by Wilbur Smith
"Officers of the Action Commando will wear red shirts for immediate identification and they will be armed." As she spoke her three companions in the front of the first-class cabin were stripping out the false bottoms from their canvas flight bags. The space was only two inches deep by fourteen by eight, but it was sufficient for the brokendown twelve bore pistols, and ten rounds of buckshot cartridges. The barrels of the pistols were fourteen inches long, the bores were Smooth and made of armoured plastic.
This material would not have withstood the passage of a solid bullet through rifling or any of the newer explosive propellants but it had been designed for use with the lower velocity and pressures of multiple shot and cordite. The breech piece was of plastic as were the double pistol grips, and these clipped swiftly into position. The only metal in the entire weapon was the case-steel firing pin and spring, no bigger than one of the metal studs in the canvas flight bag, so they would not have activated the metal detectors of the security check at Malik airport. The ten cartridges contained in each bag had plastic cases and bases; again only the percussion caps were of aluminium foil, which would not disturb an electrical field. The cartridges were packed in looped cartridge belts which buckled around the waist.
The weapons were short, black and ugly; they required reloading like a conventional shotgun, the spent shells were not self-ejecting and the recoil was so vicious that it would break the wrists of the user who did not bear down heavily on the pistol grips. However, at ranges up to thirty feet the destructive power was awesome, at twelve feet it would disembowel a man and at six feet it would blow his head off cleanly yet it did not have the penetrating power to hole the pressure hull of an intercontinental airliner.
It was the perfect weapon for the job in hand, and within a few seconds three of them had been assembled and loaded and the two men had slipped on the bright scarlet shirts that identified them over their tee-shirts and moved to their positions, one in the back of the first-class cabin and one in the back of the tourist cabin, they stood with their grotesque weapons ostentatiously displayed.
"MON The slim pretty, dark-haired German girl stayed in her seat a little longer, working swiftly and neatly as she opened the remaining coco-de-mer and transferred their contents into two of the netting bags. These grenades differed only from the one carried by Ingrid in that they had double red lines painted around the middle. This signified that they were electronically fused.
Now Ingrid's clear young voice resumed over the cabin address system, and the long rows of passengers all fully awake now sat rigid and attentive, their faces reflecting an almost uniform expression of shock and trepidation.
The officer of the action commando who is moving down the cabin at this time is placing high explosive grenades,-" The dark-haired girl started down the aisle, and every fifteen rows she opened one of the overhead lockers and placed a grenade in it, closed the locker and moved on.
The passengers" heads revolved slowly in unison as they watched her with the fascination of total horror. "A single one of those grenades has the explosive power to destroy this aircraft, they were designed to kill by concussion the crew of a battle tank protected by six inches of armour. the officer is placing fourteen of these devices along the length of this aircraft. They can be detonated simultaneously by an electronic transmitter under my control,-" the voice contained a hint of mischief now, a little undercurrent of laughter, and if that happened they'd hear the bang at the North Pole!"
The passengers stirred like the leaves of a tree in a vagrant breeze;
somewhere a woman began to weep. It was a strangled passionless sound and nobody even looked in her direction.
"But don't worry yourselves. "That isn't going to happen.
Because everybody is going to do exactly as they are told, and when it's all over you are going to be proud of your part in this operation. We are all partners in a noble and glorious mission, we are all warriors for freedom and for the dignity of man. Today we take a mighty step forward into the new world a world purged and cleansed of injustice and tyranny and dedicated to the welfare of all its peoples."
The woman was still weeping, and now a child joined her on a higher, more strident note.
The dark-haired girl returned to her seat and now she retrieved the camera that had activated the metal detector at Malic airport. She slung it around her neck and crouched again to assemble the two remaining shot pistols; carrying them and the cartridge belts, she hurried forward to the flight deck where the big blonde kissed her delightedly and unashamedly on the lips.
"Karen, Liebling, you were wonderful. "And then she took the camera from her and slung it around her own neck.
"This-" she explained to the captain " is not what it appears to be. It is the remote radio detonator for the grenades in the fuselage." He nodded without replying, and with obvious relief Ingrid disarmed the grenade that she had carried for so long by replacing the safety pin. She handed it to the other girl.
"How much longer to -the coast?" she asked as she strapped and buckled the cartridge belt around her waist.
"Thirty-two minutes," said the flight engineer promptly, and Ingrid opened the breech of the pistol, checked the load and then snapped it closed again.
"You and Henri can stand down now," she told Karen.
"Try and sleep." The operation might last many days still, and exhaustion would be the most dangerous enemy they would have to contend with. It was for this reason alone that they had employed such a large force. From now on, except in an emergency, two of them would be on duty and two would be resting.
"You have done a very professional job," said the pilot, Cyril Watkins," so far."
"Thank you." Ingrid laughed, and over the back of his seat placed a comradely hand on his shoulder. "We have practised very hard for this day." Peter Stride dipped his lights three times as he raced down the long narrow alley that led to the gates of the compound without slowing the Rover, and the sentry swung the gate open just in time for him to roar through.
There were no floodlights, no bustling activity just the two aircraft standing together in the echoing cavern of the hangar.
The Lockheed Hercules seemed to fill the entire building, that had been built to accommodate the smaller bombers of World War II. The tall vertical fin of its epinage reached to within a few feet of the roof girders.
Beside it the Hawker Siddeley HS 125 executive jet seemed dainty and ineffectual. The differing origins of the machines emphasized that this unit was a co-operative venture between two nations.
This was underscored once more when Colin Noble hurried forward to meet Peter as he cut the Rover's engine and lights.
"A grand night for it, Peter. "There was no mistaking the drawl of mid-Western America, although Colin looked more like a successful used-car salesman than a colonel in the U.S. Marines. In the beginning
Peter had believed that this strict apportioning of material and manpower on equal national lines might weaken the effectiveness of Atlas. He no longer had those doubts.
Colin wore the nondescript blue overalls and cloth cap, both embroidered with the legend "THOR COMMUNICATIONS" which deliberately made him look more of a technician than a soldier.
Colin was Peter's second in command. They had known each other only the six weeks since Peter had assumed command of Thor but after a short period of mutual wariness the two men had formed one of those fast bonds of liking and mutual respect.
Colin was of medium height, but none the less a big man. First glance might have given the impression that he was fat, for his body had a certain toad-like spread to it.
There was no fat upon his frame, however, it was all muscle and bone. He had boxed heavyweight for Princeton and the marines, and his nose above the wide laughing mouth had been broken just below the bridge, it was lumped and twisted slightly.
Colin cultivated the boisterous bluff manner of a career athlete, but his eyes were the colour of burned toffee and were brightly intelligent and all-seeing. He w
as tough and leery as an old alley cat. It was not easy to earn the respect of Peter Stride. Colin had done so in under six weeks.
He stood now between the two aircraft, while his men went about their Alpha preparation with quick understated efficiency.
Both aircraft were painted in commercial airline style, blue and white and gold, with a stylized portrait of the Thunder God on the tail fin and the "THOR COMMUNICATIONS" title down the fuselage. They could land at any airport in the world without causing undue comment.
"What is the buzz, Colin?" Peter Stride demanded as he slammed the Rover's door and hurried to meet the American. It had taken him some time and conscious effort to adapt his language and mode of address to fit in with his new second-in-command. He had learned very early not to expect that, merely because he was the youngest major general in the British army, Colonel Colin Noble was going to call him "Sir" every time he spoke.
"Missing aircraft." It could have been a train, an embassy, even an ocean liner, Peter realized. "British Airways. For Chrissake let's get out of the cold." The wind was flapping the legs of Colin's overalls and tugging at his sleeves.
"Where?"
"Indian Ocean."
"Are we set for Bravo?" Peter asked as they climbed into his command plane.
"All set." The interior of the Hawker had been restyled to make it a compact headquarters and communications centre.
There was comfortable seating for four officers directly behind the flight deck. Then the two electronic engineers and their equipment occupied a separate rear compartment, beyond which were the small toilet and galley in the extreme rear.
One of the technicians looked through the communicating door as Peter stooped into the cabin. "Good evening, General Stride we have a direct link with Atlas established."
"Put him on the screen," he ordered as he sank into the padded leather of his chair behind the small working desk.
There was a single fourteen-inch main television screen in the panel directly facing Peter, and above it four smaller six-inch screens for conference communication. The main screen came alive, and the image of the big noble leonine head firmed.
"Good afternoon, Peter." The smile was warm, charismatic, compelling.
"Good evening, sir." And Dr. Kingston Parker tilted his head slightly to acknowledge the reference to the time difference between Washington and England.
"Right at this moment we are in the dark completely. All we have is that BA 070 with four hundred and one passengers and sixteen crew on a flight from Malic to Nairobi has not reported for thirty-two minutes."
Parker was Chairman of the Intelligence Oversight Board, among other duties, and he reported directly to the President of the United States in that capacity. He was the President's personal and trusted friend.
They had been in the same class at Annapolis, both of them had graduated in the top twenty but, unlike the President, Parker had gone directly into government.
Parker was an artist, a talented musician, the author of four scholarly works of philosophy and politics, and a grand master of chess. A man of overwhelming presence, of vast humanity and towering intelligence. Yet also he was a secret man, avoiding the glaring scrutiny of the media, hiding his ambitions, if ambitions he had although the presidency of the United States would not be an impossible dream to such a man only taking up with rare skill and strength any burden that was thrust upon him.
Peter Stride had met him personally on half a dozen occasions since being seconded to Thor. He had spent a weekend with Parker at his New York home, and his respect for the man had become boundless.
Peter realized that he was the perfect head for such a complex concept as Atlas: it needed the philosopher's tempering influence over trained soldiers, it needed the tact and charisma of the diplomat to deal directly with the heads of two governments, and it needed that steely intellect to make the ultimate decision that could involve hundreds of innocent lives and incur fearsome political consequences.
Now swiftly and incisively he told Peter what little they knew of Flight 070 and what search and rescue routine was already in force, before going on, "Without being alarmist, this does seem to be the perfect target. The flight carries most of the world's leading surgeons, and the convention was public knowledge eighteen months ago.
Doctors have the necessary image to appeal to public sentiment and their nationalities are nicely mixed American, British, French, Scandinavian, German, Italian, three of those countries have notoriously soft records with militant activity. It's a British aircraft, and the final destination would probably have been chosen to further complicate the issue and inhibit any counter-action." Parker paused, and a small crease of worry appeared for a moment in the broad smooth forehead.
"I have put Mercury on condition Alpha as well if this M is a strike the final destination could just as easily be eastwards of the aircraft's last reported position." Atlas's offensive arm comprised three identical units.
Thor would be used only in Europe or Africa. Mercury was based on the American Naval base in Indonesia and covered Asia and Australasia, while Diana was in Washin ton itself and ready for counteraction in either of the American continents.
"I have Tanner of Mercury on the other relay now. I will be back to you in a few seconds, Peter."
"Very well, sir." The screen went blank, and in the chair beside him Colin Noble lit one of his expensive
Dutch cheroots and crossed his ankles on the desk in front of him.
"Seems the great god Thor came down to earth for a little poon tang When he'd finished pleasuring one of the vestal virgins he thought he'd let her know the honour she'd been given. "I'm Thor," he told her. ""Tho she agreed, "but it wath loth of fun."" Peter shook his head sorrowfully. "That's funny?" he asked.
"Helps to while away the time." Colin glanced at his wristwatch.
"If this is another false alarm, it's going to make it thirteen straight." He yawned. There was nothing to do.
It had all been done before. Everything was in the ultimate state of readiness. In the huge Hercules transport, every item of a comprehensive arsenal of equipment was ready for instant use. The thirty highly trained soldiers were embarked. The flight crews of both aircraft were at their stations, the communications technicians had set up their links with satellites and through them to the available fligence computers in Washington and London. It remained only to wait the greater part of a soldier's life was spent waiting, but Peter had never become hardened to it. It helped now to have the companionship of Colin Noble.
In a life spent in the company of many men it was difficult to form close relationships. Here in the smaller closed ranks of Thor in shared endeavour they had achieved that and become friends, and their conversation was relaxed and desultory, moving casually from subject to subject, but without relaxing the undercurrent of alertness that gripped both men.
At one stage Kingston Parker came on the screen again to tell them that search and rescue aircraft had found no indications at the last reported position of 070, and that a photographic run by the "Big Bird" reconnaissance satellite had been made over the same area, but that film would not be ready for appraisal for another fourteen hours.
Speedbird 070 was now one hour six minutes past "operations normal" and suddenly Peter remembered Melissa-Jane. He asked communications for a telephone line and dialled the cottage. There was no reply, so the driver would have collected her already. He hung up and rang Cynthia in Cambridge.
"Damn it, Peter. This really is most inconsiderate of you."
Freshly aroused from sleep, her voice was petulant, immediately awakening only Antipathies. "Melissa has been looking forward to this-"
"Yes, I know, and so have U and George and I had arranged-"
George, her new husband, was a Political History don; despite himself Peter quite liked the man. He had been very good to Melissa-Jane.
"The exigencies of the service." Peter cut in lightly and her voice took on a bitter edge.
"How
often I had to listen to that I hoped never to hear it again." They were on the same futile old treadmill and he had to stop it.
"Look, Cynthia. Melissa is on her way" In front of him the big television screen lit and Kingston Parker's eyes were dark with regret, as though he mourned for all mankind.
"I have to go," Peter told the woman whom once he had loved, and broke the connection, leaning forward attentively towards the image on the screen.
"The South African radar de fences have painted an unidentified target approaching their airspace," Kingston Parker told him. "Its speed and position correspond with those of 070. They have scrambled a Mirage flight to intercept but in the meantime I'm assuming that it's a militant strike and we'll go immediately to condition Bravo, if you please, Peter."
"We are on our way, sir." And beside him Colin Noble took his feet off the desk and thumped them together onto the floor. The cheroot was still clamped between his teeth.
The target was live and the pilot of the leading Mirage F1 interceptor had his flight computer in "attack" mode and all his weaponry missiles and cannon were armed. The computer gave him a time to intercept of thirty-three seconds, and the target's heading was constant at 210" magnetic and its ground speed at 483 knots.
Ahead of him the dawn was rising in wildly theatrical display.
Avalanches of silver and pink cloud tumbled down the sky, and the sun, still below the horizon, flung long lances of golden light across the heavens. The pilot leaned forward against his shoulder straps and lifted the Polaroid visor of his helmet with one gloved hand, straining ahead for the first glimpse of the target.