His trained gunfighter's eye picked out the dark speck against the distracting background of cloud and sunlight and he made an almost imperceptible movement of the controls to avoid the direct head-on approach to the target.
The speck swelled in size with disturbing rapidity as they converged at combined speeds of nearly fifteen hundred miles per hour, and at the instant he was certain of his identification the leader took his flight, still in a tight "finger five" , up into a vertical climb from which they rolled out neatly five thousand feet above the target and on the same heading, immediately reducing power to conform in speed to the big aircraft far below.
"Cheetah, this is Diamond leader we are visual, and target is a Boeing 747 bearing British Airways markings."
"Diamond Leader, this is Cheetah, conform to target, maintain five thousand feet separation and avoid any threatening attitudes. Report again in sixty seconds."
Major-General Peter Stride's executive jet was arrowing southwards and leaving its enormous protege lumbering ponderously along in its wake.
Every minute increased the distance between the two aircraft, and by the time they reached their ultimate destination wherever that might be there would probably be a thousand miles or more separating them.
However, the big Hercules's slow speed became a virtue when the need arose to take its heavy load of men and equipment into short unsurfaced strips in unlikely corners of the earth perhaps in the "hot and high" conditions that a pilot most dreads.
It was the Hawker's job to get Peter Stride to the scene of terrorist activity as swiftly as possible, and the general's job once there to stall and procrastinate and bargain until Colin Noble's assault team caught up with him.
The two men were still in contact, however, and the small central television screen in front of Peter was permanently lit with a view of the interior of the Hercules's main hold. When he lifted his head from his work, Peter Stride could see a picture of his troops, all in the casual Thor overalls, lounging or sprawled in abandoned attitudes of relaxation down the central aisle of the Hercules. They also were veterans at the hard game of waiting, while in the foreground Colin Noble sat at his small work desk, going through the voluminous check list for "condition Charlie" which was the next state of alert when terrorist activity was confirmed.
Watching Colin Noble at work, Peter Stride found a moment to ponder once again the enormous cost of maintaining Atlas, most of it paid by the United States intelligence budget, and the obstacles and resistance that had been overcome to launch the project in the first place. Only the success of the Israelis at Entebbe and of the Germans at Mogadishu had made it possible, but there was still violent opposition in both countries to maintaining a dual national counteraction force.
With a preliminary click and hum the central screen of Peter's communications console came alive and Dr. 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 co-operation can we expect?" Peter asked.
"All African States that we have so far been able to contact have offered full co-operation, 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 co-operation. 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 non-smoker, 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.
The jet blasts struck the Boeing one after the other as the Mirages attacked. Ingrid clutched wildly for support with her free hand, but kept the pistol jammed into the navigator's neck. "I mean it," she kept shouting. "I'll kill him and they could hear the screams of the passengers even through the bulkhead of the flight deck.
Then the last Mirage was passed and gone and the Boeing's flight director recovered from the battering of close separation and quickly realigned the aircraft on the radio navigational beacons of Jan Smuts Airport.
"They won't buzz us again." Ingrid stepped back from the flight engineer, allowing him to lift his head and wipe away the trickle of blood on the sleeve of his shirt. "They can't come again. We are into controlled airspace." She pointed ahead. "Look!" The Boeing was down to five thousand feet, but the horizon was obscured by the haze of smog and summer heat.
To the right rose the smooth silhouette of the Kempton Park Power Station cooling towers and, closer at hand, the poisonous yellow tablelands of the mine dumps squatted on the flat and featureless plain of the African high veld Around them human habitation was so dense that hundreds of windowpanes caught the early morning sun and glittered like beacons.
Closer still was the long, straight, blue streak of the main runway of Jan Smuts Airport.
"Take her straight in on runway 21 ingrid ordered.
"We can't,-"
"Do it," snapped the girl. "Air traffic control will have cleared the circuit. They can't stop us."
"Yes, they can," Cyril Watkins answered. "Just take a look at the runway apron." They were close enough now to count five fuel tenders, to see the Shell company insignia on the tanks.
"They are going to block the runway." With the tankers were five brilliant red vehicles of the fire service and two big white ambulances. They bumped wildly over the grass verge of the runway and then, one after the other, tenders and fire control vehicles and ambulances parked at intervals of a few hundred yards down the white-painted centre line of the runway.
"We can't land," said the captain.
"Take her off automatic and fly her in by hand." The girl's voice was different, hard, cruel.
The Boeing was sinking through a thousand feet, lined up for runway 21 and directly ahead the revolving red beacons on top of the fire vehicles seemed to flash a direct challenge.
"I can't pile into them," Cyril Watkins decided, and there was no longer hesitation nor doubt in his tone. "I'm going to overshoot and get out of here."
"Land on the grass," the girl shrieked. "There is open grass on the left of the runway put her down there." But Cyril Watkins had leaned forward in his seat and rammed the bank of throttles forward. The engines howled and the Boeing surged into a nose-high climb.
The young flight engineer had swivelled his stool and was staring ahead through the windscreen. His whole body was rigid, his expression intense and the smear of blood across his forehead was in vivid contrast to the pallor of his skin.
With his right hand he gripped the edge of his desk, and the knuckles of his fist were white and shiny as eggshell.
Without seeming to move the blonde girl had pinned the wrist of that rigid right hand, pressing the muzzles of the pistol into it.
There was a crash of sound, so violent in the confines of the cabin that it seemed to beat in their eardrums. The weapon kicked up as high as the girl's golden head and there was the immediate acrid stench of burned cordite.
The flight engineer stared down incredulously at the desk top.
There was a hole blown through the metal as big as a teacup, and the edges were jagged with bright bare metal.
The blast of shot had amputated his hand cleanly at the wrist.
The severed member had been thrown forward into the space between the pilots" seats, with the shattered bone protruding from the mangled meat. It twitched like a crushed and maimed insect.
"Land," said the girl. "Land or the next shot is through his head."
"You bloody monster," shouted Cyril Watkins, staring at the severed hand.
"Land or you will be responsible for this man's life." The flight engineer clutched the stump of his arm against his belly and doubled over it silently, his face contorted by the shock.
Cyril Watkins tore his stricken gaze from the severed hand and looked ahead once more. There was wide open grass between the runway markers and the narrow taxiway.
The grass had been mown knee-high, and he knew the ground beneath it would be fairly smooth.
Cyril's hand on the throttle bank pulled back smoothly, almost of its own volition, the engine thunder died away and the nose dropped again.
He held his approach aligned with the main runway until he was well in over the threshold lights. He did not want to alert the drivers of the blocking vehicles to his intention while they still had time to counter it.
"You murderous bitch," he said under his breath. "You filthy murderous bitch." He banked the Boeing steeply, realigned it with the long strip of open grass and cut the throttles completely, bringing her in nose-high and just a fraction above the stall, flaring out deliberately low and banging the Boeing down into the grass for positive touch down.
The huge machine settled to the rough strip, jolting and lurching wildly as Cyril Watkins fought the rudders to keep them lined up, holding his nose wheel off with the control yoke, while his co-pilot threw all her giant engines into reverse thrust and trod firmly down on the main landing gear brakes.
The fire engines and fuel tankers flashed past the starboard wing tip. The startled faces of their crews seemed very close and white then 070 was past, her speed bleeding off sharply so her nose wheel dropped and she rocked and swayed gradually to a dead stop just short of the brick building which housed the approach and landing beacons, and the main radar installations.
It was 7.25 a.m. local time and
Speedbird 070 was down.
"Well, they are down," intoned Kingston Parker.
"And you can well understand the extreme efforts that were made to prevent them. Their choice of final destination settles one of your queries, Peter."
" Peter nodded. "It's got to be political.
I agree, sir."
"And you and I must now face in dreadful reality what we have discussed only in lofty theory-" Parker held a taper to his pipe and puffed twice before going on.
Morally justifiable militancy."
"Again we have to differ, sir."
Peter cut in swiftly. "There is no such thing."
"Is there not?" Parker asked, shaking his head. "What of the German officers killed in the streets of Paris by the French resistance?"
"That was war," Peter exclaimed.
"Perhaps the group that seized 070 believes that they are at war "With innocent victims?" Peter shot back.
"The Haganah took innocent victims yet what they were fighting for was right and just." As an Englishman, Dr. Parker you cannot expect me to condone the murder of British women and children." Peter had stiffened in his chair.
"No," Parker agreed. "So let us not speak of the MauMau in Kenya, nor of present-day Ireland then but what of the French Revolution or the spreading of the Catholic faith by the most terrible persecution and tortures yet devised by man were those not morally justifiable militancy?"
"I would prefer to call it understandable but reprehensible. Terrorism in any form can never be morally justifiable."
Provoked himself, Peter used the word deliberately to provoke and saw the small lift of Parker's thick bushy eyebrows.
"There is terrorism from above as well as from below." Parker picked up the word and used it deliberately. "If you define terrorism as extreme physical or physiological coercion used to induce others to submit to the will of the terrorist there is the legal terror threat of the gallows, the religious terror threat of hell fire, the paternal terror threat of the cane are those more morally justifiable than the aspiration of the weak, the poor, the politically oppressed, the powerless victims of an unjust society? Is their scream of protest to be strangled-" Peter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Protest outside the law-" "Laws are made by man, almost always by the rich and the powerful laws are changed by men, usually only after militant action. The women's suffragette movement, the civil rights campaign in this country-" Parker broke off and chuckled. "I'm sorry, Peter.