Air Apparent

by John Gardner

He had not heard the door open behind him.

  “W-rong,” stammered Colefax. Hard metal jabbed painfully into Boysie’s right side. “Th-this is w-where w-we g-get off. I-I thought y-you w-were on our s-side, m-man.”

  13

  Boysie held his breath and ground his teeth. Colefax had got past Ada and the situation was even more confused. He looked out of the right hand window. A truck pulling up on the runway: yellow, stationing itself in front of the aircraft.

  “We’re supposed to taxi in after that truck.” Morgan sounded the least disconcerted.

  “F-f-follow him th-then.”

  “No.” From behind Colefax, Ada’s voice. She had finally caught on.

  There was a moment’s pause and Boysie heard somebody else. “Terribly sorry but it’s imperative that Mr Colefax gets off here.” Slinky Snowflake Brightwater had been carrying a weapon. Now she had it on Ada.

  “Let’s have none of the old moody, darling. Drop it.” A chain reaction had built up behind, Griffin now joining in.

  Boysie stepped to one side avoiding Colefax’s gun, a nasty looking snub-nosed automatic, originating from a Latin American country by the look of it.

  Through the door, Boysie could see to the rear of the aircraft. Aida held down Colefax’s men, very steady with the Llama VIII, and Alma was doing her best to look businesslike in the centre of the aisle.

  The situation around the flight deck door had deteriorated to complete farce. Colefax was bugging his eyes at his gun, not knowing what to do next. Ada, who appeared to be very frightened, had the Standard Olympic pressed into Colefax’s back. Behind her, Snowflake Brightwater, looking like a dude gunfighter from a smooth modern western movie. Butch Brightwater. The Sundance Kid stood behind her in the shape of Griffin, only he had that nervous professional look: like a constant window shopper round the porn boutiques.

  In the main cabin the passengers seemed restless, worried and uncertain. Some were talking loudly, but the amount of hardware about was keeping them from action.

  “Okay,” Boysie desperately fought for time. “Follow him round, Captain. But nothing must be unloaded. You know what kind of cargo you’re carrying?”

  “We’ve got some farming implements to be dropped off here.” He meant it.

  Boysie nodded. “Nice farming implements. Ploughshares with a high rate of fire, and some charming muck spreaders that’d spread all of us into the ground.”

  “H-hey m-man, hon-hon-honestly it w-would b-be b-b-better t-to let things pr-r-roceed. It’s all b-been t-taken c-care of, I p-promise.” Colefax looked at him with eyes registering faith, hope and charity. “F-for the b-best.”

  “I think he’s right, love.” Snowflake turned her head towards him. “I don’t know it all but we should arrive here as normally as possible.”

  “I don’t know what …”

  “Can I follow that truck without getting my chump blown off?” asked Morgan irritated by the situation.

  “Go ahead. Yes,” shouted Boysie as though he was washing his hands of the whole business. “You absolutely certain, Snowflake?”

  She nodded. “Pretty positive. Mr Colefax is on our team, sweetie. He’s anti the same people as you.”

  Boysie tried to use logic. They were at a foreign airport with an aircraft full of people and weapons. The captain seemed straight. Colefax had proved himself in London. Snowflake could prove herself anywhere. The circle of logic came back to himself every time. He had initiated the hijacking and the whole thing had fallen apart in his hands.

  The two outer engines were grumbling and they began to move, slowly turning to follow the yellow truck.

  Boysie looked at the flight engineer. “You really have got two engines U/S?”

  “One definite. The other probable. We weren’t playing games on that landing. It was bloody dodgy.”

  The facts began to weigh heavily on Boysie. It had been a badly timed and irresponsible action.

  “How do I stand if I call my people off?” He looked at Colefax.

  “It’ll b-be okay.”

  “Can you square them?” He indicated the crew with a nod of the head.

  “I got pa-papers, m-man.”

  “I was only doing what I thought best. Okay, show the man your papers and talk. Would the rest of you put away your firearms and go back to your places.”

  It was a dreadful anti-climax. Boysie, looking crestfallen, shuffled to the cabin loudspeaker control by the galley bulkhead, switched it to speak, and picked up the telephone-like instrument.

  “This is the Chief Steward speaking—” he still hoped his decision was right—“we apologise for the delay and the anxiety you have been caused. We have landed at Otuka and at one time it was thought that we were victims of an attempted hijacking. The captain will speak to you shortly.”

  There was an odd sense of relaxed tension. The guns had disappeared. Alma and Aida were returning to the galley.

  Boysie went back onto the flight deck. The first officer was taxiing the aircraft and the airport buildings were visible ahead. Colefax stuffed a wedge of papers back into his jacket pocket, grinned, nodded at Boysie and left.

  “We won’t monkey about with the kind of authority that one’s carrying.” Morgan looked grave. “He’s vouched for you as well. Now I have to get on to the Company and fix hotels for everybody.”

  “I’ve told the passengers you’ll speak to them.”

  “After I’ve talked with ground control.”

  Boysie went back into the cabin. Everybody seemed to be avoiding his eye so he went to Snowflake Brightwater for comfort.

  “That was not a bright action.” Miss Snowflake Brightwater kept her eyes rigidly to the front. “We are not amused. Somebody could have been killed.”

  “That’s good coming from you. You were up there sharpish toting a gun.”

  “I was merely looking after the interests of Mr Colefax, as I was bidden. Mr Colefax’s interests, as you will soon find out, are your interests.”

  *

  The messenger arrived at the camp a little before one thirty and went straight to Suffix.

  “The General gave me the message verbally. I have to report to you only.”

  Suffix had been resting. He sat on the bed, rubbing his eyes. A rest period had been ordered for everyone not doing essential duties.

  “Well?”

  “The aircraft arrived on time and the weapons have been unloaded and taken to the barracks.”

  “Good.”

  “No, there is more. There was nearly an accident. Trouble with two of the aircraft’s engines. They nearly did not make it. The aircraft is grounded at Otuka and passengers and crew are staying at the Hotel Europa. The company is flying out spare parts.”

  “How many?”

  “Spare parts?”

  “Passengers.”

  “At least two hundred.”

  Suffix frowned. “When can they leave? How soon?”

  “The General says not for two days earliest. That is what he hears.”

  Suffix stood up and crossed to his table and the detailed plan of Otuka. After several minutes he dismissed the messenger with instructions to tell the General that all would proceed as planned, the fact of an unexpected influx of visitors at the Hotel Europa would be noted. Then he called Tilitson.

  “The hotel will be full. We’d reckoned on it being empty,” Tilitson commented after hearing the news.

  “Two hundred Europeans and South Africans in the city at this time. It’s not good, but I want you to double the detachment we had already chosen to take the hotel. They are to be cautioned. There is to be no funny business with the guests. Nobody is to take liberties, Tilitson. I want those people out of here and back on their flight as quickly as possible. And I don’t want them taking unpleasant stories out with them.”

  *

  At two o’clock the pair of GSC men walked into the forest clearing where Colonel Impato, in command of the remaining Etszikan troops, had his field HQ.

 
; They delivered President Anthony’s sealed letter to the Colonel who read it twice before taking swift action.

  *

  “Something always happens, doesn’t it, Mr Oakes?” Griffin sat in a cane chair next to Boysie. On the other side, Snowflake Brightwater stretched out her long and bedazzling legs. They were together on Boysie’s balcony at the Hotel Europa following a lunch which had verged on being European and one star.

  “Always,” agreed Boysie, close wrapped in thought as he looked out across the street to where the South Atlantic washed onto a deserted and scruffy beach. It was hot and humid with clouds threatening more rain. Already, during the frenzied hours of organising transport and hotel accommodation, there had been two heavy storms.

  “Tell it to me again.” Boysie turned to Snowflake Brightwater who looked least crumpled of all.

  “Tell what?”

  “All you know.”

  “Mr Frobisher instructed me to travel on the aircraft and observe what happened. He also said that it was imperative Mr Colefax and his men disembarked at Otuka and that there was no interference with the normal running of the flight.” She said it all in one breath, parrot fashion, then added. “I don’t think he took possible engine trouble into account.”

  “Very touchy area, this,” commented Griffin. “Never really operated here.”

  Boysie ignored him. “Did anyone notice what happened to Mr Colefax and his friends after we went through customs and immigration?”

  “Vanished like a magician’s ball.”

  “Into space.”

  “Well, they aren’t in the hotel. Leastways not under their own names.”

  The hotel itself was solid and Victorian, like most of the larger buildings in Otuka, with the exception of the high-rise Government Admin Office and the modern House of Assembly. You could almost have been in a Northern railway hotel: apart from the fans, climate and service.

  “Very touchy area,” Griffin continued his monologue. “Got the smell of unrest. You can sniff it.”

  “That’s probably the plumbing.”

  Boysie began to wonder if he was suffering from delayed shock. The edges of his being seemed frayed, and even the smallest action had begun to call for great concentration. For instance, it had taken him a solid ten minutes to make himself pick up the telephone and call room service for much needed drinks. That was a good half hour ago; room service had not yet appeared with the beverages.

  Hot, sweaty and thirsty. Boysie ticked off these bodily conditions on his fingers and then turned his attention inwards to his mind. Uncalled, the scene on the flight deck during the landing returned, and with it a sliver of fear. At the time all fear had been concentrated in watching what was happening in a partial sense of disbelief. Only now did the full impact of near disaster make itself apparent. There was something else. He felt what Griffin felt: the scent of danger.

  From behind them, in the room, came a loud knocking.

  “The bloody drinks at last.” Boysie prised himself from his chair and ambled to the door recognising fatigue in the stiffness of his bones.

  “At last,” said Mostyn, cool in a blue linen suit. “What in the name of blessed Saint Bona, patron of air hostesses, have you been at?”

  “Oh Christ,” said Boysie with feeling.

  Mostyn carried an automatic pistol and behind him, smiling cheerfully, was one of Mr Colefax’s team.

  *

  Colonel Impato reported in person to President Anthony. They met in the study at the president’s residence. The president showed little sign of the strain that, by now, must have been taking hold. He sat at his desk, looking a good deal younger than his age, smiling greetings at the Colonel.

  “All is being done.” The Colonel took the chair indicated to him.

  “You don’t think Bushway’s spies …?”

  “They will not have had the time or opportunity. The General has never carried the bulk of our officers with him. I have a dozen people under arrest, no more. One can see why he has found it necessary to bring in mercenaries and malcontents from overseas. When they move we will act against them. Quickly and ruthlessly.”

  “I wish to stress that I desire minimum bloodshed.”

  “There is no need. We will do all that is possible to avoid combat. The police, incidentally, have been given their instructions. You need have no fears there. But there is one point. Your personal safety concerns me.”

  The president smiled again, a secret humour lighting his face. “Colonel Impato, members of my family have been leaders for a very long time. African leaders. Chieftains; Tribal Heads; now, even a president. We adapt; we change. We face the danger of our appointed position. We also have a clear view of the shifting span of history. I really believe we see much more in retrospect than even the esteemed Europeans. It is because we have lived with the threat of uprising and change, within our families, for centuries. We truly understand our own people.”

  “The Europeans have had their fair share of historical intrigue.”

  “But the mind is different.” Almost whispered. “The mind and the ground, the country. I can smell my enemy. I know him too well.”

  “Bushway is dangerous. Do not underestimate him, Mister President.”

  “Any man who dreams of self-aggrandisement to the tune of upsetting a peaceful, growing community, is dangerous. Criminally so. But you must smell Bushway, the animal, to know him. I have known him for many years. He has a fair brain, but he is no soldier. We sent him to England for training before he became Commander of the Army, but I think I saw, even then, where his true goal lay.”

  The president paused, picking up a paper on his desk and dropping it back in place before continuing. “Bushway has dreams. He sees an ideal community here with himself at the head: yet it is a power complex in a man unable to control power. A more subtle man would have waited, but Bushway is impatient. Hence the mercenaries. You will see. When the moment comes he will hesitate for that second, like the gorilla who puffs himself up and beats his chest, wasting time before the attack. If we allowed this coup to proceed it would mean the collapse of the country.”

  “You are right, of course, that is why I am still concerned for your personal safety.”

  “I am well cared for. You look after the tasks that have been given you. Provide the men. The rest will be arranged. We have most excellent advisers.”

  *

  “You must be sly, slimy little Mostyn.” Snowflake Brightwater advanced towards the group at the door, cool as Françoise Hardy. The only noise came from the big clanking fan whirring from the ceiling.

  Mostyn and the African came into the room. The African kicked the door closed behind him. Griffin stood between the balcony windows, one hand in his jacket, Napoleon style.

  “Sly, slimy and little? Who would refer to me in those terms?”

  Snowflake Brightwater nodded towards Boysie. “That’s what he calls you.”

  Mostyn grunted. “Sit down. All of you sit down. I hear there’s been stupidity.”

  Again it was the Mostyn of Boysie’s nightmare: the man capable of intimidating, browbeating, barking, surrounded by an invisible shield of breeding capable of putting men like Boysie at an immediate disadvantage.

  “You shit.” Boysie could think of no better description.

  “Have care. I thought we’d taught you a few things. Now I hear you had a private army on that aircraft.”

  “I merely wanted to stop the run into Otuka.”

  Mostyn laughed: a short, unpleasant bray. “The run? You wanted to stop the run. Why?”

  “Because shits like you shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.”

  Snowflake Brightwater and Griffin sat uneasily on the bed. Boysie had sunk into one of the two easy chairs: Mostyn had the other. The African leaned against the door. The oppressive heat built in the room like a thunderhead.

  “So you play ducks and drakes with an aircraft full of people because you don’t happen to like the way I operate.”
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  “Not when you organise arms shipments to an explosive area like this. To make money. I know it’s bloody old fashioned for people of my generation to question how others line their bank accounts. But I wouldn’t be seen spitting into the same cesspool with you, Mostyn, and don’t come the old ‘if I didn’t do it someone else would’.”

  “You learn nothing.” Mostyn spoke quietly, “I try and spell it out to you because we’ve always worked on the need to know principle. Also it was necessary that you were only frontally involved in London. I spelled it out and you still didn’t catch on. Oakes, you’re a dolt and a buffoon and I really should never use you. How long have you known me?”

  “Too long.”

  “Cut the Boys’ Own Paper heroics. Do you really think I’m capable of …?”

  Boysie did not let him finish. “Yes, I do, Mostyn. I bloody do. Your trouble is that you’re bloody sneaky. You intrigue over the bodies of others. You’ve always done it. You always will. It’s a trait of your class.”

  “Class?” Calmly.

  The queried word stopped Boysie. “Oh, what the hell.”

  “Perhaps,” hissed Mostyn, “it is a question of upbringing. Breeding. The ruthless streak is also the streak of loyalty. Where are your women?”

  “The girls?”

  “Who else?” He sounded tired of argument; of even bothering to explain detail.

  “They have a room on the fifth floor.”

  “Number?”

  “Five twenty.”

  Mostyn’s head gave a quick judder. He rose and crossed the room to the telephone by the bed. Picking up the instrument he asked for room five twenty.

  Boysie could identify Ada’s voice in the tiny trapped squawk that came from the instrument.

  “Mostyn here.” Curt. “Are you all in the building? … Good. You are to come down to Mr Oakes’ room. Three ten … Yes, all of you and now.”

  The instrument clattered back into place.

  “They’re armed, I gather.” To Boysie.

  “Yes, but I doubt if they’d hit the Albert Hall from the Memorial.”

  “That could be hazardous.” Mostyn did not smile. “You tooled up?” To Griffin.