“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 cooperative 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 was 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.
