Debut for a Spy (37 page)

“
Thanks. I hope to God I don't need it. Choppy, will you keep it with you until I get into the aircraft? You can toss it up to me.”

I threw it to him.

“Let's synchronize the time. I've got 0300 in 17 seconds.” We waited for it. “5-4-3-2-1-mark. Okay, everyone in place, Lofty does his act at the door at 0305. See you in England. Drinks are on me.”

We shook hands quickly and in silence, then dispersed. I walked down to A deck, went aft on the center gangway and out to the stern promenade. I tried to be careful with the doors, but aboard ship there is always the sound of the sea and the hum of machinery to mask most extraneous noises The deck was empty, and I made preparation to repeat my performance of the night before. One minute to go. My heart was beating rapidly and my palms started to sweat. Not good. I didn't want to slip on the rail. I wiped them on my jacket as I heard the first noises from above.

“Hey! Whassa matter? Why don't you open the door?” And then a banging and pounding began.

I swung myself up as the noise continued, being careful not to land on the mesh as hard as I had before. Both guards were now at the door trying to calm Lofty down and convince him to go away. I had the Makarov out, safety off, and crept toward them from behind. Lofty was facing me, but not even a flicker of his eyes took any notice as I got closer.

“Okay, okay, I'm going,” he roared, starting to turn away. “What a bunch of rotten sods you are.”

The guards were convinced he was leaving. They were totally unprepared for me.

“Put you hands up and don't turn around!” I challenged, and one did and one didn't. The Markarov coughed once, hitting the guard on my left in the right arm. Still he turned, and the Skorpion was swinging toward me. I squeezed twice more and caught him in the chest. He went down. My team poured through the door.

Not a word was said as one figure stopped behind the standing guard and hit him hard at the base of the neck with a wrench. He went down like a tree.

“Tape them both, eyes, ears and mouth as well as hands and feet,” came a hoarse whisper.

Two
had gone straight to the tarp – Taffy and Lofty, who had reappeared with his face covered by black nylon. The other three trussed up the guards, though one was probably dead. Two of my team, most likely Ben and Dusty, held on to the Skorpions.

The tarp was moving easily back, frame and all. Thank God! Ben and Dusty had moved to the restraints with their tools, Choppy was at the starting cylinders. The canopy was clear and I moved to the ladder to climb in.

There was a roar from behind me, powerful hands caught my arms and I was flung to the rail. I dropped the Makarov.

“
You prick!” yelled Stavic. “I thought I recognized you!”

He came at me as the others ran to my aid. I feinted to the left, grabbing his right arm and pivoting, using his speed and weight to whip him around. His height was his downfall. He hit the rail as I snapped his body, and he went right over into the sea, screaming. For a moment we were stunned. Then I moved.

“Quick! There may be others coming!”

I grabbed the Makarov, shoved it in my jacket and clambered up and into the cockpit, pulled on the cloth helmet, fastened the harness and looked out as Choppy tossed the life jacket to me.

“Clear, Guv!” called Ben, as I jammed the 'bone dome' on and pulled the pad out of my pocket.

I clipped it on the instrument panel, shone my penlight on it, and went through the start sequence in a hurry. Choppy was ready for the signal.

I watched the clock anxiously as the whine grew louder, checking that the nozzle control lever was back for vertical. At the first rumble I signaled to Choppy and he pulled the plugs. Another 20 seconds!

I thought I saw movement, then flashes. Christalmighty! Gunfire! Ten seconds! The Soviets were trying to get on deck!

Now! Throttle full ahead! With a tremendous surge I lifted off the deck – but canted at an angle! Quick! Power off! I slammed back down again! Something had caught – another cable?

Ben darted under the aircraft as a hail of bullets followed him. Return fire from two angles hit the Soviet gunner. He went down. Ben appeared, holding his side, gave me a thumbs up and I poured it on again. Straight up! Full power! I felt more than heard some clunks hitting the aircraft as I cleared the top deck, then the stern of the ship passed under me as I kept ascending on full throttle.

I banged up the undercarriage, easing the nozzle control lever forward as I swung to port, my speed increasing dramatically at full throttle. I hauled around to port again, watching the ship below me as I circled at 2000 feet and still climbing.

I wanted to tell them something – to salute those who had helped, to thumb my nose at those who had been foiled. I went around again, 4000 feet now, and a mile ahead of the ship. I headed straight for it, the aircraft in a dive and throttle to full power. Down I hurtled, speed increasing insanely – there! Above Mach 1! I pulled back hard on the stick 100 feet over the ship, starting to climb as the second sonic boom caught up to me. Those two cracks should shake them up! A futile gesture, perhaps, but nevertheless a gesture. One more circuit, then the ship slid smoothly underneath me as I climbed again, this time with a silent prayer for the band, and for Marijke.

I corrected my course to 050 degrees, checked my instruments, and continued ascending toward the dawning sky.

My prospects were not very good. The odds were against me.

Even so I felt better off than my friends back on the ship. Compared to them I was in clover. For the moment.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Bay
of
Biscay
–
early
morning
,
Friday
,
June
22
,
1962

I was flying, but I was flying blind. The compass wasn't set for deviation and variation. I didn't know whether there was a wind effect taking me degrees off course. My fuel state was not good – the vertical take-off and the passes over the ship – stupid move – had reduced it drastically. I was on oxygen with the cockpit heat on. At 20,000 feet the temperature falls to -30 degrees Fahrenheit – a bit too cool for comfort.

I'd done as much trimming as I could, and XP831 was flying like the lady Bill Bedford had told me she was, but I knew my chances of reaching France were slender. The higher I flew the better for fuel economy, but I'd freeze to death up there. Even the heat on full would make little difference.

I'd throttled back to 200 knots in an effort to conserve fuel, and after the take-off and 15 minutes cruising at this speed I calculated I had already used nearly half of it. At best I had fuel for another 300 miles, but that would leave me 50 miles short of land, assuming that land would be where I was pointed.

Several times I had tried the radio on various frequencies, but so far no response. I was loath to switch to the emergency frequency and call a Mayday, but that might have to happen yet. Once I got be
low 20 minutes of fuel I would call for help. Maybe there would be a ship to ditch near.

The sun was up. It had risen much earlier and more rapidly than usual because of my climb in an easterly direction.

Underlying all this were sickening thoughts – that the band members might have been killed and dumped overboard. Marijke. Was she in the clear? It was hard to worry about my own situation when I had been responsible for involving the others in my escape.

Jesus! There's an aircraft just off my port wing! Shit! Another one to starboard! Two jet fighters! Talk about luck! If I have to ditch they could direct a rescue helicopter or boat to me, and I had the life-jacket from the band to keep me afloat until help arrived.

One of the pilots was trying to signal me. I couldn't figure out what he meant by his gestures. I kept looking, but he was busy with something in front of him.

I studied the aircraft. They were very large – probably twice as long as XP831. In natural aluminum finish with a long black needle nose, gold numbers under the cockpit, 87 was on my port side and 92 on my starboard, and a large red star on the tailfin.

Large red star? Fucking hell! Soviets! What kind of shit am I in? This can't be coincidence. They're too far from a land base. They've got to be here with a tanker, probably sent out to shepherd our ship and its cargo only to find the bird had flown the 'poop'. The ship must have directed them to find me. Not hard when they've got radar and I'm only stooging along at 200 knots. But now what?

That was answered in a hurry. The pilot of 87 held up a card. There was a number in black marker. 121.5 I thought, though I wasn't sure. He tapped the side of his helmet. Of course. A radio frequency. I dialed 121.5 mhz. He was transmitting.

“...are you receive me?”

“
Yes, I am receiving you. What do you want?”

“
You steal Soviet property from ship.”

“
Sorry, chum, it's British property. Take a hike!”

“
We go back to ship! You land on ship! You understand?”

“
Go fuck yourself, Ivan!”

His voice went up in pitch.
“You don't do this, we blow you out of sky!”

I looked under his starboard wing. Two missiles hanging there, that meant two more on the other side. Two planes, ergo: eight missiles. God I was clever! It would only take one of those things to turn me into fish fry, so my odds had dropped from slim to grim.

“English pilot...”

Oh, what the hell.

I jammed the throttle fully forward. The big Pegasus engine thundered, and I shot away from them like a bullet from a rifle. I knew they'd catch up shortly – their top speed was probably twice mine, but up to 650 knots at this altitude my acceleration was probably better.

I hit my top speed, swiveled my head around but couldn't see them. A minute later they were coming up on me – they must have been pouring it on. They fell into place again, and I heard 87's voice.

“You stupid! Last chance! We much faster!”

“
Ah, yes,” I replied. “But can you do this!”

I pulled back both levers in the throttle box and stopped dead in the air, the two Soviets roaring on at nearly 700 knots. I pushed left rudder, swiveled to the opposite direction, and changed to horizontal again, picking up speed to 400 knots.

By the time they turned around to come after me I was miles away in the opposite direction. My fuel was diminishing rapidly. I switched to the emergency frequency.

“
Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! This is Hawker X-ray Papa eight-three-one British registry, experimental VTOL jet! Estimated position 45 degrees latitude, 11 degrees longitude, heading magnetic 230 degrees at 400 knots and angels 20! Twenty minutes of fuel remaining! I am under attack by two Soviet fighters, type unknown! I have no armament! X-ray Papa 8-3-1! Mayday, Mayday, Mayday!”

“
Xray Papa 8-3-1, we are verifying.”

A voice from the blue in my earphones. Who?

Oh, crap, there are my Russian friends. They were coming at me from behind. As I stretched to look I saw a flash under the wing of one of them. Missile launch! Aw, shit!

I yanked both throttle and nozzle control back all the way. 831 dropped like a rock. The missile screamed over my head. I pushed on power and went to the hover, rotating to find the Soviets. Again they had shot past and were attempting to turn to come at me once more. The radio crackled.

“X-ray Papa 8-3-1, this is the United States Navy aircraft carrier USS Enterprise! We have you and your friends on radar. Hang in there, li'l buddy! The cavalry's on its way!”

“
Roger, Enterprise! Am I glad to hear you! What's your position? Over.”

“
We are ten nautical miles from you, bearing 275 degrees.”

“
Roger, Enterprise. Changing heading to 275 degrees. Oh God! My company's back!”

“
Hang tight, 8-3-1!”

I pulled the throttle back and put the nozzles down about 45 degrees. This brought my speed down to 60 knots and allowed me to descend slightly. The two Soviets were making wide turns around me, deciding how to make the next move. I went to a full hover and pivoted on my axis. I was able to keep them in sight, like a matador in a bullfight, and like the matador I was ready for the next pass. Unfortunately there were two bulls.

They had obviously figured out that a split attack was the way to get me. They’d separated by five miles and were lining up for a head-to-head with me as the salami in the sandwich. I couldn't watch them both easily, despite the pivot. If I dived away, one of them would be on me and it was all over. They had closed to one mile radius, two miles separating them. A flash!

Missile incoming! I pivoted. Shit! Two missiles incoming!

I went to horizontal flight on full power. Straight for one of the Soviets! The Pegasus roared to full acceleration. I was closing on him – the missile on me! I yanked the nozzles down at full power, stopped forward motion and rose suddenly straight up! Both missiles missed! The Soviet I was facing made a frantic break right, and suddenly exploded in a fiery ball of red and orange. With my sudden disappearance the missile had locked on to the aircraft which had taken my place in line-of-sight and blew it out of the sky.

I pivoted. The other aircraft was coming at me. If he had guns, I was in trouble.

“Enterprise, this is 8-3-1. Where's the...” WHOOOOOSH! I was drowned out by the most massive boom I'd ever heard as a big US Navy jet fighter came diving out of the sun. He must have been doing Mach 2 plus, the sound was so far behind him!

“
Careful, li'l buddy! He's got a lock on you! He launched! God dammit! Your turn, you bastard!”

I watched the burning flare come at me, figuring I had four seconds. In two I dropped again, the heat seeker completely bewildered by my downward facing nozzles. It roared over my head as the large US Navy F-4A Phantom zeroed in on the Soviet.

“How the hell you do that, l'il buddy? You ain't a helicopter. Catcher, Rooster engaging Tu-28P Fiddler. He has fired his weapon. Is hunting season open?”

“
Season open, Rooster. No bag limit. Good hunting.”

The big Phantom had done a tight turn and was lining up on the Soviet. Suddenly another Phantom joined the hunt
– his wingman had arrived! The Soviet was diving at full power, weaving, bouncing, anything to escape. He went into a vertical climb. Wrong move! The Phantom has incredible power. Up they shot, straight up, gaining on him rapidly. The Soviet was in trouble. Losing power in his climb, he was a sitting duck for the Phantoms.

But he was a good pilot. Dropping his speed he wheeled out at the top of his climb, dropping down the same column he had come up. The Phantoms did a starburst and were quickly diving after the Soviet. The starburst was the right move, bringing one of the Phantoms out in a power dive on an intercept with the Soviet. There was a wink under the Phantom's wing, and the Soviet disintegrated into a red mushroom. It was over.

“8-3-1, this is the Enterprise. Retune to 94.2 Mhz.”

“
Roger.” I twisted the knob.

“
8-3-1, this is the Enterprise, call-sign Catcher. Two F-8 Crusaders will fly escort for you and bring you in for a visit.”

“
Roger, Catcher.”

I eased into horizontal flight to save what was left of my fuel. Two gray and white Vought Crusader F-8A's appeared, one on either side of me, 'AF' on their tailfins
– numbers 211 and 204.

“
Delta One and Delta Two are with you, good buddy. We're gonna call you 'Jumper' for identification. Do you copy?”

“
Roger, Delta One. Jumper copies.”

“
How 'n the hell were you just sittin' there, Jumper? You ain't no whirlybird!”

“
It's a secret formula I invented for anti-gravity. Spray it on and you go straight up.”

“
No shit?”

“
Yeah, and Walt Disney's gonna do a movie about it called 'Flubber Flies Again'.”

He laughed.
“You're puttin' me on, man! Let's get serious. What's your fuel state?”

“
Maybe 8 minutes.”

“
Jumper, follow us. About 3 minutes. Catcher will resume communications with you at that time.”

“
Roger.”

The F-8's went past me and I increased speed just enough to keep pace. We flew for a couple of minutes.

“There she is, Jumper, about 2 0'clock. We're goin' down.”

“
Roger, I'm with you.”

I pushed the stick forward and followed them in a powered dive, then into a circuit around the immense carrier. A huge white 65 was painted on her deck and on the island. The USS Enterprise.

“Jumper, this is Catcher. Suggest you ditch about 100 yards off the port bow. We'll pick you up in the chopper.”

“
Negative, Catcher. I've got just enough gas left to land this puddle-jumper.”

“
Jumper, do you have deck-landing experience?”

“
No, Catcher, but I hear it's a ride worth trying.”

“
Do you have arrester gear?”

“
Not the kind you've ever seen, Catcher. I'm coming around to line up on the deck. Am I cleared?”

“
We will rig the net. Watch the Landing Signals Officer, Jumper. If he waves you off go 'round again or abort. Got it?”

“
Roger, Catcher. Jumper on final.”

A different voice.
“Jumper, you are too high! Abort!”

“
Sorry, Catcher. This is a different ball game. Coming in!”

I flew over the angled deck with speed reducing to 30 knots, gauging my descent to 20 feet by looking at the island superstructure. When I was in line with the island I drew the speed down to match that of the ship using the nozzle control, then eased the throttle back to sink gracefully onto the deck. The LSO had given up trying to hand signal me down.

I popped the canopy as a ladder was placed, and I was out and down on wobbly legs. I knew they had other aircraft to recover, so they had to move 831 out of the way. A khaki-clad officer with naval commander's rank ran up to me. I pulled off my helmets.

“
Welcome aboard. I'm Pete Birkmann, the Air Group Commander, or 'CAG'. Come on with me. Your aircraft'll be well looked after – don't worry.”

“
I'm Major David Baird, sir, regardless of what I look like. It's a long story.”