Live, Love, and Cry

by George B Mair

  The noises behind must be everything tossing around inside the upside-down plane.

  With Zero hanging against a seat-belt.

  Thirteen thousand now and still falling!

  But the glare of flames was less. The extinguishers must be working.

  He figured out the drill.

  Get her flying straight. Straight and level with her belly down.

  Increase engine speed to at least one hundred and five max and climb out of the weather.

  Or else keep going until they flew out of it.

  Then automatic pilot with an even course until he had fished Deirdre out of the bomb-bay.

  After that!

  Touch down or ditch?

  With international emergency signal for help.

  And he would need all that was going.

  But still he hesitated.

  How on earth did one flip a thing this size back on to its belly?

  An increase in turbulence quivered the stick against his hands and almost subconsciously the drill returned. Basic principles always remained the same when flying. Even with jets.

  He saw the thinning cumulo-nimbus swirl ahead like a whirlpool and felt a sudden lurch in his stomach as hand and feet almost caressed the controls and the jet righted itself.

  ‘Nose up,’ he murmured, still nursing her cautiously and watching the altimeter, his only guide to safety. The artificial horizon still showed climb. But that was in order. It would do so in any case.

  A drop of sweat broke on his forehead as he scanned the dials. Green! Green! Green! All clear. Gaining height and with the machine answering to every gentle experimental touch of stick and rudder.

  He slipped on the headphones.

  And radio? Where in hell was the transmitter?

  Short wave to ADSAD H.Q.

  Monitor stations were always tuned to a top-secret short wave.

  He was crazy! Dead plumb crazy! No short-wave-to-measure on this kite! The best he could do would be contact Zagreb or Trieste.

  Or maybe Vienna.

  And time enough for that, anyhow. First things first. Ceiling and a level flight.

  He marked his instruments.

  They had been flying towards the Adriatic. Or else why the hell Zagreb?

  A ninety-degree turn west and then home on three engines and a prayer.

  The fire was dying and turbulence easing as he hit thirty-two thousand feet.

  The aircraft handled like a toy. Blue skies at last! With a sea of surging ochre cloud below.

  He sat tight for fifteen minutes while turbulence diminished with every ten miles.

  Deirdre! How to get her out? Out into a kite thick with paralysing gas which would knock her out for days.

  He boosted extractors, switched on emergency oxygen and glanced at his watch. Give it half an hour and then the girl would have to take her chance: the strain of suspending in a bomb-bay never knowing when she would be dropped against risk of paralysis from Grant’s own secret weapon.

  Visibility was clearing. Cloud ceiling had suddenly sagged. The kite was now flying dead even and heading due west.

  Ground radio was broadcasting latest news flashes. Britain’s Prime Minister had pledged his reputation that an answer would be found to PENTER 15 before the end of the year.

  Edinburgh was still in quarantine, but sanity was returning in both London and the provinces.

  Statements from the Director of the Medical Research Council and California’s Multiversity scientists had encouraged the public to believe that antidotes could be found in the predictable future. It had something to do with releasing iodine isotopes from complicated body tissues and thus permitting normal ovulation.

  He switched off.

  Deirdre! The girl might have gone crazy. She had been through enough to jerk her over the line. But at least he could tell her what was happening.

  He again switched on the automatic pilot and opened the cockpit door. The pilot was lying across the cabin, his face mutilated with blows from furnishings as the machine had taken the worst punishment Grant had ever known.

  The others were lolling against their seats, belts still intact, but with bruises on their cheeks as their heads had rolled helplessly from side to side.

  The Biretta and Zero’s pistol had slid into a corner near Carpenter’s door.

  Carpenter!

  He had almost been forgotten. And yet he was the sole cause of the whole bloody thing. Cursing softly to himself, Grant rushed to the cabin and tried to open the door. Something slithered behind as he forced it, and he saw Carpenter lying on the floor.

  The man was alive.

  Moving with the controlled efficiency of an expert, Grant wriggled him into a life-jacket and dragged him to the emergency exit nearest to the cockpit. If it came to a ditching job there might still be time to get the Professor out alive.

  And the man could still be useful.

  If he produced an antidote he might even get a life peerage! Stranger things had happened!

  But now Deirdre.

  He ripped up the plastic panel and exposed the trapdoor.

  His eyes blinked as they stared into the darkness. And then he saw it: the gleaming six-foot-long cylinder still fixed in the bomb-bay.

  The aircraft was steady as he dropped down four short stairs and tapped out a message. ‘Relax. Everything O.K. Are you well?’

  He heard her shout, and then, swiftly, a message tapped out from inside. ‘Still alive. Get me out.’

  ‘Soon,’ he tapped, rattling out the dots and dashes with a key-ring. ‘Repeat all now under control. But must wait fully half an hour. Gas in cabin.’

  The tapping became more faint and then it rippled into a volley. ‘Is Father alive?’

  ‘Yes. All for now. Back soon. Relax.’ The key-ring clanged for the last time against the casing and he darted back to the flight-deck.

  Still on course!

  He lost ten thousand feet and scanned the ground through glasses. Snow mountains lay ahead and north there was a black streak of autobahn. He looked again. The high ground was sloping to hills around a town.

  Town? City? Country?

  Munich?

  Three autobahnen were entering it.

  He pointed north and did a tight eighty-degree turn.

  And then he lifted his nose. It must be back to England home and beauty for this lot. And to hell with regulations. But for the first time he sent out the international call-sign of distress.

  ‘Calling Mayday. Calling Mayday. Convair Coronado proceeding north from uncertain position south-east of Munich. Registration unknown. Will fly at thirty-two thousand feet. Proceeding to England. Notify air corridors and ground control Nürnberg, Frankfurt and Cologne. Will maintain ceiling thirty-two thousand over München–Köln autobahn. Have no navigator. Am amateur pilot. Absolutely safe only when airborne. Mayday. Calling Mayday. Unknown registration. Position . . .’

  The message came out from one part of his mind while other levels of consciousness navigated the aircraft and returned to Deirdre.

  Oxygen!

  The cabins had been flooded with heavy concentrations. Done in a desperate effort to clear the air for the girl. What if he himself proved to be oxygen sensitive and reacted as Donald Campbell had in Bluebird? Campbell had survived a 300 m.p.h. ground crash but nothing in God’s earth would save this kite if his own brain went haywire.

  He switched off the oxygen and made a swift return to the cabin. And what might oxygen do to men paralysed with Juin’s nerve gas? Would it somehow counteract the stuff and return them to circulation? That was another angle which had escaped everyone when they had worked out the properties of this terrific weapon and built up his own resistance against it.

  Zero’s reflexes were still absent and Tony was flat out.

  He dived back to the stick and clamped on headphones.

  ‘Mayday. Mayday. Calling Mayday. Convair Coronado. Unknown registration. Proceeding towards Cologne in line München–Köln autobahn at
thirty-two thousand feet. Clear air corridors. Notify . . .’

  The headphones buzzed angrily and Grant half smiled as he translated. The Germans were after his blood. Orders for immediate landing at Munich.

  He had enough German to cope. ‘Notify London proceeding towards Thames Estuary or English Channel and propose ditch in calm waters. Request advice most suitable place. Repeat amateur pilot attempting control abnormal situation. Flying on three engines. Repeat advise all airports en route. Request emergency notification naval stations Harwich to Dover. Repeat also advise British Prime Minister David Grant returning home with mission completed.’

  Two aircraft were rising on the horizon. Fighter jets. They circled him at one mile and reported back to base. A guttural voice speaking English spat into his headphones. ‘Kindly explain your situation. Ditching is much more dangerous than conventional landing on tarmac. Suggest you consider touchdown either Munich or Nürnberg. Detailed advice as to handling your aircraft will be transmitted in English from the ground.’

  Grant shook his head. ‘Many thanks. Offer assistance appreciated but propose fly direct to British waters.’

  There was a brief argument and then the voice suddenly laughed. ‘You are crazy, but orders have now been received to guide you across Germany if necessary. We shall proceed at altitude thirty thousand feet and separated by ten kilometres. If your navigation is so bad follow at thirty-three thousand and centre your course between us. The air will be cleared right to London. Units of your own Royal Air Force will take over midway across the North Sea.’

  ‘Message received and understood,’ said Grant briefly. ‘One point only. Propose use automatic pilot for next five to ten minutes and will try remain on present course. Urgent matters within aircraft.’

  He switched on, removed his headphones and dived for the bomb-bay. Deirdre would have to take her chance. And the worst that could happen would be unconsciousness for a day or so.

  The cylinder was still in position. He remembered a coil of rope in a press behind the cockpit. Minutes later the container was anchored securely while he unclipped latches with screwdriver and cold chisel, angled the cylinder upwards and dragged it into the cabin.

  Perforations had been worked around each end and the lid was closed by toggle devices which moved easily.

  He opened the lid. The girl was white to the lips but still able to force a smile. He pulled her by the shoulders and eased her out. She looked at him for an instant of time and then flung her arms around his neck. Her shoulders began to heave and reaction set in. Her words were almost incoherent. She laughed through her tears and then he slipped a capsule of seconal between her lips. ‘Swallow, Deirdre,’ he said gently. ‘Just a sedative. Never travel without some. Often comes in handy.’

  He glanced from the window. The black line of autobahn was still far below him and in the distance he could see the two fighters. They had closed the gap and distance between had dropped to nearer five kilometres.

  He eased the girl on to a seat. ‘Come to the cockpit when you’re ready. Got work to do. Take it easy.’

  Voices were again crackling into the headphones. ‘Calling Coronado. Acknowledge please.’

  He swiftly explained. Matters were now under control.

  The same English voice spoke into his ear. ‘Your aircraft is now two degrees off course. Correct immediately.’

  And in the same minute a flash came through from London. Naval stations had been alerted. Ten-foot waves maximal in the Thames Estuary but twenty feet in the North Sea. Ditching impossible until west of line Harwich, Folkestone. R.A.F. instructions would talk him down when the time came.

  He sensed Deirdre standing by his shoulder. ‘Come at once,’ she whispered. ‘Some of the men are moving.’

  The two stewards were fidgeting restlessly: Tony was twitching his eyelids and Zero lying back with his eyes open. Grant guessed that the man had almost surfaced.

  The oxygen! Deirdre seemed to be O.K. The air had now been cleared. But who in hell would have expected that concentrated oxygen could flush out a brain enough to stymie Juin’s nerve gas?

  He glanced at Tony’s knife which had dropped to the floor and slithered into a corner by an emergency escape. ‘No shooting,’ he ordered. ‘But tie them up and use the knife only if you have to. And repeat. No shooting.’

  He lifted the two pistols and took them back to the cockpit.

  The navigator was still flat out. And he remembered that the pilot looked as though he was dead. Head blows had probably killed him when the aircraft was being bucked to glory with the worst turbulence he had ever known.

  Frankfurt lay below. A sprawling mass of smudgy houses seen through a fine haze. Visibility was holding. But weather reports said strong winds over the North Sea with visibility down to two miles.

  And then he remembered. Waves twenty feet or more!

  The drill returned to his mind.

  When ditching land parallel to the waves and touch down in the trough. But high waves meant risk of a wing-tip breaking against one and turning the aircraft upside down.

  Or else into an uncontrollable spin which would smash her to smithereens and kill everyone inside.

  ‘London airport,’ said the headphones. ‘You will be talked down and landing ought to be easy. Think again about this ditching business.’

  Ditching with high waves as against a possible crash-landing on tarmac.

  Drown or roast?

  The voices on the phones were persuasive. He was handling her well. Germany had reported that the machine was no longer regarded as a risk to civil population. He could be talked down. Obey instructions and keep his head.

  All very well talking!

  Talking!

  Concentration on one thing was playing hell with others. He could hear voices. Someone had surfaced. Deirdre was speaking and her voice was high-pitched. He guessed she was nearly hysterical and didn’t blame her.

  Why in heck’s name had he switched on that oxygen?

  And how could he have known what it would do to Juin’s gas?

  He flung open the cabin door and glanced around.

  Deirdre had a knife at Tony’s throat. Her eyes were gleaming and the blade was steady as a rock. The man flung out his legs and tried to trip her. She swayed easily and then drove it to the hilt into his neck.

  The rope she had been going to use to bind him was lying on the floor. The man had come round before she could use it.

  He glanced at Zero. His eyes were still glazed but he guessed he was conscious. ‘Watch him, Deirdre,’ he shouted. ‘But no guns. Too dangerous.’

  There was a mounting flush of excitement on her cheeks as she jumped back and watched Tony fumble with his neck. The man’s fingers clasped around the hilt and he slowly pulled the knife out. There was a spurt of blood and he struggled free from his seat. Grant switched on the automatic and leapt backwards. His karate chop dropped Tony as he kicked at Deirdre’s shins. The man collapsed on the floor. Blood puddled around his neck and suddenly he gave a deep sigh. He was dead before Grant had checked on Zero’s knots and returned to the cockpit.

  ‘What the hell’s happening?’ The headphones were spitting anxiously. ‘Acknowledge receipt message. London sends congratulations and explicit change of instructions. Top orders which must be obeyed. You will land at London airport. You will be talked down. Emergency naval stations in operation until you are over the coast, but repeat you will touch down at London. Confirm.’

  ‘Okay. Message received. London airport it is.’

  Visibility was fading and Grant glimpsed the Ruhr far below. Smoke was obliterating landmarks, but he could still identify Cologne far to the south-west and he guessed they were somewhere near Essen.

  Deirdre was again speaking and he dragged off the headphones. How in Christendom could anyone listen to two things at once? Ground control would have to wait.

  ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t slit your throat.’ The girl was sounding off. But Grant had
an idea she meant it.

  He moved the lever and left the aircraft to itself. ‘Deirdre! No nonsense. London wouldn’t like it. Better to let him swing.’ His face was grim as it stared down at Zero. ‘You won’t enjoy waiting three weeks. And you won’t enjoy these last few seconds before they spring the trap. And you won’t enjoy knowing that you’ll be dead in less than ten seconds after the governor and sheriff arrive at your cell.’ He turned to the girl. ‘But leave it to them, Deirdre. Don’t spoil things. It’s one thing to kill in heat: or where there is no other way but execution: or in a fair fight. But no one can kill in cold blood and ever be the same again. Leave him to the law.’

  The girl was staring at Zero with a hate which was frightening. She pointed to her father, still strapped beside the forward starboard emergency exit. ‘Look at him,’ she whispered. ‘And that man did it. Why shouldn’t he suffer too?’

  Grant grasped her by the arm. ‘He will,’ he said. ‘He’ll suffer more than by anything we can do. So leave him alone. Come to the cockpit.’ He double checked again on Zero’s knots and forced her to stand beside him as he took over and drawled out a message to the German fighters ahead. The North Sea gleamed below and he marked two tiny black spots on the far horizon. ‘R.A.F. ahead of schedule. Many thanks for the escort. Stand you a dinner in Frankfurt one of these days.’

  ‘Auf Wiedersehen. Good luck.’ There was a pause, and then: ‘Happy landings.’

  The four aircraft circled him twice and the Germans broke off, dipping their wings. A clipped English voice took over. ‘Sit on our tails, sir. Message from London. Quote. Do exactly as you are told and dinner is ordered for eight at the Savoy. Unquote.’

  There was a sudden noise from inside the cabin and Grant sat bolt upright as Deirdre looked over her shoulder and gasped, ‘These stewards.’

  ‘Yes.’ Zero was on his feet. ‘You weren’t so good with knots in their case and Grant failed to check on your reefs. They were kind enough to cut me free.’

  The girl flopped against the open cabin door and slithered to the floor. ‘Fainted.’ Zero’s voice was contemptuous. ‘And I thought she had guts.

  Deirdre drew up her legs slightly and moaned as Grant’s knuckles clenched around the stick. ‘If I go, then we all go.’