Quiller Solitaire

Chapter 24: FIREBALL

In the dream I heard a voice.

It was screaming at me.

Heat in my shoulder, white heat. It didn't bother me. I listened to the dream, because that was all it was, a voice. It was screaming at me, but I didn't understand the words.

I went on pushing.

The lights were beautiful, circling above my head, red, green, amber, white, circling around the starfields in the windscreen, went on pushing, running down my arm, there was something running down my arm – Oh mother of God this is -

Screaming at me about Hassan, I could hear the name Hassan.

I pushed harder. I wasn't going to let him do this. He had a knife, a long knife with red on the blade.

Come in, please. Come in.

That was in English.

London.

Hassan, Khatami was screaming, then he seemed to remember and switched to French – You killed Hassan… and went on screaming, something about Le Grand Satan, he would die, the Great Satan, yes, a 70° turn from the river – Jesus Christ I've got to -

Pushed very hard, but my hand was slipping because of the blood, it was dripping against my face.

Come in, please, come in.

London, waiting.

I had things to tell London, very important things: This aircraft must not be allowed to approach the eastern seaboard of the United States. It must not be allowed to approach land at all.

Tried – tried to shout it out so they'd hear, nothing happened.

His face was above me, Khatami's, dark, enraged, in the centre of the swirling vortex of lights, one clear thought burning in my head, one clear thought, If I don't tell London, this whole bloody thing is going to hit the target, the one thought burning in my head.

Come in, please. Come in.

Calm – his voice sounded very calm, but they knew what was going on, they could hear this bastard screaming, could understand his French.

Come in, please.

Blood in one of my eyes.

You killed my brother Hassan.

Tried shouting again and got a word or two out but then the blood was in my mouth and I began choking on it and that was going to make things worse so I pushed very hard indeed and felt his arm swing away as I twisted from under him, choking, choking for breath and hanging there like a bloody dog but the adrenalin was firing the muscles and I reared and smashed my head into his face and the screaming stopped, felt for his knife hand and reached it and got my feet braced against the bulkhead and lurched forward, lunged forward and smashed my head into him again and did it again and turned the knife, turned it, pushing it through the dark, the red roaring dark, pushing it into the softness, deeper and deeper, pushed it as far as the hilt, coughing up the blood that had got into my mouth, choking for breath but it had stopped, the screaming had stopped and I lurched forward again and hit the bulkhead near the radio console and heard something break, a panel, making a brittle sound but it seemed all right because they were talking again.

Come in, please. Come in.

Choking, still, but I could breathe now, things much, things much better, he wasn't moving, I could see him with one eye, the knife sticking up like a bloodied erection, went on choking again and got the last of it out of my throat, leaned against the console, the sweetness of air in my lungs.

Come in -

'Listen – this is – this is my situation.'

No need to tell them now that this aircraft must not be allowed, so forth, because this aircraft wasn't going anywhere after all, he was dead, I believed, Khatami, or if he wasn't dead he wouldn't be able to get at the controls again, there was a lot of blood coming out of his groin, creeping towards the smashed coffee cup that was lying there on the floor, I did some more coughing and it helped.

'This aircraft is loaded with explosive but I am in control.' Odd, an odd way to put things, in control of what exactly, a flying coffin, yes. 'What I mean is, I'm going to have to ditch, and blow it all up, you got that, have you got -'

Yes, we have that. Then another voice came on, and I recognised Shatner. Control. Let me have your position.

My left eye was streaming with tears and the blood was getting washed away, but I couldn't see the instrument display very clearly yet. 'I can't tell you. Not accurately. West of the Moroccan coast, south-east of the Azores, possibly more like due south by now -' broke off to do some more coughing, but things were much better now and I could breathe quite well between bouts. It was my wrist, where the blood had come from, he'd sliced a vein. 'The target was the White House, but listen, the passengers of Flight 907 are being held in the Sahara desert and this is their position:, 26°03' north by 02°01' west. Need to get them out of there. Terrorists guarding them with assault rifles, need to be careful.'

Gave myself a short rest, needed more air in my lungs, they felt constricted. But the tapes were running in London and there'd be signals going out already to alert people – the British Ambassador in Algiers and through him the Algerian Air Force and Army Desert Reconnaissance, GSG- 9 in Germany because Klaus was out there – 'Listen,' I said, 'Dieter Klaus may still be there when the rescue aircraft reach those people or he may fly out before they arrive. If he's still there, I advise the use of utmost caution. He is vicious, ruthless and determined, and I suggest they shoot him on sight, have you got – have you -'

I have that, Shatner said. That position you gave me – is it an airfield?

I told him it was a dry lake bed, had a flarepath, told him its distance from the nearest town, Adrar, gave him the whole thing while the starfields crept across the dark of the windscreen as we headed west through the night, I was beginning to feel lonely.

Are there other aircraft there in the desert?

Said yes. Told him what kind they were. I knew now from what I'd found in the briefcase why Klaus hadn't used a cargo plane for this operation: Washington National wouldn't have let it land there. They would have told it to go the extra distance into Dulles. But a Pan Am carrier with a full complement of passengers would make a difference: the potential loss of life would have been far greater if the situation had been genuine.

Beginning to feel lonely, yes. The night-black ocean was below me, its crests touched with silver by the moon. This huge aircraft was like a mote of dust compared with the vastness of the Atlantic. I'd thought, when I'd made the drop into the Sahara, that it was like going down into an ocean, but that had been an illusion. This time it was real.

When you can give us your exact position, do that.

I leaned away from the console, overdid things and lost my balance and had to throw out a hand to save myself. I think I stayed like that, swaying on my feet, for a long time, quite a few seconds.

What is your condition?

'I'm. trying to see. Give me a -'

– Your condition. How much strength have you got left?

'Oh. Enough to ditch this thing, I mean it can do that for itself, but I've got to get it off auto-pilot and then we've got to steer clear of the Azores and the African land-mass. I don't -'

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 that?'

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.