by Wilbur Smith
The communications director’s voice from off-screen alerted Parker.
‘General Stride, sir.’ And Parker looked up at the camera.
‘Peter. This is you and me alone. I have closed the circuit and we will restrict to single tape recording. I want your first reaction, before we relay to Sir William and Constable—’ Sir William Davies was the British Ambassador and Kelly Constable was the United States Ambassador to Pretoria.
‘I want your first reaction.’
‘We are in serious trouble, sir,’ Peter said, and the big head nodded.
‘What is the militant capability?’
‘I am having my explosives team take down the grenade – but I have no doubt that they have the physical capability to destroy 070, and all aboard. I reckon they have an overkill potential of at least ten.’
‘And the psychological capability.’
‘In my view, she is the child of Bakunin and Jean Paul Sartre—’ Again Parker nodded heavily and Peter went on. ‘The anarchist conception that destruction is the only truly creative act, that violence is man recreating himself. You know Sartre said that when the revolutionary kills, a tyrant dies and a free man emerges.’
‘Will she go all the way?’ Parker insisted.
‘Yes, sir.’ Peter answered without hesitation. ‘If she is pressed she’ll go all the way – you know the reasoning. If destruction is beautiful, then self-destruction is immortality. In my view, she’ll go all the way.’
Parker sighed and knocked the stem of his pipe against his big white teeth.
‘Yes, it squares with what we have on her.’
‘You have read her?’ Peter asked eagerly.
‘We got a first-class voice print, and the computer crossmatched with her facial structure print.’
‘Who is she?’ Peter cut in impatiently; he did not have to be told that the sound intensifier and the zoom video cameras had been feeding her voice and image into the intelligence computer even as she issued her demands.
‘Her born name is Hilda Becker. She is a third-generation American of German extraction. Her father is a successful dentist widowed in 1959. The girl is thirty-one years old—’ Peter had thought her younger, that fresh young skin had misled him. ‘– I.Q. 138. University of Columbia 1965-68, Master’s degree in Modern Political History. Member of SDS – that’s Students for a Democratic Society—’
‘Yes.’ Peter was impatient. ‘I know.’
‘– Activist in Vietnam war protests. Worker for the draft evasion pipeline to Canada. One arrest for possession of marijuana 1967, not convicted. Implicated with Weathermen – and one of the leaders of on-campus rioting in the spring of 1968. Arrested for bombing of Butler University and released. Left America in 1970 for further study at Dusseldorf. Doctorate in Political Economics 1972. Known association with Gudrun Ensslin and Horst Mahler of the Baader-Meinhof. Went underground in 1976 after suspicion of implication in the abduction and murder of Heinrich Kohler, the West German industrialist—’ Her personal history was an almost classical development of the modern revolutionary, Peter reflected bitterly, a perfect picture of the beast. ‘Believed to have received advanced training from the PFLP in Syria during 1976 and 1977. No recorded contact since then. She is a habitual user of cannabis-based drugs, reported voracious sexual activity with members of both sexes—’ Parker looked up. ‘That’s all we have,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Peter repeated softly ‘She’ll go all the way.’
‘What is your further assessment?’
‘I believe that this is an operation organized at high level – possibly governmental—’
‘Substantiate!’ Parker snapped.
‘The co-ordination with U.N.O proposals sponsored by the unaligned nations points that way.’
‘All right, go on.’
‘For the first time we have a highly organized and heavily supported strike that is not seeking some obscure, partisan object. We’ve got demands here about which a hundred million Americans and fifty million Englishmen are going to say in unison, “Hell, these aren’t unreasonable” ’
‘Go on,’ said Parker.
‘The militants have picked a soft target which is the outcast pariah of Western civilization That U.N. resolution is going to be passed a hundred to nil, and those millions of Americans and Englishmen are going to have to ask themselves if they are going to sacrifice the lives of four hundred of their most prominent citizens to support a government whose racial policies they abhor.’
‘Yes?’ Parker was leaning forward to stare into the screen. ‘Do you think they’ll do a deal?’
‘The militants? They might.’ Peter paused a moment and then went on. ‘You know my views, sir. I oppose absolutely dealing with these people.’
‘Even in these circumstances?’ Parker demanded.
‘Especially now. My views of the host country’s policies are in accord with yours, Doctor Parker. This is the test. No matter how much we personally feel the demands are just, yet we must oppose to the death the manner in which they are presented. If these people win their objects, it is a victory for the gun – and we place all mankind in jeopardy’
‘What is your estimate for a successful counterstrike?’ Parker demanded suddenly, and even though he had known the question must come, still Peter hesitated a long moment.
‘Half an hour ago I would have put the odds at ten to one in our favour that I could pull off condition Delta with only militant casualties.’
‘And now?’
‘Now I know that these are not fuddle-headed fanatics. They are probably as well trained and equipped as we are, and they have had years to set this operation up.’
‘And now?’ Parker insisted.
‘We have a four to one in our favour of getting them out with a Delta strike, with say less than ten casualties.’
‘What is the next best chance?’
‘I would say there is no middle ground. If we failed, we would be into a situation with one hundred per cent casualties – we would lose the aircraft and all aboard, including all Thor personnel involved.’
‘All right then, Peter.’ Parker leaned back in his chair, the gesture of dismissal. ‘I am going to speak with the President and the Prime Minister, they are setting up the link now. Then I will brief the ambassadors – and be back to you within the hour.’
His image flickered into darkness, and Peter realized that all his hatred was suppressed. He felt cold, and functional as the surgeon’s blade. Ready to do the job for which he had trained so assiduously, and yet able to assess and evaluate the enemy and the odds against success.
He pressed the call button. Colin had been waiting beyond the soundproof doors of the command cabin, and he came through immediately.
The explosives boys have taken down the grenade. It’s a dandy. The explosive is the new Soviet CJ composition, and the fusing is factory manufacture. Professional stuff – and it will work. Oh, baby, will it ever work.’
Peter hardly needed this confirmation, and Colin went on as he flung himself untidily in the chair opposite Peter.
‘We put the list of names and the text of the militant statement on the teleprinter for Washington—’ He leaned forward and spoke into the cabin intercom. ‘Run that loop
– without sound first.’ Then he told Peter grimly. ‘Here’s the bad news I promised.’
The loop of video tape began to run on the central screen. It had clearly been shot from the observation post in the office overlooking the service area.
It was a full shot of the Boeing, the background flattened by the magnification of the lens and swimming and wavering with heat mirage rising from the tarmac of the main runway beyond the aircraft.
In the foreground were Peter’s own naked back and shoulders as he strode out towards the aircraft. The lens had again flattened the action so that Peter appeared to be marking time on the same spot without advancing at all.
Suddenly the forward hatch of the Boeing changed shape as the door was
slid aside, and the cameraman instantly zoomed in for the closer shot.
The two pilots and the air hostess in the doorway, the camera checked for a few frames and then zoomed closer. The aperture of the lens adjusted swiftly, compensating for the gloom of the interior, and the shot was close and tight on the blonde girl’s head for a heartbeat, then the head turned slightly and the lovely line of her lips moved as she spoke – it seemed like three words – before she turned back full face to the camera.
‘Okay,’ Colin said. ‘Run it again – with neutral balance on the sound.’
The entire loop reran, the cabin door opened, there were the three hostages, the fine golden head turned, and then the words ‘Let’s slide,’ from Ingrid, but there was background hiss and clutter.
‘“Let’s slide”?’ Peter asked.
‘Run it again with the bass density filter on the sound,’ Colin ordered.
The same images on the screen, the golden head turning on the long neck.
‘“It’s slide.” ’ Peter could not quite catch it.
‘Okay,’ Colin told the technician. ‘Now with full filter and resonance modulation.’
The repetitive images, the girl’s head, the full lips parting, speaking to somebody out of sight in the body of the aircraft.
Very clearly, unmistakably, she said, ‘It’s Stride.’ And Peter felt it jolt in his belly like a fist.
‘She recognized you,’ said Colin. ‘No, hell, she was expecting you!’
The two men stared at each other, Peter’s handsome craggy features heavy with foreboding. Atlas had one of the highest security classifications. Only twenty men outside the close ranks of Atlas itself were privy to its secrets. One of those was the President of the United States – another was the Prime Minister of Great Britain.
Certainly only four or five men knew who commanded the Thor arm of Atlas – and yet there was no mistaking those words the girl had spoken.
‘Run it again,’ Peter ordered brusquely.
And they waited tensely for those two words, and when they came they were in the clear lilt of that fresh young voice.
‘It’s Stride,’ said Ingrid, and the screen went blank.
Peter massaged his closed eyelids with thumb and forefinger. He realized with mild surprise that he had not slept for nearly forty-eight hours, but it was not physical weariness that assailed him now but the suddenly overwhelming knowledge of treason and betrayal and of undreamed-of evil.
‘Somebody has blown Atlas,’ said Colin softly. ‘This is going to be a living and breathing bastard. They’ll be waiting for us at every turn of the track.’
Peter dropped his hand and opened his eyes. ‘I must speak to Kingston Parker again,’ he said. And when Parker’s image reappeared on the main screen he was clearly agitated and angry.
‘You have interrupted the President.’
‘Doctor Parker—’ Peter spoke quickly. ‘– Circumstances have altered. In my opinion the chances of a successful Delta strike have dropped. We have no better than an even chance.’
‘I see.’ Parker checked the anger. ‘That’s important. I will inform the President.’
The lavatories were all blocked by this time, the bowls almost filled, and the stench permeated all the cabins despite the air-conditioning.
Under the strict rationing of food and water most of the passengers were suffering from the lethargy of hunger, and the children were petulant and weepy.
The terrible strain was beginning to show on the hijackers themselves. They were standing a virtual non-stop watch, four hours of broken rest followed by four of ceaseless vigil and activity. The red cotton shirts were rumpled and sweat-stained at the armpits, the sweat of nervous and physical strain, eyes bloodshot and tempers uncertain.
Just before nightfall, the dark-haired girl, Karen, had lost her temper with an elderly passenger who had been slow to respond to her command to return to his seat after using the toilet. She had worked herself up into an hysterical shrieking rage, and repeatedly struck the old man in the face with the short barrel of her shot pistol, laying his cheek open to the bone. Only Ingrid had been able to calm her, leading her away to the curtained tourist galley where she pampered and hugged her.
‘It will be all right, Liebchen’ She stroked her hair. ‘Only a little longer now. You have been so strong. In a few more hours we will all take the pills. Not long now.’ And within minutes Karen had controlled the violent trembling of her hands, and although she was pale, she was able to take her position at the rear of the tourist cabin again.
Only Ingrid’s strength seemed without limits. During the night she passed slowly down the aisles, pausing to talk quietly with a sleepless passenger, comforting them with the promise of imminent release.
‘Tomorrow morning we will have an answer to our demands, and all the women and children will be free – it’s going to be all right, you just wait and see.’
A little after midnight the little roly-poly doctor sought her out in the cockpit.
‘The navigator is very ill,’ he told her. ‘Unless we get him to a hospital immediately we will lose him.’
Ingrid went back and knelt beside the flight engineer. His skin was dry and burning hot and his breathing rasped and sawed.
‘It’s renal failure,’ said the doctor, hovering over them. ‘Breakdown of the kidneys from delayed shock. We cannot treat him here. He must be taken to hospital.’
Ingrid took the semi-conscious flight engineer’s uninjured hand. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s impossible.’
She went on holding his hand for another minute.
‘Don’t you feel anything?’ the doctor demanded of her bitterly.
‘I feel pity for him – as I do for all mankind,’ she answered quietly. ‘But he is only one. Out there are millions.’
The towering flat-topped mountain was lit by floodlights. It was high holiday season and the fairest cape in all the world was showing her beauty to the tens of thousands of tourists and holidaymakers.
On the penthouse deck of the tall building, named for a political mediocrity as are so many buildings and public works in South Africa, the cabinet and its special advisers had been in session for most of the night.
At the head of the long table brooded the heavily built figure of the Prime Minister, bulldog-headed, powerful and unmovable as one of the granite kopjes of the African veld. He dominated the large panelled room, although he had hardly spoken, except to encourage the others with a nod or a few gruff words.
At the far end of the long table sat the two ambassadors, shoulder to shoulder, to emphasize their solidarity. At short intervals the telephones in front of them would ring, and they would listen to the latest reports from their embassies or instructions from the heads of their governments.
On the Prime Minister’s right hand sat the handsome moustached Minister of Foreign Affairs, a man with enormous charisma and a reputation for moderation and common sense – but now he was grim and hard faced.
‘Your own governments have both pioneered the policy of non-negotiation, of total resistance to the demands of terrorists – why now do you insist that we take the soft liner
‘We do not insist, minister, we have merely pointed out the enormous public interest that this affair is generating in both the United Kingdom and in my own country.’ Kelly Constable was a slim, handsome man, intelligent and persuasive, a democratic appointee of the new American administration. ‘It is in your government’s interest even more than ours to see this through to a satisfactory conclusion. We merely suggest that some accommodation to the demands might bring that about.’
‘The Atlas Commander on the spot has assessed the chances of a successful counter-strike as low as fifty-fifty. My government considers that risk unacceptable.’ Sir William Davies was a career diplomat approaching retirement age, a grey, severe man with gold-rimmed spectacles, his voice high pitched and querulous.
‘My men think we can do better than that ourselves,’ said the Minister of
Defence, also bespectacled, but he spoke in the thick blunt accent of the Afrikaaner.
‘Atlas is probably the best equipped and most highly trained anti-terrorist group in the world,’ Kelly Constable said, and the Prime Minister interrupted harshly.
‘At this stage, gentlemen, let us confine ourselves to finding a peaceful solution.’
‘I agree, Prime Minister.’ Sir William nodded briskly.
‘However, I think I should point out that most of the demands made by the terrorists are directly in line with the representations made by the government of the United States—’
‘Sir, are you expressing sympathy with these demands?’ the Prime Minister asked heavily, but without visible emotion.
‘I am merely pointing out that the demands will find sympathy in my country, and that my government will find it easier to exercise its veto on the extreme motion of the General Assembly on Monday if some concessions are made in other directions.’
‘Is that a threat, sir?’ the Prime Minister asked, a small humourless smile hardly softening the question.
‘No, Prime Minister, it’s common sense. If that U.N. motion was carried and implemented, it would mean the economic ruin of this country. It would be plunged into anarchy and political chaos, a ripe fruit for futher Soviet encroachment. My government does not desire that – however, nor does it wish to endanger the lives of four hundred of its citizens.’ Kelly Constable smiled. ‘We have to find a way out of our mutual predicament, I’m afraid.’
‘My Minister of Defence has suggested a way out.’
‘Prime Minister, if your military attack the aircraft without the prior agreement of both the British and American heads of state, then the veto will be withheld in the Security Council and regretfully we will allow the majority proposal to prevail.’
‘Even if the attack is successful?’
‘Even if the attack is successful. We insist that military decisions are made by Atlas only,’ Constable told him solemnly; and then, more cheerfully, ‘Let us examine the minimum concessions that your government would be prepared to make. The longer we can keep open the lines of communication with the terrorists, the better our chances of a peaceful solution. Can we offer to fulfil even one small item on the list of demands?’