by John Gardner
Boysie had always imagined his situation with the Department was fringed with fantasy, but this prattling luscious doll ... It was pure burlesque:
'But why?' he asked. 'The kicks?'
'Partly, I suppose. But, I'm afraid, it's really the politics. As a nation we've become a teeny bit decadent, haven't we?'
'I'm not going to argue politics up here.'
Boysie was threshing about in his mind. What could he do? It was utter checkmate.
Iris was still chattering:
'I'm sorry you had to be so deeply involved, darling. It wasn't all an act in Menton - the bed bits, I mean. Originally, we had several plans; then the Duke's visit came up and, as I had you on a bit of string, we thought it was too good to miss. What happened to the Duke, by the way?'
'He's all right. Mostyn caught on.'
'Pity. How?'
'Had someone watching me in France. The kidnapping really did it, I think. You boobed there.'
'Oh no. My dear, that was really all a ghastly mistake. But you saw what happened to the culprit ...'
'You did that?' Boysie twitched, remembering the naked corpse.
'No, that was Constantine - Quadrant to you. But I was present. It was all rather nasty. Still, the rnan was a dolt.' She looked grave. 'Constantine? Is he ....?'
"Fraid so.'
Iris nodded: 'That's the way it goes. Peter bought it as well: when we tackled the ground crew.' Once more she adjusted the throttles, and flicked down on a switch into the left arm of the control column yoke.
'There we are.. On course at 40,000 feet. The auto-pilot can do the work for a while.'
The absurdity of the whole thing was making Boysie question his sanity. Here they were, chatting as calmly as a pair of lovers on a beach.
'Give me a cigarette, Boysie.'
'You don't like mine. Anyway, Iris, I'm going to give you one more chance. Turn this aeroplane around.' Deep inside, he meant it: whatever the consequences, or agony of fear.
'Oh, knickers! Don't be so silly; you can't do anything. Pass me my coat, there's a love.'
They had become so relaxed that he almost fell for it. He put out his left hand to pick the coat from the back of her seat. Iris's foot came up hard, smashing his right hand against the instrument panel. The revolver clattered down. But Iris was off balance. Boysie swung to the right, his left palm extended, fingers together, thumb pushed back to make a hard striking edge to his hand.
The blow caught Iris below, and behind, her right ear. Her face flashed with pain, then relaxed as she toppled across the seat arm. Boysie stood up and lifted her into the seat. She was going to be out for a long time. He only hoped that he had not done any permanent damage. Sliding his hands under her arms, he lifted her into the co pilot's seat, fastened the safety straps, picked up the revolver and climbed into the pilot's position.
Boysie looked around. He could hear the jets quietly humming. Below, an endless cloudscape passed gently by; above there was bright sky stretching to infinity. The terror washed over him again. At 40,000 feet here he was, on his own among the mind-scrambling mass of controls and instruments. Beside the seat arm, there was a headset and throat microphone, plugged into a junction box on the left side of the cabin. He picked them up, snapped the microphone round his neck and adjusted the earphones. Static crackled like fire in his ears, and he remembered the little black box. Reaching out Boysie tugged it from the windscreen, dropped it to the floor and hit it down hard with the revolver butt. The static cleared, and, from a long way off, he heard a voice:
'One Four Five Echo. Do you read me? ... One Four Five Echo ... Do you read me? ...' On the right arm of the control column yoke there was a red button marked with a white R/T. Boysie put out his hand, touching the yoke as though it might burn him. Experimentally, he pressed:
'Help!' said Boysie weakly, and feeling rather silly. 'Help!' He released the button.
'One Four Five Echo. We read you.You are on the plot now. Inform who is in command.'
Boysie once more depressed the button: 'Oakes, Special Security. I'm alone. Pilot unconscious. Get me down, for crying out loud.' He reflected that his plea sounded like that of a small boy stuck up a gum tree.
'Listen out, One Four Five Echo. We have you on special frequency. I will pass you to a pilot experienced with your aircraft.' Back in the control tower at Gayborough all thought of normal procedure had gone. Boysie found himself shivering. His body seemed to have turned against him - violent cramps of fright binding his arms and legs. Another voice came into the earphones, still weak:
'Oakes? I am going to assist you in landing this aircraft. Have you had any experience as a pilot?'
'No ...'
'Do you know anything at all about flying?'
'Hardly. I don't like it!' It was a relief to admit fear.
'All right. We're all a bit scared from time to time. But the Vulture is very simple. It'll be as easy as falling off a log.'
The sentence was badly phrased. Boysie thought he was going to have diarrhoea.
'Tell me what you do know.' The controller might have been a lecturer, safe in a classroom. Boysie, like many who have an inherent fear of flying, took a morbid interest in articles on air safety and novels about commercial airlines. The bulk of his knowledge came from the pages of books like The High and the Mighty, or Cone of Silence.
'I know that if I push the column forward the nose will go down, and vice versa. That the rudder pedals will turn the thing to the left and right; and that moving the yoke from side to side will give you bank to left and right.'
'Good. Before we do anything else you have got to turn the aircraft off its present course. We have you on a radar plot here and I am going to guide you. There is a switch on the left arm of the yoke. Is it down?'
'Yes. She said something about the autopilot.'
'She?'
'Woman pilot.'
'All right. You are being flown by the autopilot. Before you try your first turn, that switch will have to be in the off position - I will tell you when. Make yourself comfortable at the controls and fasten the safety harness. Feet on the rudder pedals; hands on the control yoke. Right?'
Gingerly Boysie settled himself:
'OK.'
'Now listen carefully. In the centre of the panel in front of you, there are six instruments, in two banks of three. The middle one in the top line is your artificial horizon. During the turn try to keep the centre of the white needle steady on the white line. You will find that the needle will give you the aircraft's altitude in reference to the horizon, so watch it. Do not try too much bank, just slew the plane round on the rudder. Do not make any sudden movements with the controls unless absolutely necessary. Have you got that?'
'I think so.'
'Good.Very soon now, I am going to count down from five to zero. At zero I want you to switch off the auto-pilot and depress the right - repeat right - rudder pedal. Watch your artificial horizon and do not let the nose drop. Give a little gentle bank to the right and keep the aircraft turning to the right until I tell you to level off. Do you understand?'
Boysie could feel the blood pumping in his head:
'Yes. I'll try it.'
'I am following your course on the plot here. You have nothing to worry about. Ready?' 'Ready.'
'Here we go then. Coming up now. Five ... Four ... Three ... Two ... One ... Zero ...'
Boysie flicked off the auto-pilot and carefully pressed forward with his right foot, moving the yoke slightly to the right. The needle on the artificial horizon tilted, but he seemed to remain steady. From the corner of his eye, he could see the compass - forward of the control pedestal and throttles - swing round.
It was comparatively easy. Boysie even found himself enjoying the sense of power over the machine. When the turn was completed, the controller instructed him to switchback on to the auto-pilot. Boysie glanced across at Iris, still sleeping peacefully.
The controller was on again:
'You will so
on have to begin your descent. You are on course for Gayborough and we plan to guide you straight on to the runway. I want you to switch off the auto-pilot again and try the controls: get the feel of them; very gently: give you confidence. Don't lift or drop the nose too high or low. All right. Go ahead, I'm watching you on the plot. If you are worried, yell out: nothing can go very wrong at your present height.'
Once more Boysie switched off the autopilot. The aircraft responded sharply to every touch. He could feel the nose swing and the cabin tilt. The sensation was exhilarating: the power of command. For the first time in his life - under what should have been the most terrifying circumstances - Boysie was enjoying the flight. He straightened the aircraft and again put on the auto-pilot.
'All right?' said the controller.
'Fine.'
'Now I want you to locate certain essential instruments before you begin to let down. We have about five minutes. You know where the throttles are?'
'Yes.'
'Behind them you will see a similar lever marked in black. Got it?'
'Yes.'
'Flaps control.You can see that it is graded fractionally.'
'Yes.'
'OK, Oakes, you are doing fine. To the right there is a similar lever; with a red knob. Got that one?'
'Yes.'
'Dive brakes. Now, to the rear of the control pedestal there is a curved handle.'
'I can see that: marked "Undercarriage. Up and Down".'
'Undercarriage. Yes, good. In front of you, on the right of the instrument panel there is a white switch marked "P".'
'Yes, I can see it.'
'Braking parachute. I'll tell you when to use that - just after your wheels touch the ground.' The voice was quite clear now. 'You operate the main wheel brakes by pushing down on the rudder pedals - very gently. I am not going to bother you with anything else. We have no time. Use your common sense and do exactly as I say. The idea is to bring you right down on to the runway. Your main job will be to keep the aircraft level and in line with the runway. Try to get her down as near to the boundary as possible. Is that clear?'
'As it ever will be. I'd rather get cracking.'
'OK. We will begin the descent. Take out the auto-pilot. Hold her straight and level, wait for my instructions. Repeat orders to me when you have performed them. Clear?'
'Clear.'
'When I tell you to put the nose down, watch the artificial horizon and hold the aircraft so that the needle is just below the white line. I want you on a gentle dive. Stand by.'
Boysie switched out the auto-pilot and waited: incredibly calm. He wondered if this was the same kind of coolness that was supposed to come to men under sentence of death.
'You ready?'
'Yes. Auto-pilot out.'
'Here we go then. Throttles back.'
'Throttles back.'
'Dive brakes out.'
'Dive brakes out.'
'Gently, down with the nose.'
'Nose down.'
Boysie felt the engine power fade.
'Nose is dropping too far. I can't hold her.'
'Ease back on the column. Hold her. All right.'
'Got her now.'
The aircraft was more difficult to handle and there seemed to be a hissing noise outside the cabin. He was in a shallow dive, heading straight for the massive sea of cloud below.
'Can you see your altimeter?'
'Damn thing whizzing round like a clock gone mad?'
'That'll be it. You should be losing about 6,000 a minute.'
Minutes seemed like hours. He was in cloud now: wedged in on all sides by a thick white floss. The machine was bumping; swaying; difficult to hold steady. The sweat was returning, running down his face, salty at the corners of his mouth; and he could feel the singing whine in his ears.
'Watch your speed. Sorry, I mean lift the nose slightly: you're coming down a shade too fast.'
The aircraft broke through the cloud. Boysie's stomach jumped. The ground was spread out on a great patterned carpet below him. He seemed suspended, angled above it.
'Nose up a fraction.'
'Am I all right?'
'You're doing fine.'
The pattern below him was clearer.
'The field's over to your right. Swing to your right. Right rudder. That's enough. Now level out.'
Boysie had an uncanny feeling that he was hanging, immobile in the sky. Then he realised the features on the ground were much larger.
'Open your throttles about a quarter.'
'Right.'
The aircraft surged forward. 'Dive brakes in.'
'Dive brakes in.'
'Look down at the pedestal and push the flaps' lever to one-third.'
'Flaps one-third.'
'Undercarriage down. Keep her level.'
'Undercarriage down.'
Three green lights winked up at Boysie from the instrument panel.
'Your wheels are down. We can see you. You are too far to the right. Left rudder. More. Can you see the runway? Dead ahead.'
Boysie could see what looked like a tiny oblong of grey and black ribbon. Suddenly it was picked out by two rows of yellow dots.
'We have put the runway lights on for you. Two-thirds flap.'
'Two-thirds flap.'
He was nose down and losing height rapidly: the runway, looking very small, but getting nearer and nearer.
'Full flap.'
'Full flap.'
'Throttles right back.'
'Throttles back.'
'Don't let her nose go up. You're swinging right. Left rudder. Hold her level... Just keep her level ... level ...'
A road came up and flashed past, away to his right. He thought he could see children waving in a field. They seemed to be terribly close. Everything was happening fast. Oak trees: bloody great oak trees. He was going to hit them. No. Well over the top. Now the edge of the airfield, straight ahead. The runway was racing up to meet him. He was going to smash straight into the ground. None of his muscles seemed to be co-operating.'
'Nose up a lilttle. Fine. You're all right. Nose up ... up ...'
He was practically on to the ground now. The left wing seemed to be dropping. He corrected. The controls seemed sloppy. Now the nose was going down. The whole machine juddered as his right wheel touched. Then a bump on the left side.
'Column forward. Parachute! Parachute now!'
Boysie banged down on the switch. He was rocketing along the runway, the fence at the far end leaping towards him.
'Brake ... gently ... gently.'
The Vulture shuddered, screeched and slowly rolled to a standstill: the nose four feet from the grass which marked the end of the runway. Boysie's arms fell limply from the control column; the windscreen misted over and he passed out.
They had to break down the door to get on to the flight deck. Boysie was still sitting at the controls, dazed, near-paralysed with shock. Iris came-to as the service policemen lifted her out of the aircraft. She bit one of them, painfully, on the ear; and ruptured the other with her beautiful knee.
*
There were four men in the station sick bay. Flavell, the Vulture's pilot, two of his crew and one member of his ground crew: all injured during the fight, when Iris and her group had suddenly appeared - in disguise - at the dispersal point.
In the little mortuary, next to the sick bay, there were four bodies. Two of the Vulture's ground crew; the big, bald Peter; and a corpse with large protruding ears who had, in life, been Constantine Alexei Skabichev.
*
'Well, old Oakes, we're obviously not in a position to use you in your former dramatic role, are we?' It was early evening. Mostyn, his arm white-slinged and interesting, sat facing Boysie in the sick bay. The Duke had just gone, and Boysie felt incredibly pleased with himself. True, his legs still seemed to be made of slightly tacky blancmange, and his guts continued to perform odd circular motions. But the Duke had been most complimentary.
The most pleasant thought, howev
er, was that he could now sneak out of the Department with no one any the wiser about his duplicity. Mostyn's remark had clinched it. He grinned:
'Afraid this is where we part company,' he said smugly.
'Oh, I don't think it need come to that,' said Mostyn. 'I've got lots of ideas. We can always use a man like you. Don't usually pass out the compliments, old Boysie, but you did a very brave thing this morning. The RAF boys are thrilled to bits.'
Oh God, thought Boysie. If only Mostyn knew. He never wanted to hear of the Department again: he never wanted to see another aeroplane, let alone fly in one. Death would come soon enough without tempting it closer.
'Well, honestly, sir,' he started. 'I think it would be better if I left the Service. I'd be happier...'
'But we'd be sad, old Boysie. Nonsense, we can't think of letting you go. If it hadn't been for you ...'
Boysie knew he had lost.
'Take a month's leave and then we'll talk about it. I'm going to have most of my time cut out interrogating that blasted Iris. She sent you a message, by the way - before they took her to London. Shouldn't worry, though, it's physically impossible - unless you're a hermaphrodite.'
There was a tap at the door. The doctor ushered Black Angus into the room.
'The Station Commander wants to know if you two feel well enough to come over to the Mess for a while,' said the doctor.
'I think a wee dram would be in order.' Black Angus was beaming.
'OK by me,' said the doctor.
*
The party was in full swing. At the far end of the bar, Mostyn was deep in slurred conversation with Martin - now sporting a large cigar - and the Group Captain. All around there was the slop and slush of a high old time in the Mess.
Boysie regarded the tall WRAF officer's knees with immense respect. They were knees in a thousand: jewels between perfect calves and, what appeared to be, most satisfying thighs. She looked at him, adoringly, with the smoky-grey eyes he had first seen across the busy control tower earlier in the day.