The Blockade Runners

by Peter Vollmer

  By the time the two Marines had disembarked, the wind had increased significantly, whipping their clothes. Already the sky was darkening and the first rain was moments away. Lieutenant Hawthorne had noticed the DC-7B backed up to the perimeter in the corner of the apron. He saw that a set of flight stairs had been placed against the aircraft, although the cargo hatch was closed. Probably because of the weather, he thought.

  ‘See what I see?’ Hawthorne said.

  ‘Yes.’ His companion, Sergeant McCleary, replied, his rich Scottish accent unmistakable. ‘The weather seems favourable as well. Just right for a walk at night.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope the local legionnaires don’t pose a problem.’

  For the last two days, Anthony Gainsborough fought an inner battle. His need for alcohol was overpowering. Constantly aware of this, he worked his mind ceaselessly trying to keep the craving under control. Continuous tremors flowed through his body, occasionally so severe they were akin to a fever bout. These only lasted for a minute or so, by which time he managed to get them under control, dewy sweat on his brow, his shirt clinging to his body. If the others noticed, they did not say. Sleep was out of the question. He merely tossed and turned. Still, he remained resolute: this time he was going to dry out.

  The unforeseen delay brought about by the weather and the prospect of spending a night on the plane with nothing to do persuaded the group to book into a hotel and sample the best cuisine Mayotte could offer. Doyle made the arrangements. He booked them into a decent tourist hotel in Mamoudzou, the island capital. This was on an adjoining island, accessible by a ferry which crossed every hour.

  Anthony politely refused to accompany them saying that he would sleep aboard the aircraft. They knew better than to press him. He did not need them to help fight his demons. On hearing that he was not sleeping well, Gisela parted with a few of her sleeping pills, they quite strong but leaving no after-effects. Anthony proposed to take two of these hoping to sleep through the night.

  They were not concerned for the safety of their aircraft. Three teams of two local legionnaires patrolled the perimeter of the airfield with dogs from sunset to midnight when they were relieved by a fresh troop who continued until sunrise. The French government considered this precaution necessary. The airfield was, in fact, a military base, in full view of the neighbouring Comoros islands, with whom they shared a strained relationship.

  Captain Hawthorne thought the wind was gusting in excess of forty miles per hour. This was a blessing in disguise and a distraction to the legionnaires patrolling the perimeter. They’d probably keep their heads down. Both he and McCleary lay in the undergrowth alongside the perimeter, the DC-7B looming in front of them in the darkness. Small branches and leaves wiping above camouflaged them with the whistle and moan of the wind disguising all other sounds. They did not wear uniforms, nor were they armed. They had dressed in whatever civilian clothes they could find which allowed them to blend in with the terrain. Both wore green shirts and trousers and, on their feet, brown brushed leather hiking boots. Each carried a small rucksack. McCleary’s contained the detonators and Semtex. Hawthorne carried the timers and the other two items considered essential: a large pair of pliers and a pair of wire cutters. They agreed to make their move before midnight.

  The weaving beams of two torches warned them of the guards’ approach. As they neared, they saw the Alsatian on a leash, trotting between the two soldiers. Fortunately, the wind blew any scent the marines may have had away from the field and the dog. The guards were unconcerned and conversing loudly in German. The two Marines hugged the ground until the soldiers and dog had passed.

  Certain that the legionnaires were out of earshot and lost in the darkness, they jumped to their feet and cautiously approached the fence. Within seconds, McCleary had cut through the close-knit steel mesh, bending the cut squares backwards affixing them to the fence with a piece of wire. Crouched over to avoid presenting a silhouette, they scrambled through and quickly made their way to the aircraft. The timers had been pre-set. Hawthorne inserted the timers into the Semtex. Standing on McCleary’s shoulders and steadying himself with a hand on the aircraft’s stationary propeller, he inserted the explosive into the front of the outer starboard engine nacelle. The curled front section of the cowling prevented the explosive from falling out. There was no need to affix it to anything. It could not fall out and would just lie in the nacelle. The whole procedure did not take a minute. The next patrol, according to observations they had made of the guards movement, would pass here in ten minutes’ time. The legionnaires’ torches were a giveaway. The two men would have ample warning of any approach.

  ‘For fuck sake, get down!’ McCleary whispered. Hawthorne never hesitated. He just let himself drop from the Marine’s shoulders, executing a classic parachutist roll as he struck the ground.

  ‘A light’s just gone on in the cockpit,’ McCleary again whispered.

  The two men quickly moved to the starboard undercarriage leg, moulding their bodies to it so as to present as small a target as possible. Through the undercarriage struts, they could feel the wind, which drove showers of rain before it, buffeting the plane. Here under the wing, it was relatively dry. The strong smell of hydraulic fluid assaulted Hawthorne’s nose. He dared not move. He thought he heard the faint screech of metal and then footsteps on the steel flight steps. His blood hammered in his temples. He saw McCleary’s face inches away, his teeth clenched.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ McCleary whispered, hardly hearing the expletive over the wind and rain, craning his neck around. A legionnaire patrol approached along the perimeter fence, their torches dancing in the dark.

  McCleary saw the man who stood looking towards the approaching legionnaires who, having seen him descend the stairs, veered towards the plane. They clutched their automatic carbines across their chests in proper military fashion, their camouflage-imprinted ponchos whipping around their bodies in the strong wind. The man at the bottom of the stairs seemed oblivious to the weather, his wet clothes clinging to his body.

  At first, they conversed in French and then switched to German.

  What the hell was going on? Hawthorne wondered, watching the trio intently.

  After about a minute, the legionnaires turned away walking towards the perimeter fence, heads down against the wind. The other man turned and retraced his steps and disappeared through the hatch, which he closed because of the wind and rain.

  ‘Maybe we’re going to get away with this?’ McCleary whispered to Hawthorne, the prospect of spending a while in the French army’s brig beginning to fade away.

  ‘Maybe.’

  The soldiers had resumed their patrol, now following the perimeter fence and walking away from the aircraft.

  ‘Okay, let’s make our way back to the fence but walk directly under the fuselage towards the tail. Nobody should be able to see us,’ Hawthorne said.

  Soon they reached the fence, scrambling through the hole they had cut. The cockpit light was still on. McCleary, using a pair pliers and soft wire, proceeded to mend the hole. When he had finished, Hawthorne inspected the man’s handiwork.

  ‘Excellent. They’re not going to find this for a while unless they’ve taken that bloke’s concerns seriously. It certainly didn’t seem as if those legionnaires thought something was amiss.’

  The two men disappeared into the wet brush.

  CHAPTER 21

  Anthony was not happy. He was sure he had seen two figures in the darkness approach the aircraft. The gendarmes had assured him that they had been keeping an eye on the fence as this was one of their duties. Nobody made it through, they were sure about that. Anthony could see that the guards were sceptical about his insistence that he had seen something. They promised to keep a special lookout.

  His intense need for alcohol was driving him crazy. It was difficult to breath, his skin crawled and he constantly wanted to scratch himself. The violent tremors intermittently racking his body left him mentally shattered and exhausted and
caused him to black out for a few moments.

  Maybe his mind was paying tricks on him. A few times he had nearly succumbed to the hallucinations which crept up on him and he had to grit his teeth in an effort to resist them.

  He returned to the galley and threw the two sleeping tablets into his mouth, washing them down with a cup of tea. He lay down on the bunk, leaving the cockpit light on. Fifteen minutes later, he was dead to the world, his breathing regular, his features relaxed.

  Throughout the night, the wind howled, at first blowing from the east and, as the cyclone traversed the islands, then swinging and blowing from the west. Every now and then, the wind would buffet the aircraft. As the first light of the morning slowly illuminated their surroundings, the destruction the airfield had sustained during the night became apparent. Part of the air terminal’s roof had been ripped off and a few large windows were broken, allowing the rain to flood the ground floor. Continuous banks of dark cloud still scudded across the sky, subjecting the airfield to torrents of rain. Every few minutes the showers would lift only to resume as soon as another cloud front raced in from the sea.

  Anthony awoke, feeling listless, his mouth dry as if stuffed with cotton wool. At least the tremors had disappeared, as had his headache. He stumbled out of the bunk into the galley and switched on the spill-proof urn, coffee foremost in his mind. A look out of the cockpit screen revealed the wind-bent trees and the driving rain. He realised that the weather still did not permit a take-off.

  At about midday the others returned from their night out. They were drenched by the time they entered the aircraft. The wind no longer blew a gale and, although the rain still fell, it had decreased in force, now no more than a normal thunder shower.

  ‘I believe that by early evening we may be able to get away from here, God willing,’ Doyle remarked, helping himself to hot water, which he added to a large cup containing instant coffee and sugar.

  ‘I’m sure I saw two men approaching the aircraft from the fence late last night. I stepped out into the rain to tell those legionnaires that I’d seen them but they did not appear to take me seriously. I had the impression that they thought I was seeing things,’ Anthony said, feeling compelled to tell the others.

  ‘People out there in this shitty weather?’ David’s surprise was evident.

  ‘Christ, I saw them,’ Anthony replied with conviction, clearly unhappy that they should question him. ‘You chaps left me here to look after the plane. Well, that’s exactly what I did!’

  ‘Okay, we’ll wait until the rain lets up. We’ll give the aircraft a thorough going over, see if everything’s all right, both inside and outside.’ Doyle said with condescension.

  By early afternoon the weather had abated. The wind now only a strong breeze and although it was still overcast, the rain had been reduced to patches of drizzle.

  From the maintenance hangar, David had been able to scrounge a mobile mechanic’s stairway with an elevated platform specifically designed for working on aircraft, which they now used to carefully inspect the plane, starting at the nose wheel and then moved slowly clockwise around the aircraft.

  David climbed the stairs to the propeller hub of the starboard outer engine. Bits of branch, bark and leaves had lodged in the nacelle and cooling fins of one of the engine cylinders. He removed some twigs and then looked into the bottom of the nacelle, immediately seeing a square black satchel no larger than a small shoebox. He knew that this had not been lodged there by the wind.

  ‘Doyle! Come and look at this.’

  Doyle stood on the apron next to the aircraft. From David’s animated gestures, he realised that something significant was going on. As he approached the bottom of the ladder and saw what David held in his hands, he felt a shudder pass through him.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell! That’s an explosives satchel. It’s the damn British. They must be here. How’s that possible? Just be bloody careful with that. Who knows when it’s due to go up.’

  Gingerly, David descended the ladder. He knew little about explosives. Doyle took it from him and opened the satchel, seeing the timer was wired to the detonator which had been inserted in the Semtex. He saw that the timer still had eight hours to run.

  ‘Christ!’ he whispered. ‘Those bloody bastards. They were planning to blow us up while we were in the air. Probably hoped this would have been over the bloody ocean. No evidence. Victims of the cyclone or something.’

  By this time, Gisela and Anthony had arrived, curious as to the commotion.

  Gisela saw the satchel. She squinted at them, angry, in recognition of the possible danger.

  ‘We would have all died,’ Gisela whispered.

  ‘Even if we had managed to ditch the aircraft, nobody would have found us, what with the false flight plan that’s been filed. We would’ve been shark bait,’ David said.

  Everyone realised that this was no longer a game or a gentleman’s war. It was a serious business and the British were about to stop the Rhodesians no matter what it took.

  Gisela put her hand out. ‘Give me the explosives.’

  David did so. She carefully opened the satchel and removed the primer from the Semtex. Then she removed the timer. David watched her studied nonchalance. Finished, she handed the putty-like lump of explosive to him.

  ‘Gently break it up and strew it in the grass. Without a primer, it cannot explode, even if a flame is applied. We’ll have to keep the timer. It is too large.’

  ‘What are you going to do about this?’ a distraught Anthony asked.

  ‘What do you think? Nothing.’ David continued, ‘I can’t go to the French. This will become an incident, and all that will happen is that they’ll hold the aircraft and its cargo, including us, until they’ve got some clarity. That’ll be the least that could happen; it could be worse. Keep searching. We fly out of here on schedule. We don’t say a word. Do you hear?’

  They agreed.

  As soon as it was dark, the aircraft took off heading in a southerly direction towards Madagascar and Antanerivo. About fifty miles from the island, it turned west, heading towards the African continent. They had searched the aircraft thoroughly but still a slight feeling of apprehension remained, unsure if they had missed something. They maintained radio silence crossing into Mozambique and then Zambia, maintaining a height of ten thousand feet. Only in Rhodesian airspace did they contact Salisbury on the special frequency Doyle provided.

  The aircraft touched down just after three in the morning. A small reception party awaited them, a selected few aware of the purchase of the helicopters and the significance of what had been achieved. This was the first arms airlift of significance that had been undertaken. Many would follow.

  CHAPTER 22

  With a slight nod and subdued wave of her hand, Sir Harry’s secretary indicated to Seymour that he could enter the office.

  It was a dull day and although the curtains were open, Sir Harry had a desk light on, casting its pale light over his desk and illuminating his face in a manner, which made him look older than he was.

  ‘Ah, Seymour, what can you tell me?’ he said, laying down his pen and leaning back against the chair’s backrest, his glasses perched on the bottom of his nose, squinting over the top.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve bad news. They got away. We planted a device on the plane but they must have discovered it. The chaps we sent from the Comoros reported that they were spotted, the legionnaires investigating. The plane flew out of Mayotte last night. Our agents tell me it has already landed in Salisbury. I’m sorry,’ Seymour said, still standing in front of Sir Harry’s desk.

  ‘The Prime Minister will be unhappy. This damn Rhodesian business. Who’d ever have thought we would land up fighting our own kind again? Just keep the lid on the Mayotte incident. We don’t want the French getting shirty. Christ! They would resent our Marines on their soil without their permission. Mayotte is a part of France.’

  ‘No, we’ve got that under wraps, the French are not about to find out. Our chaps are a
lready winging their way back to the Seychelles.’

  ‘Thank God!’ Sir Harry sighed. ‘Now, how to stop the next shipment, hey?’

  Sir Harry had a file in front of him on the desk. ‘This banker, God knows what his name is, he has so many. Who is he?’

  ‘We’ve been trying to find out. It seems he is the money man, or rather put this way, he sees to it that payment is made to the various suppliers. The bagman, as it were. We know he’s been issued a Rhodesian passport, which he uses between South Africa and Rhodesia, but he’s not Rhodesian, of that, I’m certain. I actually believe he is South African, but why he’s working for the Rhodesians, I don’t know.’

  Sir Harry leant back. ‘Hmm, well, it seems he can be anybody. Gracious me, he’s quite a linguist. How many languages does he speak?’

  ‘Four, it seems, and those fluently without a trace of an accent. Maybe his French is not quite up to scratch.’

  ‘Of course, you know we’ve got to remove him, don’t you. He’s dangerous, worth his weight in gold to the Rhodesians, I would think.’

  ‘I know,’ Seymour replied quietly. Englishman killing Englishman. Why did it always come to this?

  It was obvious that Sir Harry had said what he wished to say. It was now his problem.

  Seymour returned to his office an hour later. He called his secretary in.

  ‘Find Denton and Strathmore. I need to see them.’

  For a moment she stood rooted to the floor, shock registering on her face. She knew who these men were. She loathed them.

  CHAPTER 23

  Unfortunately, the British were better prepared when the crude oil-laden Deborah approached the Mozambique Channel. She flew a Greek flag and was under the command of a Greek captain with a Greek crew. Oosterwijk had been unable to pull off another coup as he done with the Georgio V. From the outset, she was under British surveillance and, as she approached the Mozambique Channel, she was shadowed by a British frigate and destroyer. If she ignored a British command to heave to, the British were authorised to open fire. This was a new game. The Greek captain played the same card, as had Captain Le Clercq, insisting that the crude was destined for a Portuguese company in Beira. The British were not buying this; the captain was eventually forced to divert his tanker to Durban in South Africa. All eyes were now on South Africa. It was decided to leave the crude in the tanker, the ship berthed in the tanker dock, a picture of inactivity. The crew was reduced to a few men. It was a waiting game. The British kept it under constant surveillance. The South Africans made no attempt to discharge the crude.