by Adam Hall
Seven minutes wasn’t going to be long enough.
Thing is to keep control and remember that all we’ve got to do is get airborne and then raise the Embassy and get Ferris to do the rest: he could put a NATO battalion into the field so long as communications with London held up.
Leave it to Ferris.
Look, do you really think you can just light a cigarette and sit back and -
Voices and this time raised voices, 01:01, they’d missed Yang and now they’d start looking for him and they wouldn’t take long to find him and then they’d start looking for me.
Running feet and more voices.
Give that bloody thing another two minutes to burn and then give it up and get out of here and take to the mountains and let them put the light out over the board for Jade One in London, but Jesus Christ I’d got close, I’d got bloody close.
Voices again, Sinitsin’s among them now, Where is he, and so forth, he’d strip the hide off them for letting me get away.
01:02.
Give it another minute. One more, and then if -
Fireball.
The camouflage net shivered as the chopper alongside rocked on its landing gear to the shock of the explosion as the tank went up and hurled flames into the night, their bright banners catching the net and firing it as I pushed open the cabin door and got ready to jump because if the whole lot went up I was getting out, stop panicking and shut that door and keep low before they see you, haven’t you seen an explosion before, get down.
Voices again above the roar of the flames, and I dropped low behind the front seats because the pilots would be first here and there’d only be one thing they could try doing.
The night was orange now, with the flamelight flooding into the cabin and the net shaking as the men below started hacking at it with knives to free the rotor. Someone wrenched the door open and lunged in and dragged the extinguisher off its hook and threw it down to the others, shouting something in Korean. Then he swung out through the doorway and I saw the flash of a blade as he clambered onto the roof of the cabin; I could hear the tramping of his feet as he worked at the net, hacking it away from the rotor.
The night was full of cries, one of them shrilling as the flames caught a man. Black smoke was pouring from the chopper alongside and enveloping the cabin; two or three times I lifted my head but could see nothing but the darkness curdled with the light of the flames; the man on the roof was choking now in the thickening pall of smoke. Firefoam hit the Perspex window and a man shouted, quite close, words I didn’t understand. Smoke began drifting into the cabin and I buried my face into my jacket and stayed absolutely still. Something smashed: I think the man had kicked the window in as he came dropping from the roof; I felt the machine lurch as he threw himself inside and slammed the door against the smoke; then the turbos began moaning.
The warm-up time for these things would be around three minutes but I didn’t think we had that long; the fuel had sent a wash of flame across the ground and it was still spreading; there was the sickly smell of rubber on the air as the tyres began burning. There was nothing much to think about as I crouched face down in the dark. This was either going to work or it wasn’t; there’d been a whole complex of unpredictable elements and it hadn’t been possible to put them together and come up with any kind of certainty; it had just been the only thing I could do, short of putting Tung Kuofeng at risk in a shootout. So I kept still and left it to karma, and listened to the rising moan of the turbos and then the sudden jerk as the rotor was cut in and began turning.
He wouldn’t wait for all the needles to reach the green sectors: this wasn’t standard take-off procedure; but he’d need close to ninety per cent rotor rpm and that was going to take another sixty seconds or more and there was nothing he could do about it except sit there with the flames washing under the wheels. Now that he was in the right-hand seat I could raise my head as far as the Perspex window, but couldn’t see anything but figures darting through the smoke, their shadows thrown grotesquely against it by the livid orange of the flames. But the long blades of the rotor were getting up speed, and the smoke began surging lower in the downdraught until all I could see was the wash of flames beneath us; they were fanning out as the draught caught them, pulling them into a fiery disc and blowing the smoke clear of the area.
Through a gap between the seat and the cabin wall I could see through the undernose Perspex, where two men were dragging something blackened to the edge of the flames; then there was nothing but the flames themselves, flattening into a giant Catherine wheel as the rotor picked up speed and the machine lurched as a tyre burst, then steadied and began lifting with the bright disc of flame falling away below.
“Seoul,” I told him, and dug my centre-knuckle hard into his spine at the fifth vertebra jerking him forward and snapping his head back. “Kimpo Airport.”
Most of his shock was at finding he wasn’t alone, and his smoke-reddened eyes were wide as he moved his head to look at me. I bunched the knuckle again and drove it into the middle of his spine this time, sending a flash of pain through the central nerves.
“Kimpo Airport, Seoul.”
Sweat shone on his face. The glow of the flames was dying away now, leaving the greenish illumination of the facia panel; when I looked into the windscreen I saw him watching my reflection, and shook my head slowly, meaning don’t try anything; then he tapped the fuel gauge and looked up at me with a shrug, so I got the map on its clipboard and slammed it across his knees and jabbed a finger at Seoul and then hit the median nerve of his left arm enough to warn him because the fuel gauge was at half full and that was ample for the run in to Kimpo and he knew it.
I got the headset off its hook behind the navigator’s seat and started work on the radio panel, getting an answer in Korean from the Embassy and then losing it two or three times because there was a hell of a lot of static from the rotors. We’d gained a thousand feet by now and he’d got the thing on an even keel but I wasn’t trusting him: he was a fanatic and he wanted to put this machine down near the monastery again, even if it had to be on the roof, because Sinitsin and his group were now cut off.
5051 kHz was answering again and the voice sounded English so I told them Eagle to, Jade One and repeated it but the static was appalling and I couldn’t even tell whether it was Ferris responding or someone else.
The time was now 01:09 and I checked the airspeed indicator and gripped the pilot’s fist, turning the throttle and telling him to stay at maximum speed, using words he didn’t understand but a tone of voice that told him he’d got to do what I wanted. The floor shifted under my feet as the power came on, and I grabbed at the seat-back and then tried to raise the Embassy again. It was difficult to tell if they were getting my signal with any clarity so I left the set open and kept repeating what I wanted them to know.
Eagle to Jade One. Hostage Tung Chuan and KGB captors due to board Cathay Pacific Flight 584 from Seoul to Pyongyang ETD 02:18. You must stop them and take Tung Chuan alive. This is ultra-priority, this is ultra-priority, my voice probably unintelligible, reaching them in an ocean of static, while the red light came up on the facia panel and the reflection of the smoke-blackened pilot’s face watched me impassively from the windscreen, Eagle to Jade One, can you hear me?
I bent over the map and read the call sign for Kimpo tower and switched to that wavelength and tried to raise them with the call sign for the aircraft but all I could get was slush, the red light beginning to worry me now so I looked at it and saw it wasn’t on the facia panel, it was at the edge of the curving windscreen, the bastard had been turning full circle all the time and that was the fire down there, the one at the monastery -
“Turn this bloody - “
He’d been waiting for it and his bunched fist drove in at groin level and impacted on the thigh as I twisted in time and lost balance and hit the tubular metal along the back of the seats and found him rising against me with both his hands out and reaching for the throat. The deck was
tilting badly and we both lurched sideways and the pilot’s headset swung clear of its hook and struck my face, blinding me on one side before I could get my balance back and block him as he came in again while thunder broke out as the rotor tips went through the sound barrier and the whole machine started shuddering to the vibration.
Kaleidoscope of images in the glow from the facia lamps - his squat body frantic to get at me as the deck tilted again, tilted and swung down with the blades crackling and the seats shaking on their stanchions, his face suddenly looming as he got close with his hands hooking, catching my jacket and dragging me down across the cyclic column, and now the whole thing went wild as the deck came up and threw us both across the seat squabs with my shoulder crashing past the bulkhead and bouncing me the other way and straight into him, a chance in a thousand and I used a sword-hand and found his neck and did it again and saw him pitch back into the Perspex window, did it again with the deck tilting me and lending me extra force till he wasn’t there anymore but somewhere below me as the cabin began spinning slowly under the rotor and the deck came up and then sank and went on sinking as I tried to find the controls and couldn’t manage it because of the angle, tried to get a grip on something, on anything, finally found the cyclic and brought it upwards, twisting the throttle down a degree and feeling the sudden pause as the rotor steadied and the cabin stopped spinning and I slumped into the seat and trimmed the aircraft, locking the column on automatic and turning to see what had happened to the Korean.
He was watching me steadily, and I turned away and settled down in the pilot’s seat, checking the compass and bringing the machine in a slow swing towards the north-west and then putting its nose down and going for maximum speed with the tips just this side of the barrier. After a minute the nerves in my spine began crawling, and I turned round and closed his eyelids and then faced forwards again, concentrating on the compass and feeling with one hand for the headset and putting it on.
5051 kHz.
Eagle to Jade One.
Nothing but static when I switched to receive.
Time was 01:17 and we’d lost eight minutes in turning back to the monastery and I doubted, I very much doubted now, that I could get this thing to Kimpo in time to do anything physically about the Cathay Pacific: I’d have to leave it to Ferris now, if I could raise him.
Eagle to Jade One.
Nothing but static.
Chapter 29
584
He came in at 02:12.
Jade One to Eagle.
There was still some static, but the lights of Seoul were crowding against the undernose Perspex window and the distance was closing in towards zero.
I told him again: Cathay Pacific 584.
It’s too late, he said.
Phone the airport, so forth.
His voice faded and came back. I suppose he meant it was too late to get there himself, from the Embassy.
We had six minutes. I tried to think we still had a chance, but we didn’t. The security people wouldn’t move that fast: they’d want to know what authority he’d got; anyone can ring up an airport and start a panic.
I swung the Mi2 into the approach path, watching the cluster of lights moving into the nose window.
Eagle to Jade One. Do what you can.
Then I checked the map and switched to the approach control channel at 1213 kHz and gave them my call sign. They came back immediately.
HK-9192: You will turn south-west and hold clear of the field.
I throttled back and crab-flew for thirty seconds to see what the situation was on the runways, acknowledging and switching to Landing Control.
HK-9192: You will make an immediate turn and keep clear of the field.
I didn’t acknowledge yet.
Things didn’t look normal down there. I could see a DC10 moving towards the main runway, but along one of the intermediary paths. Security control lights were flashing in half a dozen places as road vehicles crawled from the terminus towards the marker lights.
I tried the traffic channel and got voices.
… Are ordered to keep their distance. A burst of static as I trimmed the rotor and settled at a hundred feet over the perimeter road, then it cleared again … Repeat, are ordered to keep their distance. This is a hijack situation.
The jet was moving onto the runway and turning right, with the wind, its green-striped tail catching the light as one of the security vehicles closed in and then stopped at the edge of the runway.
Cathay Pacific.
The time was 02:27 and she was behind schedule but then the schedule had been wrecked anyway. I just began speaking, with no call sign.
Is that Flight 584 on the runway?
Landing Control came back. Yes. This is a hijack situation.
Are the passengers on board?
No passengers. Only the crew and the hijackers. Then a break came and a different voice said: This is Security. Who are you? Please give your call sign.
American accent. He said something else, but it wasn’t to me: I could see a light aircraft towards the south, with its strobe pricking the dark. Below me the DC10 was turning at the end of the runway, against the windsock. Through the side window I caught a line of flashing light as more security vehicles moved in to the airport from the city.
I kept the Mi2 hovering at a hundred feet between the perimeter road and some hangars and watched the big DC 10 sitting at the end of the runway, facing into wind.
So Ferris had done something. I’d told him ultra-priority and he’d known I’d meant it and he must have done the only thing he could have done to get Airport Security onto the KGB party coming through with their hostage: he’d gone direct to NATO’s Military Emergency Centre with an alert signal and then told them what he wanted.
But Airport Security had been too late.
It must have been one of the crew the KGB had taken as their hostage. The captain. Or the whole crew, as they’d walked out to the aircraft.
I hit the radio again and got voices.
CP 584 to Tower: do I have clearance for take-off?
There was a wailing noise in the background, covering some of the speech. Sirens somewhere. I kept the machine steady, watching the red flashes moving past the main terminal as three vehicles cruised down past the fire station.
CP to Tower: do I have clearance?
His voice was tight.
Another voice now, coming through the wail of the sirens, Ukrainian accent. You will keep the runway clear. We are taking off.
Jesus Christ, someone said, then the set crackled.
I watched the big jet with its green-striped tail starting to roll as the brakes came off.
You will keep the runway clear. We are taking off.
I counted five emergency vehicles standing along the edge of the runway, none of them beginning to move. I looked up and watched the tower, but couldn’t see anything behind the dark green glass. The telephones would be jammed in there, with Traffic Control trying to get authority to stop the Cathay Pacific and Airport Security trying to get an advisory from the Metropolitan Police.
I looked down again and watched the DC 10 gathering speed, the red splashes of light from the emergency vehicles staining its white fuselage.
I do not need to tell you, Tung Kuofeng had said, what such a volte face would mean: the immediate destruction of the American-Chinese Japanese bloc and a massive Soviet-Chinese threat to the West. The next two actions I shall undertake on behalf of the Soviets will bring this about within a matter of days, unless you can prevent it.
The DC10 was rolling faster.
They didn’t have the background data, in the tower. They saw this as nothing more than a hijack. Otherwise they’d block the runway, send every vehicle in, and stop the jet.
You could avert enormous danger, Tung Kuofeng had told me as the tendril of smoke from the incense bowl had climbed past the face of the Buddha, for many people.
The wail of a siren came again above the steady chopping of the r
otor above my head as another vehicle went swerving through the security gates and slowed towards the runway.
You must find my son, Tung Kuofeng had said.
The emergency vehicle had stopped. They were all stopped, all of them, everywhere. The runway was clear, with the big jet rolling fast towards take-off.
The dead man behind me fell forward and hit the back of the seat as I shifted the stick and put the machine into a fast emergency dive from a hundred feet across the roofs of the hangars and the line of flashing red lights and along the rubber-scarred strip of the runway until the long white fuselage of the DC10 was sliding backwards across the Perspex window below the nose and vanishing behind the Mi2 as I held it into the dive for another five seconds and then dragged the stick back and went for a dead-drop landing halfway down the runway and a hundred yards in front of the jet. The cabin shuddered as the nose came up and the blades of the rotor thrashed the air and three red lights began winking on the facia panel as I put the machine through a barrage of stress it hadn’t been designed for; then it was down and rolling to a stop and I cut the turbo and sat watching the huge shape of the DC10 as it began closing in until its twin landing-lights came on and I had to jerk my head away from the glare.
I sat waiting, caught in a wash of frozen light and feeling the panic flooding into me as the roar of reverse thrust came slamming against the cabin and reverberated there until I was shouting against the onslaught of sound, trapped in a drum and hearing my own voice silenced as I went on shouting, some kind of reason coming back as the panic spent its force and I just sat watching the flood of dazzling light bringing everything into knife-edge relief: the instrument panel and the curved Perspex and the breakaway hinges of the door and the dead arm lying across the other seat with its hand dangling and its fingers pointing nowhere.
