by Denis Pitts
Harry said quite briskly, ‘Listen, I don’t mind going to Rhodesia or anywhere else if the money’s good. I’m no black lover.’
Martin looked hard at Sorrel. ‘All right then,’ he said. ‘Supposing Stubbles here agrees to declare the aircraft safe to Rhodesia and supposing I agree to fly it. How sure can we be of the money? It’s a shaky, altogether hairy kind of proposition that Mr Murphy’s making. How sure can we be of getting paid?’
The girl was getting angry.
‘Entirely. I saw the telex messages today. The money has been paid into a bank and will be released on receipt of a coded message from Rhodesia. I know the message. It will be confirmed when you get to Salisbury. You will be paid in cash.’
‘There?’
‘On receipt of the arms, I said that.’ Sorrel tapped the document case. ‘The papers are in here. You can see for yourself.’
‘Why is Murphy so sure that we’ll fly?’
‘Because I know that all three of you need the money, you in particular. Am I right?’
Martin said, ‘We’ve been working for your organisation for three weeks, honey.’ He was becoming increasingly bitter in the way he spoke. ‘I will tell you right now that none of us is particularly impressed with the way it works. For one thing we haven’t the slightest idea — except for some shrewd perception on all our parts — just exactly who the boss, the real boss, happens to be. There’s too much money flying about. I’m prepared to put this to my crew only if I can have some kind of surety that the money will be there. The surety I’m looking for is you.’
‘No way,’ she said. ‘I’m here to give you instructions. I’m not here to risk my life.’
Harry looked up from the table.
‘The Captain’s right. I ain’t going unless we’ve got your sweet little ass as a hostage. And I’m superstitious about women on the flight deck.’
Stubbles said, ‘That seems entirely proper to me, too.’
The girl looked round at the three men with an expression of defiance and contempt.
‘Oh, shit,’ she said coldly, with exasperation. ‘I’ll come. It looks as though I’ve got to. Any other conditions?’
Martin toyed for a few moments with a cigarette packet which the girl had left on the table. Finally he extracted a cigarette and lit it with her gold lighter. He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke into the air.
‘I’ll go if the others will come.’
Stubbles said, ‘For that kind of inducement, I reckon that aircraft is safe.’
Harry had been making rough calculations on the plastic table top.
‘We’ll need to take a good look at the charts,’ he said. ‘But I dunno, I reckon we can make it.’
‘Okay, then we fly,’ said Martin.
‘The only problem is that we’ve already filed a flight-plan for Cyprus.’
‘We could stick to it.’
‘What do you mean?’
Harry said, ‘We take-off as indicated, hold the course till we’ve cleared Karachi radar and then sort of turn left.’
‘Just like that?’ asked Martin.
‘Just like that.’
*
The Pakistani air traffic controller had clearly been well trained. He marshalled the heavy early morning traffic in a measured, baritone voice. He cleared a Qantas 747 for a quick take-off for London which left a gap of one minute exactly for a BOAC 707 to land from Singapore. The controller passed the Australian captain to radar control and gave ground directions to the crisp voice of the British captain.
He released a Pakistan International Airways internal flight from its holding area on to the main runway.
Martin’s voice joined the chatter.
‘Good morning Karachi control. Juliet Mike Oscar, ground checks completed. Permission to taxi, please.’
‘Juliet Mike Oscar, wait. Pan Am zero zero two you are on finals, wind six knots at one one zero. You are clear to land. Good morning Juliet Mike Oscar. I have your call sign as unscheduled zero zero four. You are clear to taxi. What is your destination, please?’
‘Juliet Mike Oscar. Understand unscheduled zero zero four my call sign. My destination is Larnaca, Cyprus.’
‘Thank you, Captain. Pan Am zero zero two leave the runway at exit one.’
The violent dawn revealed the flashing dot on the controller’s airport control radar as a lumbering giant, which trundled noisily through the maze of taxi lanes, her four engines screeching unevenly as the crew tested each propeller blade’s angle in turn.
Inside her, on her flight-deck, her captain, co-pilot and engineer ran through the ritual catechism of pre-flight checks.
‘Auxiliary hydraulic pumps.’
Martin steered the aircraft with his left hand on the nose wheel control and read out his lists from a black book in his right hand. There was a faded green canvas document bag on the floor by his side. The stencilled lettering read Flight Lieutenant Martin Gore, RAF.
‘Off.’
‘Flight instruments.’
‘Checked.’
‘Propeller reversing.’
‘Checked.’
‘Generators and loads.’
‘Checked, Captain.’
‘Checked and prayed for and I’ll go on praying.’
‘Cut out the shit, Stubbles.’ The captain’s voice was icily quiet. ‘Generators and loads.’
‘Checked.’
‘Propeller and engine anti-icing.’
‘Checked.’
‘Fuel systems.’
‘Checked.’
‘Taxi check complete.’
Martin relaxed and slipped the book into his document bag.
‘Okay then, children,’ he said. ‘I suppose no one looked to see if our belly was scraping the floor? It should be with this weight.’
‘You did the numbers. They looked okay to me.’ The co-pilot took the loading graph and scanned it. ‘Just don’t try a tactical take-off, that’s all, or the wing’ll come right off.’
The captain turned to him. ‘Take her please, Harry,’ he said, as he put on a bright red cap with a badge which read “Berkshire Golf Club”. He cleaned a pair of orange-tinted spectacles with a Kleenex tissue. He turned to the engineer who sat on the jump seat behind him and the co-pilot.
‘What time did you finish this morning?’
Stubbles was adjusting instruments on the roof panel above him. His size was such that each movement meant that he had to stretch with immense difficulty in his harness.
‘Finish?’ he shrilled. ‘I could never finish checking out this bucket. Would you believe the state of some of these circuits? Dust, erosion, corruption and kee-rap.’
‘But I’ll get three green lights on arrival?’
‘And four fans all the way there.’
The captain put on his glasses and replaced his headset.
‘Could you do anything at all with the load, Harry?’
‘I managed to move the rear three pallets back by about six inches. It might just help the trim. Overloaded like this, you’ll have to expect her to fly like a brick shithouse.’
They approached the runway, and the heavy regular thumps sent up through the undercarriage by the gaps in the concrete beneath them began to slow as Martin eased on the handbrake and brought the aircraft to a stop. There was a gleaming white Air France DC 10 ahead of them, its engine heat shimmering and swirling in the air behind it.
Martin locked the brake with one half turn and stretched himself, his long arms reaching up to the engineer’s controls above him. The sun had risen quickly and the flight-deck was flooded with daylight. He loosened his harness so that he could turn completely in his chair. ‘Miss Francis, is everything in order?’
‘The hostage is happy,’ she said primly.
‘Don’t be bitchy,’ said Martin. ‘It’s a long run. You’ll get used to us.’
‘What am I supposed to be, anyway?’ she demanded. ‘Your stewardess or cabaret or what?’
‘Harry’s going to teach you
how to listen to the radio,’ said Martin. ‘Once we go off track, people are going to be talking about us all over the Middle East. I want to know what they are saying.’
Martin glanced at the co-pilot. The other man had not acknowledged the girl’s presence. He was stiff and frowned heavily. He did not like women on the flight deck, and he did not hide the fact.
They heard the 747 being cleared for its take-off. They watched it move forward and even in their own noisy cabin, their ears muffled by headphones, they could hear the roar of its engines as it turned on to the runway, accelerating even before the captain had lined it up completely.
‘Just to be sitting there in first class,’ said Stubbles. ‘Five minutes from now and they’ll be hitting the Martinis and caviar and getting ready for the movie. What’s our movie, miss?’
‘I’ll give you Al Jolson at thirty thousand feet,’ said the captain. An edginess had crept into his voice. He drummed his fingers on the control column. ‘Come on, come on, come on,’ he murmured. ‘We need this gas.’
He watched as a twin-engined Cessna made a sharp turn into the flight path and landed in front of them. He released the brake and the aircraft slipped forward.
‘Captain to crew, take-off checks.’
He reached again for the check list book.
‘Ground idle.’
‘Normal.’
‘Doors and hatches.’
‘Closed, warning lights out.’
‘Pressurisation.’
‘Set.’
The controller’s voice loomed in their ears.
‘Unscheduled zero zero four, you are clear for take-off. Runway zero two four, wind four knots at one one zero. Ground temperature zero three zero degrees. Climb to one thousand feet and steer two eight zero. Thank you unscheduled and goodday.’
‘Autopilot.’
‘Off.’
‘Flaps.’
‘Set for take-off.’
‘Flying controls.’
‘Checked.’
‘Hydraulic pressures.’
They were talking quickly now. The runway was on their right-hand side and the captain used the engines and nose wheel to put the massive bulk of the C 130 on to the threshold lines. He held it there and looked directly out at the runway. The tail of the Cessna was disappearing to the left. He looked around the sky.
‘Fuel panel.’
‘Set.’
‘Oil cooler flaps.’
‘Automatic.’
‘Seats and harnesses.’
‘Secure.’
The captain turned half right. ‘Your harness, Sorrel?’
‘Good and tight, Captain.’
‘Instruments.’
‘Checked and set.’
‘Take-off information.’
‘Noted.’
‘Okay, let’s roll. Now you can pray, Stubbles.’
The co-pilot eased forward the two inboard propeller controls. The two outer propellers remained in “reverse” posture. They would stay that way for the first hundred yards or so of the take-off roll; such was the power of the Allisons. The whole airframe shuddered and jerked violently.
The aircraft fought to release itself from the clutch of the brakes but he held her back until the last possible moment.
‘Karachi control. Unscheduled zero zero four, you are instructed to delay your take-off and return to the airport building.’
The captain grimaced and looked at the co-pilot. He took his hand from the prop controls and pointed his finger down the runway. He moved it to his mouth. The co-pilot nodded. It was a futile gesture and they knew it. The controller’s voice would be locked in the Fairchild flight recorders stowed in black and orange boxes in the tip of one wing and the tail of the aircraft.
Martin rammed the brake forward and the struggling, screeching transport ambled forward in a sad anti-climax. A child on a tricycle could have overtaken them for those first few yards. But then she began to gather speed. Twenty-four thousand engine horses struggling with one hundred and ninety thousand pounds, walking, trotting, cantering then galloping down the runway which was already distorted by the morning heat haze.
Martin steered her for the first sixty yards of that runway by the nose wheel and then assumed the flight controls from Harry. They were rolling fast now. Already he was easing forward slightly on the control column.
Even at that stage, this ugly ponderous mastodon was trying to lift its dum-dum nose into the air.
‘Karachi control. Unscheduled zero zero four. Abort your take-off. This is an official air traffic instruction. Abort. Abort.’
‘One twenty knots,’ said the co-pilot. ‘That bloke’s good. Not a hair out of place. One thirty.’
‘Screw him.’
‘One forty knots.’
‘Stay down there, baby. Good girl.’ Martin was holding the column well forward now. ‘Stay down, stay down, honeychile. You just ain’t ready to spee-red yo’ wings.’
‘One sixty and rotate.’
‘Karachi control to unscheduled. Do you receive?’
Martin brought the control column gently towards him.
‘Vee one.’
They felt the vibrations of the runway stop as the engines lifted her into the air.
‘Vee two.’
‘Gear up.’
The three wheels slid into their housing with a gentle bump. Now all shuddering stopped as Juliet Mike Oscar became aerodynamically clean.
‘Gear up,’ confirmed Harry.
‘Karachi control.’ Even now the controller was unperturbed. ‘Unscheduled zero zero four. Turn left and rejoin the circuit and prepare for landing.’
‘Karachi control, this is unscheduled zero zero four. We are getting an intermittent signal from you which I cannot read.’
They could hear in their headsets the excited voices of others in the control tower. The controller’s voice again.
‘Karachi control. I repeat you are to land immediately.’
‘Sorry, Karachi, I appear to have a VHF malfunction. Please repeat.’
The captain turned to the co-pilot. ‘He’s cool, man, he’s cool,’ he said. He was smiling. They had reached five hundred feet. There was just one small cloud ahead of them and it glinted a vivid orange in the dawn sun.
A new voice joined in, nasal and smug. ‘Karachi control, this is Lufthansa two three two. Can I assist by relaying your message to unscheduled?’
The captain bared his teeth. ‘Oh, up your scheduled arse,’ he said. ‘Mr Co-pilot, tell that Kraut to shove it.’
‘Unscheduled zero zero four to Lufthansa two three two. Adolf, we have a full fuel load and a heavy cargo and we have radio problems with the ground. Kindly go play with your bratwurst and leave us alone. Switching to radar control.’
‘After take-off checks?’
‘Ready. Landing gear.’
‘As required.’
‘Flaps.’
‘As required.’
‘Landing and taxi lamps.’
‘Off and set.’
They heard the radar controller, a new, high-pitched and cheerful voice, giving them a new course and holding them at a thousand feet.
‘He can’t have heard.’
‘They must have given up trying.’
‘We’ll stick to the rules now. We don’t have to lose our licences.’
The main Drigh road and railway line were beneath them. They could see the ominous Tower of Silence upon which the dead were once placed to be eaten by carrion. The Arabian Sea was a dark blue sheen ahead of them.
‘Why are they holding us at this height?’ There was a black patch of sweat on the captain’s back. Harry reached up and turned the VHF tuning dial.
He listened for a few seconds.
‘Man, you’ll never guess,’ he said. ‘They’re scrambling MIGs. That’s why they’re holding us.’
Martin reached down for the undercarriage controls. ‘I’m dropping to zero feet. Do you read me?’
‘I read you.’
He snatched the undercarriage lever and air brake controls, adjusting the propellers continually to maintain air-speed. The aircraft buffeted violently and fell like an elevator. They all felt their stomachs shoot suddenly upwards. At five hundred feet he pulled the undercarriage up and throttled forward to full propeller power. He banked hard to the left and brought the plane out of its controlled stall. Still losing height, Juliet Mike Oscar shattered the quiet of Karachi racecourse at two hundred feet and hurtled, screaming like a banshee, over the silent suburb of Clifton at one hundred feet.
It was even lower as it dipped over the silvery white beach and thundered over the pond-like sea so close to the water that its slipstream left a discernible wake.
The co-pilot was the first to speak.
‘Holy Cow,’ he said. ‘Since when were you converted to fighters?’
The captain was total, absolute concentration. At that height, an eighth of an inch too much on the control column would destroy them all.
He said evenly, ‘Harry, give me a course to Salisbury.’
And then he added softly, ‘Kill the radios. We are on our own.’
*
When he reached his thirtieth birthday just four weeks ago James O’Keefe Murphy, the youngest son of an Anglo-Irish family who lived in happy poverty in a Birmingham suburb, had amassed over £100,000 which he contained in several currencies in many bank vaults in Switzerland, Luxembourg, Liechtenstein and West Germany. He would, quite certainly, have been even more wealthy had it not been for his predilection for the youthful and strapping daughters of clients who were more wealthy than he.
Murphy was of even height, with russet brown hair and a face which even his fellow men acknowledged to be ruggedly attractive. He was a man who glowed with good health and success. His movement was graceful and athletic, his clothes were cut to a conservative perfection by Florentine and Savile Row tailors. He kept a white Rolls Corniche at his villa in Menton and a black, chauffeur-driven Camargue in Brussels. He flew his own private aircraft, a Cessna 390.
Murphy had an almost hypnotic charm which lay behind a shy, angelic smile. He talked softly in a Dublin accent. His proudest boast was that even Gucci assistants were polite to him.
He had a fast intelligence and a pleasing, self-effacing wit. He was, indeed, a vibrant, immensely likeable young man, an ideal weekend guest, the most desirable of all the eligible bachelors in European society.
