Rogue Hercules

by Denis Pitts

  He handed over to Harry and went back to the bunk. He pulled back the cover and looked at Sorrel’s face. Stubbles had closed her eyes. The surprised expression had gone. But for the blood which had matted on the side of her head, she might have been sleeping peacefully.

  Martin touched her cheek with his hand. Even as he did so he realised ruefully that only a few minutes ago he himself would willingly have stoved her head in.

  ‘Poor bloody kid,’ he said. ‘You just wanted to be the chief rat in the sewer.’

  He covered her face and went back to his seat.

  ‘It’s sort of time for a board meeting, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘Let us consider our position. We are smack bang at three thousand feet over Africa. At least three countries are prepared to shoot us down. The others will probably put us in front of firing squads. Any thoughts?’

  ‘We’ve got two hours’ fuel,’ said Stubbles. ‘Which is not exactly going to get us to Atlantic City.’

  The captain pondered this for a few moments.

  ‘Well then, let’s do some business,’ he said quietly. ‘They all want to fight each other down there. It’s a seller’s market and we’re the sellers.’

  ‘What have you got in mind?’ said Harry.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ said Martin, ‘during a period of unemployment I made a few bob by auctioning off horses at the Marlborough Horse Fair. They reckoned that I should have taken it up full time. Pity I didn’t.’

  ‘So what?’ said Harry.

  ‘So I want you to give me a frequency that the whole of Africa can listen to.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I’m being bloody, deadly serious, Harry Black. Let me speak to the people.’

  Harry selected the most universal frequency he could find.

  ‘You’re on the air, Captain and cue you.’

  Martin took a deep breath.

  He pushed the “transmit” button and assumed a powerful voice as though he were talking to a group of farmers around a ring.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I’d like to welcome you all to the great flying arms auction of the air.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ said Harry.

  ‘My assistant here says I’m crazy, ladies and gentlemen. Take it from me that I am crazy. I must be crazy to sell at prices like this. Everything is going at rock bottom prices.

  ‘We’re selling the kind of merchandise that only we can sell and at prices that even the thinnest of your wallets can afford. Take it from me, good people, you could scour the gun markets of the world for bargains like this and you’ll never see the like again. Welcome to Captain Gore’s flying emporium. We’re in business.’

  ‘Fool,’ said Harry. But even he was laughing.

  ‘Of course I’m a fool,’ shouted Martin. ‘My assistant says I’m a fool. I am a fool. This merchandise is not only new, its unused, untouched by human hand.

  ‘Gather round and I’ll show you. I’m not just here today and gone tomorrow. I’m here today and gone today.’

  Martin was calm, but his eyes flashed with delight as he looked out into the night. He waggled Juliet’s wings with the release of his tension.

  ‘Sorry that there are no catalogues. You know what printers are like. But let me describe lot one.

  ‘We have five hundred anti-personnel mines, activated, would you believe, by the heat of your very bodies. Bury them in the ground, ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters, and watch them grow. Step within six yards of them and they’ll flower in front of your very eyes. Or leap into the air and they’ll explode into a gorgeous profusion of gold colour and then they’ll cut you in half. Mind you, if you happen to be a child collecting butterflies maybe, they’ll do even more. They’ll cut your head right off. Now do I have a bid, ladies and gentlemen? We guarantee immediate delivery but the terms, and here’s the only condition, are strictly cash.’

  Martin laughed aloud and looked at the stars for applause.

  ‘Now while you’re making up your minds on that, how about a real temptation? How about one hundred and fifty Red-eye missiles which come to you complete with launcher all packed in a hand-made pinewood case complete with a book of instructions?

  ‘It’s guaranteed to bring down helicopters, fighters, bombers, you name the flying bird and it’ll kill. I tell you a baby could use this one straight from its case. I’ll personally vouch for that. It’s what you’ve all been looking for.’

  Martin paused and listened. He heard Stubbles say, ‘Hey, don’t stop — keep it up. Great.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Martin. ‘Now ladies and gentlemen, you’ve kept your hands in your pockets for far too long. You’re in danger of losing out on one of the great cut-price shopping sprees of our time. Now let’s hear some bids. I’ll join both lots together. What do I hear? Do I hear fifty thousand dollars? You can’t go wrong. Every item comes with a money back guarantee if it doesn’t kill or maim the other chap. And just one other thing, these mines and missiles and every weapon in my treasure trove are absolutely impartial. They’ll kill rats and blacks and Chinamen, every damn colour down there on that planet. They’ll kill women and children and animals with absolute and complete disregard for race or colour. Have no fear, good people, these are the real McCoy.’

  Martin paused. Sweat was streaming down his face. There was silence on the radio but he was hot now. Nothing was going to stop him.

  ‘Now you may wonder how we came to have these hard-to-get commodities. I have to tell you without breaking a confidence that they were the property of a gentleman down on his luck, namely the State of Rhodesia. He couldn’t afford them, maybe you can. I’m sure you can indeed at these prices.

  ‘Perhaps I can interest you in some M 16 rifles as well. We’ve got a nice lot of those in the toy department. You have again my personal undertaking that this rifle is so effective that it will make a hole the size of a penny in your front and leave a hole in your back not six inches wide, not eight inches wide, not ten inches wide. I guarantee a hole a foot wide. And if that’s not good enough for you, I’ll guarantee that it’ll take off an arm or leg at the thigh and most of your bottom with one shot. Now then come on, let’s see a few hands, good people, because we haven’t got that amount of time.’

  They were circling now over the Mahabe Depression. They listened out for some time. There was no response.

  ‘Now are you sure I can’t interest you in a thousand anti-tank projectiles? Or mortars or infra-red night sights that’ll pick out and clearly identify the foreskin of a moth at a thousand paces?

  ‘Here you are, ladies and gentlemen, and now I really will wait for the highest bidder. We’re going to sit on this frequency, just waiting. But don’t be shy there, sir. Step right up and name your price. Just as long as you can start bidding in United States dollars. On the other hand we don’t mind pounds, francs, yen or escudos or rands or dinars or szloty. Do I hear five hundred thousand dollars? I don’t hear five hundred thousand dollars. Or what do I hear? And incidentally the price will include three first class round the world tickets on an airline of our choice.’

  For the next thirty minutes there was constant chatter on the radio but it came entirely from other airmen near at hand.

  A South African Airways 747 asked them what they were high on. A Central African Airways DC9 asked whether they’d send them a catalogue.

  This was normal air-to-air banter but they managed to impress on the other pilots that they were deadly serious. Some of the others even suggested possible markets for the arms and the banter turned into a discussion.

  Then they all became silent as a new voice from the ground joined them.

  ‘This is Zambia radio. Stand by for a message.’

  ‘Do I hear a bid?’ said Martin.

  ‘Zambia radio. The message reads, You are welcome to land at Luzaka to discuss the sale of your cargo after inspection.’

  ‘I did hear a bid,’ said Martin. ‘Clearly a gentleman of discernment. And I should tell y
ou something else, Mr Zambia, that you also have a Charlie one three zero aeroplane thrown in. You’ll have to negotiate that with the owners but take it from me that it’s going cheap. It needs a little overhaul here and there and it’s got a few miles on the clock but it’s a great bargain.’

  They wheeled again.

  ‘Now can I interest anyone else in this load?’

  Again there was silence and then a new voice joined them.

  ‘This is Malawi. I am instructed to tell you that my government is also interested.’

  ‘So there we are, ladies and gentlemen, now I have two bidders. That gentleman sounded like he meant business,’ said Martin.

  ‘Now, are there any more interested parties? Otherwise let’s make this a straight bidding match between the two gentlemen.’

  There was a third voice. It was more distant than the others and less distinct.

  ‘This is Entebbe control, Uganda. I have a message. Field Marshal President Idi Amin Dada says if that is Captain Gore speaking, the Field Marshal wishes to send his greetings and announces that he is prepared to grant a full and unconditional pardon if you land at Entebbe with your merchandise.’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Martin. ‘Kindly present Captain Gore’s compliments to His Majesty Field Marshal President Idi Amin Dada and tell him to go and stuff himself.’

  There was an almost beatific smile on Martin’s face as he said it. Then he became serious again.

  ‘Now Zambia and Malawi, it’s up to you. Let’s hear what you’re prepared to spend on our goodies. We’re asking two hundred thousand dollars. What do you say?’

  While they were listening for the first of these replies, another voice came loud and clear through their earphones.

  ‘Juliet Mike Oscar, this is Zambia Radio. I have a message for you.’

  Martin said, ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Zambia Radio. Message reads, “Payment by letter of credit only”.’

  Martin laughed.

  ‘No joy, Zambia old fruit. Looks like Malawi.’

  They were about to turn when a new voice could be heard faintly.

  ‘This is UNITA. We are expecting those arms. Our lives are in danger. Please follow your instructions. We will arrange a cash payment.’

  Martin looked at Harry. His co-pilot nodded. So did Stubbles.

  Martin said, ‘Always a sucker for a hard luck story. Sold to UNITA. We’re on our way.’

  *

  The telex was addressed to SOVDEL UNINATIONS, ATTENTION N. ROGOV.

  It was handed to Natalia paragraph by paragraph as the telex operator fed the tape into a decoding machine. The first three of these paragraphs informed her graphically of the loss of Uglov and Umboto and the MIG.

  The telex continued: IT IS MY CONSIDERED VIEW THAT NO PROPAGANDA VALUE CAN NOW BE OBTAINED FROM THIS OPERATION WHICH MUST BE CONSIDERED A TOTAL FAILURE. YOU ARE INSTRUCTED TO DESTROY ALL DOCUMENTS PERTAINING TO THE TARGET AIRCRAFT AND THE EVIDENCE SUPPLIED TO YOU. YOU ARE TO RETURN TO MOSCOW ON THE FIRST AVAILABLE FLIGHT TOMORROW AND BE PREPARED TO MAKE FULL JUSTIFICATION TO ENQUIRY INSTITUTED BY CHIEFS OF AIR STAFF INTO LOSS OF VALUABLE FIGHTER PLANE AND DISTINGUISHED SOVIET OFFICER. ACKNOWLEDGE THIS IMMEDIATELY - LITVINOFF.

  Natalia read this paragraph several times. The telex operator, an anonymous young Georgian bureaucrat, turned and saw that tears were well into the young woman’s eyes.

  He could have said something sympathetic. He might even have held out a friendly hand. But he chose to ignore the tears. His was a good posting and he wanted to keep it. He said, quite coldly, ‘Any reply?’

  She turned away from him and looked at a big wall communications map of the world instead, trying to focus her eyes on the African coast where it had happened.

  ‘Ask him what happened to the other aircraft.’

  The operator typed out the message. They waited for a few seconds and the machine began to chatter furiously.

  THE TARGET AIRCRAFT IS NO LONGER OUR CONCERN. FOR YOUR INFORMATION SOVIET NAVAL RADAR INDICATES THAT IT CONTINUED ON COURSE AND PROBABLY REACHED DESTINATION. CONFIRM IMMEDIATELY YOUR RETURN TOMORROW. YOUR RESERVATION CONFIRMED VIA AEROFLOT 216 LEAVING NEW YORK 0920 — LITVINOFF.

  Natalia said, ‘Confirm my return, please. Thank you.’

  She left the telex room and went into the office which had been prepared for her. Her evidence, together with that prepared for her, was contained in two manila envelopes.

  She sat at the desk and opened one of them and took out an enlarged photograph of Martin Gore. She looked at it for a long time.

  She spoke softly in English.

  ‘Oh you bastard,’ she said. ‘You clever, devious bastard.’

  She took a paper handkerchief from her handbag, wiped her face and repaired her eye make-up in a hand-mirror.

  Then she took the documents along the corridor and placed them one by one into a shredding machine. The last document to be turned into a thousand strips of useless paper was the photograph of Martin Gore.

  *

  They plunged on through that star-crazy night, oblivious of the wonderment around them and careless, too, of the anger and hostility which poured through their headsets from controllers on the ground below who demanded their immediate landing and explanations. They heard themselves described to the fellow airmen as a menace to navigation and they heard, too, scheduled flights being diverted well away from their path.

  They flew well below the air lanes and maintained a constant radar scan for innocent and friendly flyers as well as hostile fighters.

  All three men knew now, finally and irrevocably, that they were driving a rogue aeroplane over a land they did not know to a destination which they might never find. They knew that their flying careers were finished. The exultation of the previous few minutes had turned savagely into a desperate need to be on the ground and away from this screeching coop in the sky and the horror which lay on the bunk so close behind them.

  Using the airports at Livingstone and Sesheke as beacons, they entered the Caprivi Strip and began to fly westwards in search of the beacon which Sorrel had told them about. Harry swung the direction finder continually in search of the transmitter. Martin and Stubbles watched the fuel. At this altitude they were burning it far too quickly.

  They maintained a constant running equation which centred around a point of return which would allow them to land at least safely in Sesheke even though they were certain to end up in a Zambian prison. With thirty minutes of fuel left they were approaching this very line.

  Martin said, ‘I’m sorry, I seem to have screwed it up for all of you.’

  Stubbles made a minimal adjustment on the panel above him.

  ‘I dunno, Captain,’ he said. ‘Maybe they’ll be so delighted with the cargo we bring them that they’ll just let us walk away.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ murmured Martin. ‘The girl’s death will need to be explained. And there’s the murder charge from Djibouti, three or four charges of transgressing air-space, misuse and abuse of radio telecommunications and the unlawful importing of weapons. It’ll be a show trial — exactly as the Russians wanted.’

  Harry was half leaning forward, his hands pressing the headset closer to his ears. Martin tapped him, but the co-pilot waved him away irritably. He screwed his face tightly with the effort of concentration and then he turned to Martin.

  ‘Dot…dash…dot!’ he shouted. His face was a colossal smile.

  ‘Dot…dash…dot!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘About fifty miles I guess. Straight ahead.’

  *

  Harry had made a calculated guess that the “R” beacon was only fifty miles west of the position from which they first heard the faint Morse. He had failed to take into account the cleanness of the night air which gave this low-powered signal a much exaggerated strength and clarity. They had flown well over a hundred miles before they saw a faint, orange-coloured glow directly ahead of them. Martin held their height until they were able to distinguish the lig
ht clearly.

  ‘I’ll circle once and then we’ll go in low,’ he announced.

  ‘Make it a good tight circle, Captain,’ said Stubbles. His voice had lost none of its querulous innocence. ‘As far as the books and the gauges are concerned, we ran out of fuel five minutes back.’

  ‘If I could see a strip, I’d go straight in,’ said Martin. ‘I just don’t see a strip.’

  ‘Shall I flash the lights as the girl said?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Thanks, Harry,’ Martin was apologetic. ‘That’s how scrambled your mind gets. I’d forgotten.’

  Within a few seconds of the giant landing lights flashing out the one letter “G”, the blackness surrounding the big orange beacon was brought to life by the lighting of two parallel rows of fire. They caught a quick glimpse of men running with flaming torches and the lights of waiting trucks below.

  Martin banked steeply and they were flying back, the airstrip now fully lit, below and to their left. They completed their landing checks and as they turned again for their final approach, they could see a red smoke flare brilliantly illuminated in the light of a vehicle. The smoke was rising vertically.

  Harry said, ‘That’s the crosswind component solved. What about the barometric pressure?’

  Martin said, ‘Forget that. I wouldn’t mind a few circles and bumps to find out what the texture of the ground is like.’

  The strip was a mile ahead. Juliet felt as though she was hovering as they brought her back to the slowest possible landing speed and let her fall easily towards the threshold.

  ‘We leave the motors running,’ murmured Martin softly. ‘We leave the landing lights on and we’ll turn back facing the runway. Might as well be sure.’

  ‘Do you reckon they’ve got cash?’ asked Harry.

  ‘At this stage of the game, I’d take shoelaces,’ said Martin tersely. ‘Full flaps.’

  Stubbles interjected brightly. ‘Captain, I’ve been loath to ask before, but these UNITA characters — are they good guys or bad guys?’

  He never heard the answer. As Juliet roared her way towards the lights ahead, a single .303 bullet, fired from the ground below, entered the flight-deck through the thin alloy fabric and tore through the equally vulnerable clothing and skin of the engineer. It killed him instantly as it passed upwards through his left lung, his shoulder, leaving his body momentarily before re-entering through his chin and thus into his brain where it finally lodged.