Rogue Hercules

by Denis Pitts

  The airstrip had been set in a wide, lightly shrubbed flay caused in the desert by the flash-floods of centuries. The sand under his feet was hard and firm.

  The Cubans had obviously attacked in force. There were six heavy lorries and several half-tracked vehicles, bristling with machine guns, on the perimeter. Two heavy lorries remained immediately in front of Juliet. The other four were lined up behind her, obviously awaiting the cargo.

  Martinez touched Martin’s arm.

  ‘Come, friend,’ he said. ‘It is time to stop the game playing. I don’t believe that Captain Black is capable of blowing himself up and I’m losing patience with him. I’m a humane man and I don’t like shooting civilians.’

  Martin was only half listening. He was making rapid calculations based on the scene in front of him. Harry was leaning insolently against the bulkhead of the crew door with the grip in his hand.

  ‘Give me ten minutes with him,’ Martin told the tall Cuban. ‘You’re right. You have been humane. I’ll talk my friend round. We’ll take the trial.’

  ‘Good,’ said Martinez. He sounded relieved. ‘I would like to be loading these weapons soon before it gets too hot.’

  ‘If you let me switch on two of the engines, we can get the air-conditioning working and keep the whole damn lot cool,’ said Martin.

  The other man looked at the damaged wing and the two lorries.

  ‘You’re not going to get very far,’ he smiled. ‘Go ahead. Be my guest. I need a cold beer.’

  As the two pilots entered the flight-deck, Harry whispered, ‘I’ve got an idea. If only we could start the engines…’

  Martin said, ‘That’s just what we’re going to do. You’re thinking well, my brother.’

  ‘I’ve unhitched each of the pallets,’ said Harry. ‘You’ll need to gun her like hell, but I reckon we could lose them…’

  ‘…and drive home,’ said Martin. It’s a hell of a risk.’

  ‘She’ll do it. Christ, she’s a Hercules.’

  ‘Better than a firing squad.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So we roll.’

  They took their places as though for a normal start.

  ‘Electrical control panel.’

  Harry leaned back and looked at Stubbles’ board.

  ‘Set.’

  ‘We don’t really need ground control permission.’

  They watched two Cuban soldiers walk casually between them and the lorries. The pilots were excited now and talked in rapid, staccato voices. Ahead of them, on the other side of the lorries, they saw the flay widen at the end of the improvised runway. There were several big boulders in their path. Martin was already working out the best way of avoiding them.

  ‘ATM and generator.’

  ‘As required.’

  ‘We’ll use inboards only. The outboards are going to hit those lorry hoods.’

  ‘Roger.’

  The engines were screaming hard as Martin brought the pitch controls into play. He gripped the nose wheel steering wheel and waited until the Hercules was almost dragging herself away from the brakes. He could see men running in all directions. The perspex at his side suddenly shattered and bullets ripped into the engine control panel. Then he released the brake.

  She leapt forward with a violence which surprised the two pilots and crashed immediately into the two lorries, hurling them aside like puny toys.

  As soon as she was free from the fearful scraping of her hull against the metal of the lorries, Martin eased her speed back slightly and then put her up to the very maximum that the two engines could give them.

  They felt her rip forward under them as the five cargo pallets slid along their rails and fell crashing to pieces, on the sand behind them.

  Martin’s hand gripped the steering wheel with the strength of a steel vice. Harry whooped like a rodeo cowboy as the captain steered the swerving, bucking, bellowing monster off the makeshift runway and raced it towards the boulders.

  One of the Cuban scout cars had opened fire from their right and more perspex flew around them as they dodged the first boulder, almost turning the Hercules onto her wing. They were free now, heading for the first bend in the flay at well over a hundred miles an hour, Juliet bouncing now on the uneven ground, floating into the air and crashing back onto her great fat wheels before bouncing again.

  No other aircraft could have withstood that punishment for so long, but the Hercules almost revelled in the cruel treatment.

  When Martin estimated that they were at least ten miles from the Cubans, he eased back and slowed her. Now she jogged gratefully. Steering became easier. Martin looked at Harry for the first time since they had started to roll. His co-pilot was caked in dust which had been sucked through the rear hatches. He was shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘Man, man, would you believe?’ he kept saying. ‘Would you believe?’

  Two miles further on the port engine stopped and Juliet made a gentle ground loop before coming to her final standstill. Martin stopped the starboard inner engine.

  ‘What sort of checklist have we got for this kind of situation?’ he asked the still bemused Harry.

  They gathered emergency packs together and filled plastic water containers from the main tank in the galley and they walked out through the rear. They stood on the sand and felt the heat attacking them.

  ‘North for the firing squad or south for the French murder rap?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Lead on Captain,’ said Harry, the mirth bubbling up within him. ‘Whichever way, it’s going to be a hell of a long walk.’

  Fifty yards away they turned and saw the Hercules looming in the desert. Her outer propellers were buckled and there were savage gashes along the length of her hull and the bulging wheel housings.

  ‘Poor old dear,’ said Martin with genuine sadness. ‘She looks quite pathetic doesn’t she?’

  They turned away from her and began to walk towards the distant frontier.

  The letter read:

  Dear Comrade Uncle,

  I have chosen to defect to the capitalist system because I feel a deep sense of shame at my behaviour. I must tell you now that the reason for my determination to see the capture of the renegade aircraft and its criminal crew was entirely personal.

  During the years which I spent in New York on behalf of the Lenin Institute, I came to know Captain Gore and fell entirely in love with him. I tried desperately to avoid such weakness but it was impossible.

  Unhappily, it was he who ended the relationship and I realised then that, somehow, I must see him again. I have taken advantage of you and the entire Soviet system to bring him within our orbit. I was prepared to crucify this man — if only to spend a few more minutes in his company. I’m sure you will not understand such pathetic emotional thinking.

  Now, quite suddenly, I am faced with the certainty that I shall not only see him again, but that I shall be required to prosecute him and almost certainly see him marched before an Angolan firing squad.

  I cannot bring myself to do this and, accordingly, I must reveal the truth of this whole affair to the American authorities in the hope that they will take the necessary measures to save the Americans on the aeroplane and thus save the Briton.

  I deeply regret each of my actions and I apologise to you and the leaders of the Soviet Government for whom I have worked for so long and with such success…

  *

  As they breasted the first of several hillocks, they turned and took one last look at the Hercules.

  ‘Those Cubans are going to be right on our asses,’ said Harry.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ mused Martin. ‘They’re going to get those weapons together before they get too hot in the sun. Then they’ll need to look after the wounded. They know we can’t get far. They’ll take their time. That man Martinez, he’d think that way. A pity, Harry. I quite liked him.’

  Martin took a slim, pocket-sized transmitter from his backpack and slowly drew out the aerial to its maximum length.

  �
�Radio detonator,’ he said. ‘I hope they haven’t found the receiver. I taped it between four mortar shells.

  ‘Look north, Harry. You’ll see the biggest bloody fireworks display since the Jubilee.’ He flicked a tiny switch. ‘Safety off,’ he murmured. ‘Poor bastards.’

  He pushed a button in the middle of the transmitter and they watched as the distant sky turned orange and then began to blacken. It was several seconds before they staggered in the force of the blast wave.

  *

  In Moscow, Litvinoff read the letter once more and placed it in a file marked ‘ROGOV, N. —I MPROPER RELATIONSHIP WITH CAPTAIN MARTIN GORE, 1973-74’.

  He placed it on his lap and gazed for a long time into the log fire in his weekend dacha.

  ‘We knew, Comrade niece,’ he said softly. Then he fed the file, page by page, photograph by photograph, into the flames.

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