by John Gardner
'That's it, sir. Pattern's clear,' said the Flight Lieutenant.
The control tower staff relaxed slightly, except for the two WRAF Radar officers, immobile, their eyes following the scanners. The Wing Commander went over to the door that opened, from the long bowed glass surround, on to the balcony which ran round the squat building. Outside, Mostyn stood talking vvith the Group Captain - a craggy Highlander, more clan chieftain than Station Commander: known to everyone, behind his back, as Black Angus.
'Holding pattern's clear, sir. We're closed until the special demonstration,' reported the Wing Commander.
'Guid. Thank ye.' The Groupie led Mostyn back into the greenhouse of the control tower. For a second, Boysie's concentration was disturbed by a tall helpless-looking WRAF, who had momentarily raised her head from the swinging circle of light on her scanner. A pair of smoky-grey eyes locked with his across the room. Boysie swallowed hard at that old, old feeling, and quickly turned his attention back to Mostyn and Black Angus, who were bearing down on him.
'Oakes and yerself would be best placed inside. Somewhere over here.' The Group Captain indicated the left-hand side of the glass sweep. 'Ye get a grand view of the station from here - main gate, and that high ground yer so interested in. And I hope, Mr Oakes,' he prodded at Boysie's chest with a bony finger, 'that ye haven't any stones on ye. Ye know what they say about people in glass houses.' His laugh came grumbling from the back of his throat. The control tower staff tittered politely. It was the Groupie's favourite joke about the tower. Boysie opened his mouth to reply. but Mostyn recognised the look of innocent humour.
'Boysie!' He sounded like a man calling a hound to heel. Boysie obeyed, joining Mostyn by the window, fingering the field glasses that hung from a leather strap round his neck. He looked towards the main gate, sensing the Groupie behind them, breathing hard. A staff car was drawing up in front of the guard room. He lifted the glasses. A shining service policeman was leaning forward, talking to whoever was in the rear of the car. The driver was a WRAF. She had something of Iris about her, he thought. Boysie felt a small pang of concern for the copper-haired girl he had left to the mercy of Quadrant. What had they done with her? Mostyn had said not to worry, but the Lagonda had been found abandoned four miles from the village of Gayborough: no trace of its occupants. Boysie jumped as Black Angus snapped behind him:
'Check with the main gate, please. Who's that coming in?'
The Wing Commander picked up a telephone. A moment later:
'The party from Group, sir. They've gone to the Mess.'
'Aye, they would.'
Boysie once more put the glasses to his eyes, focusing on the clump of trees. He could just make out Martin's face peeping from between the bushes. Mostyn was scanning the skyline. Pretending to be a bloody U-Boat Commander, thought Boysie.
The control tower staff were growing restless. Tension was beginning to press in with the sun, now high and warm. Down by the main gate, the Guard of Honour was falling in: razor-pressed and balanced, conscious that royalty was imminent. On the far side of the airfield, there was some activity around the dispersal points. The electric clock impassively nudged away the seconds. Ten forty-five. Ten fifty-five.
Boysie lowered the field glasses and glanced towards the main gate. Another staff car was turning in. The telephone shrilled by the Wing Commander's elbow:
'Sir!' There was alarm in the senior controller's voice. 'Another lot; say they're from Group.'
'Do they now? Hold 'em,' said the Groupie. Then: 'That canna be right, Mostyn, there's only one party coming from Group. Sound like customers for you ...'
'Definitely from Group, sir.' The Wing Commander looked desperate. 'Perkins recognises Wing Commander Reardon.'
'What about the other lot then? Ring the mess ...'
'Sir?' Concern from the Flight Lieutenant:
'Flavell's starting up the Vulture without clearance. There's ten minutes to go before he's scheduled ...' The rising howl of a jet engine could be heard to the right of the field. Boysie craned forward. He could see the slim snout of an aircraft's nose protruding from a screen of small buildings quarter of a mile away, just off the perimeter track which circled the field.
'Find out what the blue hades young Flavell's playing at.'
The Flight Lieutenant began the patter:
'Control to One Four Five Echo. You are not clear to start engines ...'
Mostyn looked stricken: 'You've got the Vulture here?'
'Aye. Didn't ye ken? Did nobody tell ye? She's over there, see.' Black Angus pointed towards the buildings.
'No, by God, I didn't ken ...' Mostyn stopped. That was it. He had known. It was in the Top Secret release he had read last Saturday. This was the missing piece. The Vulture.
'Can't raise Flavell, sir,' from the Flight Lieutenant. The Wing Commander had been stabbing at the telephone dial:
'Can't raise the ground crew either, sir.' The Group Captain was still talking to Mostyn:
'Aye. Flavell, the test pilot, flew her down from Farnborough last night with his crew of operators. They're demonstrating it for the Duke ...' Light seemed to dawn: 'Man, you don't think ...?'
Boysie was quite lost. He could see that Mostyn was clicking like a Geiger counter deep in the heart of a nuclear reactor. Mostyn all but screamed:
'Anyone got a fast car?'
The Wing Commander took a single step towards him:
'MG. Down there. Red.'
'The keys. Quick man, the keys. Boysie, with me. Stop that bloody aeroplane!' He snatched the keys from the Wing Commander and flung himself at the balcony door, racing round to the rear of the building. A .38 service revolver half out of his hip pocket. Boysie, still a shade hazy, was after him. Black Angus, beetroot-faced, was yelling:
'Have ye gone mad, man? The Duke's car ... Mostyn, ye fool!'
'Vulture's got both engines going, sir.' The Wing Commander had unbuttoned his jacket. The control tower felt like a time bomb.
'I think she's taxying ...' The Flight Lieutenant looked pale.
Both Mostyn and Boysie heard the five, quick, distant pops floating from the direction of the main gate. They had just reached the iron steps which spiralled, like a fire escape, from the balcony: Mostyn turned his head and shouted back: 'The Duke's arrived! That's Martin!'
The MG, crimson and raffish, was parked on a hard-standing behind the tower. Mostyn vaulted over the door and had the engine running, seconds before Boysie tumbled headlong into the passenger seat.
The gears clashed. Mostyn wrenched at the wheel, and they bumped off the concrete: the tyres howling as the little car skidded on to the perimeter track. Mostyn banged her into top and flicked the .38 revolver into Boysie's lap:
'You'll need that,' he yelled above the whine of wind and engine.
'What's it all about. I'm not with it,' mouthed Boysie.
Mostyn pointed along the bonnet: 'The Vulture.'
The aircraft was taxying fast, turning towards the far end of the field, a good halfmile in front of them - a vicious-looking piece of aircraft design. Trident antennae reached forward, like a snake's tongue, from a slim silver nose which curved down to form a long bulbous fuselage. Aft of the wings - steeply angled and tapering to a startling point -- the fuselage swept upwards, pencilling out to a V-shaped tail, under which Boysie could see two cheroot-like jetpods. The machine seemed to lean forward, very near to the ground, with undercarriage legs sprouting from the lowest points of nose and fuselage. It had about it a savage look. As though the designers had spent their lives studying grotesque prehistoric flying reptiles, and then sought to translate them into terms of metal and fabric.
'What is it?'
'Flying test bed for the M31 ... Search and destroy anti-missile equipment. You don't read your security handouts.' Even at a time like this, Mostyn was ready with a gibe. But Boysie knew all about the M31. No one in the Department was ever allowed to forget about it. The M31 was the hottest security problem since the H-Bomb. A flying
death ray for missiles, with a range of over 500 miles. It could seek and explode an enemy rocket within three minutes of launching. As yet it was unperfected but the boffins reckoned that within three years, five speciallydesigned aircraft carrying the phenomenally expensive M31 could neutralise the West against any nuclear attack.
As they shot past the Vulture's dispersal area, Boysie glimpsed at least three bodies - one in grey flying overalls - spread across the tarmac.
'Must have got through in that first staff car,' shouted Mostyn: '...Your friends ... The Duke's only a diversion ... Hold on!'
They were gaining on the Vulture, Mostyn swinging the car out to the right, approaching from the beam, well clear of the high tail jets which they could now hear screeching over the MG's engine. As the side of the aircraft came into view, Boysie could see an oblong hatch, open, low down in the fuselage and only about six feet from the ground. A figure seemed to be spreadeagled across it, trying to pull a door into place. The Vulture had left the perimeter track, turning and selecting the main runway which cut down the centre of the airfield.
They were closing rapidly now, moving in a wide circle, bouncing over the grass which lined the edges of the runway. To Boysie, nothing seemed to be stable: the landscape, the Vulture, the ground, all juddering and quaking as the car rattled forward. The figure in the hatch looked up, spotting them: his ears appeared to be shaking in time to the jets. It was Quadrant.
Mostyn had his foot pushed right down on to the floorboards, and seemed intent on ramming the aircraft. Boysie could not believe this was happening. He clung to his seat, buffeting and jolting: horrified at the speed and noise. Through a pumping blur he saw Quadrant's hand come up, and heard Mostyn shriek:
'Get him, Boysie, for Chrissake ...!' Suddenly, in the urgency of the moment, he found callousness: breaking through the fear barrier. Boysie's hatred towards Quadrant turned to action: jabbing his arm forward with the gun; closing his left eye to take aim. But, before he could squeeze the trigger, there were three tiny flashes from the hatchway. Boysie heard a crack above his head. There was a jar and splutter as the windscreen shattered. The car slewed off course, and he heard Mostyn give a quick, painful intake of breath.
The car righted itself, and Boysie lifted his arm again. Unsteady in the rocking seat, he aimed for the legs and fired twice: the hatch growing bigger as they streaked towards the Vulture. Quadrant made a grab at his knees, which seemed to crumble under him. Mouth open in terror, hands clawing at the air, Quadrant pitched forward through the hatch and on to the concrete in front of the car's singing wheels.
Mostyn could do nothing about it. They lurched upwards as the body hit their front bumper. The car tilted precariously then rolled back and they were racing on again; closer and closer to the fuselage and the hatchway. Boysie could hear the jets, above their heads, accelerating to a high-pitched whistle. He glanced at Mostyn who was crouched over the wheel, blood soaking his shirt where the bullet had smashed into his left shoulder.
'Can't go on much longer,' Mostyn shouted. 'Jump for the hatch ... got to stop ... take-off. ..'
Boysie curled himself onto the passenger seat, hanging on to the door, his eyes fastened to the dark slit almost above his head.
'Jump!' yelled Mostyn.
He reached up with his hands and, pushing with his feet, projected himself through the opening, landing inside the aircraft - legs and buttocks still waving through the hatch; the breath forced from his lungs by the sudden jolt. As he hit the floor, so the Vulture seemed to thrust forward, leaving the MG behind, like a spent runner.
Boysie dragged himself through the hatch and swung into a sitting position: eyes misty, heart drumming and breathing reduced to great fish-like gulps. He tried to relax: concentrating on controlling his body, but the shock reaction of fear crept over him in a rippling tremor. Hauling himself to his feet, he realised that the floor of the fuselage seemed to be raked upwards. He stumbled to the side of the hatch, intending to look out in search of Mostyn and the MG. Below him, the ground was sliding away: miniature buildings, fields and trees steadily moving farther off. The Vulture was airborne. Boysie shrank back from the open hatch and, true to form, was horribly sick.
A minute later, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, startled to find that he was still clutching the revolver. The fuselage ran forward between two complex lanes of what looked like radar equipment: long panels of instruments, with four hooded scanners. The priceless M31. Boysie edged past the maze of apparatus, up to the forward bulkhead and the small, grey door which, he knew, must lead on to the flight deck.
The fear was still with him, but the trembling had stopped. Slowly his mind began to accept the situation. Nothing seemed to matter except getting on to the flight deck and forcing whoever was flying the machine to turn back. Perhaps, he thought, this might possibly make up for the past deceptions. He turned the handle and pulled. The door swung back and Boysie stepped on to the flight deck, levelling the revolver towards the pilot's seat. Things had become so dangerous in the last few minutes that he was past caring.
'All right. The party's over,' he shouted, realising that it was a bit on the melodramatic side.
The Co-ordinator, cool at the controls, twisted round. Boysie stopped short, his eyes wide, the revolver dangling in his hand. The Co-ordinator was silent for a moment, regaining poise after the shock of Boysie's entrance. Then:
'It would be you, Boysie. I thought something had gone wrong. You stupid bastard.' Iris contemptuously turned her back on him and concentrated on swinging the Vulture in a wide climbing turn towards the sun.
10 - England
Tuesday June 11th 1963
CO-ORDINATOR
The silence was eerie on the flight deck. With the engines far away in the tail, noise was reduced to a barely audible whistle: the sound of a vacuum cleaner in the semidetached next door. They hardly seemed to be moving, and, except for the slight tremor under his feet, Boysie thought, they might well be still on the ground. It did not do for him to think too deeply about what lay beneath his feet: the stretch of air and open sky.
Boysie shifted slightly, leaning back against the door, trying to adjust his mind to the fact that Iris was flying the Vulture. That Iris, pride of his bed, was on the other side. An enemy. When he spoke, his voice was dry, throaty with nervousness:
'Sorry, Iris, you'll have to turn her round. I've got a gun on you ...'
Iris dropped her hand on to the control pedestal and moved the throttles forward a fraction. Without turning, she said:
'Boysie, you'll find a dial on the door - like a safe mechanism. Close the door and turn the dial fully clockwise, would you.'
Boysie did not move.
'Quickly, Boysie. We're climbing. I want to pressurise the flight deck; if I don't, we'll both be unconscious in a very few minutes and that's not going to help either of us.'
Boysie obeyed. This is ridiculous, he thought. It can't be happening. I'm in bed, with Iris. It's a scorching nightmare.
'Iris, if you don't turn back, I'll ...' An angry parent to a reluctant infant.
'You'll do what? Shoot me? I don't think so, darling.'
Boysie climbed forward, sliding himself into the co-pilot's seat, the gun still pointing at the girl. Her WRAF uniform skirt was hoisted well up her thighs: the long, gorgeous legs stretched elegantly down to stockinged feet pressed firmly on the rudder pedals. She had removed her jacket, which hung behind the seat, and Boysie noted the thick, irregular stain of sweat spreading under the armpits of her shirt. He was conscious of his own body, wet with fright.
'No, I don't think you'll shoot me, Boysie,' she said. She might have been in a bedroom daring him into rape. There was something remarkably sexy about the situation.
'I know you as well as you know yourself.' She was smiling, concentrating on the controls as she spoke. 'You detest flying.You need me, darling; and you'll just have to go where I'm going. There's no one else to fly it.'
Boysie play
ed what he thought was his trump card:
'It doesn't matter all that much. After what your lot has done to me, I've had it with the Department anyway. The RAF'll catch up with you soon enough; then you'll be forced to go down. You haven't got an earthly, Iris.'
'No? They'll have to find us first.'
'Every tracking station in ...'
'Nuts to the tracking stations. We've got a head start. Know what this is?' She pointed to a small, square, black box, attached, with rubber suckers, to the windscreen. It looked like a cheap transistor radio.
'The latest thing, darling. A radar dazzler. Confuses the beams and puts the radio out of joint. Trouble is our people haven't got it wholly effective yet. Still, it'll work for another twenty minutes: and that's quite a time at this speed. Anyway, they're not likely to use fighters - except as a last resort. This baby's rather precious.' She paused. The aircraft rocked under them. 'We've been planning this for quite a long time, you know: thought of practically everything.'
'But how the ...' Boysie was balanced between terror and curiosity.
'How the hell did I get mixed up with Redland?' They were nosing into cloud now: a rash of dew settling over the windscreen. Iris shot him a quick pouting glance:
'The Department's terribly naive, you know,' she said. 'When I joined, they screened me in every possible direction. Checked everything, even my sex life which, at that time, Boysie, was beyond reproach. They dug and dug like the seven little dwarfs, and came up with all the answers. They only missed one thing: the fact that when I was seventeen - two years before I became a junior in the Department typing pool - I was an active member of the International Youth Council. That was in '55, and I was terribly proud, because the IYC selected me as a representative to a conference in Prague. And that's where I was recruited.'
'You mean ... ever since you joined the Department, you've been working for ...'
'They got me the job, darling. Every single leave I've had has been spent, ostensibly, in Switzerland. But no one bothered to check that. In fact, I've been elsewhere doing a spot of adult education. Last year they made me Co-ordinator of an action group. We had a special mission - to get this thing. You've no idea, Boysie, the organisation's terrific. Do you know, I spent the whole of my last leave learning to fly big jets. I'm rather good at it, don't you think?'