The school children whose ages spanned their eleventh and twelfth birthdays had lived too sheltered an upbringing to realize the dangers to which their young lives were now exposed.
Most rigidly obeyed the instruction to keep their arms raised, only a few grumbling to those who sat beside them at the discomfiture. No question, the headmaster thought, of querying the order, not with the girl and the two men so preoccupied. Necessary to maintain calm among these people, and any interruption, however trivial, however well-founded, would only lead to anger, only harm the position of the children. He kept silent.
Twenty-five others. Some praying through closed eyes and clenched hands, some stolid and defiant and gazing straight ahead, some fascinated by what they saw beyond the reinforced windows, some crying quietly. Even the baby, halfway back, snuggled in a mother's shawl, sat hushed.
Wandering with his eyes, restless, Isaac fastened on the two stewardesses, sitting together, holding hands, watching him, following his movements. The pretty one in the centre seat, with the red hair, smoothed her skirt down her thighs. Isaac winked at her, just a flash, and saw her blush and twist her head away. All of them sitting there, inanimate, straining away the minutes.
Would the jets open fire? Quite a way to go if they do, thought Isaac.
From Moscow the orders were transmitted to Air Force
Headquarters, West Ukraine, and from there relayed to the major who commanded the Mig pilots. He led the formation, four planes in line, separated by a half mile, across the path of the Ilyushin, spitting long bursts of cannon fire two hundred yards in front of the airliner. For pilots as highly trained as these it was a simple manoeuvre. Climbing again and leaning back across the space of his cramped cockpit he radioed that there was no apparent deviation of the Ilyushin.
Once more, he was told, he should fire across the nose, again with the cannon, but closer. If that were not successful he should return to station and await further instructions.
Inside the cockpit and the passenger cabin, hemmed in by the hermetically-sealed fuselage, the noise of the cannon fire was considerable. Isaac had joined David in the cockpit and they stood together, huddled in the limited space as they watched the contortions of the fighter planes. Dive, level off, pull out. Vicious hammering of fire from the wings - so close that it made them draw back and wince, instinctive and involuntary, seeking safety from the threat. The slip stream of the jets jolted and tumbled the Ilyushin, and both men clung to the back of Anna Tashova's seat.
And then they were gone, and the airliner was still on course, and it was as if there had been nothing, except that David's knuckles were white as he held himself upright and his face was drawn and old beyond his years, and Isaac saw that there were tears in the pilot officer's eyes that she fought to suppress. She thought they were going to kill us, herself as well, and all of her passengers, that was what she would have preferred, that was the depth of her hate for us.
The navigator in his seat behind them broke the silence. A forgotten man, who had stayed quiet and unobtrusive since they had swarmed into the cockpit, contenting himself with plotting their course, identifying their position on his maps. 'We have perhaps half a minute to turn. The next time it will be missiles. They know they cannot damage us, sufficiently to force us to land, but so that we can land successfully. If they damage us we crash, and so they will make it fast for us, they will destroy us in the air. The pilot who tried to land the Libyan plane that the Israelis fired on, the Frenchman, he tried and he failed. A passenger liner cannot withstand any damage, not at this altitude.'
'We fly on,' said David. 'The Kingfisher bird is on course.
They will not come again.'
'Are you blind to it, you crazed fool? Can you not see the signs with your own eyes? That was the warning, the final warning. The next time it is over.' Anna Tashova's words lapped around David, rippling and eddying at him, but without the conviction to strike him, leaving him unmoved. Isaac put his arm around the taller man's waist and hugged and pulled their two bodies together. 'I did not know it would be like that,' David said. ' I had no idea ...'
'But you found the strength to fight them,' encouraged Isaac.
'Never again, not like that . . . never again,' David whispered, and he trembled, his whole frame consumed by the convulsions as Isaac held him. And he no longer stared out through the small cockpit windows, but was again magnetized by the captain's slowly moving head, its inverted pendulum motion.
'He still fights me..
'Don't be so stupid. You weren't to know. It was only one bullet. You weren't to know.'
'He still fights me....'
'Keep the bloody plane on course,' said Isaac wearily.
Radio chatter amongst the Migs.
'Eagle 4 to Sunray. What do they want us to do now?"
'Eagle 3 to Sunray. We cross the Polish border in under a minute.'
'Eagle 2 to Sunray. Do we shoot to bring them down or not?'
'Sunray to Eagle Flight. You hear the orders as I do. The order is to wait-they are checking something out. Maintain course.'
'Eagle 4 to Sunray. What is there to check out?'
'Eagle 3 to Sunray. Did you see the children at the windows? Quite clearly you can see them.'
'Eagle 2 to Sunray. There is the man in the cockpit. I saw him ... with the gun.'
'Sunray to Eagle Flight. Stop the bloody talking. I know where we are, so does Ground. I have eyes too - I have seen the children - I have seen the man. They will be checking the passenger list. They want to know who is on board.'
'Eagle 4 to Sunray. If there is no one important we shoot-
is that why they want to know who is on board?'
'Sunray to Eagle 4. Keep the airwave clear. Keep your opinions to yourself. Observe the order.'
The Migs overflew Polish airspace for two minutes then peeled away.
Three years previously a hi-jacked aircraft had mysteriously disappeared from the radar screens of Western military forces stationed in Germany, and was presumed to have been shot down. That Aeroflot 927 was permitted to continue its progress was determined by the composition of the passenger manifest. The matter of the children on their way to the ballet festival at Tashkent did not sway the issue, nor did the question of the survival of the Russian adult passengers and the Russian crew count in any degree towards the final decision. It was the knowledge that among the passengers was the delegation of the Italian Communist Party, senior men all of them and belonging to a Party with whom the Soviet Union was trying to heal ideological rifts. Luigi Franconi and his comrades ensured the safety of all on board. If the only foreigners to have taken the Tashkent flight had been Edward R. Jones Jr and Felicity Ann then the Ilyushin would have been a mess of wreckage, burning and disintegrated, scattered over a half mile square, scorching the summer stubble of a collective field. Perhaps the Italians would have been flattered had they known their lives were held in such esteem, but their ignorance was total, as was that of David and Isaac. Both stood in the cockpit above Anna Tashova as the plane powered on, content in the belief that their determination, their power had won them a great victory, that their greatest test was behind them.
The defining of the problem and the 'taking of the decision not to shoot down the Ilyushin had involved two of the Soviet Union's most senior officials in a bitter and protracted argument fought out over the telephone fines between their respective ministry buildings. Defence was for the strong arm of physical prevention of the aircraft leaving Russian airspace. Foreign Affairs held out a calmer option, and pledged a massive diplomatic campaign by telephone 'hot-line' and teleprinter to dissuade all governments in whose territory a landing might be attempted to offer the terrorists either refuge or succour for their onward journey to Israel. From the moment that David had broadcast over the aircraft radio that the group was Jewish he had played into the hands of those who saw, with sharp clarity because they had only bare minutes in which to reach their conclusion, that a great diplomatic oo
up was offered for the talcing should the three be returned to Russia to face trial. The discussion had ultimately been three-pronged - Defence, Foreign Affairs, and the all-omnipotent Secretary General of the Party who would ultimately influence events - and the argument of the Foreign Ministry had been the most persuasive to the ears of the ruler of the country.
'If we destroy the plane in the air we have achieved the aim of the Jewish terrorists. We will highlight what they call their 'cause*. The whole world will talk of our brutality. We will make these three into martyrs and none will
remember the crimes from which they are fleeing.
Problems from Italy, problems from the
PCI. All this can be avoided. It is the suggestion of
this ministry that we let them fly to the
West and that we precede their landing by
messages to the heads of government in all the countries in which they might come to rest that we expect these people to be immediately
disarmed and returned to face the charges that can
be brought against them.'
There was more that he could have said but insufficient time. The Migs were in the air, pilot's hands close to the shooting triggers that would release the cones of cannon fire and the projectiles that would seek out the heat of the Ivchenko engine exhaust. The airspace was being eroded as they talked.
'And among the passengers, who do we have?' The Secretary General, seeking time before his decision.
'We have children. We have a delegation of comrades from Italy, from the Central Administration of the Party, and the effect there could be catastrophic. Also to be considered is the fact that they have broadcast from the plane. In the West it is now known what has happened.
The incident is no longer confined inside our own frontiers.'
'We are all agreed that the plane could only be brought down over our own territory. You have very few seconds to make up your minds.' The final intervention of the Defence Minister, certain by this stage that he had lost the day, certain too that the time of the hard men who had mobilized the great wartime defence of the country, whatever the cost, was now a thing of the past.
'Let the plane fly on.' The order of the Secretary General. 'And the message that goes to the foreign governments, I will want it read to me before it is released. It will bear my name.'
Three o'clock and a London afternoon. Charlie Webster at his desk and with precious short of nothing with which to entertain himself. Usually like that after lunch; worked fast enough la the morning to clear his desk, didn't space it out like the others who seemed to have something to get round to, to keep them busy, all eight hours that God gave for working. Too hot, and the bloody air - conditioner still up the spout. Typical, really: put them all in a damn great tower block with all that glass to soak up the sun, and not a window that could be opened in the whole place. Must be some sort of breeze flying about this high up, if only the window could be opened and we could tempt the little bl ighter in.
Trouble is, Charlie, you're not really an inside man. Never were and never will be. Not the temperament, not the patience, not any of the things to believe shuffling paper is worthwhile.
Wrap it, Charlie, becoming a grumpy old goat. Stop worrying about yourself, worrying about what happens to old soldiers too ancient for anything useful and too young to fade away.
He'd changed from the Cyprus boy and the Aden boy, when he hadn't cared, when he was with military intelligence, not thirty, not married, and not a doubt to trouble him. Ireland was the undoing, the greyed, opaque fight, the tedium of procedure and rule books. The danger, too.
Something he hadn't thought of before, hadn't concerned himself with.
Not worth getting your arse shot off, Charlie, he'd told himself. Not worth getting blasted into a gutter in Monaghan or Clones or Ballyshannon. Not worth bumping across the churchyard with the Union Jack to keep the sun off the box and eight blanks to give the rooks a fright. And so he had said that he would like to come inside, and everyone had seemed very pleased, and said he'd be a big asset to the team. He'd told them he didn't want anything connected with his previous work, wanted a change, and pointed to his Russian course qualifications, taken years ago on national service before he'd decided to go for Regular. So out of military intelligence he'd popped, demobbed, bought a grey suit- nothing special and off the peg, and they sent him over to SIS, Soviet Desk. Probably bloody glad to see the back of you, Charlie.
One of the chaps from sub-Desk Military coming in with out knocking. Didn't do that normally, observed protocol. A flimsy in his hand and couldn't keep it to himself, not till he reached Charlie's desk.
There's a hi-jack, Charlie. Over Russia. All hell broken out, lighters up and everything.'
Day-dreams gone. Feeling-sorry-for-self time over. All attention. Charlie said, 'Out of Kiev, is it?'
'How do you know? How did you know that?' Looked blank, stopped in his tracks, puzzled.
'You mean it really is?' said Charlie. "Really Kiev? Just a guess and something we were talking about yesterday. Let's have a look.'
Eight teletype lines, and telling him all he needed to know. Aeroflot internal, pilot dead, Jewish group, broadcast from the aircraft, unsuccessful attempt by Air Force to turn it round, shots across the nose, now over Poland, still escorted at a distance. Too good to be true, thought Charlie. They'll have me down as fortune teller at the next Christmas binge.
'Any more?"
'Well, that's not bad for starters. There's something coming through. The Russians are putting out a long screed. In essence it demands that the plane and the passengers and the hi-jackers be returned to them forthwith after landing. It's pretty hard stuff. They're saying it was only for humanitarian reasons and in the interest of the passengers that they didn't shoot the aircraft down.
But they want them back. Say they're gangsters and attempted to murder a policeman.'
Bloody amazing, Charlie, 'Boobed it though, haven't they?' he said. 'Shouldn't have dropped the pilot. That's not the way to earn a nice jolly welcome, not when there's blood sloshing round the joy stick. Someone's going to have a packet of trouble when that little bird ...'
'Fuel isn't its problem. It's a long-range Ilyushin 11-18, and well tanked. It was on a run to Tashkent, and was lifted straight after take-off. There's enough juice to go anywhere in Europe, including here. They've all of Europe to choose rom. Anywhere they want, except Israel-that's off-limits to this plane, out of fuel range. But they can take their pick round these parts.'
'All the makings of a very cheery scene.' Charlie thanked him, and sat alone in his office. It was a bit confusing when he started to think about it. Terrorist hi-jack or freedom fighters' break-out.
Square pegs in round holes. What did you greet them with at the airport - bouquet and a speech of welcome, or a Saracen and a pair of handcuffs? Been rabbiting on long enough, hadn't they, our political masters, about the state of Soviet Jewry, so what were they going to do with this one?
Only one thing to do, he thought. Pray God it doesn't come here.
CHAPTER SIX
While the big Ilyushin purred its way across the airspace of Poland and the German Democratic Republic - with its now more discreet escort of Migs, scrambled from more forward Warsaw Pact airfields - frantic meetings were being convened throughout Western Europe.
All the continent's countries can now call on the services of 'crisis committees' of politicians, civil servants and senior police and army officers who are on call to advise the heads of government on what course they should take if confronted with a major guerrilla action. It is the task of these committees to evaluate the threat and the implications of involvement with the new breed of warfare that since the start of the decade had proved so costly in terms of money and prestige to the old world. The lesson of preparation had been learned the hard way, with cabinets ill-briefed and security forces poorly trained to do battle with the new militia playing by their own new rules of warfare who descend in
their capitals and airports with the AK47s and RPGs and who spread mayhem and disgrace and disfigurement with minimal discrimination.
Meetings in Bonn, in Copenhagen, and Stockholm and Oslo and Helsinki. Ministers and officials hurrying to their chauffeur-driven cars in Brussels, Paris and The Hague. Policemen being called by telephone to the Cabinet offices in Madrid and Rome and Lisbon and Berne. In all these capitals, as in London, it was recognized that speed was of the essence, that a policy must be formulated and agreed before the Ilyushin attempted its inevitable landing. Dominating the discussions was the Russian note, now being studied in a dozen languages, none of which could blunt the harsh message that it had been the intention of the Secretary General of the Russian Communist Party to convey. They have something in common, the politicians of Europe who are answerable to an electorate; the constant factor is the determination not to lay their backs open to the rod that can strike and wound them. To permit the plane to land when it had fuel to fly on, that was only begging for difficulties, for diplomatic furore and dangers in the high echelons of international relations. Those countries most keenly affected, in that their airports lay within easy striking range of the present flightpath of the Aeroflot airliner, had the least discussion time available to their committees, and reached their decision first.
In Bonn the advice to the Chancellor was without equivocation. Under no circumstances should the aircraft be allowed to land. Any airport that the Ilyushin approached should immediately be closed; if necessary, trucks should be driven across the runways to prevent their being used. A drastic solution, it was agreed by all who took part in the evaluation, but then so were the alternatives horrifying. Let the plane land and offer yourselves to the whim and hazard of a full-blown hi-jack siege; there could be no question of allowing the airliner to refuel and fly on in the face of the Russian demands, and no possibility with the pilot still warm in his seat of offering safe conduct. Far better to skirt the issue, and pass the problem outside the Federal frontiers. The embassies of West Germany were instructed to pass on the government decision to other interested parties. Including the Soviet Union.
Kingfisher Page 11
