High Requiem: A Johnny Fedora Espionage Spy Thriller Assignment Book 6

by Desmond Cory

  “I should think he’d be in the laboratories, wouldn’t you? Talking mathematics.”

  “Or maybe looking over the Bandit again,” suggested Johnny. He swung himself cautiously to the ground, flexing his back muscles. “That’s what seems to interest him most.”

  “Let’s go and take a shufty, anyway.”

  They walked quickly through the hangar entrance and out on to the wide tarmac stretch beyond. The third, the remaining Bandit, stood exactly in the centre, gleaming heavily in the sunlight; its nose pointing skywards, its fuselage scaffolded by the scaling-ladder. At its base stood a small and solitary figure.

  “There’s Levison, anyway,” said Emerald. “Come on.”

  … Levison turned to face them at the sound of their approaching footsteps. He seemed to be a little perplexed. “Hullo,” he said nervously.

  “Hullo,” said Emerald. “Where’s O’Brien? We’re looking for him.”

  “Well.” Levison jerked his thumb towards the Bandit’s smooth-plated hull. “He’s in there.”

  “And what’s he doing there?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “What d’you mean, you don’t know? You shouldn’t have left him there alone, dammit.” Emerald was indignant. “Anyway, would you mind very much asking him to step down here for a minute? He’s forgotten his appointment with the doc again, and the doc’s a bit worried about it.”

  “Yes, but …” Levison looked up towards the platform, helplessly. “I really don’t know what he’s doing. I mean, he’s gone and shut himself in.”

  “Shut himself …?”

  “Yes. He shut the door on me.” Levison’s voice rose to a plaintive squeak. “I banged about for a bit, but he didn’t seem to take any notice. I was beginning to wonder … That is, I was hoping he hadn’t been taken faint or anything like that.”

  Emerald glanced quickly at Johnny. “Can’t you get the door open, then … from outside?”

  “Well, no. Not very well.”

  “T’ck,” said Wray audibly.

  “Well, goodness me,” said Levison, on the defensive. “I’m quite as much surprised as you are.”

  “That’s hardly the point,” slid Emerald. “The thing is … He’s shut himself in? Good God.”

  “But was it an accident?” asked Johnny. “Or did he do it on purpose?”

  “I don’t know. The door just shut, that’s all. Of course, maybe he doesn’t know how to get it open again. Though I should think he’d find it pretty obvious, a fellow like that.”

  “We’d better talk to him. Then you can give him instructions, if necessary. The intercom’s working, I suppose?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Well, come on then. What are we waiting for?”

  … All four men stumped over towards the distant Control Room door. Johnny looked back over his shoulder as he went towards the Bandit; which stood on its launching space proudly, sullenly, and very much alone. He was conscious of a dull ache of expectation in the pit of his stomach, like an awareness of impending tragedy. And certainly the Bandit had the air of a tragic hero, of something nobly and obstinately Sophoclean …

  Johnny touched Emerald on the elbow. “O’Brien,” he began.

  “What about him?”

  “I think he’s thinking what I think he’s thinking,” said Johnny coherently. Surprisingly, Emerald understood.

  “Yes,” he said. “We should have thought of this.”

  They moved out of the stupefying sunlight into the shade of the hangar block; went through to the empty Control Room. Emerald marched across it, the walls echoing his footsteps blankly; he seated himself before the microphone and tripped the switch.

  “Hullo, O’Brien. This is Emerald. Can you hear me all right?”

  Silence.

  “O’Brien? Can you hear me?”

  Still there was no reply.

  Emerald looked swiftly from face to expectant face. “Damn it,” he said. “Have I got this thing switched on right, Levison?”

  Levison peered down at the microphone attachments. “Well—everything seems to be in order.”

  “I’ll try again,” said Emerald. His thumb depressed the transmitting key once more. “… O’Brien, this is Emerald. Answer if you can hear me, please. Answer if you can hear me.”

  He waited. Everybody waited. Nothing happened.

  “… Something’s wrong,” said Wray in the end.

  “Yes. Good old Wray. Always the man to rely on for an acute diagnosis.” Emerald leaned back in the chair and cracked his finger-joints. “The question is, what? Is he at all likely to have thrown another of his famous fainting fits?”

  “It’s possible. It’s very possible. Especially after the exertion of climbing up that scaling-ladder.”

  “If we assume that that’s what’s happened, how the devil do we winkle him out?”

  The question was once again addressed to Levison, who blinked. “I dare say we can manage it. We’ll have to get one of the Construction Engineers on the job. But I can’t help feeling—”

  “Better inform the Director, too,” said Emerald gloomily. “I’ll give it one more try …”

  He stretched out his hand; a second before he touched the switch, the amplifier suddenly crackled. Everybody turned instinctively towards it, Levison with a visible jump. “H’lo,” said the loudspeaker indistinctly; then, more decisively:

  “That you, Emerald? O’Brien here. Over.”

  “Well I’m damned,” said Emerald very quickly. “… Listen, O’Brien. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for some minutes now. Is anything the matter? Over.”

  “No, everything’s fine. Just fine.”

  “In that case, what seems to be the trouble? Can’t you get that bloody door open or something?”

  A pause then,

  “I’m taking her up, Emerald. In five minutes’ time. You’d better get the boys in right away.”

  “No, you’re not,” said Emerald calmly. “I tell you quite certainly, you’re not. Come on down and behave like a grown-up. “

  “I mean it. There’s nothing to stop me. Go on. Collect the boffins.”

  “Get the Director,” said Emerald briefly to Levison. Then to O’Brien again:

  “You haven’t got the fuel to lift yourself five thousand feet, O’Brien. And you’re horsing about with a job that cost three-quarters of a million pounds. Be reasonable, will you?”

  “The fuel gauge is right in front of me. So that bluff’s out.” O’Brien chuckled. It sounded eerie. “And I can fly this thing as well as anyone. It’s got wings and an engine, hasn’t it? That’s all I’ve ever asked.”

  “Look, for God’s sake, I’m not worried about you. You can kill yourself any damned way you like. But you’re sitting on top of a nuclear generator; if you kick it in at the wrong height, you’re going to trail radioactive exhaust all over the camp and maybe all over half Africa. Think it over, O’Brien. The thing’s too important for this kind of last-act melodrama.”

  “I’m switching off now,” said O’Brien. “I’ll come through again at three minutes to take-off time. And I shall take-off at three o’clock precisely. My chronometer now gives six minutes and … thirty seconds to three. That’s all. So long, bloke.”

  Emerald stared at the clock on the Control Room wall. Then, very slowly, he laid down the microphone.

  “This shouldn’t happen,” he said to Johnny. “This really shouldn’t happen to a dog.”

  “No. But it’s happened. Can he do it?”

  “Oh yes. As he says, there’s nothing to stop him.”

  … There was a rushing of feet in the corridor and Mr. Mitchell entered at full tilt, out of breath, his tie slightly askew. This was the first time that Johnny had ever seen the Director run; it was not an action that he performed with notable grace or dignity. He went directly to the intercom desk, picked up the microphone and took an enormous breath. “O’Brien,” he said, with magisterial authority. “Listen to me, O’Brien.”r />
  There followed the usual five seconds of silence. “It’s no good,” said Emerald resignedly. “He’s cut himself off. He says he’s coming in at three minutes to take-off time, which means about three minutes from now - or rather less.”

  “Well, how the blazes did this happen?” cried the Director, turning upon Emerald with a fine show of fury. “Who let him in there? And why? There’s going to be an official inquiry about this, I’ll have you know.”

  “But you issued the pass yourself”

  “That has nothing to do with the case. This is your responsibility, Colonel, your personal responsibility. I’m going to hold a full inquiry—”

  “Right now?” asked Emerald sweetly.

  “Right now? Eh? At the earliest possible—”

  “Meanwhile, this dam’ O’Brien’s going to kick off with the Bandit right under our noses, unless we do something to stop him.”

  “He can’t. My God, he can’t. For Heaven’s sake, he might come down in Russia. Or China. Or anywhere. My God, this is absolutely terrible.”

  “How can we stop him?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  “Can we siphon off the fuel tanks, for instance?”

  “We could … No. There isn’t time. It’s impossible.”

  “Then there’s only one thing for it. I’ll call up Farmer, get him to scramble the Vamps and they’ll shoot O’Brien down as he goes up. He’ll probably land on top of us, but that can’t be helped. Agreed?”

  “Yes. Very well.”

  Emerald strode across the room and jerked up the telephone receiver. The Director stood still for a moment, striving to recover his composure, then followed; beads of perspiration had sprung up under his eyes, like symptoms of some unpleasant skin disease. Before Emerald could speak, he pushed down the bar of the telephone with his finger.

  “No. On second thoughts, no. We can’t do that either, Jimmy.”

  “Why not? The thing is we haven’t any choice.”

  “We can’t just shoot it to pieces like that. God - after all we’ve been through … No, I won’t allow it.”

  “What do you suggest, then?” asked Emerald.

  “I don’t know, I tell you. Is he really going through with this, or is he just putting on a bluff?”

  “Why should he bluff? No, I think he means it.”

  “Well, I don’t see how we can stop him.” The Director removed his spectacles and wiped at them furiously. “And he’s supposed to be a flyer, after all. If he can handle a jet, then he’s got a chance. Whether he’ll be able to hold a course at that kind of speed is another matter … Naturally. … But - well - all right. Get everybody up to their posts.”

  “Get the …?”

  “Yes, yes. All the operators.” The Director looked towards the clock on the wall. “And tell them to get a move on. We can at least track him. And if only he can manage to put the thing down again more or less in one piece …”

  He stumped over to his chair and sat down, gazing moodily out of the window. Emerald spoke short, telling phrases into the telephone. After he had replaced the receiver, there was perhaps thirty seconds of silence. Then came the first sounds of running feet along the corridor.

  The Control Room filled rapidly. Operators slid into their seats, directed curious glances to one another, stared at the Director. A hum of conversation began to rise. When all the places were filled, Mr. Mitchell turned round and clapped his hands once.

  “Gentlemen,” he said into the ensuing silence. “Owing to unforeseen circumstances, the next experimental flight will take place almost immediately. The normal routine will be followed. Take-off time will be at three o’clock; from now on, if you please, complete silence will be observed. Do not allow yourselves to get flustered; I repeat, the normal routine will be followed. That is all.”

  Silence fell again; an appalling silence. Mr. Mitchell leaned sideways to whisper something to his right-hand henchman, who nodded and obediently stood up; Mitchell took his place before the microphone.

  “What about the scaffolding?” asked Emerald, also in a whisper.

  “No time to dismantle it. Doesn’t make any difference, anyway.”

  The Director’s fingers toyed with the intercom switch, as though ill-accustomed to its contours … “Hullo,” said the amplifier suddenly, and everyone looked up. “O’Brien calling Control. Three minutes coming up. Over.”

  The Director leaned forward, almost eagerly. “Hullo, O’Brien. This is the Director. I am making a final appeal to you not to proceed any further. Please leave the aircraft immediately. Over.”

  “Please synchronise,” said O’Brien metallically. “Please synchronise watches. Over.”

  The Director’s shoulders slackened. For a moment he sat motionless. Then he said:

  “Very well. Synchronisation as follows. The time is two fifty-seven and . . . seven seconds. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Over.”

  His left-hand assistant raised an arm. “Synchronised. Reading correctly,” said O’Brien. “I will watch out for your red at minus two minutes thirty. Over.”

  Mr. Mitchell nodded briefly to another of his minions. Everybody else was again bending over their panels, their instruments, their notebooks; curiosity had now been replaced by professional concentration. From time to time, someone would raise his head to look fixedly out of the window towards the waiting Bandit; but only to return his attention to the work before him yet more determinedly than before.

  “Two thirty. On red,” said Mr. Mitchell.

  “… Red acknowledged,” said O’Brien from afar.

  The Director moistened his lips. “… O’Brien, do you honestly believe you can fly the thing?”

  “Yes. I can fly it. As long as it’ll hold together.”

  “All right. We’re going to co-operate with you because we haven’t any other choice. You must keep in constant contact with us, and you must report frequently on monitor readings and course changes. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” said O’Brien tonelessly. “Yes, I understand.”

  “Very well.” Mr. Mitchell looked round the room. “On tabs and recording apparatus. On TW connections. Stand by for take-off.”

  The panel on the wall flickered into life; DEAD SILENCE, it said.

  “… Two minutes,” said Mr. Mitchell.

  12

  “Two minutes,” said O’Brien.

  Sunlight came into the cabin through the perspex observation panel. A curious kind of sunlight, reddish in colour, diffused. O’Brien’s body was at rest in the shadow; in the sunlight only his ungloved hands moved restlessly over the instrument panel. He was not aware of their movement; he felt relaxed, almost sleepy, not yet fully released from his dreams; at the back of his mind strange shapes still shifted and hovered; out of the eye of the sun came swirling and swinging lean bird-like creatures, breaking away to show their scythe-like wings in silhouette, diving downwards, swiftly downwards towards the mountains where slow mists heaved …

  O’Brien breathed deeply, regularly. His eyes did not turn from their cat-like, introspective gaze. Directly before him was the panel with its fantastic array of dials, of devices that would carry him far faster than sound towards the open sky, that would guide him until he fell … O’Brien could not imagine that final dive. He had tried, but the image evaded him. Speed such as that was unimaginable. He preferred to think of the great grey mountains rolling up to him in slow motion, half-hidden in wraiths of cloud; of their high-throned peaks and crevasses, of green ice brilliant with a thousand lights, of the open glaciers where the dying plane might seek its final shelter, its grave in the shifting snows. The crags heavy with echoes, repeating and repeating again the sound of that last splintering crash; then silence, dead silence, that perpetual silence in which a man might sleep …

  “… One minute,” said the Director.

  O’Brien’s eyes flickered towards the chronometer. “One minute,” he said.

&nbs
p; “Switch on your warmers now. And your stabiliser. Check your stabiliser bar to be sure that it’s functioning correctly.”

  O’Brien’s hands, warmed by the sun, hesitated for a moment; then were plunged forwards and into the shadow. A needle jumped on a dial to his left; quivered; settled steady. Slowly O’Brien became conscious of a low-pitched hum that came from all around him; a regular, rhythmic vibration that seemed to sway the aircraft infinitesimally to and fro in sympathy with its throbbing. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably; folded his hands on the control-column.

  “Confirm your last instructions, please.”

  “Warmers on. Stabilisers on.” O’Brien cleared his throat with an unpleasant rasp. “There’s a humming noise that comes from all around me …”

  He stopped, realising that his observation was valueless. Everything was valueless. Except the struggle … Which had reached its crucial stage … Etre homme, c’est sentir, en posant sa pierre, que l’on contribue a bâtir le monde. L’homme courageux luttait au nom de sa Création contre la mort … There were others who had known it, he thought. There were even others who had said it. Saint-Exupéry … Yes, and even now he could remember, as though part of the words themselves, the shadow of leaves on the printed page and the scent of grass crushed under his body and nearby the waiting Spitfires, and then, in that summer of 1940, the scrambles with Saint-Exupéry still in his tunic pocket and in his heart already a longing for the hot sun of Africa. And the Heinkels coming over, high over the Weald …

  “Thirty seconds,” said Mr. Mitchell.

  “Thirty seconds,” said O’Brien.

  … A red blossom of flame from the port engine. And the bomber keeling over, lurching away on its painful run to the ground; in it were five men dying. A momentary glimpse, caught as the Spitfire swooped away and registered while memory lasted; that had been the first kill.

  Had it been too late, even then? O’Brien would never know.

  “… Fifteen seconds. I will count out the final ten seconds. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.”