Rogue Hercules

by Denis Pitts

  Martin and Harry knew nothing of this as they skilfully brought the Hercules in for her final landing. She touched down gently on hard firm sand and rolled only a few hundred yards before they brought her to a wailing standstill.

  They turned her, to be ready for an instant take-off. Even as they did so, they knew that they were wasting their time. Men stood at each of the fifty blazing gasoline cans. They were already dousing them with sand.

  Martin checked that the flaps were set at fifty per cent for a fast take-off roll and waited for the engineer to confirm that the electrical panel was in order.

  ‘Stubbles?’ he said.

  ‘Look, Martin.’ Harry’s voice was a shocked, throaty whisper.

  Martin turned and saw Stubbles sitting bolt upright in his harness, his mouth wide open and his eyes staring unseeing at the instrument panel above him.

  He felt a violent coldness in the very centre of his body and began to convulse with retching. He snapped himself together and shouted to Harry, ‘Come on, let’s go — any place.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Harry quietly. ‘Look.’

  In the brightness of their landing lights, Martin saw two three-ton military trucks racing towards them over the shrub-covered sand on which they had landed. They stopped immediately in front of the Hercules and began to disgorge thirty or so soldiers in yellow and green combat jackets.

  ‘Switch off,’ said Martin. There was infinite sadness and regret in his voice. ‘Sorry, Stubbles, they were bad guys.’

  He looked at the soldiers who were making the now familiar ring around the aircraft. The engines whined slowly down to a standstill.

  ‘Those rifles they’re carrying,’ said Harry urgently. ‘Those are Kalastikov fours. Those are Russian trucks. That’s the Cuban army out there. Holy crap!’

  A hatless man, young and arrogant in his stance, left one of the trucks and sauntered slowly towards the silent aircraft. His walk reminded Martin of the blond French captain in Djibouti. He was reminded fleetingly that the girl, too, lay dead behind and instantly the powerful nausea returned.

  The lieutenant was carrying a small sub-machine gun slung casually from his shoulder. He lifted it to his hip and fired two quick bursts into the landing lights. Now there was total darkness outside.

  ‘Douse the cabin lights. Quickly.’

  They heard shouting outside. The language was Spanish.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ asked Martin.

  ‘These guys shoot mercenaries,’ said Harry thoughtfully. ‘I hate to say it, brother, but just at this moment, our lives are worth little more than the ferrules on my shoelaces.’

  *

  The Mid-town rush hour had started when Natalia left the UN building and the first chill winds of winter were slicing their way along the avenues of Manhattan. She huddled deep into a Persian lamb coat and after two or three vain attempts to secure a taxi decided to walk the few blocks to her hotel.

  The Russian Delegation was traditionally housed in a large, anonymous and modest building in a sleazy quarter close to Time Square. Delegates without diplomatic status were sent to an even less attractive hotel in downtown Brooklyn.

  The streets were a solid block of multi-coloured metal and the city was beginning to dance with light, but Natalia saw little of it. She stared ahead of her, ignoring the fashion boutiques of 51st Street, at which she had once happily window-shopped for hours at a time.

  Not long ago, whenever she had turned into 5th Avenue, especially at that time of the evening, Natalia had never failed to gasp at the magic of New York, stifling the feeling of disloyalty for her own beloved Moscow as she drank in the sheer size and scale and daring of this never ending vista.

  On this evening she saw none of it and allowed herself to be swept along in the impatient crowds of homegoers. It began to rain lightly but she did not hear the soft thud of umbrellas as they opened all around her, nor did she feel the rain as it stung her face.

  She turned into 44th Street where there were fewer people. She walked slowly, pausing frequently to look unseeingly at menu boards as she fought to shift the enormous depression which had settled on her.

  The idea of an inquiry did not worry her. She could talk, especially to a board of men. She could justify.

  So her uncle had defected from her side. She had expected him to. He would have had to. The KGB maintained its invulnerability only because it never admitted its mistakes. She was a scapegoat.

  She, N Rogov, was, as they said here in this city, the patsy. There would be punishment, of course. There would be a censure by the Central Committee which would appear in her Party records for the rest of her life; and most likely she would be demoted and probably transferred to some remote steel town in the Urals or maybe to an awful diplomatic posting like old Turok in Djibouti.

  The overwhelming sadness stemmed from the fact that she had failed to achieve something which had been a private obsession. She thought about the pilot in that Hercules again and again and said aloud, ‘Where are you now, my enemy?’ There was a man looking over her shoulder trying to decipher the menu on the Japanese restaurant board.

  ‘Did you say something, miss?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said, embarrassed.

  ‘Anytime honey,’ the man said.

  She walked away from him at speed and kept walking quickly until she turned into a familiar hotel and went straight to the ladies’ room. Five minutes later, groomed and smiling, she entered the small oak-panelled bar. The bartender was a big man with a healthy, ruddy face.

  ‘Hey, look who’s here,’ he said in a loud voice which dominated the small room so that the early Martini drinkers turned and looked at the strikingly beautiful woman who stood at the bar.

  ‘Hi, Miss Rogov,’ he said. ‘Long time no see. How are things in the Kremlin?’

  Without asking her he mixed a vodka-martini just as she had always enjoyed it.

  ‘And how’s my friend Brezhnev?’ he asked. ‘Any chance of a war this year?’

  Natalia laughed and settled on a bar stool which had been vacated for her by a departing commuter.

  The bartender turned to another group of people. She heard him saying, ‘No, she’s a real Russian, you know. A real commy Russian. From Moscow. Nicest lady you’d ever meet. Used to come here a lot. From the UN, you know.’

  Yes, she thought, I used to come here a lot. She looked around the bar and saw people glancing at her curiously. She sipped her martini and allowed herself to be engulfed by an unstoppable flood of memory.

  *

  Their eyes adjusted quickly to the extreme darkness and they could see the outline of the windshield in front of them and the luminous instruments on the panel. They were in shock and they knew they were in shock. They were paralysed and helpless and felt themselves heavy and lumpen in their seats as they waited for the next move which could only come from the ground outside.

  Whoever they were, they were taking their time in making it. Martin and Harry heard a few more shouts and saw the flash of a torch. And then silence.

  There was a sudden burst of gunfire from the distance. It appeared to be returned from the ground on the left of them. There were several such exchanges and then a heavy machine gun opened up from one of the trucks in front of them and they watched streams of red and white tracer bullets cut perfect arcs in the blackness. And then silence again.

  ‘What the hell have we dropped into?’ said Martin at last.

  ‘Search me,’ said Harry very quietly. ‘Two minutes ago, I would have given my life’s blood to be out of this aircraft. Now I reckon we’re safest here. It’s the arms they want. They’re not going to blow them up.’

  ‘The Cubans must have hit our people at the last minute.’

  ‘So why shoot at us?’

  Martin peered out into the gloom. He could see the lorries silhouetted but little else. There was no movement.

  ‘What do we do, walk out?’ asked Harry.

  ‘We’d better face it, they’ll
probably shoot us,’ mused Martin.

  ‘Perhaps the good guys will counter-attack.’

  ‘Then the Cubans will blow us up.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Harry and let it sink in. ‘Maybe we could make a dash for it now while it’s dark.’

  ‘You forget, my dear Harry, that you lost two or three pints of blood just about twenty-four hours ago. You couldn’t run the length of this flight-deck.’

  ‘I guess you may be right. So what do we do?’

  ‘We need to play for time.’

  Harry said bitterly, ‘You mean like wait for the Seventh Cavalry?’

  ‘No.’ Martin unfastened his harness and stood. He turned and lost his balance momentarily in the darkness. He felt his hand touch Stubbles’ shoulder and felt the little body shift towards him.

  ‘Oh Christ, what a bloody mess,’ he said.

  He leaned down and unhitched the engineer’s harness and then picked the body up from its seat. He carried Stubbles across the deck and laid him on the floor. Then he stood up straight and felt his way to the ice-box and took out the whisky bottle. He took a fierce gulp and handed it across to Harry.

  ‘I feel lousy about the little man,’ he said. ‘Do you know, he never complained once, never questioned. He trusted me implicitly. Now I’ve got him killed. Oh shit, Harry, why did we ever leave Karachi? We should have told the girl to stuff it there and then.’

  ‘We needed the money.’

  ‘Stubbles didn’t.’

  ‘He did. He had a seven days option to buy a little garage in the Bronx. He would have flown this journey without wings to get that.’

  ‘It still doesn’t ease my rotten conscience,’ said Martin. ‘I feel bad about the girl, too. She was a prize bitch, I know, but she had her reasons.’

  ‘Oh shit, man,’ said Harry forcefully. ‘They’re dead. Accept that fact. We’re alive. Maybe only just alive, but let’s get the hell home safely.’

  ‘Optimist to the end?’

  ‘Why not? I’ve got an idea.’

  He heard Harry leave his seat and step gently over the engineer’s body. He heard the catch open on the locker under the bunk and Harry rummaging through the tool kit which Stubbles had kept there. He heard the harsh sound of metal being unscrewed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Buying time.’

  He was about to say, ‘How?’ when they heard the voice from outside. It was shouted through cupped hands. It was friendly and humorous, heavily accented.

  ‘Good morning, Captain Gore,’ it almost chuckled. ‘Perhaps you and Captain Black and Mr Sroka and Miss Francis would be good enough to step out of the aeroplane. Don’t worry, nobody’s going to hurt you. Just keep your hands up.’

  *

  ‘The aircraft has been found, Comrade. It landed half an hour ago just inside the Angolan border.’

  ‘And the crew?’ asked Natalia. She had been summoned urgently to the Russian Legation and watched the telex clatter furiously.

  ‘There is no mention of the crew. Moscow is delighted. This will cause great embarrassment to the reactionaries.’

  ‘But why Angola? I’m certain that those arms were destined for Rhodesia. Those men are skilled flyers. They could not possibly make such a mistake.’

  The message clerk, who smiled now, said, ‘That is for you to ascertain, Comrade. You are instructed to proceed to Luanda immediately via Zaire and to prepare the evidence for the trial.’

  *

  ‘Well go on,’ said Harry almost impishly. ‘Don’t keep the gentleman waiting.’

  He and Martin were standing at the crew door in the pitch blackness. Martin’s hand felt for the big internal lever and slid it slowly across.

  ‘What’s the game?’ he asked. Harry had been working at furious speed without talking.

  ‘I hope to Christ it works. Open the door,’ he said.

  The crew door swung open. They stood framed. They were lit by the harsh whiteness of a powerful torch.

  The mocking Spanish voice said, ‘Welcome, gentlemen. My name is Martinez, Captain in the People’s Army of Cuba. You are…’

  ‘My name is Gore. You seem to know that already. This is my colleague…’

  ‘…Harold Irving Black.’ The Cuban chortled with obvious delight at the expression on Harry’s face. ‘Martin Michael Gore and Harold Irving Black.’

  ‘Irving?’ said Martin bleakly.

  ‘And you’ll know that I’ve got a blue birthmark on my right buttock, three capped teeth and I’m circumcised,’ said Harry. ‘You seem to know a hell of a lot.’

  ‘We do,’ said Martinez. ‘And Miss Francis and Mr Sroka?’

  ‘They are dead. Inside the aircraft. One of your bastards shot our engineer.’

  ‘Not us. UNITA built this airstrip earlier. We took it from them. They must have shot at you. We have a very good reason for keeping you alive.’

  ‘Our cargo.’

  ‘Your cargo will be useful, certainly, Captain Gore. It is you that we seek. Not we exactly. Your description has been circulated to every progressive government in Africa. The KGB want the world to know that you’ve been naughty boys.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Delivering arms to an illegal organisation within the sovereign territory of Angola and thereby attempting to overthrow a democratically elected government.

  ‘Tomorrow we take you to Luanda, the capital, where you will face trial. So if you will kindly leave the aeroplane, my men will attend to the cargo and the bodies.’

  Harry’s voice was dry.

  ‘I think we’d sooner stay here.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Martinez forcefully. ‘I think you will climb down and follow me. Otherwise I shall be quite content to shoot at your legs and thighs. We have a doctor in this unit.’

  Harry held his hand out into the light. He was gripping the red handles of an inspection light clamp. The metal jaws were held apart.

  ‘Shoot me and this spring is released. It will close a circuit which will blow twenty million bucks’ worth of missiles and high explosives, you, us, this plane and most of your men to the great Kremlin in the sky.’

  ‘Don’t be so boring, Captain Black. It is not a time for party jokes.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘What do you hope to gain?’ said Martinez. ‘We have all the cards. We have time, food and water. I don’t suppose you have a lot of that in this aircraft. And if you think you are going to take-off, forget it.’

  The torch shone upwards onto the swing.

  There was a sudden burst of firing as Martinez emptied the magazine into the port flap hinging.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said the Cuban calmly. ‘I know that you have been flying for forty-eight hours or so and that you are tired. I’m tired. We, too, have been travelling at considerable speed since we heard your radio performance and the exchange with UNITA. If you choose to spend the rest of the night in a mortuary, go ahead.’

  ‘We’ll talk in the morning,’ said Harry defiantly.

  ‘There won’t be much talking,’ said Martinez. ‘You will be overpowered and taken to the capital. I shall not expect my men to be particularly gentle. And don’t expect help from UNITA. There are only two or three of them left and they’ll be scrambling to safety in the darkness right now. Close that door, please. Your aircraft will be adequately guarded against any misguided escape attempts.’

  The torch flicked out as they slammed the door and locked it.

  Later, as they lay on two of the pallets in the cargo hold, passing the whisky bottle to and from each other, Martin said, ‘Do you know, Harry old chap, I’ve known you for four years or more and I have to come to the middle of Africa to learn that your middle name is Irving.’

  *

  The taxi was half-way to Kennedy Airport when Natalia slid open the small hatch in the bullet-proof shield between herself and the driver.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said. ‘Do you know where the FBI headquarters are in Manhattan?’

/>   ‘I’ll find them, lady,’ said the driver. He shrugged his shoulders and made a grossly illegal “U” turn across the grass verge and headed back into the city.

  He began to talk in a booming monotone about nothing she wanted to hear as she sat and watched the suburbs race by.

  *

  But there was no attempt to overpower them that morning. Martin and Harry woke in a rose-hued dawn and silently went forward to the flight-deck. They carried the two bodies to the cargo hold and covered them with canvas sheeting which they ripped from the pallets. Only then did they open the side door, Harry still clutching the metal jaws but feeling more and more half-hearted about the pretence.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ They saw Martinez for the first time. He was a physically huge man, a negro with laughing eyes, who sat in a canvas chair in the shade under the wing.

  ‘Still playing your ludicrous game, Captain Black?’ he said. ‘Very well, go on playing for a while. In the meantime, I would offer you the opportunity of burying your dead. We have dug two graves for them. My men will attend.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Martin sincerely. ‘I appreciate the gesture.’

  ‘Common sense in this climate,’ said Martinez. ‘After which I would like to start unloading the cargo.’

  ‘I’ll open the rear doors,’ said Martin. ‘The bodies are there.’

  Harry stayed in the aircraft as the bodies were taken out on stretchers and laid on the sand. A medical officer inspected them briefly and a sergeant photographed them from several angles.

  ‘Evidence,’ said Martinez gently to Martin, who watched sadly as the bodies were wrapped in linen shrouds. ‘There will be many questions, my friend. I do not envy you.’

  The bodies were lowered into two simple graves and soldiers shovelled the soft sand over them. Martin wanted to say something aloud but he felt embarrassed and confused with misery. He made a clumsy attempt at the sign of the cross for Stubbles and he mumbled, ‘Rest in Peace’ for the girl, and turned away towards the Hercules.