These guards wore no insignia, no helmets, just well-tailored uniforms of grey-green, with flat-visored caps and repeater-rifles slung over their shoulders. But for the rifles they could have been chauffeurs, or receptionists at some grimly exclusive hotel.
Murray switched the siren off only when he was well between the two guards and the plane. Then Ryderbeit whispered, ‘Let Jones do the talking first — you come in only when it starts gettin’ tricky!’ A tall man in the same plain uniform, but without a rifle, had appeared in the forward door up to the pilot’s cabin.
‘Who’s the officer in charge here?’ Jones yelled, above the roar of the Caribou engine.
The man climbed down the steps. He had a delicate handsome face, polite and serious — the exact contrast to the hulking brute of an M.P. they had left to break down the door half a mile back at ATCO III compound. His voice was calm and unruffled: ‘I’m the operation super — name’s Sanderson. We have a Red Alert.’ He said it as a statement of fact, without panic or concern, but moving closer as he spoke, examining each of them.
‘You’re to get your men out o’ here, Mister Sanderson,’ Jones said. ‘Your flight plan is postponed — your crews are to move this aircraft, temporarily, to another area.’
‘What are your precise orders?’ Sanderson asked with exasperating calm, as the second of the plane’s engines spluttered and swung to life. Ryderbeit’s fingers tightened round the stock of his gun.
‘All non-combat aircraft are automatically grounded,’ Jones said; and the man just nodded and repeated: ‘Where are your orders?’
‘We have orders to commandeer all non-combat aircraft!’ Jones shouted, jumping suddenly down from his side of the jeep and running to the forward door of the Caribou. ‘Get your men out o’ here, Mr Sanderson!’
The second engine had burst into a roar and Ryderbeit was saying to Murray in a shouted whisper, ‘We mustn’t let ’em cut those motors, soldier — let ’em warm up a couple o’ moments longer!’ As he spoke he too sprang from the jeep, his M16 held low from the waist, at nobody particular, but watching the two other guards whose rifles were still slung over their shoulders.
‘This is Treasury property,’ Sanderson began: ‘I have no authority —’
‘You have no authority period!’ Murray snapped, not bothering to disguise his Irish intonation, as he watched, from the corner of his eye, Ryderbeit edging round towards the steps up to the pilot’s cabin. ‘This airfield is under attack, Mr Sanderson,’ he went on, ‘and I am to advise you that all military and civilian equipment is as from now under the authority of the military. Get it!’ he yelled, above the scream of three fighters streaking overhead.
Time was running out. At any moment some genuine M.P. patrol might arrive, either to give Sanderson the same orders, or more probably to investigate the murder of one CIA man and the unknown fate of a number of Treasury guards in two unmarked cars and a Land Rover with a powerful radio.
Sanderson was looking worried now. ‘We’re awaiting two automobiles back there for emergency instructions,’ he began slowly, but Murray broke in: ‘Your two vehicles have been hit by VC rockets. My own orders come personally from General Greene. In the event of an enemy attack Operation Lazy Dog is to be put on ice — your personnel to be withdrawn — your aircraft to be placed under General Greene’s personal guard. Which means us, Mr Sanderson — plus an extra detail arriving presently. Now let’s get moving, sir.’
‘If this plane gets hit —’
‘If this plane gets hit, Sanderson, your arse’s going to be in a sling!’ They flinched as another rocket burst less than a quarter of a mile away. Murray took it as his final cue: ‘The military is responsible for the security of this airfield, sir. And I am ordering you for the last time to get your men out of here!’
‘The crew of this aircraft take their instructions from me,’ Sanderson said calmly, and walked over to where the two Treasury guards stood beside the remaining jeep, parked just in front of the Fleetwood. He whispered something to them; they nodded, saluted and climbed aboard the jeep. Sanderson now walked back to where Ryderbeit was still standing under the forward door of the Caribou.
Ryderbeit let him pass, up the steps into the nose of the aircraft — the crew still aboard, engines still running. A moment later the jeep carrying the two Treasury men started up, followed almost at once by the Fleetwood. Murray nodded at No-Entry, who sprang up through the rear door, closing it quickly behind him.
Murray waited ten seconds, then climbed up to the forward door, kicked the steps away and slammed it shut behind him. Inside, in the sudden dark, he eased off his helmet and realised that he was leaning against the body of a man. It felt soft, swinging with the hammock-seat. As he touched it, the head lolled with a bump on to his shoulder, slid off, and the whole body collapsed like a sack down the metal steps and sagged against the door.
At the same moment he was aware, even above the roar of the engines, of a curious noise. The thumping, snorting, shuffling sound of a fight. A merciless, bone-breaking fight being fought out against the crackle of a radio transmitter: ‘Control to Lazy Dog, do you read me, do you read me…?’ He looked down and saw that the body he had touched was Sanderson’s, his neck twisted as though it were broken, while above, in the red gloom of
