Romanov Succession (29 page)

He handed the clipboard to Pappy Johnson and his eyes searched the crowded instrument panel once more and then he put the control yoke in his hands and planted his feet on the rudder pedals and.…
She's mine.

Through the windscreen he watched the tower—barely visible in the fine rain—and finally he saw the double red flare go up: Start Engines.

“Mesh one … Mesh two …”

Pappy Johnson's fingers sped over the toggles and buttons. Out the side screens Felix watched the oil-smoke chug from the exhausts, the props begin to turn. He swiveled his attention to the starboard side. “Mesh three … Mesh four.”

“Jigsaw Flight—go to stations.” That was the tower.

There were no runway lights. He saw Calhoun walking away dragging the chocks in the gloom; he taxied around in a tight circle and went bumping along toward the end of the runway.

He stood on the brakes and ran up each engine in turn-watching the gauges, using his ears. Inside him he felt the thrill he'd never lost in a thousand takeoffs: the Icarian desire to climb high, detached and free.

The green flare went up. He stood hard on both brakes. “Military power.”

Johnson thrust the four throttle handles forward. The rpm's yelled at him, reaching 2700 and the plane quivered like a hound straining on a leash. Manifold pressure fifty inches … He let go the brakes and she burst forward, fishtailing a little until he steadied her.

He had to lift off within twenty-five seconds after reaching full power. The panel clock gave him eighteen seconds and the airspeed indicator gave him 75 knots; the tail wheel lifted off.

Pappy Johnson reached out and chopped the number-two throttle dead.

With the number-two prop feathered the imbalance of power wanted to slew her around to starboard and he had to stand on the left-hand rudder pedal.

Twenty-four seconds. He pushed the yoke
forward.
To hold her on the ground. Airspeed 80 … 85 … Twenty-eight seconds…

Ninety knots. He hauled back on the yoke.

She lifted off the ground and instantly he snapped,
“Gear up!
”

Johnson hit the gear lever as if it were an enemy's jaw. There was the fast whine of the gear-retraction motors and he felt the added lift when the drag of the wheels had been removed: 110 knots now and he banked to clear the phone cables.

He had 300 feet and she was climbing smoothly on three engines; he reduced to 2,600 rpm and forty inches of manifold pressure and climbed at 115 knots toward the planned cruising altitude of 4,000 feet. He cut the mixtures back, trimmed the controls, retracted the flaps and heard the flap-actuating motors grind.

After a while Johnson pressed the button on his control wheel to be heard on the intercom. Felix heard his mild voice: “Try eight thousand this time. Maybe we can bust through the soup.”

“May I have my engine back now?”

“No. We'll fly the mission on three.”

“One experience with a teacher like you would be enough to make most pilots travel by railroad the rest of their lives.”

Johnson pushed the throat mike aside. “If I hadn't thought you could handle it I wouldn't have done it. Would I now?”

The plane burst through ten-tenths into brass sunlight. White cloud-tops rolled away to the horizons like a vast sea.

He set his controls to cruise at 165 knots at 8,000 feet. The other two planes caught up and took station behind him and to his right.

“Give us a course.”

Ulyanov already had it for him. Felix fed the information into the autopilot and spent the next half-minute adjusting the trim with the button until he liked the sound and feel of it.

Ulyanov said, “We'll have to dead-reckon down to the target area.”

He checked the instruments. Head temps 210°. Airspeed okay. Artificial horizon level and steady. Pressures and rpm's okay: in synch.

He took his hands off the controls and that was when it hit him. The cold sweat burst out all over his body.

“Jigsaw One to Jigsaw Flight. Acknowledge.”

“Jigsaw Two. I read you clear, Troop Leader.”

“Affirmative.”

“Jigsaw Three. Read you very well. What's wrong with your engine?”

“Pappy's amusing himself. Keep your receivers open. Eight minutes to descent. Out.”

The eight minutes went by too quickly and then he had to put the nose down and it took an effort of will. He had always competed in speed sports in which you could see what you were doing. Now he had to descend blind.

He tried to make light of it: “What if someone's put a mountain in one of those clouds?”

“You've been here before.”

“Ulyanov, what's my course?”

“Dead ahead sir.”

“You'd better be right.”

“Yes sir. I know.”

There was a crag somewhere to starboard that spired to nearly 3,000 feet. At least he hoped it was to starboard. He watched the clock. Ten seconds … five … Nose down.

The heavy plane mushed down through the weather bank and he couldn't see a thing. Pappy Johnson said, “This stuff may be very close to the ground. You'll have to come in right on the deck. Just be sure you keep your feet inside.”

The target zone was a meadow on top of a long ridge. At its highest point it had an elevation of 876 feet above mean sea level. The idea was to attack from exactly 1,000 feet altimeter—124 feet above the ground. In theory it made the targets easy to hit but in practice the ground turbulence made it pure hell. Cool air sank into the deeper shadows and warmer air lifted from the pale places. The aircraft bucketed and pitched like a racing car with a flat tire.

Johnson said, “You trying to scramble the eggs I ate this morning? Don't tense up.”

“I can't see where I'm going.”

“I know. Keep your nose down—keep on the rails.”

Felix dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.

Johnson said gently, “I told the old man you were the best in the outfit. Don't make me a liar.”

But his aplomb had evaporated and there was no way to regain it. He pressed the Send button and had to clear his throat before he spoke. “Jigsaw One to Jigsaw Flight. Starting a nine-zero degree right turn. Guide on me if you can.”

He switched the set from liaison to intercom. “Pilot to bombardier. We're on the briefed heading. Going down through 2,000 feet. You should be able to see your aiming point any time now.”

The plane growled steadily into a sea of matted grey.

Seventeen hundred feet; sixteen hundred. “Prepare to drop practice bombs.”

Chujoy's voice crackled at him: “Bomb-bay doors open. Preparing to center P.D.I.”

That was the bombsight. At these altitudes a variation of as little as two feet in altitude could make a critical difference in the trajectory of the bombs.

Fourteen hundred. Thirteen-fifty. “I'm going to abort!”

“The hell you are,” Pappy Johnson snapped.

Thirteen hundred. Grey cloud rushed past the windscreen, beading up on the glass. Twelve-eighty: twelve-sixty …

Tendrils; it was breaking up.…

Twelve-thirty and they were out under it—too low: the ground was
right there.…

Then his eyes adjusted to the perspective and he fought back the impulse to drag the yoke into his belly. He leveled off at twelve hundred feet. It wasn't raining. Visibility was clear enough now; it was the ceiling that was bad—hanging down within two hundred feet of the ridge.…

A stand of trees along the near rim; the open meadow and at the far end of it more trees—highland woods running down the slopes. And he could see the square old cars bumpety-bumping out across the meadow: four of them, their courses diverging a little because there was no one driving them. The men had been tenting there for three weeks now, setting targets for them. They'd turned the toys loose on the meadow and now it was up to the airmen to bomb the moving automobiles before they got across the thousand-foot meadow.

“Twelve hundred feet. We're approaching the I.P,” Initial point of the bombardier's run.

Pappy Johnson growled, “Do it good, Chujoy, or you go back by bus.”

“Center your P.D.I.”

“P.D.I. centered sir.”

“Ready to take over.… It's your airplane.” Felix took his hands off the yoke and leaned forward to watch.

There was a stir as the bomb racks opened.

“Bombs away.”

The string of hundred-pounders left the racks and arched away earthward; he couldn't see them but he knew. The bombardier had mirrors to watch the drop.

They were real bombs with practice warheads designed to create a small explosion—enough to prove where they'd hit even if the bomb bounced away from its point of impact.

“Your aircraft sir.”

Felix hauled back on the yoke. “How did it look?”

Chujoy was very dry. “We just blew hell out of eight patches of grass.”

Into the clouds and a steep starboard turn. “Making a three-sixty.” A full circle to bomb again. “Jigsaw One to Jigsaw Flight—report.”

“Jigsaw Two. One hit I think. Seven near-misses.”

“Jigsaw Three. No hits sir. Sorry.”

Pappy Johnson switched on his throat mike. “This time you misters will get those bombs on target or I'll personally throw you out of these airplanes with no parachutes.”

They made five passes. The last three were good enough to make Felix beam at Pappy Johnson: on the third go they stopped three out of four motorcars in their tracks with bombs that penetrated clear through to the ground. On the fourth go they hit two out of three. On the fifth the ground echelon sent five cars onto the field and Felix's flight hit four of them.

“The last drop looked pretty good,” Johnson admitted into the radio.

“We're out of bombs,” Felix announced. “Close up those holes and keep it tight—let's go home for a coffee break.”

He put the nose up into the clouds and they swam into the sunlight. “Now all I've got to do is find a place to put this thing down.”

“They'll bring you in.”

“Jigsaw Tower—this is Jigsaw One. Can you give me a radar fix?”

The answer was a moment coming and he felt his jaw tighten but then the radio spoke cheerfully:

“Roger, Jigsaw One. Turn to zero-four-five and fly for eight minutes. Then turn to one-six-zero. We'll keep a fix on you.”

Johnson was charging the flare pistol, inserting it in the fuselage tube above his head in case they made a forced landing: a flare would pinpoint them for rescuers.

Down to 1,000 feet now and about six miles to go. Pappy Johnson said drily, “You want the gear down by any chance, Your Highness?”

“What? Oh—yes. Yes.”

“Thought you might.”

He peered into the soup. There were bangs and rattles in the airframe as the wheels locked down.

“Tower to Jigsaw One. Fly one-five-five.”

“Roger. I have the runway in sight.” He glanced at Johnson: “Flaps twenty.”

“Yeah. Just remember this airplane does not have reversible props.”

The ground came up grey and wet. He came in fast—100 knots—and he had to stop the airplane before he ran out of runway so he fishtailed gently and rode his brakes and brought her in fifty yards short of the limit. He pulled off to the side to give the others room to land and when they were down he taxied her over to the hardstands and sliced an index finger across his Adam's apple—the signal to Johnson to cut his engines.

Calhoun was walking over with the chocks when they dropped out of the hatch. “Give us a dollar's worth,” Pappy Johnson said, “and a manicure and a good rubdown, Calhoun.”

Then Johnson turned and walked Felix toward the Ready Room. “You've got four weeks left to hit the targets every time. Not three out of four, not four out of five. Every time.”

“I hope we can.”

“You can do it,” Johnson said. “You're a good outfit. Better than you think you are.”

“Are we?”

“You know you are. You just needed to have someone tell you.”

18.

At the dying end of October the three Russian noblemen boarded a trimotor at Barcelona and flew to Lisbon, A hard Atlantic sun burned in the cloudless Portuguese sky but the wind that came off the ocean was cold and whipping; there were whitecaps in the Tagus estuary.

The Peugeot that transported them through Lisbon had hard springs and stank of imbedded fumes of Gauloise tobacco; the driver was a chain-smoking Frenchman badly in need of a shave. The three Russians—Prince Leon Kirov; Count Anatol Markov; Baron Oleg Zimovoi—wore Homburgs and topcoats and their luggage consisted only of overnight cases.

The narrow streets of Lisbon thronged with human flotsam—the refugee overflow of the European war—and here and there a man could be seen walking purposefully, topcoat flying in the sinister wind; these were the ones who had somewhere to go, the black-marketeers and salesmen of information who had descended upon Lisbon in the past year like hungry ants on a dying carcass. Lisbon was the Occident's Macao: the capital of intrigue, a living museum of every phylum and species of human vice and avarice. The crowded architecture was stone and stucco in bleak grey hues; cobblestones glistening with river spray; crumbling buildings five hundred years old that bespoke suspicion, evil, torture, Inquisition. In the passages dark automobiles crowded horse carts aside and darted homicidally among the pedestrian fugitives.

Their host's driver slid the Peugeot through the crowds with stolid contempt and presently they were out of Lisbon along the right bank of the estuary; now the speed went up and they were wheeling along the coast road with a rubbery whine, speeding through the fishing villages—Belém, Oeiras, Estoril—finally Cascais.

Count Anatol said, “It is just up to the right now if I recall.”

Oleg was instantly suspicious: “You have been here before?”

“It was not always American Embassy property. At one time it was a villa belonging to the Graf von Schnee. One of the finest private baccarat tables in Europe. Players came from as far away as South America.”