On Wings Of Eagles (1990)

by Ken Follett

  Paul sat staring at the screen, bored and tired. The movie was in German, not that the dialogue appeared to count for much. What could be worse, he thought, than a bad X-rated movie? Suddenly he heard a loud snort. He looked at Coburn.

  Coburn was fast asleep, snoring.

  When John Howell and the rest of the Clean Team landed at Frankfurt, Simons had everything set up for a quick turnaround.

  Ron Davis was at the arrival gate, waiting to pull the Clean Team out of the line and direct them to another gate where the Boeing 707 was parked. Ralph Boulware was watching from a distance: as soon as he saw the first member of the Clean Team arrive, he would go down to the movie theater and tell Sculley to round up the guys inside. Jim Schwebach was in the roped-off press area, where reporters were waiting to see the American evacuees. He was sitting next to writer Pierre Salinger (who did not know how close he was to a really good story) and pretending to read a furniture advertisement in a German newspaper. Schwebach's job was to tail the Clean Team from one gate to the other, just to make sure no one was following them. If there was trouble, Schwebach and Davis would start a disturbance. It would not matter much if they were arrested by the Germans, for there was no reason for them to be extradited to Iran.

  The plan went like clockwork. There was only one hitch: Rich and Cathy Gallagher did not want to go to Dallas. They had no friends or family there, they were not sure what their future would be, they did not know whether the dog, Buffy, would be allowed to enter the U.S.A., and they did not want to get on another plane. They said goodbye and went off to make their own arrangements.

  The rest of the Clean Team--John Howell, Bob Young, and Joe Poche--followed Ron Davis and boarded the Boeing 707. Jim Schwebach tailed them. Ralph Boulware rounded up everyone else, and they all got on board for the flight home.

  Merv Stauffer in Dallas had called Frankfurt Airport and ordered food for the flight. He had asked for thirty superdeluxe meals, each including fish, fowl, and beef; six seafood trays with sauce, horseradish and lemon; six hors d'oeuvre trays; six sandwich trays with ham-and-cheese, roast beef, turkey, and Swiss cheese; six dip trays with raw vegetables and blue-cheese-and-vinaigrette dip; three cheese trays with assorted breads and crackers; four deluxe pastry trays; four fresh-fruit trays; four bottles of brandy; twenty Seven-Ups and twenty ginger ales; ten club sodas and ten tonics; ten quarts of orange juice; fifty cartons of milk; four gallons of freshly brewed coffee in Thermos bottles; one hundred sets of plastic cutlery consisting of knife, fork, and spoon; six dozen paper plates in two sizes; six dozen plastic glasses; six dozen Styrofoam cups; two cartons each of Kent, Marlboro, Kool, and Salem Light cigarettes; and two boxes of chocolates.

  There had been a mix-up, and the airport caterers had delivered the order double.

  Takeoff was delayed. An ice storm had dropped out of nowhere, and the Boeing 707 was last in the queue for deicing--commercial flights had priority. Bill began to worry. The airport was going to close at midnight, and they might have to get off the plane and return to the hotel. Bill did not want to spend the night in Germany. He wanted American soil beneath his feet.

  John Howell, Joe Poche, and Bob Young told the story of their flight from Tehran. Both Paul and Bill were chilled to hear how implacably determined Dadgar had been to prevent their leaving the country.

  At last the plane was de-iced--but then its Number 1 engine would not start. Pilot John Carlen traced the problem to the start valve. Engineer Ken Lenz got off the plane and held the valve open manually while Carlen started the engine.

  Perot brought Rashid to the flight deck. Rashid had never flown until yesterday, and he wanted to sit with the crew. Perot said to Carlen: "Let's have a really spectacular takeoff."

  "You got it," said Carlen. He taxied to the runway, then took off in a very steep climb.

  In the passenger cabin Gayden was laughing: he had just heard that, after six weeks in jail with all-male company, Paul had been forced to sit through an X-rated movie; and he thought it was funny as hell.

  Perot popped a champagne cork and proposed a toast. "Here's to the men who said what they were going to do, then went out and did it."

  Ralph Boulware sipped his champagne and felt a warm glow. That's right, he thought. We said what we were going to do; then we went out and did it. Right.

  He had another reason to be happy. Next Monday was Kecia's birthday: she would be seven. Every time he had called Mary she had said: "Get home in time for Kecia's birthday." It looked like he was going to make it.

  Bill began to relax at last. Now there's nothing but a plane ride between me and America and Emily and the kids, he thought. Now I'm safe.

  He had imagined himself safe before: when he reached the Hyatt in Tehran, when he crossed the border into Turkey, when he took off from Van, and when he landed in Frankfurt. He had been wrong each time.

  And he was wrong now.

  3_____

  Paul had always been crazy about airplanes, and now he took the opportunity to sit on the flight deck of the Boeing 707.

  As the plane flew across the north of England, he realized that pilot John Carlen, engineer Ken Lenz, and first officer Joe Fosnot were having trouble. On autopilot the plane was drifting, first to the left and then to the right. The compass had failed, rendering the inertial navigation system erratic.

  "What does all that mean?" Paul asked.

  "It means we'll have to hand-fly this thing all the way across the Atlantic," said Carlen. "We can do it--it's kind of exhausting, that's all."

  A few minutes later the plane became very cold, then very hot. Its pressurization system was failing.

  Carlen took the plane down low.

  "We can't cross the Atlantic at this height," he told Paul.

  "Why not?"

  "We don't have enough fuel--an aircraft uses much more fuel at low altitudes."

  "Why can't we fly high?"

  "Can't breathe up there."

  "The plane has oxygen masks."

  "But not enough oxygen to cross the Atlantic. No plane carries that much oxygen."

  Carlen and his crew fiddled with the controls for a while; then Carlen sighed and said: "Would you get Ross up here, Paul?"

  Paul fetched Perot.

  Carlen said: "Mr. Perot, I think we ought to take this thing and land it as soon as we can." He explained again why they could not cross the Atlantic with a faulty pressure system.

  Paul said: "John, I'll be forever grateful to you if we don't have to land in Germany."

  "Don't worry," said Carlen. "We'll head for London, Heathrow."

  Perot went back to tell the others. Carlen called London Air Traffic Control on the radio. It was one in the morning, and he was told Heathrow was closed. This is an emergency, he replied. They gave him permission to land.

  Paul could hardly believe it. An emergency landing, after all he had been through!

  Ken Lenz began to dump fuel to reduce the plane below its maximum landing weight.

  London told Carlen there was fog over southern England, but at the moment visibility was up to half a mile at Heathrow.

  When Ken Lenz shut off the fuel-dump valves, a red light that should have gone out stayed on. "A dump chute hasn't retracted," said Lenz.

  "I can't believe this," said Paul. He lit a cigarette.

  Carlen said: "Paul, can I have a cigarette?"

  Paul stared at him. "You told me you quit smoking ten years ago."

  "Just give me a cigarette, would you?"

  Paul gave him a cigarette and said: "Now I'm really scared."

  Paul went back into the passenger cabin. The stewardesses had everyone busy stowing trays, bottles, and baggage, securing all loose objects, in preparation for landing.

  Paul went into the bedroom. Simons was lying on the bed. He had shaved in cold water and there were bits of stickum tape all over his face. He was fast asleep.

  Paul left him. He said to Jay Coburn: "Does Simons know what's going on?"

  "Sure d
oes," Coburn replied. "He said he doesn't know how to fly a plane and there's nothing he can do, so he was going to take a nap."

  Paul shook his head in amazement. How cool could you get?

  He returned to the flight deck. Carlen was as laid-back as ever, his voice calm, his hands steady; but that cigarette worried Paul.

  A couple of minutes later the red light went out. The dump chute had retracted.

  They approached Heathrow in dense cloud and began to lose height. Paul watched the altimeter. As it dropped through six hundred feet, then five hundred, there was still nothing outside but swirling gray fog.

  At three hundred feet it was the same. Then, suddenly, they dropped out of the cloud and there was the runway, straight ahead, lit up like a Christmas tree. Paul breathed a sigh of relief.

  They touched down, and the fire engines and ambulances came screaming across the tarmac toward the plane; but it was a perfect safe landing.

  Rashid had been hearing about Ross Perot for years. Perot was the multimillionaire, the founder of EDS, the business wizard, the man who sat in Dallas and moved men such as Coburn and Sculley around the world like pieces on a chessboard. It had been quite an experience for Rashid to meet Mr. Perot and find he was just an ordinary-looking human being, rather short and surprisingly friendly. Rashid had walked into the hotel room in Istanbul, and this little guy with the big smile and the bent nose just stuck out his hand and said: "Hi, I'm Ross Perot," and Rashid had shaken hands and said: "Hi, I'm Rashid Kazemi," just as natural as could be.

  Since that moment he had felt more than ever one of the EDS team. But at Heathrow Airport he was sharply reminded that he was not.

  As soon as the plane taxied to a halt, a vanload of airport police, customs men, and immigration officials boarded and started asking questions. They did not like what they saw: a bunch of dirty, scruffy, smelly, unshaven men, carrying a fortune in various currencies, aboard an incredibly luxurious airplane with a Grand Cayman Islands tail number. This, they said in their British way, was highly irregular, to say the least.

  However, after an hour or so of questioning, they could find no evidence that the EDS men were drug smugglers, terrorists, or members of the PLO. And as holders of U.S. passports, the Americans needed no visas or other documentation to enter Britain. They were all admitted--except for Rashid.

  Perot confronted the immigration officer. "There's no reason why you should know who I am, but my name is Ross Perot, and if you would just check me out, maybe with U.S. Customs, I believe you will conclude that you can trust me. I have too much to lose by trying to smuggle an illegal immigrant into Britain. Now, I will assume personal responsibility for this young man. We will be out of England in twenty-four hours. In the morning we will check with your counterparts at Gatwick Airport, and we will then get on the Braniff flight to Dallas."

  "I'm afraid we can't do that, sir," said the official. "This gentleman will have to stay with us until we put him on the plane."

  "If he stays, I stay," said Perot.

  Rashid was flabbergasted. Ross Perot would spend the night at the airport, or perhaps in a prison cell, rather than leave Rashid behind! It was incredible. If Pat Sculley had made such an offer, or Jay Coburn, Rashid would have been grateful but not surprised. But this was Ross Perot!

  The immigration officer sighed. "Do you know anyone in Great Britain who might vouch for you, sir?"

  Perot racked his brains. Who do I know in Britain? he thought. "I don't think--no, wait a minute." Of course! One of Britain's great heroes had stayed with the Perots in Dallas a couple of times. Perot and Margot had been guests at his home in England, a place called Broadlands. "I know Earl Mountbatten of Burma," he said.

  "I'll just have a word with my supervisor," said the officer, and he got off the plane.

  He was away a long time.

  Perot said to Sculley: "As soon as we get out of here, your job is to get us all first-class seats on that Braniff flight to Dallas in the morning."

  "Yes, sir," said Sculley.

  The immigration officer came back. "I can give you twenty-four hours," he said to Rashid.

  Rashid looked at Perot. Oh, boy, he thought; what a guy to work for!

  They checked in to the Post House Hotel near the airport, and Perot called Merve Stauffer in Dallas.

  "Merv, we have one person here with an Iranian passport and no U.S. visa--you know who I'm talking about."

  "Yes, sir."

  "He has saved American lives and I won't have him hassled when we get to the States."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Call Harry McKillop. Have him fix it."

  "Yes, sir."

  Sculley woke them all at six A.M. He had to drag Coburn out of bed. Coburn was still suffering the aftereffects of Simons's stay-awake pills: ill-tempered and exhausted, he did not care whether he caught the plane or not.

  Sculley had organized a bus to take them to Gatwick Airport, a good two-hour journey from Heathrow. As they went out, Keane Taylor, who was struggling with a plastic bin containing some of the dozens of bottles of liquor and cartons of cigarettes he had bought at Istanbul Airport, said: "Hey, do any of you guys want to help me carry this stuff?"

  Nobody said anything. They all got on the bus.

  "Screw you, then," said Taylor, and he gave the whole lot to the hotel doorman.

  On the way to Gatwick they heard over the bus radio that China had invaded North Vietnam. Someone said: "That'll be our next assignment."

  "Sure," said Simons. "We could be dropped between the two armies. No matter which way we fired, we'd be right."

  At the airport, walking behind his men, Perot noticed other people backing away, giving them room, and he suddenly realized how terrible they all looked. Most of them had not had a good wash or a shave for days, and they were dressed in a weird assortment of ill-fitting and very dirty clothes. They probably smelled bad, too.

  Perot asked for Braniff's passenger-service officer. Braniff was a Dallas airline, and Perot had flown with them to London several times, so most of the staff knew him.

  He asked the officer: "Can I rent the whole of the lounge upstairs in the 747 for my party?"

  The officer was staring at the men. Perot knew what he was thinking: Mr. Perot's party usually consisted of a few quiet, well-dressed businessmen, and now here he was with what looked like a crowd of garage mechanics who had been working on a particularly filthy engine.

  The officer said: "Uh, we can't rent you the lounge, because of international airline regulations, sir, but I believe if your companions go up into the lounge, the rest of our passengers won't disturb you too much."

  Perot saw what he meant.

  As Perot boarded, he said to a stewardess: "I want these men to have anything they want on this plane."

  Perot passed on, and the stewardess turned to her colleague, wide-eyed. "Who the hell is he?"

  Her colleague told her.

  The movie was Saturday Night Fever, but the projector would not work. Boulware was disappointed: he had seen the movie before and he had been looking forward to seeing it again. Instead, he sat and chewed the fat with Paul.

  Most of the others went up to the lounge. Once again, Simons and Coburn stretched out and went to sleep.

  Halfway across the Atlantic, Keane Taylor, who for the last few weeks had been carrying around anything up to a quarter of a million dollars in cash and handing it out by the fistful, suddenly took it into his head to have an accounting.

  He spread a blanket on the floor of the lounge and started collecting money. One by one, the other members of the team came up, fished wads of banknotes out of their pockets, their boots, their hats, and their shirtsleeves, and threw the money on the floor.

  One or two other first-class passengers had come up to the lounge, despite the unsavory appearance of Mr. Perot's party; but now, when this smelly, villainous-looking crew, with their beards and knit caps and dirty boots and go-to-hell coats, spread out several hundred thousand dollars on the f
loor and started counting it, the other passengers vanished.

  A few minutes later a stewardess came up to the lounge and approached Perot. "Some of the passengers are asking whether we should inform the police about your party," she said. "Would you come down and reassure them?"

  "I'd be glad to."

  Perot went down to the first-class cabin and introduced himself to the passengers in the forward seats. Some of them had heard of him. He began to tell them what had happened to Paul and Bill.

  As he talked, other passengers came up to listen. The cabin crew stopped work and stood nearby; then some of the crew from the economy cabin came along. Soon there was a whole crowd.

  It began to dawn on Perot that this was a story the world would want to hear.

  Upstairs, the team were playing one last trick on Keane Taylor.

  While collecting the money, Taylor had dropped three bundles of ten thousand dollars each, and Bill had slipped them into his own pocket.

  The accounting came out wrong, of course. They all sat around on the floor, Indian fashion, suppressing their laughter, while Taylor counted it all again.

  "How can I be thirty thousand dollars out?" Taylor said angrily. "Dammit, this is all I've got! Maybe I'm not thinking clearly. What the hell is the matter with me?"

  At that point Bill came up from downstairs and said: "What's the problem, Keane?"

  "God, we're thirty thousand dollars short, and I don't know what I did with all the rest of the money."

  Bill took the three stacks out of his pocket and said: "Is this what you're looking for?"

  They all laughed uproariously.

  "Give me that," Taylor said angrily. "Dammit, Gaylord, I wish I'd left you in jail!"

  They laughed all the more.

  4_____

  The plane came down toward Dallas.

  Ross Perot sat next to Rashid and told him the names of the places they were passing over. Rashid looked out of the window, at the flat brown land and the big wide roads that went straight for miles and miles. America.