Pandemic (16 page)

‘Isn’t that typical?’ an anonymous voice piped up. ‘The bloody stovies get to sleep through this lot as well.’

Sporadic laughter greeted this remark. It was true that the Sea Harrier pilots – the ‘jet jockeys’ or ‘stovies’ – flew fewer hours than the helicopter crews,
but this was primarily because of their very different roles. Nevertheless, it was popularly rumoured that the most common medical complaint suffered by 800 Squadron pilots was bedsores.

Outskirts of Matera, Puglia, Italy

‘It’s gone,’ Vento shouted out, as he ran back up the villa’s drive towards Perini. They’d found one set of keys in the field adjoining the
wasteland, and Vento had immediately set off with the driver to where he’d left the Agusta.

‘What?’

‘The helicopter,’ Vento said, ‘it’s gone. And the other Alfa Romeo was parked in the lay-by. Richter must have taken the Agusta.’

For a moment Perini said nothing, then he span round to face Simpson. ‘You
knew
,’ he said. ‘You knew he could fly a helicopter.’ Simpson nodded. ‘Why
didn’t you tell me?’

‘You never asked,’ Simpson replied, with a wintry smile. ‘And let’s get something quite clear, shall we? I will do nothing at all to assist you in capturing Richter.
He’s one of my most valuable assets, and I will not tolerate seeing him incarcerated pointlessly in Italy, or anywhere else for that matter.

‘I don’t condone what he did here, but I do understand why he did it. Lomas killed a woman Richter had become personally involved with. He killed her slowly and with incredible
precision so as to cause her the maximum possible pain, and when he’d finished he dumped her body next to Richter himself while he was unconscious. What Richter did was actually rather less
than Lomas deserved. If it had been my decision, Lomas would have taken days to die.’

‘I have no interest whatsoever in Richter’s reasons,’ Perini snapped, then turned away and told one of the DCPP officers to contact Brindisi airport immediately and place the
Sea Harrier under armed guard. Then he faced Simpson again. ‘The fact is that he made a murderous attack upon a bound and unarmed prisoner in full view of four witnesses. If Lomas dies, I
expect Richter to be charged with murder. If he survives, I expect him to be charged with causing grievous bodily harm.’

‘Expect away,’ Simpson replied coldly. ‘As I’ve said, I’ll do nothing to help you. And you should also know that any attempts to extradite Richter from Britain will
not succeed. I will see to that. If you persist with this vendetta, I promise you I will produce witnesses of unimpeachable probity who’ll be prepared to swear that at the moment this attack
took place Richter was actually in London.’

‘Or Paris or Berlin or Madrid, I suppose,’ Perini said bitterly.

‘Or anywhere else I choose. Exactly,’ Simpson nodded. ‘I can see you’re finally getting the hang of it.’

Aeroporto di Brindisi, Papola-Casale, Puglia, Italy

Inside the squadron building, Richter dropped the flick-knife into a large plastic bag, then stripped off his T-shirt, jeans and trainers and stuffed them into it as well.
Then he climbed into his flying overalls, pulled on his speed jeans and flying boots, slipped on the life-saving jacket, grabbed his helmet as well as the plastic bag and ran out of the
building.

A fuel bowser had just arrived beside the Agusta and the driver was looking around in a puzzled fashion, presumably wondering where its pilot had got to. Richter strode briskly across to the
Harrier, his eyes roaming over the control surfaces, but the Chief had been as good as his word, and all the locks had been removed. Richter climbed nimbly up the red ladder secured to the side of
the aircraft, sat down, strapped himself in and pulled on his flying helmet. He shoved the plastic bag awkwardly over to one side of the cockpit.

He rushed through the pre-flight checks – again, the Chief Petty Officer had done those that he could – and as soon as he had completed them he reached out and levered the ladder
away from the side of the cockpit. As it fell with a clatter on to the concrete hardstanding, the fuel bowser driver turned round to stare curiously at the Harrier.

Richter closed the canopy and removed the last two pins that primed the ejection seat. There are five pins altogether, but the Chief had already removed and stowed the other three. Out of the
corner of his eye he saw a truck and a car approaching the hardstanding along the taxiway, headlights blazing and travelling at speed, but he ignored them.

He flicked the start switch and pressed the button next to it. The Auxiliary Power Unit started to whistle, and then Richter heard the sound he’d been waiting for: the mechanical whine as
the APU started the Pegasus engine turning. This whine grew louder as the turbine span ever faster and then the jet settled into a steady, comforting roar.

Richter checked all the engine instruments, then glanced up the taxiway. The truck and car were almost at the edge of the hardstanding, but he really didn’t think they were going to pose a
problem – for one very simple reason.

During practice air combat, live missiles are never carried, and the Sidewinder fitted below the starboard wing of Richter’s Harrier was a dummy apart from its seeker head, but the pair of
Mark 4 Aden cannon – essentially a multi-barrelled Gatling gun similar to those fitted to American tank-busting helicopters and A10 aircraft – located in pods under the belly of the
aircraft were very real, and he had persuaded Commander (Air) to authorize the loading of two ammunition packs of one hundred rounds for each gun.

Normally the FA2 Sea Harrier carries only missiles in various combinations. Richter had seen no point in asking Wings to let him carry live Sidewinders or AMRAAMs, but because he had no idea
what Simpson was planning for him in Italy, some kind of self-defence capability had seemed prudent. The obvious solution was the Aden cannon, and the squadron maintainers had spent some hours
fitting this pair of weapons.

The truck swept onto the hardstanding and screeched to a halt almost in front of the Harrier. Armed airmen poured out of the back and pointed their assault rifles at the aircraft. Richter did
nothing, because he was waiting for the car to stop. When it did, blocking the access to the taxiway, two more armed soldiers climbed out.

Then Richter acted. He increased the power setting on the Pegasus slightly and pressed down on the right rudder pedal: the Harrier swung gently to the right until the nose of the aircraft was
pointing directly at the back of the parked truck. He selected the Aden cannon, sighted carefully, making sure that none of the soldiers was in the firing line, and depressed the trigger, releasing
it after about a second. There was a sound like tearing calico and the back of the truck simply ceased to exist as some fifty 30mm shells smashed into it from a distance of less than twenty yards.
The impact swung what was left of the vehicle around in a half-circle, and Richter found himself looking into the terrified face of the driver, who was still in the cab.

The results were immediate and exactly what Richter had expected. The soldiers scattered and, as they disappeared into whatever cover they could find, he wound on the power and the Harrier began
to move again, turning directly towards the car on the taxiway. The driver suddenly decided he’d be more likely to survive if he moved his vehicle, so floored the accelerator, swinging the
wheel so that the car shot onto the hard-standing, well clear of the Harrier’s path and leaving the taxiway clear.

The Italians’ second line of defence was even then being assembled: three heavy fire vehicles were being parked nose to tail across the full width of the runway. But Richter didn’t
need the runway. He turned the Harrier onto the taxiway, slammed the engine to full power, and the Harrier began to roll. He hit one hundred knots in four seconds, and less than two seconds after
that, with one hundred and fifty knots showing on the ASI, he rotated the nozzles to fifty degrees and the Harrier leapt into the sky.

American Airlines 747, direct Baltimore-London Heathrow, western Atlantic

David Elias picked at the meal on the drop-down table in front of him with preoccupied disinterest. Although it seemed a hell of a long time since breakfast, he
wasn’t particularly hungry, and even the best of airline food only ever seemed barely edible to him.

But it wasn’t the food that was concerning him. Ever since the man calling himself McCready had begun that briefing in the safe house in Arlington, Elias had been wondering what the hell
he was doing getting involved in this thing. Not, he reasoned, that he had been given much of a choice. His superior officer had told him to attend. Any dissent would reflect badly on Elias
professionally. And, in any case, his role had seemed simple enough.

All operational matters, McCready had told them, were the sole responsibility of Krywald and Stein, with Krywald as the senior officer. Elias was simply along for the ride, and to carry out a
solo dive – possibly a deep solo dive – once they reached their destination.

That, too, had been a surprise. All Elias knew about Crete was that it was a popular holiday destination in the eastern Mediterranean. As far as he was aware, the Company had no assets on, or
interest in, the island, and McCready had been carefully non-specific about the purpose of the dive. Krywald, he had said, would brief Elias when the time came. For the moment, Elias didn’t
need to know more.

He may not have needed to know, but Elias was certainly curious. He was also aware that the bulk of the briefing in Arlington had been completed well before his own arrival – he had been
told almost nothing about the true purpose of the operation. All he did know was that some thirty years earlier an aircraft had crashed somewhere near Crete, and there were indications it had been
found recently by a local diver. He presumed that the wreck was the focus of the dive he was going to have to undertake, but that was about all.

He was also puzzled by the haste involved. Less than two hours after the briefing had concluded, the three of them were sitting in the 747 out of Baltimore on a direct flight to London Heathrow
– the first available aircraft across the Atlantic – and with onward connections to Crete. He’d presumed he would be given time to go back to his apartment to collect some clothes
before departure, but that hadn’t been allowed. A carry-on bag filled with clothes, pyjamas and washing kit had been provided, together with five hundred euros in cash and a new credit card
issued under his real name.

If the sole purpose of the operation was to look for a thirty-year-old crashed aircraft, it all seemed unnaturally hasty. There had to be more – a lot more – to this business.

Sea Harrier ‘Tiger Two’ and HMS
Invincible
, Ionian Sea

As soon as the Harrier had cleared the airfield boundary, Richter pulled back on the control column and continued his climb to thirty-five thousand feet. He also, as a
precaution, switched on his Guardian radar warning receiver, but he doubted if the Italians were likely to send anything up after him.

Richter didn’t know exactly where the
Invincible
was, but he knew the ship had to be somewhere between the heel of Italy and the Peloponnisos at the southern tip of Greece, so he
set an initial course of one six zero magnetic. As he reached top of climb, and passed abeam Lecce, he selected Homer’s discrete frequency and called the ship.

‘Homer, this is Tiger Two.’ For a few seconds there was no reply, and Richter repeated the call. ‘Homer, Homer, this is Tiger Two.’

With no planned flying, the Operations Room was almost deserted. Lieutenant John Moore, one of the two Air Traffic Control officers on board, was sitting in his usual seat, but with his feet up
on the swivel chair next to him and reading a book. His headset was draped over the top of the console, and the Homer and Guard frequencies were being relayed through a speaker. The delay in
replying was caused simply by the time it took Moore to put down his book and don his headset.

‘Tiger Two, this is Homer. Good afternoon, Spook.’

‘Good to hear your voice, John. OK, Tiger Two is at Flight Level three five zero, heading one six zero magnetic and approximately twenty-five miles south-east of Lecce in Italy. Request
ship’s position and pigeons. Note that my NAVHARS is non-functional and I’m using only the E2B magnetic compass.’

‘Roger, Tiger Two,’ Moore replied, looking up at the RDF display, which shows the direction from which a radio transmission has come. ‘Steer one five five magnetic for Mother.
Understand your NAVHARS is unserviceable?’

‘Negative,’ Richter responded. ‘It’s working, but I had to leave Italy in a bit of a hurry and I didn’t have time to set it up.’

The Sea Harrier’s inertial navigation system – the NAVHARS – requires the pilot to input both an accurate geographical start position and the aircraft’s heading to enable
it to function correctly. Without accurate start data, it’s virtually useless. Richter hadn’t had time to do anything with the system when he left Brindisi – he’d had other
things on his mind.

‘Roger,’ Moore replied. ‘Ship’s position is forty miles due west of Cape Matapan, which gives you, ah, wait one –’ Moore fumbled with an en-route chart and
roughly measured distances using his chinagraph pencil ‘– about a three-hundred-nautical-mile transit from Lecce. Say your endurance.’

‘I was tanks full at Brindisi,’ Richter replied, ‘so well over one hour. I should reach you in about thirty minutes.’

‘Roger that.’ Moore released the transmit key and pressed the intercom button to Flyco.

On the port side of the bridge, with a clear and unobstructed view of the whole of the Flight Deck, is Flyco, the Flying Control Position. Manned by Lieutenant Commander (Flying), the
second-in-command of the Air Department, or his deputy, the Air Staff Officer, Flyco controls all take-offs and landings, and all flying operations within the visual circuit of the ship.

Roger Black, Lieutenant Commander (Flying), known as ‘Little F’, was sitting in his usual seat, a month-old magazine in front of him, dividing his attention between that and the
Flight Deck below him, where a single Merlin helicopter was lashed down on two spot, carrying out an engine run. As the intercom buzzed he pressed a key. ‘Flyco.’