The Blockade Runners

by Peter Vollmer

  The morning had started badly. It had been his first night alone. His live-in girlfriend had walked out on him. Over the last few months, her ardour had cooled appreciably. He knew the main reason, it was his lack of commitment to a long-term relationship. She was bothered by having turned thirty and this, combined with being childless, drove the relationship over the edge. Yes, he loved her and she him, but this was not a recipe sufficient to sustain a long-term relationship.

  His phone had rang at an ungodly hour in the morning. His departmental head, Sir Harry Monterey, was on the line demanding that he present himself particularly early at Century House for a meeting of national importance. Century House, well, that spelt trouble. This was the main offices of MI6.

  The porter handed the card back. ‘Third floor, guv, they’re expecting you and you are a tad late. I would hurry if I were you.’

  He was only a few minutes late but Sir Harry’s look conveyed his disapproval. Christian Seymour apologised.

  MI6 was an apolitical organisation or, certainly, it was supposed to be. A glance around the room would have immediately revealed that if the occupants had any political affiliation at all, these would tend to lean heavily towards to the right, most being supporters of the Conservative Party. All were from public schools and old money. The dark suits and waistcoats, the black brogue shoes, and regimental ties were a definite giveaway.

  Sir Harry was seated behind his desk. A long table also occupied the room, abutting the desk. Four other men were seated at the table. Sir Harry indicated that Seymour should sit.

  ‘Gentlemen, I’ve just been lambasted by the Home Secretary; believe me, an unpleasant experience. In fact, he phoned me last night. It is the Rhodesians and the bloody French who’ve got his wind up. Nobody seems to know, but somehow the Rhodesians have got their hands on few new helicopters, French Allouettes if you must know. The Prime Minister is furious.’

  What a fiasco, Christian Seymour thought. Going up against the Rhodesians did not sit well with him and nor with a number of his colleagues. He had gone to school and university with Rhodesians. Even at Sandhurst, Rhodesians were to be found. Ex-Rhodesian officers were amongst the best of the British Army and now were at war, or at least a near war – fighting kith and kin, as it were!

  ‘Gibson, what do we know about this?’ Sir Harry asked, looking at the man seated next to Seymour, the current divisional head of a recently created Rhodesia desk.

  ‘Well, we do know they’ve made some deal with the French. Our source tells us that an order for Aérospatiale Alouettes from South America, thought to be Argentina, is actually intended for Rhodesia. Part of the order, maybe three or four, has been loaded onto a Luxembourg-registered cargo plane at Toulouse Airport which departed from there yesterday.’

  ‘Have you any idea of the identity of the crew?’

  ‘Believe or not, one of our own, a retired RAF pilot. That fellow, Tusk, you and I discussed is apparently also on board.’

  ‘You mean that banker masquerading as who knows what? He’s the one who organised payment, isn’t he? Well, we need to deal with him.’

  ‘Yes, it’s him.’

  ‘This RAF fellow, who is he?’ Sir Harry then demanded.

  ‘Squadron Leader Anthony Gainsborough, DSO.’

  ‘Can’t we solicit his assistance, you know, Queen and country and all that?’

  Gibson contemplated the director’s question before replying. ‘I truly doubt it. To be blunt, he is more inclined to give us the finger, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Well, short of actually shooting people, I’m instructed to stop this aircraft – what is it? – a DC-7B, I understand, before it gets to Rhodesia.’

  ‘Sir Harry, the problem is that neither the French nor Germans seemed to want to help. They’re just turning a blind eye,’ Christian ventured.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Sir Harry said impatiently, with a wave of a hand, ‘The Germans don’t want to get involved with anything with an international flavour or which is subject UN directives, while the French, well, it’s de Gaulle, that should tell you all. He’ll never forgive Montgomery. I think he actually hates the man.’

  Gibson interrupted, ‘What we did find out from the Germans was the destination of the aircraft. Our people managed to get sight of the filed flight plan handed in at Frankfurt. It landed at Frankfurt after taking off from Toulouse. Mayotte in the Comoros is its final destination. It’s due to take off from Frankfurt at three this afternoon.’

  ‘Mayotte. The bloody French again,’ Sir Harry said exasperatedly, smacking the desktop with the flat of his hand. ‘I’ll bet my boots that it’s only heading there to refuel. From there, it will be either South Africa or Rhodesia. Who’s there to stop them? Come on, gentlemen! My head’s on a block here. I need some ideas.’

  Nobody seemed to have any ideas, some squirmed in their chairs, their discomfort apparent.

  ‘How about forcing it ...’ one of those at the table with Christian ventured.

  ‘Forget it. At the moment, the Middle East is a powder keg. We can’t send up fighter aircraft. That option has already been considered and dismissed.’

  Christian racked his brains trying to remember whether there was anybody he could recall who was sufficiently qualified or in the right place to be of assistance. If the aircraft was to be stopped, this probably was going to be a wet affair. Somebody was bound to be killed. Whoever they found would have to be the type that did not shirk away from anything messy. Killing people was always messy. They had to destroy the aircraft. Revolt threatened in the Seychelles and the British had sent a couple of Royal Marines to support the High Commissioner. He thought for a moment. Could they not use these men to sabotage the aircraft? He put this to Sir Harry who believed it to be the only alternative, time being of the essence.

  It was incredible how fast a plan seemed to materialise and be put into motion. A flurry of radio signals and telexes followed and, within hours, two Royal Marines disguised as tourists boarded an Air Seychelles Fokker Friendship flight bound for the Grand Comoros, winging their way over the Indian Ocean. Their luggage contained no firearms, only timers, detonators, and Semtex explosives. No attempt was made to hide them. There were no customs searches or luggage screening on these inter-island flights. In fact, there never had been. Life was laid back. Most travellers were tourists and the occasional bit of political upheaval or readjustment was merely an irritant to them. Never had any subversive activity ever been encountered.

  CHAPTER 19

  Anthony had flown the DC-7B from Frankfurt, which had left as scheduled just after three in the afternoon. It made its way across southern Europe and the Mediterranean, Malta visible on the right, then it crossed into Libya during the first hours of darkness, the Sahara sixteen thousand feet below them.

  Behind the cockpit bulkhead was an area with an access hatch to the outside. From this area, another door opened to a galley, which contained a small fridge and food warmer. Another door allowed entrance to a toilet while another opened to another cabin containing four bunks. Courtesy of the aircraft owners, these were made up with pillows, sheets and blankets. The fridge was well stocked. Doyle had seen to this.

  While crossing the Mediterranean, David relieved Anthony, piloting the aircraft until midnight. The aircraft flew below its optimal cruising speed, primarily to save fuel, as no fuel would be available before Mayotte. The pilots shared the navigational task, taking turns to shoot the stars, doing the computations and listening out for the various radio beacons, intersecting each other on the chart indicating as to exactly where the aircraft was.

  At midnight, Anthony again relieved David, the aircraft high above the Ethiopian Highlands, shrouded in cloud and no lights to be seen. The flight progressed smoothly except for a few minutes of concern when ice began to build up on the aircraft’s wing leading edges and propellers, making the aircraft sluggish. David shone a torch through a window, the beam revealing the ice build-up on the wing and the accumulation on the pr
opeller bosses. The de-icing equipment was activated which soon cleared the ice.

  With things back to normal and Anthony flying the aircraft, David passed through from the cockpit into the small central cabin. Nobody was to be seen. He opened the door to the cargo hold only to find Doyle sprawled in one of the seats, fast asleep, the backrest reclined as far back as it would go. He had an open paperback lying face down on his chest. He entered the galley to find the light on and Gisela busy preparing coffee.

  ‘Hi, I was about to make you some coffee. I need a cup myself,’ she said.

  He nodded. She probably had been asleep, he thought. She had removed her jeans and now wore a pair of loose shorts and slip-on sandals, her painted toenails visible. She wore a loose-fitting white cotton top of thin material, buttoned down the front, the swell of her breasts distinct, evidence that she wore nothing beneath. She had removed her lipstick and her hair was still tousled from her sleep.

  He stepped close to her and placed an arm on her shoulder. He caught her distinct aroma, an arresting mix of perfume and lotion combined with her natural scent which he found arousing. She laid her neck to one side, her head pressing against him. Finding her nearness electrifying, he turned his head, placing his lips on hers and kissing her passionately, his need a demanding throb. Her tongue probed his. He pressed her pelvis against him, acutely aware of his rampant arousal.

  She broke away from him and, without a word, led him through the bulkhead door past where Doyle still slept sprawled in his seat, his mouth open, snoring.

  There was a narrow passageway between the crates packed on each side, which led to the rear of the aircraft. The crates were lashed to the floor with straps that criss-crossed the fuselage. Halfway down the aisle, there was a gap of about fifteen feet where no crates had been placed. Here, folded cargo mats lay on the floor, also strapped down. She sat, pulling him down with her. She crouched forward, her shirt spilling open, allowing him to see her breasts and erect nipples.

  ‘Oh, I missed you so,’ she said, kissing him. She lay back on the cargo net, both of them oblivious to the grime. He bent over her, undoing the few buttons still closed on the blouse. He kissed her breasts, his lips closing over her nipple. She moaned as she arched her back. Her hands roamed over his body until they found his belt buckle, unclasping it.

  His whole being centred on his arousal. He ached for her.

  He stripped off her shorts and his trousers and entered her. In what seemed a moment, his world exploded. He was unaware of his surroundings. The monotonous drone of the aircraft engines, the dim string of ceiling lights in the cargo hold, the dirty cargo mats, all he was aware of was her loud shrieks in his ear and his total surrender.

  Spent, they lay for a good quarter-hour, she with her eyes closed, their legs intertwined.

  ‘You’ve got to get out of this. It’s too dangerous, especially your being a woman,’ he said.

  Her eyes were still closed. ‘I can’t,’ she whispered, ‘I was a person without a country when I fled East Germany and the Stasi. Rhodesia gave me everything: a country, a home, and a husband. How can I abandon her now?’ she replied, her head still on his chest.

  ‘That type of loyalty is not expected of you.’ He was adamant.

  ‘My love, you don’t understand. That’s exactly what is expected from all of us. For you, it’s different. Rhodesia is not your home.’

  ‘Christ, you’re obstinate,’ he said.

  After dressing and brushing themselves off, they returned to the cockpit. Doyle still slept. Tony was in the cockpit monitoring the autopilot. He gave David a thumbs-up sign. All was well. For somebody said to be an alcoholic, David thought the man’s behaviour had been exemplary. He was sure the man had not touched any alcohol since they first met. However, it was clear he was fighting his own inner battle. The slight tremor in the hands as these moved forward to grasp the control yoke, the copious cups of coffee, the screwing up of his face and eyes as he fought the demons within were a definite giveaway. At one stage, he had ventured to ask Tony whether he was ill. The man had dismissed the question with a wave of hand muttering something to the effect that he never felt better.

  Gisela made coffee and handed the pilot a cup, more out of a need to keep herself busy. David took the left-hand seat and thus command of the aircraft. It was now two in the morning. The aircraft crossed the coastline in the vicinity of the Kenya-Somalia border. The engines droned in the darkness with rings of blue exhaust flame around the engine nacelles clearly visible.

  Finding a suitable refuelling point for the aircraft had posed a problem. Even if the British had wind of the aircraft and its cargo, it was essential that any attempt by them to intercept the aircraft had to be stopped. This was a cat and mouse game. Most countries in Africa were hostile towards the newly independent Rhodesia. The last leg of the flight would be crucial. Mayotte seemed to be the best option. Firstly, it was not on a direct track from Europe to Rhodesia. No one would believe that an aircraft on track for the island would have Rhodesia as its final destination, or so Doyle believed. A flight from Mayotte Island to Rhodesia would take the aircraft over a desolate area of Mozambique and Zambia, an area with virtually no air traffic control and certainly no radar. Also, the intention was to fly this leg at night. Last but not least, Mayotte was part of France and administered accordingly, not that the Grand Comoros government agreed. They disputed France’s rights and had already taken the matter to the United Nations. France exercised her veto and created a deadlock. Should the British ask the French to intervene and seize the aircraft, they probably would do so, albeit reluctantly. Hopefully the process would be so slow that it would afford them a window in which to fly the aircraft out of French-controlled airspace. Again, this is what Doyle assumed. Everyone was aware that matters could turn out quite differently.

  The dawn was a mere streak of pink on the eastern horizon, the volcanic peaks on Mayotte already visible when the DC-7B turned on long final for its descent. Tony again piloted the aircraft. The runway at Dzaoudzi was built on a peninsula which had not been long enough to accommodate the full length of the runway, forcing the French to build a causeway which extended into the ocean and stuck out like a finger. The tower directed them to park on the edge of the apron close to the perimeter fence a fair distance from the tower and administrative buildings. Maintenance men brought a set of flight stairs, which they adjusted to allow those on board to disembark.

  David stood on the top of the stairs and took in the surroundings. They were now in the tropics. Full daylight was only minutes away, the sun ready to peek over the horizon. In the distance on the other side of the aircraft apron, a group of men dressed in green camouflage uniforms mustered. There were a few hundred of them. David realised that they must be the detachment of French Foreign Legion soldiers deployed to deal with any problem in the Indian Ocean. The continuous discord between the Comoros and Mayotte had left the French with little choice but to create a military presence in order to dissuade the government of the Comoros from taking matters into their own hands and unilaterally annexing Mayotte.

  The air terminal was deserted. They presented their passports to a lone customs official who perused them with little interest. No one intended to leave the confines of the airport. Doyle had indicated that they would take off just before dark, completing the last leg of the flight during the night. This was an international airport and, provided they did not leave the terminal, the customs official saw no reason to restrict their movements. Gisela mumbled something about looking for a shower, the other two men thinking this a great idea. They agreed to meet in the cafeteria for breakfast. David saw that a tanker had already drawn up to the aircraft where two men were attaching fuel hoses. He realised that Doyle must have arranged this. He did not know whether Doyle proposed to pay with a fuel carnet or with cash. Presumably, the aircraft was supplied with an international fuel card.

  They sat down to a continental breakfast a half hour later. Doyle had yet to join them. The
coffee was good, as were the croissants. David and Tony ordered omelettes.

  David sat facing the entrance to the cafeteria and was the first to see Doyle approaching. There was no mistaking the concerned expression on his face. He swept to a stop next to the table not bothering to sit.

  ‘We’ve got a problem,’ he said quietly.

  This news hit David with a jolt, his muscles momentarily contracting, his body jerking. This had to be bad. He could see that Doyle was agitated.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Air Traffic Control is closing the airport in half an hour. A tropical weather front driven by a cyclone is about to sweep over the island. No aircraft movements will be permitted until tomorrow morning. They forecast gale-strength winds and rain within a short while.’

  ‘Christ, we didn’t know about this. The bloody sun’s still up,’ Tony blurted.

  ‘I know, that’s because we didn’t bother to ask or listen. This warning has been on their radio for hours.’ Doyle looked down at the floor, ‘I tried to persuade them to allow us to leave, but they would not hear of it. It would be stupid to press them.’

  A Fokker Friendship could be seen taxiing towards the apron in front of the terminal building.

  Doyle indicated the aircraft. ‘That’s the last aircraft that’s been permitted to land. It’s from the Seychelles.’

  ‘This is a stuff-up, isn’t it?’ David said.

  ‘We’re only going to be able to leave tomorrow night. There’s nothing we can do, so I suggest we have a bit of fun. We’ve all got passports so a razzle at the local tourist hotel should be fun.’ Doyle smiled. ‘Compliments of the Rhodesian government. This place is bloody expensive as you will soon learn.’

  Only then, did Doyle sit down and busy himself with his coffee and breakfast.

  CHAPTER 20