John Gardner - Brokenclaw

‘I might just take you up on that. I was . . .’

She was cut off by the CIA man, Grant, coming into the room. ‘Others are on their way down,’ he said, not looking either of them in the eyes. ‘I have to tell you that we still haven’t got a real handle on Jenny Mo yet.’

‘Not even an indication?’

‘Not a sniff.’

‘We’ll just have to pray.’ Bond glanced at Chi-Chi.

‘No.’ Grant sounded hard and concerned. ‘No, until we get a definite fix that the Jenny Mo we have on this ship is not the real Jenny Mo, you’ll both have to assume the worst. I have to tell you, Ms Chi-Ho, that the risk is high.’

She shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Grant. I just don’t want to talk about it any Mo’.’

Bond was amused at the look of pain that passed across Grant’s face. Then the others were in the room.

They all shook hands rather soberly, and Bond was reminded of all those stiff-upper-lip, ludicrous scenes from old war movies where the suicide mission volunteers were told what a good thing they were doing for their country and for the world.

‘Any new information’ll be passed on as best we can, via Indexer.’ M looked as solemn as a funeral director. Indexer was their crypto for Ed Rushia. Chi-Chi was Checklist, and Bond, who always wondered how they came up with cryptos, found himself cast as Custodian.

Grant made the final remark. ‘Don’t forget, all the baggage handlers will be my people. Don’t be worried about that, it’s been set up and should go like clockwork.’ They nodded and passed through to the aircrew briefing room, where two young pilots were waiting for them, checking their route and refuelling points for the last time.

‘Okay,’ the senior of the US Navy pilots said after handshakes and no introductions. ‘Either of you ever fly in a jet warplane before?’

‘I’m fully operational with Harriers.’ Bond tried not to sound patronising.

Chi-Chi answered with a ‘No’ at very low volume.

‘Right.’ The senior man stepped towards Chi-Chi. ‘I’ll drive you, ma’am. My buddy’ll take you, sir.’

They separated in pairs. Bond’s aviator looked about nineteen, and the G-suit apart, could well have just graduated from High School. ‘You’re in the GIB’s seat,’ he began, then, seeing the quizzical look on Bond’s face, interpreted – ‘The GIB, sir, Guy In Back, the REO’s station.’

‘Let me guess. Radio Electronics Officer, right?’

‘Near ’nuff, sir. You’ll hear all the traffic through the headset, and you’ll hear me. With respect, sir, please don’t mess with any of the gizmos back there.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘Great. The tech who’ll strap you in and make sure you’re connected up’ll show you the ejector lever. Get that one right, please, and if I tell you to punch out, for Pete’s sake do it.’

‘I’ll do it. You’re the boss.’

‘Okay, sir. Any questions?’

‘Let’s just get on with the whole business. I have a job to do.’

The young man nodded, and they followed the senior pilot, still talking in a soothing voice to Chi-Chi, out and up the metal steps to the flight deck where a helicopter hovered off on the port side and two F-14 Tomcats, looking wicked and dangerous, were standing close to the starboard catapult area. The catapult crew swarmed around the lead aircraft, mixed with technicians, while the second Tomcat stood back and staggered well out of the way of the first aircraft’s engine nozzles.

Chi-Chi and her pilot made for the first F-14 while Bond’s man pointed at the second machine.

The REO’s cockpit, behind the pilot, was cramped and, once he was strapped and plugged in, Bond realised that it was not the most comfortable of crew positions, though he had little time to think about that. The lead aircraft had started its two Pratt & Whitney turbofans and was manoeuvred into place on the launch ramp.

Everything happened very quickly. The flurry of men fitting the catapult moved expertly to one side, the great metal baffles rose from the deck to take the full blast from the jets which rose to a deafening roar even within the waiting airplane, then, with a suddenness, the F-14 was hurled forward, leaving a trail of steam along the catapult, dropping slightly then nosing up, gear rising, before it rocketed into the sky.

Bond was still watching it streak upwards as their engines started and they slowly moved into place on the catapult. He could see the catapult officer with his glowing yellow wand off to the right, and could feel the whole craft vibrate as his pilot brought the engines up to maximum throttle. He found himself looking, hypnotised, at the catapult officer who straightened up and raised his wand in a sweeping motion, bringing it down like something out of a Star Wars movie, so that the flashing yellow rod was aimed directly below the aircraft, at the catapult. Bond tensed, pushed his head back against the padded seatback and waited, counting to himself . . . One . . . Two . . . and the catapult fired, the gigantic punch in his back, his body pushed almost wildly out of control as they accelerated and were thrown into the air. It was so quick that, mentally, his stomach was left behind, about eight feet above the carrier’s deck, while his body was now at a thousand feet and climbing.

Bond preferred the more civilised ski-jump technique of his old friend the Harrier.

They made exceptional time, bumping and buffeting at maximum altitude with engine noise mixed with the wind. There were two stops for midair refuelling, and Bond listened to Chi-Chi’s pilot talking to the captain of the great C-130, out of SAC HQ at Offott AFB, Omaha. He had two shots at getting the probe into the refuelling drogue the first time, and there were some distinctly off-colour comments from both pilots.

Bond’s driver hit the drogue first time on each occasion, and, like a ritual, the dialogue never varied – ‘Just keep it there and let it soak up the good juices,’ drawled the C-130 pilot; and when they disengaged, the fighter jock clipped out a ‘How was it for you?’ To which the C-130 driver sighed and told him that the earth had moved.

At just after ten o’clock, Eastern Standard Time, they locked on to the RAPCON – Radar Approach Control – at the Grumman Aircraft Company’s facility on Long Island. At ten thirty they were on the ground and turning off the long runway. Chi-Chi’s Tomcat was already parked far away from any of the buildings and Bond could make out the shape of a small Hughes helicopter in civil livery standing off to one side.

Bond climbed down from the rear cockpit, giving the thumbs up to his pilot and rapidly unzipping himself from the G-suit which was taken from him by a technician who greeted him with the words, ‘Message from Mr Grant, sir. No joy yet, but the 06 from Tokyo is early. She’ll be on the ground and at the terminal in less than half-an-hour.’

‘Better get a shift on then.’ He nodded at the tech, hurried over to the helicopter and climbed in next to Chi-Chi, both now in the dark-blue coveralls of baggage handlers.

The pilot nodded and the door was closed as the rotors wound up and they lifted into the night sky.

‘That was quite a ride, uh?’ he shouted at Chi-Chi over the engine noise.

‘Sure,’ she yelled back. ‘I was good. Only vomited four times.’

He looked at her to make sure she was all right and, in spite of the slight pallor, he saw she was smiling.

In the distance the towers of Manhattan glittered against the night sky, and fifteen minutes later, they were over New York’s John F Kennedy airport, under local control, and being directed towards the International arrivals terminal on the air side. The pilot touched down just long enough for Chi-Chi and Bond to clamber out. They were greeted by two figures in similar baggage handler’s coveralls.