The Whitehall Mandarin

by Edward Wilson

  When the general’s voice spoke again, there was a note of curious caution in his voice. ‘What is your ETA at Lawson?’

  ‘In about thirty minutes, approximately 0530 EST.’

  ‘Delta Charlie, stand by for instructions.’

  Blanchard looked at Cauldwell. ‘What do you think he’s going to do?’

  ‘He’s going to do what all senior officers do; he’s going to cover his ass.’

  The radio cackled back to life. ‘Delta Charlie, if you are cleared for landing, you will see a green flare. You will pick up your chutes – and leave asap. There will be no further radio contact.’

  Cauldwell thumbed the transmit button. ‘Much appreciated, General. Message understood, end of transmission.’

  Blanchard smiled. ‘He’s covering his ass. He doesn’t know what this is about and he doesn’t want to step on his dick in a dark room.’

  Cauldwell looked out the window. ‘The Super Sabres are still there.’

  ‘They’ve shut up too; they don’t know what to do.’

  The two men sat in silence as the plane continued southwards. The bright lights of Atlanta were replaced by darker, more sparsely populated countryside. Cauldwell remembered it as an arid wasteland of red clay, slash pine and scrub oak. It wasn’t a land that produced happy people with open minds. There were more bright lights as the plane approached Columbus, a mean garrison town with brothels of the last resort, which serviced you before they sent you to a foreign war to get your balls shot off.

  The first sign of Fort Benning was the red warning lights marking the 250-foot parachute towers where trainee paratroopers made their first jumps to practise their landing falls. As Blanchard began to circle the airfield there were the faintest hints of pre-dawn nautical twilight on the eastern horizon, like a young girl stirring from a deep sleep.

  ‘No flare,’ said Blanchard. ‘Do you think they’ve changed their mind?’

  ‘If so, it’s back to Cape Hatteras.’

  Blanchard continued his landing pattern for two more orbits. He made one low pass to check the airfield windsock to ensure he landed into the wind. Meanwhile there was the distant drone of the Super Sabres. There were circling far above.

  ‘Shit,’ breathed Blanchard. ‘What do you think is happening?’

  ‘Maybe the general’s reconsidering his options?’

  ‘There’s an ambulance on the runway.’

  Cauldwell looked out the window and saw a red cross painted on the roof of an army truck. ‘Or a hearse for picking up bodies.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Blanchard continued in holding pattern and made another circuit of the airfield.

  ‘There it is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The green flare.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s go in.’

  Blanchard reached for a lever with a wheel on the end, as if intended to remind the dimmest pilot it was for raising or lowering the landing gear. He pressed it into the ‘down’ position. There was a loud sound of air turbulence, which increased as Blanchard levered the ground spoilers into position. ‘Can you help?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Blanchard pointed to the dial. ‘Read the altitude out loud.’

  ‘Four hundred, three hundred…’

  ‘Shit, there’s a cross wind.’ Blanchard swung the yoke and the plane yawed.

  ‘…two hundred, one hundred, eighty, sixty…

  Blanchard pulled back the throttle levers.

  ‘…forty, twenty, zero.’ The plane hit the ground on one side with an enormous bump and bounced before it finally landed on all its wheels. The brakes were screaming.

  ‘Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘You try landing one of these when you’re drunk as a skunk.’

  ‘Get into take-off position. I don’t want to hang around.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Blanchard taxied the DC-7 so that it was facing back the way they had landed.

  ‘Okay, now I want you to open the rear door and leave it open. And remember, I’m going to be right behind you with a gun aimed at your medulla oblongata.’

  Blanchard unharnessed himself and stumbled into the passenger cabin.

  ‘You are pissed, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve been worse. Follow me, the door’s on the port side.’

  Cauldwell didn’t think Blanchard was going to try to escape, but he still followed him closely down the aisle. When Blanchard got to the door, he pushed down a lever and the door sprang open. Cool, fresh morning air flowed into the plane.

  ‘Remember,’ said Cauldwell, ‘I want this door to stay open after we take off.’

  ‘Sure. It fixes on to a hook on the fuselage.’ Blanchard leaned forward to push the door. It swung wildly and clanged as it engaged the fuselage hook. Blanchard lurched forward and was about to fall out of the aircraft when Cauldwell reached out and grabbed a fistful of his jacket. The jacket began to tear off, but Cauldwell quickly got his hand on the pilot’s belt and yanked him back into the plane.

  ‘Thanks, I lost my balance. Phew, it’s a long drop.’

  ‘Stand away from the door.’ Cauldwell could see the truck with the red cross on the roof approaching the plane. He aimed his pistol at the front of the truck. He wanted to show that he meant business. If they weren’t going to follow his instructions, he hoped that a bullet in the radiator would convince the driver to stop. The truck came closer and closer. He turned to Blanchard, ‘Rev up the engines, we’re going.’

  But before Blanchard could move, the truck flashed its lights and came to a stop. It was about forty yards away.

  ‘You want me to take off?’ said Blanchard.

  ‘Wait. Let’s see what happens.’

  The passenger-side door of the truck opened. Cauldwell grabbed Blanchard by the collar and forced him into the open doorway with his pistol clearly pointing at his temple.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ moaned Blanchard.

  ‘Stop whining, you’re not dead yet.’

  A man came out of the truck. He was about fifty years old and had a crewcut. He was stark naked with heavy jowls and a big hairy gut.

  Blanchard nodded ‘He’s a sergeant major; only sergeant majors look like that.’

  ‘Don’t relax, it isn’t over.’ Cauldwell watched the naked man pad to the back of the truck. His gut was firm and didn’t wobble, but his enormous testicles swayed back and forth like hairy pendulums. There was the sound of a door creaking open and voices. Cauldwell tensed up and aimed his pistol at the truck. He was afraid he had been tricked and a squad of armed soldiers was about to rush the plane with guns blazing.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Blanchard.

  ‘Shhh.’

  The naked man appeared around the side of the truck bearing two large green bundles. There was a rope looped around his shoulders and a grappling hook hanging over his chest. He continued to the plane, half carrying, half dragging the bundles. When the naked man got to just below the open door, he stopped and looked up.

  ‘Here’s your T-10s,’ he called.

  ‘Mucho gracias, compa,’ replied Cauldwell. He shifted to English, but spoke with an Hispanic accent. ‘Throw the hook up here through the open door. Then go back to the truck and drive away. Go far from the plane.’

  The naked man threw the hook into the open door and then walked back to the truck. As soon as the truck sped away, Cauldwell turned to Blanchard. ‘Pull the chutes into the plane.’

  When the parachutes were safe inside, Cauldwell made a quick inspection. ‘Looks good: static lines, reserves. Let’s get out of here.’

  Cauldwell stowed one chute in the aisle and took the other into the cockpit. As he prepared for take-off, Blanchard asked, ‘Why were you talking in a funny accent?’

  ‘Mind your own business. Just get flying.’

  The pre-dawn twilight was creeping over the horizon. The control tower was a prickly silhouette against the lightening sky. The only other aircraft on the field were two lumpy C-119s
with their distinctive twin tails. They weren’t big planes, only two engines, and were used for training paratroopers.

  ‘I hope,’ said Blanchard pulling back all four throttles, ‘that we’ve got enough room to take off. This is the only runway and it ain’t that long. I bet this baby is the biggest plane that’s ever landed here.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that before?’

  ‘Because I was too drunk to read the details on the Terminal Procedure Plate.’

  Cauldwell looked at the nearest C-119. For a second he wondered if he should grab one of those, but it was too late because Blanchard was already racing down the runway. The chain-link fence at the end of the runway was looming larger and larger as the engines roared. Beyond the fence was a river and on the other side of the river a typical Deep South wasteland wilderness of stunted pine and scrub oak nearly famished by the dry red clay. There was a horrendous metallic ripping sound as the plane left the ground.

  ‘What was that?’

  Blanchard smiled. ‘We just took out the perimeter fence with our landing wheels. No problem – unless you want to land again.’

  As the plane gained height Cauldwell looked at the fast-receding land beneath. The Chattahoochee River hugged the airfield like a sleeping lover. They were now over Alabama, Cauldwell’s home state. It was a relentless land; a land of irredeemable division. He came from a white tribe that just didn’t know how to change. A few from that tribe, like himself, did change. They weren’t rejected or treated unkindly in any way, just stared at with incomprehension as if they were awkward calves who refused to suckle.

  ‘Where do we go now?’ asked Blanchard. He had to shout because of the noise of air turbulence from the open door in the main cabin.

  ‘Keep heading south, down the length of Florida and on to the Keys.’

  Blanchard glanced at Cauldwell. His lap was full of green silk material. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Checking the chute.’ Cauldwell pulled the rest of the parachute out of its deployment bag. He examined every panel and then he checked all the suspension lines and risers.

  ‘Is it okay?’

  ‘It’s fine, so I’m sure the other one will be fine too. If they were going to sabotage them, they’d have done both.’ Cauldwell gathered up the parachute and piled it into the corridor behind the cockpit.

  ‘Aren’t you going to repack it?’

  ‘Why should I? Won’t need it.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be fine as long as you don’t do anything stupid.’ Cauldwell looked out the window. ‘Have you seen the Super Sabres?’

  ‘I think they ran out of gas.’

  ‘Nevertheless, keep flying low. Over main roads and built-up areas.’

  ‘You still haven’t told me where we’re going.’

  ‘Have you got charts of the Caribbean?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re in the box.’

  ‘Pass them over.’

  Cauldwell went through the charts. He found one of Honduras and remembered how Trickster had threatened to send him there. He had a vision of himself sedated in a crate being unloaded from a US Air Force plane, but one without identification markings, at a jungle airstrip. Even though the US pilots and air crew were top secret cleared hush-hush operatives, they would have had no idea that the crate contained a human being. They probably would have thought they were handing over secret communications equipment to Honduran military intelligence. Such a rendition was the CIA’s trump card. It was the ultimate way to deal with suspects who wouldn’t talk. It also left no fingerprints leading back to a US agency. The horror interrogations that followed would have been unspeakable. And yet Honduras was still under civilian rule. Cauldwell wondered if Morales, a liberal reformer, was still hanging on as president while the men in the barracks seethed and plotted against him. Cauldwell put the chart back; it wasn’t the place to go. The next chart looked prettier: a sea-wrapped land with mountains.

  The ground below was now turning brilliant green in the dawn twilight. The rivers and sea were turning discernibly blue. They were over Florida and had company again. It was a silver-coloured jet that was smaller and looked more nimble than the Super Sabres.

  ‘The navy’s now on the case,’ said Blanchard.

  Cauldwell looked up from the chart. The new plane was so close that he could read the pilot’s name stencilled under the cockpit: LCDR F.P. Tecumseh. For a few seconds Cauldwell thought his tiredness had made him hallucinate, but when he blinked the name was still Tecumseh, the legendary Shawnee warrior chief who had died fighting the Americans.

  ‘It’s an A4 Skyhawk,’ said Blanchard, ‘probably from the navy base at Pensacola.’

  Cauldwell continued to stare at the fighter jet. The name of the plane’s pilot demonstrated the relentless power of the American empire more than the 20mm canon in its wings. With a name like that, the pilot was almost certainly of Shawnee ancestry, probably a distant descendant of the great chief who had allied with the British in a desperate attempt to save their tribal lands from American expansion. But now he too had fallen into the great melting pot of cultural obliteration.

  Blanchard yawned as the sun rose above the sea. ‘You still haven’t told me where we’re heading now.’

  ‘It’s a place called La Plata in the Sierra Maestra.’ Cauldwell handed over the chart.

  ‘Cuba.’ Blanchard studied the chart for a second. ‘There’s no landing field.’

  ‘We don’t need one. What do you think the parachutes are for?’

  ‘Well, you’d better repack the one you unpacked.’

  ‘Don’t need it.’

  Blanchard felt a chill run down his spine. He looked out the window at Lieutenant Commander Tecumseh. The navy pilot seemed an enigma in silhouette. No radio contact, no visual signals. He was flying almost in formation.

  ‘We’ll be over Miami in fifteen minutes,’ said Blanchard, ‘so if you change your mind and decide to land there you’d better let me know now.’

  ‘Why should we do that?’

  ‘Because we might not have enough fuel left to get to the Sierra Maestra.’

  ‘Might not or won’t have enough?’

  ‘It’s going to be close – and forget about following the Florida Keys, that’s a detour. We’ll need to fly over the Bahamas.’

  Cauldwell peered at the sapphire morning sea. It looked inviting. He tried to think of another piece of land where he could be sure of a safe welcome. There was none. ‘Keep on course for the Sierra Maestra. We’ll take our chances.’

  They flew in tense silence with the fuel gauge falling. Blanchard knew it was the end. His mind kept jumping between calm resignation and utter panic. He wondered what would happen if he turned around and tried to land at Miami. Would the mad man next to him actually pull the trigger, assuring his own death as well? Blanchard looked at the fuel gauge and calculated the flying distance. In a moment of calm, he did a risk analysis. The chances of running out of fuel over the sea were less than his chances of having his brains blown out if he didn’t follow instructions. He was calm again because he didn’t have to make a choice.

  As they flew out to sea, Tecumseh wriggled the wings of his Skyhawk and flew off. He was, thought Blanchard, probably running out of fuel too. On the port wing, the island of Andros, the largest of the Bahamas, was just visible, an inviting green sliver on the otherwise empty sea.

  There was now another plane in the sky, not a sleek jet but a lumpy prop engine job with red, white and blue RAF roundels on its fuselage and wings.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Blanchard, ‘I don’t think he’s got any guns. It’s an Avro Shackleton. The British use them for long-distance maritime patrols.’

  The radio crackled. ‘Hello, DC-7. This is the old kite on your port wing. Are you in need of assistance?’

  Cauldwell depressed his transmit button and spoke in a Spanish accent. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re from around here.’


  ‘I don’t want to talk.’

  ‘Fair enough, cheers. But if you want to visit the lovely Bahamas, follow me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Righty-ho. But I’m going to keep with you just in case you get in trouble or change your mind.’

  Cauldwell didn’t answer, but glanced over at the RAF plane. Someone in the cockpit was pointing a huge camera with a telescopic lens in his direction and snapping away. Cauldwell put up a hand to shield his face, but it was too late.

  Blanchard smiled. ‘I was stationed over there. The Brits are cunning; they always catch you when you least expect it.’

  Cauldwell was annoyed at himself for not taking precautions. The American pilots hadn’t bothered to take pictures – either because they already knew who he was or hadn’t thought of it. Cauldwell hadn’t planned his future in any detail. He wasn’t even sure he had a future, but having his photo passed around the British intelligence services wasn’t going to be helpful.

  The Avro Shackleton kept pace with the DC-7 as its fuel gauge began to touch on empty. The British plane finally banked away as the Cuban coast appeared in the bright, sunlit azure sea. There was one final transmission.

  ‘Good luck, old boy. You’re now in Cuban airspace and we’re handing you over to Havana air control. Cheerio.’

  On cue, a P-47 Thunderbolt of the Fuerza Aérea Cubana roared out of the sky, passing only yards in front of the DC-7.

  ‘Shit,’ said Blanchard, ‘that was dangerous.’

  The Thunderbolt was a stubby prop-driven fighter plane that looked like a bulldog with wings. The single-piston engine was enormous and the rest of the plane seemed atrophied behind it; an aircraft that was all head and chest with shrivelled limbs. It was big-band jazz-trumpet loud – the iconic US fighter plane of World War Two.

  ‘Not an easy plane to fly,’ said Blanchard. ‘The ignition system arcs at high altitudes – and the .50 calibre machine guns are too tightly packed and tend to jam. But they won’t need to shoot us down, we’re going to crash.’