared upwards. Two aircraft were circling the spot. And there was a splash of smoke beyond the waves. The Navy, too, was there.
*
That night after dinner the Prime Minister himself saw them to their car. ‘I’ve often told him, Miss Carpenter,’ he smiled. ‘The Doctor just lives with bodies.’
She took Grant by the arm. ‘This time he’s going to live with mine, sir. Coming, David?’ Her nylons gleamed for a moment under the street lights as she wriggled into the car and her skirt slipped to show the smooth curve of a knee.
Grant followed her inside and the light switched off as the door closed.
It was the end of another beginning.
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[1] Miss Turquoise, by George Mair. Jarrolds. 1964.
[2] Death’s Foot Forward. Jarrolds. 1963.
[3] Miss Turquoise, by George B. Mair. Jarrolds. 1964.
[4] See Death’s Foot Forward. Published by Jarrolds and Random House.
[5] See Miss Turquoise. Published by Jarrolds.
Live, Love, and Cry Page 21
