The Blockade Runners Read online

  He took the hundred dollar bills.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.’

  All laughed, the comment not lost on them.

  CHAPTER 16

  On the Air France flight back to Paris, they sat in adjoining seats and decided that the best course of action would be to split up again once in France. They would avoid each other and assume new identities. Although he understood that Doyle had arrived in France from London primarily to ensure that the departure of the knockdown helicopters proceeded without a hitch, he was to assist the Rhodesian in that regard. They were to meet at some obscure bistro near the Air France city terminal in Paris. Gisela would continue to source goods in Europe urgently needed in Rhodesia. David was to retain a German identity and continue to masquerade as a lifetime student-lecturer.

  They had heard nothing regarding the status of the tankers.

  They left the aircraft separately at Orly. David entered the men’s room on the concourse where removed his clothing and donned his student’s garb. From the lining of his bag, he produced a new German passport, courtesy of Gisela. He was now Helmuth Baumbach, lecturer at Cologne University, his speciality, electronics. Gone was the suit, now jeans and windbreaker, his head covered by a beanie to protect him from the weather.

  With his personal belongings and few items of clothing stuffed into a duffel bag, he caught the bus to the terminus in the city. There, he phoned Doyle, who was already in Paris and had installed himself in a dingy hotel near Sacré-Coeur. The terminus was crowded. Doyle was nowhere to be seen. He waited about ten minutes and then sauntered to the bistro he had been given as the rendezvous point.

  He ordered a café noir and, taking it from the barman, sat down at one of the nearby tables. The bistro was a typical worker’s bar, nothing fancy about it.

  ‘Jetzt sieh mal an, was wir da haben,’ someone said. David turned to look. At first glance, he did not recognise him. It was Doyle. Look what the cat dragged in, indeed. He seemed to have aged considerably: his hair and eyebrows were grey; he sported a moustache, also grey; on his nose was perched a pair of large square, rimless glasses. David smiled, glad to see the man.

  ‘You did a brilliant job in Lebanon.’ Doyle said staying with German.

  They shook hands.

  ‘A few people died. I’m worried.’ David said.

  ‘So I’ve heard, well, that’s par for the course in this game. This is a bad business but it has to be done. Christ, we’re actually paid to do these things. You better get used to it,’ Doyle replied with a shrug. The loss of life left him unmoved it seemed.

  David looked around to ensure that they could not be overheard.

  ‘What’s happening with the helicopters?’ he asked, his voice low.

  ‘You won’t believe it. The bloody South Africans are fucking us around. The crates are standing in a warehouse on an airfield near Toulouse, which Aérospatiale uses for test flights. It’s pretty well guarded. A Safair Hercules C130 was supposed to have collected these. Now the South African government has refused to do so, afraid that this could implicate them. Jesus Christ, implicate them. Can you believe that? What a bunch of arseholes.’

  ‘So what are you going to do now?’ an astounded David asked.

  ‘Oh, my dear friend, you’ve got it wrong. It’s what are you going to do.’

  A real bastard, David thought. He wasn’t sure whether he liked or disliked the man.

  ‘Forget it. I’m not masquerading as any officer or whatever. Once was enough,’ David said. He wasn’t going to be caught up in another of Doyle’s plans.

  ‘Nothing like that. I’ve leased an aircraft, a DC-7B cargo plane from a Luxembourg crowd. They have a shady reputation, you know, involved in smuggling and similar activities, which suits me. Actually, they’re rather well-known in Africa. They did a lot of flying in the Congo hauling all sorts of shit around. Cash upfront of course, nearly enough to buy the bloody plane, I might add. Anyway, I’ve also found a pilot. May be a bit old but with over 10,000 hours to his name.’

  ‘So, where do I fit in?’

  Doyle smiled sadistically.

  ‘You’re the co-pilot.’

  ‘Oh, no! Fuck off. I want nothing to do with this.’

  ‘You have no choice. You do as ordered, Captain. Remember, I can’t fly an aircraft that size and a two-man crew is compulsory,’ Doyle countered with a smirk.

  He stared at Doyle, unable to conceal his malice.

  ‘I take it that that’s now settled,’ Doyle said, his eyebrows raised questioningly, a trace of a smile on his face. ‘Incidentally, I’ll be coming with you as the engineer. Not that I know much about the plane.’

  ‘It’s not quite that simple,’ David said.

  Doyle knew nothing about commercial aircraft. David thought he had him. This was Europe, the authorities checked everything. Without proper papers, you don’t get anywhere near a cockpit. ‘I’ve no papers, licence, logbooks, etcetera. They’ll never let me fly. And as for you masquerading as a flight engineer, well?’ David said, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Ah, but you’re wrong, I’ve everything. Airline Transport Pilot Licence—’

  ‘Jesus Christ! You’re bastards.’

  ‘You bet! Airline Transport Pilot Licence, authentic logbooks and certification, the whole damn lot, some it compliments of the British,’ Doyle said with a smug expression on his face. ‘Oh, incidentally, you’re about to undergo a name change again,’ he added.

  ****

  The airfield was in Blagnac, near Toulouse. It was a commercial field but was also used by the French Armée de l’Air as a test base for new aircraft. Their area was fenced off and subject to close security. It had an eleven thousand-foot runaway, just right for heavily laden transport aircraft. Doyle had found discreet accommodation in a nearby village, often used by aspiring flight students who trained at the various flight schools on the airport.

  The Douglas DC-7B had arrived the previous day. This was a four-engine, propeller-driven cargo plane. It was not a particularly well-known or well-liked aircraft as it was prone to re-occurring engine problems. The aircraft news industry referred to it as the last of the large piston-engine aircraft. It was devoid of any livery, only displaying its registration number which confirmed that it was based in Luxembourg. Surprisingly, it had been flown solo from Luxembourg, unique for an aircraft this size – what had Doyle said? – owned by a shady setup? The operating manuals stipulated a minimum crew of three: two pilots and a flight engineer. No wonder, David thought; those engines needed a lot of attention.

  Doyle introduced him to the pilot. A bit old, as Doyle had said. Well, he thought the man close to sixty. He was tall and thin, with a mop of white hair hidden beneath an old airline captain’s cap with a faded insignia. David was unable to recognise the airline. The man’s eyes were blue, but a watery blue, and David thought he caught the faint smell of liquor. Hopefully the remnants of last night’s sojourn and not today’s, he thought.

  They shook hands.

  ‘Gainsborough,’ the man said, ‘but call me Tony, everybody does. Would you like an inspection of the aircraft?’

  ‘Sure.’

  For about forty-five minutes, they carefully inspected every nook and cranny. The aircraft was not very old, only about eight years, and was well maintained.

  ‘Number four engine is a bit dicey,’ the old man remarked.

  ‘Dicey? What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, she’s runs rough, especially on start-up. The plugs foul. She may have a broken piston ring. However, she always clears after a few minutes. We’ll have to watch her though.’

  ‘Well, that’s a comforting thought,’ David said softly to himself. Gainsborough gave him a look.

  CHAPTER 17

  It took four days to get the aircraft loaded and refuelled. The paperwork caused most of the delay as a completely new set of papers were necessary. The crates had arrived by truck and were loaded with difficulty through the large double doors in
the fuselage. Once inside the fuselage, they were manhandled with straps and ratchets until the load was properly distributed. None of the crates were weighed.

  ‘We haven’t weighed the crates. There seems to be a helluva lot of them for just a few helicopters.’ David said.

  ‘Not necessary, the manufacturer supplied the weights.’

  David lowered his voice. ‘I hope these aren’t fictitious.’

  ‘Why should they be?’ Doyle asked.

  ‘Is there any other stuff besides the helicopters?’

  ‘Only a few items that the country urgently needs,’ Doyle replied.

  They were due to take-off at ten in the morning. To the surprise of all, Gainsborough insisted that David take the left-hand seat, theoretically putting him in command of the aircraft. Doyle just shrugged his shoulders with a ‘why not?’ expression. He believed both were competent pilots.

  David was unhappy. The load concerned him; the aircraft was too heavy. It moved ponderously from the loading dock, trundling slowly along the apron. To crown it all, the tanks were full, far more than was necessary for the first hop to Frankfurt in Germany. Doyle refused to listen to him, dismissing his objections; Gainsborough made no comment. Finally, they were lined up, the aircraft cleared for takeoff. David eased the four throttles forward to their stop, the four engines thundering, the aircraft laboriously starting its take-off run.

  The acceleration was not dynamic. It was downright sluggish.

  ‘Thank God for eleven thousand feet,’ David said with reference to the long runway.

  A few seconds later, he added, ‘Christ! She’s fuckin’ heavy.’

  ‘That she is,’ Tony replied.

  The aircraft was rapidly approaching V1, the point when the pilot is committed to fly, unable to abort the takeoff.

  ‘V1 coming up,’ Tony remarked.

  David’s hand was still on the throttle quadrant. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Doyle lean over from the back, placing his hand over David’s, firmly holding his hand forward. If David proposed to yank the throttles back, aborting the take off, well, he would not have been able to do so.

  They passed V1, the aircraft still accelerating. Without a word, Doyle removed his hand, as did David. The parallel white lines in the runway demarcating its rapidly approaching end came into view. Still they rolled. They were running out of runway. It was time to fly. David eased back on the stick, lifting the aircraft’s nose, the nose-wheel free of the ground. The main gear still rumbled, the wheels still on the asphalt. Suddenly, the rumble ceased as they came unstuck, the aircraft flying, the airfield perimeter fence flashing past just feet below them.

  ‘Come, baby, fly,’ he whispered, as if calling on the angels to help. The heavily laden aircraft staggered through the air as it tried to build up speed. Slowly the airspeed indicator moved up, gaining another ten knots. David jabbed the toe-brakes to stop the wheels spinning.

  ‘Wheels up,’ he said.

  Tony activated the undercarriage lever and the wheels disappeared with a thump into their wheel wells.

  David let his pent up breath out with a whoosh.

  ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, that was close,’ a white-faced Doyle whispered.

  David was livid. They had nearly died. The aircraft was grossly over-loaded. Had the tanks been half full, they would’ve been okay. David directed his venom at Doyle.

  ‘You fuckin’ idiot. You had better pray that number four engine doesn’t decide to start missing. You could’ve killed us all. That could still happen.’

  Tony said nothing. His face was pale. It was obvious that he, too, had been frightened. Once they cleared a thousand feet, David gave control to him.

  David turned to face Doyle. He was surprised. Doyle’s face was a picture of abject fear.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Doyle stammered, ‘I thought you were being overly cautious and that you would yank the throttles back and abort the take-off. I’m sorry, I should have let you.’

  He said nothing. What good would it do. He merely shook his head in disgust. He heard Gainsborough softly saying to himself, ‘Jesus Christ. Fuckin’ Rhodesians. God help us.’

  David had wanted to give Frankfurt a miss. They had more than sufficient fuel to make Grande Comoros but Doyle insisted that they land, not providing a reason. Making a stop in Frankfurt had necessitated a great deal of preparation, the Germans insistent that all pilots be familiar with their approach procedures, airport layout, runway and taxiway usage and parking slot designation. They had been given Parking Slot 159. This was all done in the Operations Room at Toulouse Airport when they were in contact with Frankfurt Airport filing their flight plan. Doyle took charge of all cargo documentation.

  As they approached Frankfurt Flight Control Perimeter, Tony was flying.

  By this time David realised the man had an alcohol problem: the ruddy complexion, the continuous dry lips, and his licking them. The other giveaway was the smell. It was as if this seeped through his very skin. Still, he piloted the plane expertly, in total control of the situation. Eventually, they turned on final, clearing the fence, the wheels touching down with a mere kiss notwithstanding the fact the plane was only marginally below the maximum weight for landing. Frankfurt Tower was impatient for him to clear the runway. Soon they were on the taxiway approaching a crowded apron of aircraft clustered in profusion. Tony rummaged in a briefcase between the seat and console.

  ‘What are looking for?’ David asked.

  ‘The bloody airport map showing where our parking bay is. I know it is number 159 but how do I get there? I don’t think I’m going the right way.’

  It was as if the flight controller in the tower read his mind.

  ‘XD-one niner-niner-two, where are you going?’

  ‘Frankfurt Control, I’m looking for Parking Slot 159.’

  ‘XD-one niner-niner-two, don’t you know where that is?’ the tower asked, obviously exasperated, and impatient, ‘Have you not been to Frankfurt before?’ This asked in a clipped strongly accented German.

  Tony turned briefly to look at David, clearly annoyed, and then a mischievous grin split the old man’s lips. Tony responded putting on his best attempt at upper class Queen’s English.

  ‘Frankfurt Tower, yes, I’ve been here before, but unfortunately that was in 1944.’

  There was no response from the tower. Both David and Doyle broke down in fits of laughter.

  ‘Fuckin’ Krauts. I was flying a Lancaster bomber then and these guys were trying to shoot my bloody arse off,’ Tony remarked, obviously pleased with his one-upmanship.

  It was with relief that they saw the traffic controller waving his illuminated paddles guiding them to the parking lot.

  Doyle still had not explained the need for the stopover in Frankfurt. They did not have long to wait. With typical German efficiency, a tractor appeared pulling a few pallet trucks, which stopped next to the aircraft. Following it was an airport forklift.

  ‘What’s all this?’ David asked.

  Doyle stared at the pallets, his hands on his hips unable to hide his expression of self-satisfaction.’ Second-hand Turbomeca turbine engines for helicopters. I found them. We bought them from the Arabs, they didn’t even ask who we were and what we proposed doing with these and, above all, they were cheap. They’ve been lying in the sand in the desert for a while though. It’s quite amazing what you can find lying around.’

  The crates were soon loaded, David taking careful note of the weights as these appeared on the manifest.

  Gainsborough stared at the crates. ‘This take-off is going to be worse than Toulouse. Be grateful that the runway’s longer and that the damn wind is blowing hard. We’re going to need it. I’ll fly and you can start with, “Our Father,”‘ he remarked to David.

  A Lufthansa minivan drew up and, to their surprise, Gisela alighted. She quickly climbed the flight stairs with satchel in hand. Everyone was glad to see her, especially David. She gave him a shy hug. He held her close. An indescribable feeling o
vercame him as he realised how much she meant to him.

  ‘Where did you spring from? I missed you,’ a surprised David asked in a low voice.

  He again realised how beautiful she was. It was naturally so, none of it was put on. It was in her gestures, in her smile, and the way she moved. Her black hair cascaded down the side of her face, accentuating her blue eyes. Her lipstick was subdued, one of those lighter colours currently fashionable. She was appropriately dressed in jeans, near-calf-high boots and a sweater with a roll-neck top.

  ‘Our bosses thought you would need me, especially with my impeccable French.’ She laughed. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, more seriously.

  Doyle interrupted.

  ‘From here we fly straight to Mayotte, an island in the Comoros still governed by France. Ask no more.’

  She stared at the crates in the cargo section of the aircraft. ‘I’m impressed, whose idea was this?’ she asked.

  ‘Mine,’ replied Doyle, ‘but we haven’t got there yet. These goods are disguised as elevator parts. The documents are impeccable and should pass scrutiny by the best. Fortunately, since you got back from Lebanon, we have not seen or heard from the British. It seems that we have thrown them.’

  The flight to Mayotte was long and dull. The aircraft carried sufficient fuel for a non-stop flight.

  CHAPTER 18

  London was bleak and dreary, the rain threatening to fall. Another cold front had edged in from the Atlantic, sliding over Ireland and then England.

  The porter greeted him with the customary ‘Morning, guv,’ Nonetheless, recognised as he was, he still had to produce identification, which was meticulously perused for its authenticity and whether the mug shot contained therein actually matched him.