Rogue Hercules

by Denis Pitts

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s just slunk away to starboard. Maybe he’s making another run at us. You should be seeing him.’

  ‘Has he said anything?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Martin lay on the lower cargo hatch and felt his hands become almost numb with the sudden coldness.

  ‘I’ve got him. Get ready.’

  The MIG had appeared from Martin’s left and now it turned and began to move in towards the Hercules tail plane. It was immediately behind the aircraft maybe five miles in distance but closing quickly.

  Martin pulled the Red-eye hard into his shoulder and squeezed the pistol grip. There was a tingling vibration in the grip which meant that the missile was activated and ready.

  He peered through the optical sight which lay in the blast guard which would protect his face from the missile’s explosive propulsion and lined the MIG up in the very centre of the cross wires in the sights.

  The Red-eye is a simple ground-to-air missile designed for use by forward troops against low-flying aircraft. It has no sophisticated computers, just a straight-forward infra-red heat-seeking guidance system.

  He watched the fighter get bigger in his sights. He had no idea of the range of the missile and this was his biggest fear. He needed to hit the MIG or the Red-eye really would start to range about the sky looking for the heat of an engine nacelle. The MIG had one; but the Hercules had four.

  He waited until he guessed the fighter was two miles away and still closing. He breathed in deeply to steady his aim and pushed the firing button with his thumb.

  *

  Uglov was elated as he whipped the MIG over and under the crippled transporter. All the guilty feelings of last night and the dreadful hangover had disappeared. His mission had been successful. The American was cringing on the radio.

  In the front seat, Umboto was whooping and crowing with delight.

  ‘Hey boss, they’ll give us medals,’ he shouted. ‘We’ll have a great party tonight, eh? I’ll get you four girls — how about that?’

  Uglov made one more rapid pass under the Hercules and gave himself the pleasure of a long, slow, graceful roll before he turned suddenly to take one last look at his prey before heading for the coast and refuelling. He approached Juliet from the stern. He handed the controls to Umboto and took a Zenit 80 camera from a recess in the cockpit. Even if the American did not make an airport he, at least, would have the evidence to show that he had tried. He set the shutter speed and aperture and peered through the viewfinder at the other aircraft.

  ‘Go as near to his tail as you can,’ he ordered Umboto.

  The two or three seconds that it took Uglov to adjust the lens and bring the Hercules into prime focus probably cost their lives.

  He saw the open cargo hatch at the rear of the big plane. Then for a split second he saw Martin Gore and the missile launcher.

  In the very next second he saw the smoke of the Red-eye.

  Umboto was already beginning to bank steeply away to his right when the missile hit the MIG squarely in its underbelly.

  *

  Throughout the morning there had been frantic activity at every Soviet Embassy and Legation throughout the length and breadth of the African continent. Telephone lines were in constant use to a myriad of Patriotic Front organisations and left-wing Trade Union groups as well as student leaders and others with direct access to anyone who would be prepared to flow on to the streets in protest. Messages were relayed by circuitous routes to activists and guerrillas, messages which contained much more sinister overtones.

  The KGB had scented blood and now it was in full cry.

  Newspapers in every emergent state were warned that a major announcement could be expected some time that afternoon.

  In some cities excited youngsters, already skilled in the art of riot, began to make piles of stones in tactical points near to western embassies and installations. And the embassies, in turn, strengthened their guards and cancelled their traditional afternoon bridge sessions and sent their own agents scurrying into the downtown quarters to find out what the big reason was for today’s affair.

  It was a relatively regular game played by embassies all over the world. There were no written rules.

  Students were the star players because they were young and excitable and quick to comprehend alleged injustices, and because they would willingly risk their lives in a stream of police bullets for the futile support of an unknown martyr in a far away land or a cause which just happened to sound revolutionary.

  The Russians were the masters of the demonstration game. The KGB dictionary was packed with emotive names and issues which either whispered or yelled through a loudhailer could be certain of fermenting every kind of protest from a one hour strike to a violent lethal demonstration, in which men, women and children were sacrificed in the name of protest.

  There were few more emotive issues in black Africa at that time than that of arms for the white Rhodesians.

  The preparations were elaborate.

  A few minutes after the MIG trainer had taken off from Mocímboa Airport, a small chartered twin piston engined plane landed on the same runway carrying a four man team from the Tass news agency bureau in Dar es Salaam.

  The correspondent’s task was two-fold. Firstly, he had to confirm urgently that the American aircraft had landed, and secondly, he had to interview the crew and secure an immediate admission that they were guilty. The second man would film and record it all for television.

  The accompanying photographer was instructed to make the kind of pictures which would prove the guilt beyond any doubt. The fourth man, a wire-photo operator, was to ensure that the still pictures were flashed to the nearest satellite injection station within minutes of being processed. Moscow would do the rest.

  The release of the story was to be the signal for the distribution of millions of prepared leaflets which had been roneoed that morning, in every African language and dialect.

  Protest meetings were already being called even though the organisers had not the slightest idea at that moment what it was that they were going to protest about.

  As it had been in Djibouti so it was now through the whole of Africa. A continent was tingling with anticipation.

  *

  In Mocímboa the Tass team waited in the steaming midday heat. In the control tower they heard the exchanges between the MIG and the Hercules. They heard Martin tell Uglov that he was prepared to land. The correspondent was tempted at that Pont to flash a triumphant signal to Moscow, but a shrewdly developed second sense stopped him in time.

  They waited with camera gear set up and the only photography shop in town fully prepared for the action to come. The wire-photo operator had established a contact with Dar es Salaam. They waited until they were sure that the MIG must have run out of fuel and then waited for another full hour until the correspondent made his disconsolate way to the local post office and filed the news.

  After a further hour’s wait, a Soviet destroyer off the Mozambique coast signalled that she had found wreckage from the MIG and the body of Major Yefgeni Uglov. There was no trace of any other aircraft.

  In Moscow, Colonel-General Yuri Litvinoff read the cable and merely shrugged his shoulders. He ordered a one word signal to be sent to each of his senior operatives in Africa.

  It was a matter of two or three hours before the tension dissipated throughout Africa.

  The Russians are masters at fermenting protest. They are equal masters in the art of concealing their own mistakes, cloaking them in a haze of political inscrutability.

  *

  Shortly before noon, London time, as the two aircraft were coming together nine thousand miles away off the African coast, Natalia Rogov hurried along a seemingly endless passageway at Heathrow Airport from her Aeroflot flight. She ignored the welcoming posters, her eyes set on the signs marked “transit passengers”. She wore a bright blue roll-necked sweater and faded jeans and the British Airport girl who c
hecked her passport and ticket to New York found it difficult to reconcile this totally casual woman with the word DIPLOMAT stamped on her passport.

  Her rank warranted minor VIP treatment but she waved the offer aside and hurried into the departure lounge. She had to queue restlessly to change her Norodni Bank travellers cheques and glanced constantly at the departures board.

  She made her way through the crowded lounge to a bank of circular white telephone booths. All of them were in use and she hovered almost threateningly over a salesman from Miami who was yelling a final farewell to his sister in Bradford.

  It may have been the fierceness of her stare or the firmness of her breasts, but he stopped talking quickly and made way for the Russian woman.

  From her handbag she took a small address book and dialled the Soviet Embassy and asked for extension two six.

  ‘Rogov,’ she said.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said a man’s voice. ‘I have a message for you. Uncle says that the party is definitely on. Ask Peter for details when you arrive.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said and slammed the receiver on its hook.

  She looked at the departure board and saw that TWA flight 128 to New York was on final call at gate 18. She almost ran along the equally long airport finger and was the last passenger to board the 747.

  One hour later, as the lifeless, mangled body of Yefgeni Uglov lay face upwards in the Indian Ocean, she ordered a Jack Daniels bourbon on the rocks and tried hard to concentrate on a weighty book on the Anthropology of the African Tribes.

  After a while she gave up and gratefully accepted a near pornographic paperback from her neighbour but soon found that equally difficult to read.

  She closed her eyes, but she could not sleep. So many things were happening. She felt desperately trapped in that giant tube 30,000 feet over the Atlantic.

  *

  ‘Pan, pan, pan. Durban radio. This is Juliet Mike Oscar, Hercules transport. We are ten miles to the north east of you. We have a badly damaged tail unit and extremely low fuel reserve. Request permission for immediate landing. We are at flight level one hundred, heading two one zero magnetic. Over.’

  ‘Pan. Juliet Mike Oscar, Durban radio. You are clear to land at Pietermaritzburg, a military airfield. Steer two eight zero magnetic. Change to one two five decimal five. Over and out.’

  ‘Pan. Durban radio, Juliet Mike Oscar. Negative Pietermaritzburg. Our fuel level is critical. We are seven miles from you and beginning descent. Request priority landing. Over.’

  ‘Pan. Juliet Mike Oscar, Durban radio. Wait.’

  All three men and Sorrel had taken their turns at the controls, Martin steering and the others bracing their strength against the powerful force of the rudder.

  The captain and co-pilot had held lengthy debates about the possibility of making a low run directly into Rhodesia over the narrowest part of Mozambique. It would have meant less than two hundred miles of hostile territory and would have ensured their arrival in Salisbury. But after long consideration they had opted against. Flying was difficult enough in these conditions. Low flying would have been near-suicidal and they had no idea what other opposition they might expect.

  Harry had insisted on leaving the bunk and taking his right-hand seat although he was clearly often on the point of collapse. He refused to listen to Martin’s arguments.

  They were all of them shaken by the suddenness and the viciousness of the attack. And the atmosphere on the flight-deck had been subdued and apprehensive with frequent glances all around the aircraft and with the radar in constant use.

  A strong following wind had helped to speed them over the Mozambique channel. This had cheered Stubbles, who spent much of the rest of that flight working out detailed fuel calculations and shaking his head with pessimism.

  It was not until they had established that the flat green stretch beneath them was the South African coast that Sorrel opened a bottle of Scotch and handed half-filled cups to each of the men.

  They could only assume, even now, that they would be given landing permission in South Africa. They had decided not to make any approach over the airwaves until there was no question of their being refused. Even so this response from Durban was disturbing.

  ‘Why a military airfield?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Because we are a military aircraft,’ said Harry.

  ‘How do they know?’

  ‘It’s you that’s paranoid. I don’t think we’re the first Hercules to pass this way bearing arms for Ian Smith.’

  ‘Well, come what may, I’m going into Durban. If they don’t clear us I’m going to set this bitch down on one of those beautiful beaches down there.’

  ‘Pan. Juliet Mike Oscar, Durban radio. You are clear to land as requested. We have you on radar. Maintain your present heading and rate of descent. You are priority one for landing. All other aircraft on this frequency change to one two six decimal five.’

  ‘Thank the good Lord for giving that guy a brain,’ said Martin. ‘Pre-landing checks, gentlemen, if you please.’

  There was an atmosphere approaching near euphoria on the flight-deck as they taxied off the runway and into a parking position at Durban. The landing itself had been difficult. At any other time it would have been treated as a full blown emergency. The physical effort by both pilots was enormous, as they strained against the weight of the rudder bar and landed on aileron and propeller pitch. Juliet yawed capriciously on the final landing roll and seemed willing at one time to leave the runway altogether and carve a track through the grass in the centre of the field.

  Four fire engines and two ambulances had been waiting and they could see them from the flight-deck trailing away slowly, almost regretfully.

  ‘Like dogs who had the bone taken away,’ said Martin grimly. ‘If they knew what was in the back of this ageing crate, I don’t think they would have come quite so close.’

  The controller, a friendly voice, parked them several hundred yards from the handful of scheduled aircraft at the terminal. The ground director crossed his orange batons and they shut down the four engines.

  Stubbles spoke in a Jimmy Durante voice.

  ‘That was a somewhat superfluous gesture,’ he said. ‘Two more minutes and they would have shut themselves down. We were that short on gas.’

  ‘Shutdown checks,’ said Martin. ‘Nose wheel and parking brake.’

  ‘Centred and set.’

  ‘Shutdown and NTS check all engines.’

  ‘Complete.’

  They ran through the checks at their usual brisk pace. It was not until the ground director confirmed by hand signal that the wheels had been chocked that Martin turned and saw that a mass of blood was welling through the bandages on Harry’s right hand.

  ‘Holy Cow,’ he said. ‘Since when?’

  Harry was close to fainting again. His voice was weak and tired and lifeless.

  ‘I’ve only just noticed. I must have been gripping the wheel like a trainee pilot.’

  ‘Okay, don’t worry. Let’s get you into one of those ambulances.’

  ‘I’ll be okay.’

  Sorrel had opened the crew door and they heard a new voice.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ said its owner, a punchy man with a huge belly wearing a white drill shirt and black trousers. ‘Department of Health. What was your point of embarkation, please?’

  ‘Djibouti.’

  ‘Djibouti, eh. Where’s that? Don’t remember anyone ever coming from Djibouti.’

  He opened a small black book and ran through a list of cities.

  ‘Can’t see it anywhere,’ he said. ‘I’d better fumigate you anyway.’

  The man held up an aerosol spray and squirted it three times around the flight-deck. He repeated the operation in the cargo hold.

  ‘A formality,’ he said. ‘Now then, any fresh fruit, meat, eggs or live animals on board?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘May I see your cargo manifest?’

  ‘We are carrying explosives.’
/>   ‘But no fresh fruit, meat, eggs or live animals?’

  ‘No.’

  The man looked briefly at the aircraft’s documents and handed them to Sorrel.

  ‘There you are, young lady, and welcome to Durban.’ He looked at the two pilots.

  ‘Man, what have you done to that hand?’ he said.

  *

  He was a tall and lean man who spoke in a heavy, almost indecipherable Afrikaans accent. He introduced himself to Martin as Inspector Eisenberg of the Bureau of State Security. He took Martin from the aircraft into the airport building. They ignored customs and immigration and Eisenberg steered Martin to the small airport bar.

  They ordered beer. Martin could see the Hercules at the end of the airport parking lot. A tall gantry had been built around the tailplane. Stubbles and two other engineers were making a close inspection of the damaged tailplane.

  ‘I have to tell you, Captain Gore, that you couldn’t have chosen a less fortunate time to land in this country, do you realise that?’

  ‘I thought you were sympathetic to Rhodesia.’

  Eisenberg looked at him intently. ‘I am, of course I am. We all are. But if Smith cares to put himself on a limb there’s no reason why we should have to go out and join him. Don’t you realise that Cyrus Vance and our Prime Minister are sitting round the same table at this very moment in Pretoria? And Ian Smith himself is meeting with Vance later on today.’

  Martin downed his beer. He put the empty glass on to the counter and beckoned to the barman.

  ‘Two more, please,’ he said.

  ‘You haven’t any money,’ the other man said. ‘I’ll buy. We’re a hospitable nation, Captain Gore. I hate to have to kick you out.’