Алистер Маклин - Air Force One is Down

But there wasn’t one. Morwood chuckled throatily and sneered, ‘My dear Malcolm, did you really think you’d put one over on us with the tap into the inertial guidance system monitoring? We knew what you were up to, and our boys at Andrews AFB had instructions to look the other way. We weren’t born yesterday you know, Sherlock. You keep track, we keep track. That way, everybody’s happy.’

Philpott gulped, duly chastened. ‘OK, George, strike one to the Pentagon. But seriously, you will let me know the instant anything goes wrong with the radar-plot, won’t you?’

Morwood assured him that nothing could go wrong. The Boeing was scheduled to fly at a comfortable height, her range was more than sufficient for the first leg of the journey, she had ample fuel reserves, and she was in excellent working order.

‘All the same,’ Philpott pressed.

Morwood sighed. ‘Malcolm,’ he said, ‘if it makes you happy, I’ll give you a progress report on how the toilets are flushing and what goes down them.’

He hung up, and Philpott glanced at the Gulf zone clock. Take-off in two minutes …

The principal stateroom on Air Force One provided for its guests capacious armchairs built on tracks, with levers for moving or reclining the chairs, like in the better class of car. The chairs were grouped in fours, the pairs facing each other across tables. Sabrina pasted on a brilliant smile and showed the oil moguls to their seats. She warmed to the young Feisal immediately, but drew off when he treated her with something approaching aloof disdain.

On the flight deck the intercom buzzed and Fairman snapped, ‘Who’s that?’

‘Wynanski, sir,’ came the reply, ‘they’re all aboard and settled.’

‘Strapped in?’

A pause, and Wynanski replied, ‘Affirmative, Colonel.’

Fairman grunted, and spoke into a microphone.

‘Clear to start one and two?’

A member of the ground crew checked the area around the port engines.

‘Clear on both,’ he replied.

‘Start two,’ the Commander ordered.

Latimer depressed a switch. ‘Starting two,’ he said. The mighty plane shuddered as the engine caught. ‘Two steady,’ Latimer added.

‘Start one.’

‘Starting one.’ Another rumble of elemental power went through the shivering airframe. ‘One steady. Rotation one and two.’

‘Move it,’ the Commander said.

Latimer sent the Boeing forward, reported ‘Taxiing power,’ and left the hardstand for the allocated runway at Muharraq Airport.

The liner completed a half-turn and sat at the end of the runway. Fairman operated the throttle and the engine-note rose to a banshee whine.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

The speed of Air Force One increased.

‘Rolling,’ Latimer answered laconically.

Fairman took over the controls at a hundred knots, and when the pilot said ‘V-one’ the Commander repeated the code – the fail-safe point for commitment to lifting the plane from the ground. If he accepted it – as he had – there could be no going back on his decision. The plane must take off.

‘V-two.’

‘Rotate.’

‘Rotating.’

Fairman eased the control yoke back, and the President’s aeroplane surged into the clear blue sky …

Jagger had gone straight to the rear toilet when he boarded the Boeing, seeing no one but Chuck Allen, whose greeting he acknowledged with a curt nod. Locking the door, he took from the pocket of his flying jacket a smaller version of the aerosol spray can which had been used on McCafferty in the taxi. Jagger opened the door of one of the wall cabinets and placed the can unobtrusively at the back among a selection of toilet articles.

He left the facilities area, and in the rear passenger compartment was confronted by not one, but two, stewardesses. His second test – crisis, perhaps – was unavoidable, staring him in the face. He had reckoned on coping with only one girl at a time, but now he had no choice. So which one was he supposed to have dated?

Cody Jagger may have assumed McCafferty’s form and face, but he retained his own taste in women. Not even Stein’s genius could erase that. Jagger had rarely enjoyed success with truly beautiful and desirable women. His technique was to grab what he wanted and conquer it by sheer animal force. Of all the women Cody had known, his favourites were blondes built for comfort.

Sabrina Carver was dark, spectacular and, even in her uniform, expensive. Jeanie Fenstermaker was blonde, and a big, sexy girl behind her tinted shades.

Reverting to type, Cody grinned crookedly at Fenstermaker and said, ‘Don’t forget our dinner-date, Airman.’

McCafferty’s last conscious impression came at the outskirts of Manama, when Dunkels’ free hand advanced towards his face holding the same canister of knockout gas which had been used on him by the cab-driver.

The American awoke in a darkened room which, he later discovered, was in a house belonging to Achmed. For the mysterious Fayeed was not merely private secretary and principal aide to the Oil Minister of his native Bahrain; he was also distantly connected to Zeidan’s family, standing high enough in his favour to rate a rent-free villa inside the enormous grounds of the Sheikh’s home. As Achmed smugly described it to Dunkels, there could be few safer safe-houses throughout the length and breadth of the island.

To Mac’s astonishment, he had not been shackled, nor even tied, though he soon learned that this apparent oversight (or contemptuous neglect?) made no difference to his situation. The metal-framed window had been welded shut behind stout iron bars. A small window set high up on the wall had been jammed open to the extent of no more than three-quarters of an inch. There was no other ventilation, and just one entrance to the room; a closet door was set into the wall opposite the bed.

Mac pulled back the heavy curtain and peeped out. Through the violently hued scented blossoms trailing down the wall, a guard grinned up at him and waved a Kalashnikov rifle. McCafferty dropped the curtain back into place, then once more drew it carefully aside. The guard was still there. The gun was a Kalashnikov – a Russian infantry weapon, though freely available on the black market. And the man was not an Arab.

He heard the sound of someone opening the double-locked door. A strong beam of light swept the room, raking the empty bed, locating the only other furniture – a table, chair and wash-basin – and finding the prisoner standing before the window, shielding his eyes against the glare. Dunkels stepped in behind the torch, which Mac could now see was held by another man. The German snapped on the light-switch and ordered the guard, in a language unfamiliar to the American, to kill the torch. A third guard (armed, like Dunkels and the first man) sidled in and kicked the door shut with his heel.

‘We heard you moving,’ Dunkels said. ‘I see you’re none the worse for your – uh – experience. You may not believe it, but that actually pleases me.’

McCafferty spat out a globule of blood and made no reply. Dunkels laughed, and suggested that Mac might get used to the idea that he was worth more alive than dead. He could also speak freely in front of the guards, the German added. They did not understand English.

‘Worth more alive to Smith?’ Mac sneered. ‘If I am, you sure had a funny way of showing it back in the hut.’

Dunkels spread his hands wide in an elaborate shrug.

‘You’re still here, aren’t you? In one piece? Doesn’t that speak for itself?’

Mac grinned painfully. ‘It tells me only that you’re keeping me intact for reasons that suit you rather than me.’

‘Such as?’

To learn more from him about his role with UNACO, or on Air Force One, Mac hazarded. Or until whatever mad scheme Smith had hatched up for the President’s plane had come to its logical end – disaster. Or just to prolong the agony because Smith and Dunkels were grade ‘A’ bastards. ‘Any one of those reasons,’ Mac added, ‘or all three.’