by Adam Hall
Have you lost blood?
It wasn't wholly telepathy. In the final hours of the end-phase there's often a bit of blood drawn by someone or other. This place looked like an abattoir.
'Yes. But I don't need long.'
I worked my way round to the front of the lefthand seat and dropped into it and buckled the harness on and the instrument array swung into an arc and I blacked out, gradually came back.
'… in terms of morale?'
Oh Jesus Christ they wanted to know about my bloody morale when all I needed was the strength left to hit the auto switch to manual and bring the control column back. I did that. 'Listen,' I told Control, 'I'm going to bring her down and make a -'
It was like hitting a wall.
Stars whirling through the dark, through the silence.
She watched me, one shoulder strap hanging down, her eyes innocent, her skin cool, with water droplets on it from the pool.
I hope we'll meet again, she said.
'I know, where to find you, I told her,' and brought my head away from the instrument panel with a jerk as the roar of the jets slammed back.
Come in, please. Come in.
The display lights swam and steadied and I looked for the altimeter and the shock went through me and I brought the control column back and locked my arms round it, feeling the g-force as the huge mass of the aircraft pulled out of its dive.
Asked London: 'How long was I out?'
Seventeen minutes.
'I lost altitude. I'm down to 3000 feet.'
What is your position?
'36°04' north by 25°02' west.'
What is your heading?
'160°.'
You are approximately 150 miles south of the Azores and will pass them to the north-west if you maintain your heading. What is your altitude now?
'Still 3000.'
I'd kept her steady at that level since I'd pulled her out of the dive.
You're well placed to put down in Ponta Delgada.
The airport in the Azores. It sounded comforting, an island in the night, in this vast sea. But I was not in point of fact well placed to land there.
'I can't put this thing down anywhere at all. I've got to ditch it.'
What have you flown before?
'The nearest thing to this was a single-seat jet fighter.'
Then you're familiar with the basics.
'The basics are,' I said, 'that I've got enough explosive behind me to blow the Azores out of the Atlantic, if I mess up the landing.'
Silence for a bit. They were putting their heads together, Shatner, Croder, perhaps Loman, I didn't know how many of them were in the Signals room now but there'd presumably be quite a few because it wouldn't go down terribly well with the Portuguese government if I wrote off their sea-girt real estate.
'Listen,' I said, 'there's nothing -'
Oh Jesus Christ.
I'm ordering you to land your airplane in Ponta Delgada.
It wasn't London. There was a US Air Force F- I5 right alongside, sleek and pointed and with the moonlight flashing on its wings.
This is Major J. F. Franklin of the United States Air Force. If you wish to avoid attack, you must land your airplane immediately.
There was another one sliding up on the port side. I was flying in formation. They'd picked up my radio call to London and they'd heard me say that the White House had been the target and they'd got off the ground in the Azores or they'd been on night-flying exercise from Spain and they were up here to start a war.
'I can't do that,' I said. 'I've had no training with this aircraft. If -'
I will give you one minute to alter your course for the Azores. Your failure to do this will bring an immediate attack.
Hadn't believed me, thought I was playing for time.
'Major,' I said, let me give you a little advice. If you attack this aircraft you'll blow yourself out of the sky. I'm carrying the equivalent of a small nuclear bomb.'
I could see his helmet through the cockpit cover; his face was turned towards me.
You will alter course immediately for the Azores.
Had the White House on his mind, I could quite understand. He -
Major Franklin – London – this is the British Foreign Office. Good-morning. We can vouch for the identity of the person flying the Pan American plane. This is the flight that has been missing since early last evening from Berlin, Flight 907. The pilot has seized control from Iranian terrorists, but has not flown this type of plane before. The British government would be most grateful for your assistance in any way possible.
I think he said a bit more but I went into another coughing fit, clearing the last of the blood out of my throat. It was nice to have company up here with me but there wasn't anything they could do. They were pall-bearers, that was all.
Please identify yourself.
'What? Oh. Name's Locke.'
I couldn't think how it would help, could have said I was Moses.
London was quiet, waiting for some kind of answer from Major Franklin.
I watched the instrument panel. We were still at 3000 feet, airspeed 350, heading un-changed.
Shut my eyes for a bit. I knew what I'd got to do and I wanted to do it and get it over. The radio was quiet; I suppose they were both thinking things out, the US pilot and London. Then another voice came on.
This is Walter J. Cummins, the American ambassador in London. Can you hear me, Major Franklin?
Yes, sir.
Now that had been very fast work. Control had told someone at his elbow to get the ambassador on the phone as soon as he'd started talking to the US pilot, in case he refused to accept the authority of the British FO. They'd got him on the phone at his bedside and told him the brief position and patched him in through the Signals room amplifiers: he sounded as if he was speaking into a bucket.
I can vouch for the authenticity of the gentleman speaking to you from the British Foreign Office. You may therefore accept what he has just told you about the person at the controls of the Pan American airplane. I'm not completely clear about the situation apart from that. Is there any assistance you can give Mr Locke at this time?
The US pilot still had his head turned to watch me. OK, sir, I guess it's over to him. What are your intentions, Mr Locke?
I told him I'd got to ditch.
I understand you're not familiar with this type of airplane. We could try talking you down into Ponta Delgada.
The display lights had begun swinging again, and I braced the control column in my arms. The sound of the jets had started to fade. I said, 'Look, you'd better stand off a bit in case I let things slip. We don't – we don't want any collisions. Tell – tell your friend too.'
What kind of shape are you in?
'Bit snuffed. Listen -' then it started again, and the whole thing blacked out.
… Mr Locke? Can you hear me?
'Yes. I think -'
Why are you losing altitude?
I looked at the instruments. We were down to 2000 feet and the needle was still falling. Pulled the control column back, overdid it, felt the plane shuddering. There was a ringing sound from the cabin behind me: the cylinders had started shifting under the vibration.
Knock two of these things together a bit too hard and we're gonners, kerbooom.
The US pilot had asked me something about altitude but it wasn't important. The important thing was to stay conscious for long enough to put this thing down, get it out of the air, out of harm's way.
'Look,' I said, 'I'm going to ditch now. You'd better keep your distance.'
I could talk you down into the Azores. I think we should do that, Mr Locke. It's not all that tough, if you've flown a jet before. We -
This is Air Traffic Control, Ponta Delgada. You are not permitted to land at this airport. Please acknowledge.
There was something I should be thinking about.
Please acknowledge.
He had a thick accent.
'Would you repeat t
hat?'
Yes. You are not permitted to land at this airport. Please acknowledge.
They'd picked up the stuff about the explosives.
'Right. I can't land at your airport.'
I ought to be thinking about what Major Franklin had said, not to be taken lightly, perhaps. About talking me down. I mean if I was going to put this thing in the sea, maybe we could do it gently, take the thousandth chance.
We regret. Azores. There is risk of damage because of the explosives. But we have despatched two air-sea rescue helicopters and we would like to know your present position, altitude and heading.
I checked the panel and told them.
Okay, Mr Locke, so we'll talk you down onto the sea.
The major.
I kept the control column braced in my arms. The sound of the jets had faded again, but I realised it was because the two Air Force planes had done what I'd said, moved away a bit in case of accidents. Through the windscreen I watched the Atlantic below me, not far away, black and endless, glittering in the moonlight, flecked with crests.
Not hospitable.
Mr Locke, can you hear me?
'Yes. Thinking.'
The ringing from the cabin back there was still going on, like the bells of a temple in Tibet.
Blood in the mouth, I couldn't get the taste of it out.
Black water below.
We were at 1500 feet. I'd been letting the control column go.
I said, 'Yes, all right. Much obliged.'
Okay, this is going to be a gear-up, flaps-down landing. Leave -
'Look, when I hit the sea, you'd better keep your distance. I'd make it at least a couple of miles.'
Will do. Thank you for your concern. Now get your flaps down.
I saw the two fighters sliding away on both sides, becoming small, becoming silhouettes.
This is Ponta Delgada. Your position, please.
Gave it to them.
That is good. Heading, altitude, airspeed, please.
Gave it to them. The sea was close now, lines of white crests across black water. The starfields dipped and rose in the windscreen, I suppose there was a wind blowing, perhaps a gale, I couldn't find the instrument that would give me the windspeed.
Okay, now let's have your landing lights on.
I began looking for the switch. There were hundreds.
We are still with you, if you need us.
London, Shatner's voice. Support, I suppose, moral support for the ferret in the field, correction, ferret in the sea.
We need those lights on. There should be a group of switches, maybe on your – okay, you found it, great.
Suddenly the sea was close, floodlit, the waves glittering, the troughs running deep. I used the controls, moving into a turn, bringing the aircraft into line with the swell.
That's great. That's really great. You're looking good. Now start checking your radio-altimeter.
The needle was at 900 feet.
I could feel the weight of the aircraft under the controls, the vibration in the seat as we lowered towards the waves, the bulkheads creaking, the bells sounding all the time from behind me. A strap had broken somewhere, and there were some cylinders loose.
Sweat running on me suddenly, a feeling of heat as the organism reacted chemically to what the mind knew.
How d'you feel?
'Fair to middling. Does this look all right?'
Okay, get the nose up a little, say five degrees, can you do that?
500 feet on the radio-altimeter, 400, 300.
I pulled the control column back a bit, felt the mass of the plane shift, heard the bells, loud now, sounding the alarm, not used to this aircraft, the sea vanishing below the windscreen, tilting back as I corrected, Jesus we were -
Trim her back a little, back a degree.
200 feet, 100.
Huge troughs in the black water, the crests breaking, foaming under the ashen light of the moon, a big sea running -
Nose up, bring the nose up, get it up now, bring -
The whole aircraft slackening, the crests breaking dead ahead through the windscreen, the dark mouth of a trough opening and the screen going white as the foam was flung against it, a shudder through the airframe and then a kind of silence, a hole in the night where nothing happened, then a second shudder and the bells ringing wildly back there as we hit water and the harness made a wall and I leaned into it and the sea broke over the screen and it blanked out and I stayed there with the deceleration forces clamping me against the straps, nothing I could do if I moved, couldn't move, stayed there and waited, the lights of the instrument panels swirling past my eyes and the sound of the jets dying and the sound of the sea taking over, the waves rising under 'the cabin and dropping again and the wind bringing white water off the crests.
Are you okay? Are you okay?
Hit the harness release and got up, got out of the seat, the bells ringing back there, the cylinders moving to the force of the waves now, caught my foot on something, the dead Iranian, tripped and crashed into the rear bulkhead and found the door and slid it open and heard a low screaming from the cabin, gas escaping under pressure, great pressure, we've got to be quick, very quick.
Freezing water, black and silver in the searchlight, the blades above me chopping at the night as the machine lifted and the net cleared the sea and I swung free of its crests and darkness drew down across my eyes, and I was aware only of a void that held me somewhere in it until I came to again and a mile away the black water broke to a blinding flash and a fireball rolled and billowed against the starfields, blotting them out.
Elleston Trevor
***
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