Lomas had slipped into unconsciousness. Speed was the only thing that could now save his life, and without ceremony the crewmen lifted his body onto the stretcher. The doctor checked his pulse then listened to his heartbeat with a stethoscope. One of the crewmen ripped open an intravenous drip set, tore the sleeve off Lomas’s shirt, found a vein and slid the needle expertly into it. He pushed the other end of the tube into a plastic bottle of saline solution and opened the sliding tap on the tube all the way.
‘His heartbeat is erratic and his pulse is weak,’ the doctor said to Perini, raising his voice against the roar of the helicopter’s engines and the clatter of the rotor blades. ‘We have to put fluid into his bloodstream to replace what he has lost. And now we must get him into an emergency room. I’ll go along with him.’
The two crewmen picked up the stretcher and swiftly carried Lomas down the drive. The doctor trotted beside them, holding the bag of saline solution high and squeezing it gently to ensure a steady flow into the body. Less than three minutes after the helicopter had landed, it was airborne again, heading north-east for the main hospital at Bari, the doctor already using the radio to advise the emergency staff of the nature of the injury and what needed to be done as soon as they touched down.
‘Will he live?’ Simpson asked, stepping forward to stand beside Perini.
The Italian shook his head, staring into the sky at the departing helicopter. ‘I don’t know. The doctor wouldn’t say, because he doesn’t know either. If they can get him into surgery immediately, perhaps he’ll survive.’ Perini swung round to look at Simpson. ‘Now we have other matters to attend to. Your man Richter.’
One of the two DCPP officers Perini had sent off now re-appeared in front of the villa, ran across to the Italian and spoke rapidly. Perini nodded but didn’t look surprised at whatever the man was saying: he issued further orders and three more DCPP men took off up the road at a trot.
Perini walked back to Simpson. ‘Richter’s taken one of the Alfas and he’s locked the other three. I’ve got my men searching for the keys in case he just threw them away, and I’ve ordered an automobile locksmith to get out here immediately. Your man has also badly beaten the driver we left in charge of the cars, and that’s another strike against him. Despite what you said, Simpson, he won’t try for the northern Italian border. It’s too far, he doesn’t speak the language, and he’d be too easy to intercept. He’ll be trying to get out of the country some other way.’ Perini stopped short. ‘Of course, how stupid of me. He already has a way out – his Sea Harrier. We have to stop him reaching Brindisi.’
He called for a map of Puglia, identified the half-dozen or so roads that led from Matera to Brindisi, and immediately issued orders through his DCPP men to have them all blocked with checkpoints. As a further precaution, he also ordered a checkpoint on the E55 coastal autostrada running down from Bari to Brindisi, and some others on the roads further south, between Brindisi and Lecce.
Finally, he called Vento over and ordered him to get airborne in the Agusta as soon as possible, to try to identify Richter’s car from the air.
‘How will I do that?’ Vento asked.
‘Use your initiative. Break a window on one of the Alfas and hot-wire it. Or stop a passing motorist and commandeer his car. Or take the doctor’s BMW – I don’t care. Just get back to the helicopter, get it airborne, and then find Richter.’
As Vento and the DCPP driver hurried away, Perini stared down at the map and nodded with satisfaction. ‘He’s boxed in,’ he said. ‘There’s no way he’s going to get to the airfield. We’ve got him.’
Chapter 7
Tuesday
Aeroporto di Brindisi, Papola-Casale, Puglia, Italy
In fact, Richter was almost at Brindisi. Vento had been right about the speed of the Agusta. Richter had wound it up to an indicated one hundred and fifty knots and climbed to two thousand feet. He could have stayed low, but he thought that would probably attract more attention than a transit at a normal height. It also meant he didn’t have to worry about power lines, pylons, higher ground or any other obstacles, and he was also too low to conflict with most fixed-wing aircraft.
When he’d lifted off from the field he knew he had about seventy miles to cover before he reached Brindisi, but that was less than a half-hour flight in the helicopter. At the moment when Perini was ordering checkpoints to be positioned, the Agusta was less than five minutes from the airfield boundary, and Richter was already in descent.
Like any competent pilot, Vento had put a note of Brindisi’s frequencies on the instrument panel, and as Richter pulled the Agusta round in a tight right-hand turn over Punta Penne, due north of the town, he selected VHF frequency one one eight decimal one, picked a callsign and called Brindisi Tower.
‘Brindisi, this is helicopter Lima Whisky at three hundred feet over Punta Penne.’
‘Lima Whisky, Brindisi, roger. State your intentions.’
‘Lima Whisky would like to refuel, sir. We’re running a little low.’
‘Roger, Lima Whisky. Cleared for a visual approach to land by the two northerly hangars and await a fuel bowser. Wind is light and variable. The active runway is three two. Hold well clear of the active; we have inbound heavy civilian traffic long finals.’
‘Thank you, Brindisi. All copied.’
That had been Richter’s biggest gamble. By flying low to the north of the airfield and making his approach from Punta Penne, he had been hoping that the Tower controller would instruct him to land somewhere to the north-east of the active runway, which meant he could put the Agusta down not far from where the Sea Harrier was parked.
Two minutes later Richter lowered the undercarriage and landed the helicopter about fifty yards from his Harrier. He shut down the Agusta, pulling on the rotor brake a little sooner than he would have liked, but he was in a hurry, then climbed out and trotted over to the squadron building he and Simpson had been using.
HMS Invincible, Ionian Sea
Just over an hour earlier, the Invincible had increased speed by about two knots and altered course slightly. The rate at which rumours travelled throughout the ship never ceased to amaze newcomers, and they were, perhaps surprisingly, usually reasonably accurate. Almost as soon as the engine revolutions increased, the word spreading on the lower deck was that the planned visit to Athens had been cancelled, or at least postponed, and the ship was now proceeding to Crete. Or maybe Malta? The Wardroom didn’t get to hear about Malta, but the word ‘Crete’ was certainly being bandied about.
‘So what the hell’s going on in Crete that involves us?’ The inquiry from the lieutenant filling a cup at the coffee urn was plaintive and somewhat querulous. ‘My wife’s flying out to Athens tomorrow. What’s she supposed to do all by herself in Greece while we’re poncing about the Med?’
‘That’s life in a blue suit, mate. You may not like the fucking Navy, but the Navy likes fucking you. Anyway, you’ll find out what we’re supposed to be doing in about ten minutes. The Old Man’s going to brief us all on the CCTV system. What your wife’ll find to do in Athens for the next week or so with all those randy Greek men is something else.’
The Wardroom filled rapidly. With no flying operations planned and the ship winding down in preparation for a planned port visit, most of the officers had time on their hands, and when the big TV screen in the corner of the room flickered into life and a familiar face, flanked by epaulettes bearing four gold stripes, appeared on the screen, it was quite literally standing room only.
‘Good afternoon, this is the Captain. As you are all no doubt aware, our planned visit to Athens and Piraeus has been delayed for operational reasons, and we are at present proceeding on a south-easterly heading towards Crete. The current situation is still somewhat confused, but we have been advised that a state of medical emergency exists on part of the island. At least one person has died, and there are fears of a major epidemic. The Cretan authorities have requested international assistance in containing this situation
.
‘I should emphasize that at this stage we have no further information concerning the nature of the epidemic, or the disease or illness involved, and I think it unlikely that we will become too involved in the detailed management of the crisis. I anticipate that our involvement is likely to be purely supportive. We will probably act primarily in an off-shore replenishment role, and assist the Cretan authorities in the movement of personnel and supplies around the island.
‘I am sorry that our scheduled visit to Athens has been disrupted, and I am keenly aware that many members of the ship’s company have arranged for their wives or girlfriends – in some cases perhaps both – to travel out to Greece over the next few days. Those of you who wish to do so may avail yourselves of the communications facilities to make brief telephone calls to Britain to cancel or modify these arrangements. Please contact the Operations Office to arrange a schedule for such calls.
‘That is all I have for the moment but, in view of the changed circumstances, Commander (Air) will now address the Air Group.’
The television screen blanked for a few seconds, then a swarthy, darkly bearded face appeared. ‘Good afternoon, this is Commander (Air). As the Captain has just outlined, it is likely that we will have to begin flying operations, possibly intense flying operations, at fairly short notice. The nature of the emergency on Crete suggests that it is unlikely that the Sea Harriers will be required, but rotary wing operations are almost certain to be carried out. There will be an initial briefing in the Number Two Briefing-Room at twenty-one hundred today. All rotary wing squadron personnel are to attend. That is all.’
Commander (Air)’s face was replaced on the TV screen by a sudden grey snowstorm and a buzzing sound, and someone switched off the big set with the remote.
‘Isn’t that typical?’ an anonymous voice piped up. ‘The bloody stovies get to sleep through this lot as well.’
Sporadic laughter greeted this remark. It was true that the Sea Harrier pilots – the ‘jet jockeys’ or ‘stovies’ – flew fewer hours than the helicopter crews, but this was primarily because of their very different roles. Nevertheless, it was popularly rumoured that the most common medical complaint suffered by 800 Squadron pilots was bedsores.
Outskirts of Matera, Puglia, Italy
‘It’s gone,’ Vento shouted out, as he ran back up the villa’s drive towards Perini. They’d found one set of keys in the field adjoining the wasteland, and Vento had immediately set off with the driver to where he’d left the Agusta.
‘What?’
‘The helicopter,’ Vento said, ‘it’s gone. And the other Alfa Romeo was parked in the lay-by. Richter must have taken the Agusta.’
For a moment Perini said nothing, then he span round to face Simpson. ‘You knew,’ he said. ‘You knew he could fly a helicopter.’ Simpson nodded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You never asked,’ Simpson replied, with a wintry smile. ‘And let’s get something quite clear, shall we? I will do nothing at all to assist you in capturing Richter. He’s one of my most valuable assets, and I will not tolerate seeing him incarcerated pointlessly in Italy, or anywhere else for that matter.
‘I don’t condone what he did here, but I do understand why he did it. Lomas killed a woman Richter had become personally involved with. He killed her slowly and with incredible precision so as to cause her the maximum possible pain, and when he’d finished he dumped her body next to Richter himself while he was unconscious. What Richter did was actually rather less than Lomas deserved. If it had been my decision, Lomas would have taken days to die.’
‘I have no interest whatsoever in Richter’s reasons,’ Perini snapped, then turned away and told one of the DCPP officers to contact Brindisi airport immediately and place the Sea Harrier under armed guard. Then he faced Simpson again. ‘The fact is that he made a murderous attack upon a bound and unarmed prisoner in full view of four witnesses. If Lomas dies, I expect Richter to be charged with murder. If he survives, I expect him to be charged with causing grievous bodily harm.’
‘Expect away,’ Simpson replied coldly. ‘As I’ve said, I’ll do nothing to help you. And you should also know that any attempts to extradite Richter from Britain will not succeed. I will see to that. If you persist with this vendetta, I promise you I will produce witnesses of unimpeachable probity who’ll be prepared to swear that at the moment this attack took place Richter was actually in London.’
‘Or Paris or Berlin or Madrid, I suppose,’ Perini said bitterly.
‘Or anywhere else I choose. Exactly,’ Simpson nodded. ‘I can see you’re finally getting the hang of it.’
Aeroporto di Brindisi, Papola-Casale, Puglia, Italy
Inside the squadron building, Richter dropped the flick-knife into a large plastic bag, then stripped off his T-shirt, jeans and trainers and stuffed them into it as well. Then he climbed into his flying overalls, pulled on his speed jeans and flying boots, slipped on the life-saving jacket, grabbed his helmet as well as the plastic bag and ran out of the building.
A fuel bowser had just arrived beside the Agusta and the driver was looking around in a puzzled fashion, presumably wondering where its pilot had got to. Richter strode briskly across to the Harrier, his eyes roaming over the control surfaces, but the Chief had been as good as his word, and all the locks had been removed. Richter climbed nimbly up the red ladder secured to the side of the aircraft, sat down, strapped himself in and pulled on his flying helmet. He shoved the plastic bag awkwardly over to one side of the cockpit.
He rushed through the pre-flight checks – again, the Chief Petty Officer had done those that he could – and as soon as he had completed them he reached out and levered the ladder away from the side of the cockpit. As it fell with a clatter on to the concrete hardstanding, the fuel bowser driver turned round to stare curiously at the Harrier.
Richter closed the canopy and removed the last two pins that primed the ejection seat. There are five pins altogether, but the Chief had already removed and stowed the other three. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a truck and a car approaching the hardstanding along the taxiway, headlights blazing and travelling at speed, but he ignored them.
He flicked the start switch and pressed the button next to it. The Auxiliary Power Unit started to whistle, and then Richter heard the sound he’d been waiting for: the mechanical whine as the APU started the Pegasus engine turning. This whine grew louder as the turbine span ever faster and then the jet settled into a steady, comforting roar.
Richter checked all the engine instruments, then glanced up the taxiway. The truck and car were almost at the edge of the hardstanding, but he really didn’t think they were going to pose a problem – for one very simple reason.
During practice air combat, live missiles are never carried, and the Sidewinder fitted below the starboard wing of Richter’s Harrier was a dummy apart from its seeker head, but the pair of Mark 4 Aden cannon – essentially a multi-barrelled Gatling gun similar to those fitted to American tank-busting helicopters and A10 aircraft – located in pods under the belly of the aircraft were very real, and he had persuaded Commander (Air) to authorize the loading of two ammunition packs of one hundred rounds for each gun.
Normally the FA2 Sea Harrier carries only missiles in various combinations. Richter had seen no point in asking Wings to let him carry live Sidewinders or AMRAAMs, but because he had no idea what Simpson was planning for him in Italy, some kind of self-defence capability had seemed prudent. The obvious solution was the Aden cannon, and the squadron maintainers had spent some hours fitting this pair of weapons.
The truck swept onto the hardstanding and screeched to a halt almost in front of the Harrier. Armed airmen poured out of the back and pointed their assault rifles at the aircraft. Richter did nothing, because he was waiting for the car to stop. When it did, blocking the access to the taxiway, two more armed soldiers climbed out.
Then Richter acted. He increased the power setting on the Pegasus slightly and pressed down on t
he right rudder pedal: the Harrier swung gently to the right until the nose of the aircraft was pointing directly at the back of the parked truck. He selected the Aden cannon, sighted carefully, making sure that none of the soldiers was in the firing line, and depressed the trigger, releasing it after about a second. There was a sound like tearing calico and the back of the truck simply ceased to exist as some fifty 30mm shells smashed into it from a distance of less than twenty yards. The impact swung what was left of the vehicle around in a half-circle, and Richter found himself looking into the terrified face of the driver, who was still in the cab.
The results were immediate and exactly what Richter had expected. The soldiers scattered and, as they disappeared into whatever cover they could find, he wound on the power and the Harrier began to move again, turning directly towards the car on the taxiway. The driver suddenly decided he’d be more likely to survive if he moved his vehicle, so floored the accelerator, swinging the wheel so that the car shot onto the hard-standing, well clear of the Harrier’s path and leaving the taxiway clear.
The Italians’ second line of defence was even then being assembled: three heavy fire vehicles were being parked nose to tail across the full width of the runway. But Richter didn’t need the runway. He turned the Harrier onto the taxiway, slammed the engine to full power, and the Harrier began to roll. He hit one hundred knots in four seconds, and less than two seconds after that, with one hundred and fifty knots showing on the ASI, he rotated the nozzles to fifty degrees and the Harrier leapt into the sky.
American Airlines 747, direct Baltimore-London Heathrow, western Atlantic
David Elias picked at the meal on the drop-down table in front of him with preoccupied disinterest. Although it seemed a hell of a long time since breakfast, he wasn’t particularly hungry, and even the best of airline food only ever seemed barely edible to him.
Pandemic pr-2 Page 12