Parker spoke before his image had properly hardened.
“I’m afraid it’s condition Charlie, Peter,” he said softly, and
Peter was aware of the rush of his blood through his veins. It was natural for a soldier whose entire life had been spent in training for a special moment in time to welcome the arrival of that moment yet he found contempt for himself in that emotion; no sane man should anticipate violence and death, and all the misery and suffering which attended them.
the South Africans have intercepted and identified 070. It entered their airspace forty-five seconds ago.”
“Radio contact?” Peter asked.
“No.” Parker shook his great head. “It is declining contact, and we must assume that it is under the control of militants so now I’m going to be at this desk until this thing is settled.” Kingston Parker never used the emotive word terrorist” and he did not like to hear it from his subordinates either.
“Never hate your adversary blindly,” he had told Peter once.
“llnderstand his motives, recognize and respect his strengths and you will be better prepared to meet him.”
“What cooperation can we expect?” Peter asked.
“All African States that we have so far been able to contact have offered full cooperation, including overflight, landing and refuelling facilities and the South Africans are being helpful. I have spoken to their defence minister and he has offered the fullest possible cooperation. They will refuse 070 landing clearance, of course, and
I
anticipate that it will have to go on to one of the black states farther north, which is probably the militants” intention anyway. I
think you know my views about South Africa but in this instance I
must say they are being very good.” Parker brought into the television shot a black briar pipe with a big round bowl, and began to stuff it with tobacco.
His hands were large, like the rest of his body, but the fingers were long and sup pleas those of a pianist which of course he was.
And Peter remembered the scented smell of the tobacco he smoked. Even though he was a nonsmoker, Peter had not found-the odour offensive.
Both men were silent, deep in thought, Parker frowning slightly as he seemed to concentrate on his pipe. Then he sighed and looked up again.
“All right, Peter. Let’s hear what you have.” Peter shuffled through the notes he had been making. “I have prepared four tentative scenarios and our responses to each, sir. The most important consideration is whether this is a strike “A Vallemande” or “A
l’italienne’!—” Parker nodded, listening; although this was well-travelled ground they must go over it again. A strike in the
Italian fashion was the easier to resolve, a straight demand for cash.
The German tradition involved release of prisoners, social and political demands that crossed national boundaries.
They worked on for another hour before they were interrupted again.
“Good God.” It was a measure of Kingston Parker’s astonishment that he used such strong language. “We have a new development here.” It was only when 070 joined the eastern airway and began to initiate a standard approach and let down, without however obtaining air traffic control clearance, that South African Air force Command suddenly realized what was about to happen.
Immediately emergency silence was imposed on all the aviation frequencies while the approaching flight was bombarded by urgent commands to immediately vacate national airspace. There was no response whatsoever, and one hundred and fifty nautical miles out from
Jan Smuts International Airport the Boeing reduced power and commenced a sedate descent to enter controlled airspace.
“British Airways 070 this is Jan Smuts Control, you are expressly refused clearance to join the circuit. Do you read me, 070?”
“British
Airways 070 this is Air force Command. You are warned that you are in violation of national airspace. You are ordered to climb immediately to thirty thousand feet and turn on course for Nairobi.” The Boeing was a hundred nautical miles out and descending through fifteen thousand feet.
“Diamond Leader, this is Cheetah. Take the target under command and enforce departure clearance.”
The long sleek aircraft in its mottled green and brown battle camouflage dropped like a dart, rapidly overhauling the huge multi-engined giant, diving down just behind the tailplane and then pulling up steeply in front of the gaily painted red, white and blue nose.
Skilfully the Mirage pilot stationed his nimble little machine one hundred feet ahead of the Boeing and rocked his wings in the Follow me” command.
The Boeing sailed on serenely as though it had not seen or understood. The Mirage pilot nudged his throttles and the gap between the two aircraft narrowed down to fifty feet. Again he rocked his wings and began a steady rate-one turn onto the northerly heading ordered by Cheetah.
The Boeing held rock steady on its standard approach towards
Johannesburg, forcing the Mirage leader to abandon his attempts to lead her away.
He edged back alongside, keeping just above the jet-blast of the
Boeing’s port engines until he was level with the cockpit and could stare across a gap of merely fifty feet.
“Cheetah, this is Diamond One. I have a good view into target’s flight deck. There is a fourth person in the cockpit.
It’s a woman. She appears to be armed with a machine pistol.” The faces of the two pilots were white as bone as they turned to watch the interceptor. The woman leaned over the back of the left-hand seat, and lifted the clumsy black weapon in an ironic salute. She smiled and the
Mirage pilot was close enough to se how white her teeth were.
a young woman, blonde hair, the Mirage pilot reported. “Pretty very pretty.”
“Diamond One, this is Cheetah.
Position for head-on attack.” The Mirage thundered instantly ahead and climbed away swiftly, the other four aircraft of the flight sweeping in to resume their tight “finger five” formation as they went out in a wide turn ahead of the Boeing.
“Cheetah. We are in position for a head-on attack.”
“Diamond
Flight. Simulate. Attack in line astern. Fivesecond intervals.
Minimum separation. Do not, I say again, do not open fire. This is a simulated attack. I say again, this is a simulated attack.”
“Diamond
One understands simulated attack.” And the Mirage F.1 winged over and dived, its speed rocketing around the mach scale, booming through the sonic barrier in a fearsomely aggressive display.
Cyril Watkins saw him coming from seven miles ahead.
“Jesus,” he shouted. “This is real,” and he lunged forward to take manual control of the Boeing, to pull her off the automatic approach that the electronic flight director was performing.
“Hold her steady.” Ingrid raised her voice for the first time.
“Hold it.” She swung the gaping double muzzles of the shot pistol onto the flight engineer. “We don’t need a navigator now.” The captain froze, and the Mirage howled down on them, seemed to grow until it filled the whole view through the windshield ahead. At the last possible instant of time the nose lifted slightly and it flashed only feet overhead, but the supersonic turbulence of its passage struck and tossed even that huge machine like a piece of thistledown.
“Here comes another, “Cyril Watkins shouted.
“I mean it.” Ingrid pressed the muzzles so fiercely into the back of the flight engineer’s neck that his forehead struck the edge of his computer console, and there was the quick bright rose of blood on the pale skin.
