Chapter Eight.

Thursday, October 20, 1960.

Hotel Bando.

Euljiro Street.

Seoul.

South Korea.

Gus Hartigan, Deputy Head of Station, Seoul; pressed the bell under his desk to summon his assistant support officer. After a few minutes, a fresh-faced young man entered the office. Hartigan handed him a small package.

'Get this down to the post room and tell them to get it on a flight Stateside.'

The young man nodded, picked up the package, and left the office. Hartigan turned his attention to the files on his desk. He wasn't really convinced of Charlotte Mckenna's concerns about the contents of the package. He didn't believe in "evil" artefacts… there were a damn sight more evil things just over the border to the north; which was why he hadn't bothered about it until now. It was the report of the ambush of Charlotte's car out on the road to Osan, and the deaths of Max Segal and Jack Stauffer that had made him decide that he had better do something about it. He shrugged. Mckenna had been discharged from hospital and was on her way back to Washington. If the package wasn't on its way by the time she reported in; then all manner of shit might well hit the fan, and there was no way he was about to let any of it stick to him.

In the basement post room of the Hotel Bando, Jang Soon-Chun reached for the small package that had just come down from upstairs and tentatively shook it. He smiled. The rattle suggested that the package contained a single object. This was probably the item that he had been instructed to locate on the instructions of Kim Jonghyun, mob boss of Seoul's notorious Yangeundongpa gang, who had arranged for him to be placed in the post room specifically for that purpose. He glanced around. Too many people. He couldn't open the package without being observed.

He thought quickly. The best course of action would be to note the address and report back so that the package could be intercepted after he had processed it. That way, there would be no suspicion; and his presence in the post room would not be compromised. The package had no indications that it should be included in the Diplomatic pouch. Jang Soon-Chun nodded to himself. This would be simple. He merely had to copy the information from the address label that he would affix to the package, and report back when his shift was finished. He removed the printed address label from the folder that had accompanied the package. Attached to it was a Korean Airlines freight label. The address label was for somewhere in Virginia, U.S.A. He grinned. This was better than easy! They were sending this package by a commercial carrier to Japan, and then, on across the Pacific. It could easily be intercepted at any one of half-a-dozen places on its journey.

Jang Soon-Chun carefully affixed the Korean Air freight label to the package and smiled quietly to himself. There would be no need to inform Kim Jonghyun of the situation. This was an opportunity to for him to gain much face in his boss's estimation. Jang Soon-Chun had a contact in the Korean Air staff... an air hostess named Chang Su-Dae. She had reported that she would be on the Japanese route for the entire week. He would contact her and instruct her to intercept the package en-route, to be passed to a subsequent contact when the flight landed in Japan. He completed the processing of the package and tossed it into the commercial certified mail bin. Glancing at his cheap, Chinese wristwatch, he called to the post room supervisor that he was taking an early meal break. The supervisor nodded his agreement, and turned back to his task as Jang Soon-Chun strolled unhurriedly from the room.

Outside the Hotel Bando; having passed through the security screening that was obligatory for all civilian employees; Jang Soon-Chun quickened his pace as he crossed Euljiro street and hurried down to the small restaurant on the corner of Cho Dong Ro.

He ordered Sam-gyup-sal with Kimchi... grilled pork strips served with fermented chilli peppers and vegetables; and moved to the public telephone. He dialled the number for the Gimpo Airport reception and asked for the call to be transferred to the Korean Air flight-ready room.

A man's voice answered;

'This is Captain Jeung Yong-Jo speaking. How may I help you?

Jang Soon-Chun paused. This was the flight Captain of Chang Su-Dae; his air hostess contact. It was against airline protocols to try to contact a flight crew immediately prior to their flight. He decided to press ahead.

'Would it be possible to speak with Chang Su-Dae please? It is a matter of family importance.'

Jeung Yong-Jo smiled quietly. Although against all the rules; if he permitted this call, he would be seen by her as an altruistic, and kindly father figure. He had lusted after her since she had joined the airline. Chang Su-Da was twenty-three; her skin held the soft, flawless, honey-gold sheen that is common in Korean women; and her figure was slender and lithe. Her hair was as black as a raven's wing, and was cut in a stylish bob, and there was no doubt in his mind that she was in awe of him; he had, after all, been one of the heroic, hot-shot South Korean Air Force P-51 Mustang jockeys during the war. If he treated her well, she might just let him fuck her in the hotel on their overnight stop in Japan.

Unfortunately, for Jeung Yong-Jo, what he didn't know was, that Su-Dae was closely related to the notorious, Korean Chang crime syndicate family of San Francisco; and if he had attempted anything with her whilst in Japan, he would have ended up face-down in the Sumida river, minus at least, both index fingers, and probably several more rather personal and delicate appendages. Chang Su-Dae was a beautiful, deadly enigma... to both men. Not only was she protected by the Seoul crime syndicate... but, unbeknown to Jang Soon-Chun, who believed that she was one of Kim Jonghyun's foot soldiers; in fact, Chang Su-Dae was the granddaughter of the Chang criminal family patriarch, Chang Ho-Pyong. The Chang family was affiliated to several powerful Korean-American mobs in the United States. Some of these mobs were also connected to the Japanese Yakuza and to the Chinese Triads. The Chang family effectively controlled Chinatown in San Francisco, and had important links to Korean crime syndicates in South Korea. They all involved themselves in extortion, property invasions, gambling, drug trafficking and prostitution. If Kim Jonghyun was prepared to go to such lengths as to attempt to divert mail from under the very noses of the American CIA... and from inside their own headquarters in Seoul, Su-Dae reasoned that the package must contain something that was extremely important. It might well be of significant advantage to the family if this package were to be diverted into their possession.

She smiled briefly to herself. Her contact in the Japanese Customs Service could initiate the diversion. This decision irrevocably sealed the fate of Jang Soon-Chun. Kim Jonghyun had expended considerable funds to secure the contents of the package and would not tolerate failure by his man to intercept it as instructed… which, of course, would now be, for him, totally impossible. There would be only one punishment for this failure to carry out his Master's command.

Four days later, Jang Soon-Chun's gruesomely tortured corpse was found floating in the Han River. The carcass, already in the early stages of decomposition was still identifiable as being one of the lesser members of one of the Seoul mobs... the extensive tattoo across its shoulders attested to this fact; but, the corpse bore all the signature marks of Soo-Yun Kaneko; Kim Jonghyun's beautiful Contract assassin.

The Seoul police dragged the ruined corpse from the river, and began taking photographs. The Precinct Police Chief suddenly arrived unexpectedly, and issued a direct order to his men that the incident should be recorded as "Accidental death." It was obvious that the body had been struck by some vessel's propeller as it floated in the river.

Although the evidence as to Soo-Yun Kaneko's involvement was as glaringly obvious as if she had signed her name across the corpse; the order had been given. The police officers dumped the corpse into a panel van as the Precinct Police Chief drove away; satisfied that he had successfully defused an embarrassing situation, and that Kim Jonghyun would now permit him to retain his genitalia intact for the foreseeable future. Consequently, Jang Soon-Chun's corpse was deposited in the city morgue and quietly forgotten about.

Thursday, October 20, 1960.

Haneda Airport.

Ōta, Tokyo.

Japan.

Chang Su-Dae's flight landed at Haneda at 2.30pm after a three-and-a-half-hour journey. With the passengers disembarked and the mail cargo being unloaded; Su-Dae excused herself from the crew room on the pretext that she needed to go to the powder room. She made a discreet telephone call in the terminal lobby to her contact in Customs control and advised him of what he should look for, and what he should do with it.

Ten minutes later, Customs officer Kenichi Saito intercepted the small package. He carefully removed the Virginia address label and replaced it with one printed with an address at Montgomery Street in the Telegraph Hill district of San Francisco…the heart of Chinatown. He then made the customary blue chalk scribble across the package denoting that it had passed through Customs checking, and tossed it into the outbound mail hopper.

Twenty minutes later, it was loaded into the cargo hold of the San Francisco-bound Northwest Orient Airlines Constellation for its destination on the far side of the Pacific Ocean.

Friday, October 21, 1960.

North Pacific Ocean.

Charlotte glanced at her wristwatch… almost eight o'clock in the evening. They should be approaching Wake Island soon. She looked out of the compartment window down towards the seemingly endless ocean. Far ahead, on the edge of the horizon a horseshoe of bright turquoise framed in flashing white appeared, standing out against the indigo-blue carpet below. As she watched, the turquoise blob slid slowly to the right and disappeared as the pilot made a slight course change to port. The unobtrusive engine noise changed pitch as the pilot brought the power setting slightly back whilst manoeuvring onto the upwind leg of his approach pattern. The young Staff Sergeant came forward into the compartment.

He smiled.

'We're twenty minutes out, Ma'am. Just time for a coffee if you would like one.'

Charlotte returned his smile.

'No thank you; I'm fine.'

He nodded.

'Yes, Ma'am. If you could please fasten your seat belt when you see Toki Point on the easterly island. We're only stopping for a minimum time to refuel; then it's on to Hickam field on Oahu, Hawaii. I'll come and set your sleeping arrangements when we're airborne again. The flight should take about seven-and-a-half hours, which means we'll be landing at Hickam at about 0.600, Eastern Standard Time, tomorrow morning.'

Gazing down out of the window, Charlotte watched the Atoll drift into view. Wake comprised three islets; Wake islet, the largest, on the southwest, was shaped roughly in the form of a "V," the arms of which appeared to be about two-and-three-quarters miles long. Each arm was continued as a separate islet, each with a narrow channel between it and the end of the arms of the V. The western ends of the two islets were connected by a sweep of flat reef, which continued as a narrow border around the three islets. In the middle of this enclosing reef was a rectangular lagoon. There appeared to be few buildings and sparse vegetation except for palm trees. As the Stratocruiser overflew the island and turned into its landing circuit, Charlotte noticed that the western end of Wake Island was devoted to the docks and landing area, as well as to warehouse facilities gathered around the end of the single runway.

The Island seemed to begin spinning slowly clockwise as the pilot banked around, committed to his down leg, and began to lose height. Then came the final turn, and she heard the shrill hydraulic whine of the air-brakes and the landing-wheels being lowered as the airplane's nose dipped and the hum of the engines settled to a whistling purr as the scrubby vegetation at the edge of the runway rushed towards her. Suddenly she heard the welcome screech of the airplane's tires as they touched the runway; the ugly roar of the propellers being reversed to slow the headlong rush down the length of the asphalt ribbon that ran the length of the southern leg of the "V" towards the ocean, and felt the noticeable deceleration pushing her hips into her seat belt.

The big airplane coasted along; losing speed smoothly and progressively as the pilot applied gentle braking. Charlotte looked out across the tranquil turquoise lagoon... yes; it was easy to see why Pan American had chosen this place as a staging post for their Trans-Pacific Clipper flying boats. They had built a facility that had been named "PAAville" complete with a forty-eight-room hotel with port stewards, chefs, and attendants, on Peale Island, to maintain a high standard of service for the overnight guests. Wake had been used as a refuelling and rest stop on their then-new "China Clipper" passenger and mail route between San Francisco and Hong Kong. Unfortunately, most of the Pan-Am facility had been destroyed during the Japanese attacks of 1941.

At the southern end of the runway, the Stratocruiser slowed to a standstill. As Charlotte watched, fascinated; the slowly rotating propeller blades began to move smoothly in their hubs as the pilot disengaged thrust reverse. The two inner engines revved up and the propellers increased in speed as he began turning the big airplane and taxied off the runway towards the waiting ramp. With a thin squeal of brakes, the airplane came to a halt and the engine noise diminished as the pilot closed the throttles. As the propellers windmilled to a standstill, the Staff Sergeant came forward and asked Charlotte to follow him back along the fuselage. The passengers would be disembarking while the refuelling was taking place. They would use the lower deck passenger door, because Wake did not possess the luxury of an airline airstair, which meant that she should follow him down the spiral staircase to the lower lounge, and then out to the apron by way of the steps that were built into the inner face of the door which was hinged at its lower edge. As she stepped down onto the concrete, the ground engineers were already clambering up on the wing from the trestles that had been brought up, and a big USAF semi-trailer tank truck refueller was parked up close to the airplane with the fat black fuel hoses already connected and snaking up onto the wing upper surface to be manually connected to the fuel tank filler valves by the waiting engineers.

The Staff Sergeant smiled.

'The stop-over and fuelling will take about twenty minutes. With the underwing pressure refuelling system it would take less time, but again, Wake just hasn't got the equipment. Perhaps you'd like to go and grab a cold soda in the PX club?'

He pointed to a low building just off the edge of the apron and grinned.

'Whatever you do, Ma'am; don't drink any of the water.'

At about 9.15pm, the Staff Sergeant returned to the PX and informed everyone that the airplane was ready and they should now resume their seats. Outside, the temperature was still warm... almost balmy. Charlotte smiled. Romantic tropical nights.... if only!

The Stratocruiser sat with its gleaming aluminium lower fuselage reflecting the ramp lights and the white-painted upper deck glowing pink in the soft rays of the setting sun. The engines on the starboard side of the airplane on the opposite side of the fuselage from the entry door were already running. Charlotte returned to her seat. Glancing out of the window, she saw one of the ground crew raise his hand with three fingers extended in the direction of the cockpit. The whine of a starter motor penetrated the compartment and the inboard left propeller began to turn lethargically and slowly speed up its revolutions. A huge billow of bluish-grey smoke belched forth from the exhaust stacks as the engine fired, and the propeller blades became a blur. The crewman raised his hand again, but with four fingers extended. Again, the whine penetrated the muted roar of the freshly started engine and the outer left propeller began to turn. Nothing happened for something like a minute or so... just the propeller grinding round and round. Suddenly, a tongue of flame burst from the exhaust stacks, followed by an even huger billow of the same bluish-grey smoke. The staff sergeant had returned to check that she was comfortable. He saw the apprehensive look on her face and smiled.

'Nothing to worry about, Ma'am; that was just a "Hot Start." It happens sometimes when the engine hasn't cooled down enough, and is nothing to worry about. All it means is that the fuel ignited before enough air had been drawn into the mix.'

He glanced at his watch.

'It's 21.40pm. I'll come back to see if you want your berth set out, or your seat converted in about thirty minutes. OK?'

Charlotte nodded, as the Stratocruiser began to turn on the apron and taxi out to the runway. With a thin squeal of brakes, the airplane turned onto the runway and began to back-track to the northern end of the asphalt strip. She looked out of the window towards the horizon. The golden and scarlet sky was beginning to darken to a soft indigo as twilight began creeping in from the east; then as the airplane turned at the north end, the compartment was washed golden by the rays of the evening sun lowering in the west.

The pilot revved the four engines up to take-off speed, one by one; and she heard the thin hydraulic whine of the wing flaps being extended. Then the big airplane turned slowly away from the setting sun. There was a jerk as the brakes were released and she began to roll down the runway. In the cockpit, the pilot and copilot watched the speed climb... seventy.... eighty... at ninety, the pilot eased the control wheel back and the nose wheel lifted. Power settings, OK... and the Stratocruiser flew herself off as the airspeed indicator pointer touched one-hundred-and-ten. The copilot applied the brakes to stop the rotation of the wheels and retracted the landing gear as the pilot eased her over into a gentle port bank and set her course for the two thousand nautical mile leg to Hickam Air Force Base on Oahu in the Hawaiian Islands.

The Stratocruiser was still climbing to its cruising height, with the Pacific Ocean all but lost in the inky void three miles below, when the Staff Sergeant returned to convert her luxurious seat into a bed, or prepare a berth. She said that she had decided on one of the berths. He nodded. She rose and went to the dressing room aft, to change into her night attire. She had just finished removing her make-up when he tapped discreetly on the door, said that her berth was ready, and wished her Goodnight. She returned to the compartment and snuggled down between the crisp white sheets. Turning out the wall light, she gazed out of the little round compartment porthole at the stars. How bright they were up here in the clear cold air.

Looking out across the wing, she watched the engine turbo-superchargers' ghostly, icy-blue flames streaming back from the exhausts whilst the propeller blades catching the brilliant moonlight and the glow from the green navigation light on the far tip of the wing glistened and splintered into the night. The blue flames brought back the memory of her flight out of Nazi Germany, all those years ago. They were the same intense, icy-blue flicker that she had seen coming from the exhausts of the big, black American night-fighter that had escorted her airplane as it flew across the North Sea to England.

She watched the almost hypnotic shimmer of the silvery-green glow on the propellers for a while; then pulled the beige window curtain closed and was slowly lulled to sleep by the muted hum of the engines and the air conditioning/pressurisation system.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Charlotte woke early the next morning. Stretching luxuriantly, she pulled the window curtain back and gazed out across the pale saffron sky tinged with vanilla and silver streaks as the sun came up over the rim of the world, glazing the sky with subtle hues of orange and red; and painting the clouds to resemble a sea of pink cotton candy. As she lay there, marvelling at the sight, there was a gentle tap on the door. Pulling the sheets up to her chin, she called out,

'Come in.'

The Staff Sergeant entered and smiled.

'Good morning, Ma'am. I hope you slept well. Would you care for breakfast?'

She nodded. He smiled and brought out a note pad.

'Might I suggest eggs, sunny-side up with bacon; or sausage with country ham; pancakes with syrup; and maybe French toast… and, of course, juice and coffee?'

Charlotte raised an eyebrow.

'Just coffee, eggs and bacon, and a small portion of pancakes, please.'

He nodded.

'Yes, Ma'am. I'll bring them directly, on a tray. Breakfast in bed is a nice way to start the day.'

He turned, and then spoke again.

'We're about one-and-a-half hours out of Oahu, Ma'am; so there's no rush.'

'He returned in ten minutes with her breakfast. It was served on a silver bed tray covered with a white linen napkin, upon which were arranged original Pan American Airways white china plates, with silver cutlery; and a black coffee cup on a white saucer. Also on the tray was placed a silver coffee pot and milk pitcher; together with a silver sugar bowl containing both brown and white sugar cubes. The Staff Sergeant carefully placed the tray over Charlotte's lap and poured her a cup of coffee. He then smiled, said "Enjoy"; and left the compartment.

The breakfast was delicious. This must be how the pampered Pan-American First Class customers were cosseted on the "President's Special" service flying to Europe a few years previously. Charlotte smiled ruefully. So now, this majestic old lady of the skies was fated to be converted into a military freighter. Somehow, the name "Stratofreighter" just didn't have the same ring to it as the names that the various airlines had christened their First-Class Stratocruiser flights… Pan American's "President Clippers" and BOAC's "Monarchs." It may have taken more than thirteen hours to get from New York, to Europe, but they certainly did it in impeccable style and comfort.

She finished breakfast and carefully got out of the berth. Stepping across the compartment, she pressed the call button on the armrest of her luxurious seat. The Staff Sergeant appeared to remove the tray. He smiled.

'I hope the breakfast was to your satisfaction, Ma'am.'

She nodded.

'It was wonderful. Thank you so much.'

He smiled again.

'Thank you, Ma'am; you're welcome. Now, if you would care to use the Ladies' dressing room, I shall re-make the berth and tidy everything for you. We are due to land in approximately thirty minutes.'

She nodded, and made to move aft towards the dressing room, but paused, and turned to him.

'You're not just a Staff Sergeant, are you?'

His smile broadened, and he shook his head imperceptibly.

'No, Ma'am. I'm Gil Callaghan; your support officer.'

She nodded. So Callaghan was with "The Company"… she should have guessed.

Having dressed, freshened herself up, and gargled away the taste of a night of pressurised air, Charlotte returned to her seat. Callaghan had made up the bunk and removed the breakfast tray. She made herself comfortable and gazed out of the window. The pristine blue of the Pacific Ocean stretched to the horizon, and there! Just coming into view; the Hawaiian Island chain, stretching away like a sumptuous necklace of jade beads. Slowly, they slipped from her view as the pilot made a gentle turn to port and began his descent.

With only the Ocean below, the impression was that the airplane was hanging dead steady in the middle of a blue nothingness; the only clues as to any movement were the glittering discs of the propeller blades. This curious impression lasted for something like ten minutes, and then, the most northerly of the islands… Kauai, drifted into view; lush, and green… so different from the sandy coral atoll of Wake. The Stratocruiser was much lower now. Kauai slipped out of sight and they were out over open water again, on the last sixty-mile leg to Oahu.

Callaghan returned with a coffee pot. She declined his offer. He smiled.

OK, Ma'am. We're ten minutes to final approach. Please fasten your lap strap when the sign illuminates.'

She nodded.

'Thank you, Mr Callaghan.'

He smiled again.

'Please call me Gil, Ma'am.'

Ten minutes later, Charlotte felt the airplane begin to turn again. The sign on the front wall of her compartment illuminated… "Fasten Seat Belts." As she clicked the catch together, the Stratocruiser swept in over the coast. The hum of the engines softened, and a faint, sickly odour of the insecticide bomb being fired in the baggage hold crept through the air-conditioning system, followed by the shrill hydraulic whine of the air-brakes and the landing-wheels being lowered. The big airplane slowed noticeably, and the nose dipped.

An industrial area dotted with what appeared to be many fuel storage tanks slid past under the wing, followed by a small airfield, then a wooded area which gave way to a jumble of houses. Immediately beyond that was a river estuary. As the airplane crossed it; power was slowly throttled back, and she watched the belching gouts of flame from the engine exhausts, as what must have been the turbo superchargers wound down. Out to the right, a long runway and clusters of buildings and hangars appeared. That was probably Hickam Air Force Base, if the layout was anything to go by.

She watched the shadow of the Stratocruiser getting larger as it descended, but was still unprepared for the pained squeal from the tyres of the main undercarriage as they touched the tarmac. The engine hum increased to an ugly roar as the pilot selected reverse pitch, and the big airplane began to slow as it rolled down the long, wide runway. The engine roar settled to a hum once again as the propellers were returned to their normal pitch and the Stratocruiser coasted along smoothly until, with what seemed to be only a light brake application; it turned, and taxied off the runway at the mid-intersection point, continuing to roll past the civilian terminal building towards Hickam Air Force Base. Crossing the Hickam main runway, the Stratocruiser taxied up to a large hardstanding and stopped with a slight jerk. The engine hum diminished as the pilot shut down the engines in sequence. As she was unbuckling her lap strap, and watching the big, four-bladed propellers windmilling down to a standstill, Callaghan appeared.

He grinned.

'Here we are, Ma'am. End of the line with this old lady. You're booked into the officer's quarters for the night, and then you'll be riding a MATS C-121 Super Connie to Travis Air Force Base just outside Fairfield, California… about forty miles south-west from Sacramento. That'll take something like eight hours. From there, it's another eight-hour flight cross-country to Andrews.'

Charlotte nodded.

'Will you be coming with me all the way?'

He nodded.

'All the way to Foggy Bottom, Ma'am.'

Saturday evening, October 22, 1960.

Hickam Air Force Base. Honolulu.

Oahu. The Hawaiian Islands.

North Pacific Ocean.

The Officers Club at Hickam was elegant and pristine. After an impressive evening meal, Charlotte relaxed comfortably in a plush deep brown leather chair gazing out of the window across the mouth of Pearl Harbor towards the Waianae Mountains as she waited for Gil Callaghan to return with another round of drinks. Her room was two doors down from Callaghan; arrangements had been made through Foggy Bottom for them to stop over in the Officers Club, although this arrangement was normally reserved for Hickam's serving officers.

Callaghan returned with two highball glasses containing a blue concoction. These were "Blue Hawaiians"... one of the latest drink crazes on the Islands. A mixture of Blue Curaçao and light rum, blended with cream of coconut and pineapple juice over ice; they were very refreshing but had a kick like a mule. As she sipped her drink, Charlotte gazed at Callaghan over the rim of her glass. He was very handsome in a rugged sort of way; built like an All-American quarterback, and close on six-feet, two-inches tall. He had serious, blue-grey eyes and short, dark hair. He was obviously interested in her... she had seen the sidelong glances throughout the trip from Japan. She smiled softly to herself. Dammit! Here she was... forty-eight years old; and he couldn't have been much more than thirty-two, perhaps, thirty-three. This really was stupid.

They sat and drank, making small talk. He didn't ask her any questions about what she had been engaged in during her time in the Korean Peninsula… he was too well-trained for that; but he certainly gave the impression that he was slightly in awe of her. It was obvious to her that he was not a field agent… more likely; he was one of Foggy Bottom's administration staff.They sat for a while, drinking and watching the huge Navy ships and submarines pass by on their way out to sea. As the sun began to sink into a beautiful Hawaiian sunset over the Waianae Mountains, she put down her glass and smiled across at him.

'I think I'll turn in now, Gil. It's been a long day.'

With impeccable manners, he stood up as she rose. She smiled.

'Stay here and finish your drink. I'll look in and say goodnight before I go to bed.'

As she walked along the long, impersonal corridor to her room, Charlotte came to a decision. She thought,

'Hell. Why not? He's young and handsome and he obviously wants me. Max has gone. I'm still in fairly good shape; and I do so want to feel someone's arms around me again, before it's too late.'

Half-an hour-later Callaghan heard the door to his room open, and heard a whisper of silk. He saw Charlotte, framed in the doorway. She wore nothing but a filmy négligée of silk and lace, her bell of blonde hair gleamed, and her blue eyes held him transfixed. She smiled softly, and he knew, in that instant that she had the ability to drown him with nothing more than a look.

He dragged his eyes away from her gaze and allowed them to slide down her body; devouring her almost alabaster-white skin; her luscious breasts straining against the translucent bodice of the négligée. He sat up and made to get out of the bed, but she came towards him, and pushed him back; sliding in beside him and pressing her body against his. She slipped her hand around the back of his neck and pulled his lips on to hers.

'It's been so long,'

She murmured.

'I need some comfort tonight.'

Slipping out of her négligée, she pulled him to her. Her skin was soft and warm, and perfumed; her hair smelt of summer meadows. Her body was toned and tight from years of existing on the utilitarian diet of North Korea. He caught his breath. God! She was beautiful.

Much later, he lay on his back with his arms wrapped about her, encased in the warmth of their mutual afterglow. She traced a finger across his lips.

'Not bad for an old broad?'

He stared indignantly at her.

'Old Broad? I only make love to beautiful women… and you're by far the most beautiful so far.'

She smiled

'Good answer, Callaghan! You can come again.'

He grinned sleepily.

'I intend to… a little later on.'

Early the next morning. Gil Callaghan awoke needing to take a leak. Charlotte was still sound asleep in his arms. Carefully, he extracted himself and went to the adjoining bathroom. Having given himself a quick wash and brush-up, he returned to find Charlotte lying on the bed in her full, naked glory. She smiled, and held out her arms to him.

'Good morning. I've put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door, honey. Come and disturb me.'

Two hours later; Gil Callaghan had sneaked back to his room to make it look as though someone had actually slept in it, and Charlotte was dressing when the club orderly came around knocking on doors and rousing the occupants. She put the finishing touches to her make-up and stepped out into the corridor. Gil Callaghan was just coming out of his room. For the benefit of the other people in the corridor, she walked up to him and said,

'Good morning, Staff Sergeant. Did you sleep well?'

He drew himself up… almost to attention.

'Very comfortably. Thank you, Ma'am. Were your quarters satisfactory?'

She nodded.

'Very satisfactory, thank you Staff Sergeant. Would you walk me down to breakfast?

He nodded.

'My pleasure Ma'am.'

As she turned to walk with him; she glanced at him from under lowered lashes and whispered.

'Yes, it was… and for me.'

Sunday, October 23, 1960.

Hickam Air Force Base. Honolulu.

Oahu. The Hawaiian Islands.

North Pacific Ocean.

Gil Callaghan and Charlotte walked across the ramp at Hickam towards the big, streamlined, silver and white USAF Military Air Transport Service C121 Super Constellation. Callaghan grinned.

'We're in luck, Ma'am. She's one of the fleet that service U.S. Embassies around the world. She's transiting directly to Andrews. There'll be no stopping over at Travis Air Force Base this trip. It seems it's just the crew and us.'

Charlotte glanced at him.

'A direct flight? How long will that take?' he paused and glanced at his wristwatch.

'It'll take about sixteen-and-a-half hours. She's due out in about twenty minutes, so we'll be coming into Andrews at about 02.30, tomorrow morning. I'm afraid we'll have to sleep in the seats… this bird doesn't have the luxuries of the Stratocruiser.'

'Charlotte smiled.

'Well, if last night was anything to go by… and if there were; in all probability, we wouldn't be doing too much sleep anyway!'

Callaghan grinned.

'You're probably right, Ma'am.'

He paused, and a thoughtful expression appeared on his face.

'What happens with us when we get back to Foggy Bottom?'

She smiled softly.

'Let's wait and see, shall we?... And I don't think you need to call me "Ma'am" any more… unless we have official company!'

Charlotte sat with Gil Callaghan in the otherwise empty cabin of the Constellation looking out of the window with rising consternation at the spectacle of the engine starts. She knew, from her flight in the Stratocruiser, that these radial engines blew smoke on start-up, but the display unfolding with the starting of the port engines was in a completely different league. The lengthy turning over of the propeller and the subsequent belching of smoke and long tails of flame from the exhaust pipes was disconcerting to say the least. The engine started whining, then spluttered and banged for some time until it picked up with a reassuring roar. Callaghan grinned.

'Don't worry. These birds are famous for this sort of thing. It's completely normal. With these engines, they can turn over the motors without having the spark plugs working. This is to get oil moving out of the bottom cylinders… see how many times the propeller turned over before the engine fired up? All that time it was sucking in fuel and not burning it.

When they finally turned on the mags, the spark plugs came live and the engine started. The smoke and flame are down to the engine pumping out all that unburnt fuel, as well as some oil burn-off that has collected in the lower cylinders. They don't call her the oily bird for nothing!'

Eventually, with all four engines running, and the whole fuselage vibrating gently; the pilot guided the Constellation away from the ramp out to the runway, ready for engine run-up. He braked to a standstill and ran the engines up to full power, one by one, then taxied onto the runway and lined up for takeoff. The thin whine of hydraulics penetrated the cabin as he set the flaps; the engine roar increased, and with a gentle jolt, the brakes were released and the big, streamlined airplane began rolling down the runway. The airplane accelerated quickly, past airport buildings and parked aircraft; the nose lifted, followed by a couple of jolts as the big airplane gained buoyancy and airspeed; and the runway receded as it rose smoothly with the engines roaring at full power, with long blue flames streaming from the exhausts. Climbing out over Mamala Bay away from the heat rising from the land, the airplane settled slightly as it sped out over the cooler ocean.

It took about forty minutes to reach the Constellation's cruising altitude of twenty-thousand feet. Looking out of the cabin window, Charlotte gazed down on the Pacific. It resembled an unbroken azure-blue carpet, merging seamlessly with the sky. She looked around the spacious cabin interior. It included a full-size airline-style galley forward of the two washrooms and toilet cubicles, all of which were located at the rear of the cabin; two original sleeper berths on the port side, ahead of the galley area; and the first-class section in which they were sitting at the rear of the fuselage just behind the wings, was equipped with full size seats and large tables.

Callaghan grinned as he pointed to the sleeper berths.

'OK, so I was wrong. We won't have to sleep in the seats after all!'

Charlotte raised an eyebrow.

'Yes, it'll be one bunk each… so don't go getting any cute ideas about sharing on this trip. You'll just have to wait until we get back home.'

Callaghan made a sad face and thrust out his lower lip; then a slow smile spread across his face.

'When we get home?'

Charlotte gave him an admonishing stare.

'Down boy. Let's see what they have arranged for us at Foggy Bottom.'

17.25 Hrs. Sunday, October 23, 1960.

Western seaboard north of Monterey Bay.

California. USA.

Callaghan pointed out of the cabin window towards a thin, grey-green smudge on the horizon barely visible in the early evening light.

'Look! Out there; the good old US of A!'

Charlotte peered out across the wing in the direction that he had indicated. Sure enough; a distinct line had appeared on the distant horizon. She glanced at her wristwatch. Almost half-past-five. She felt her ears begin to block as the Constellation started its fifty-mile descent towards the western coastline of Northern California. Callaghan stood up.

'We should be coming in over the Santa Cruz Mountains just south of San José before too long. You should be able to see San Francisco Bay over to the north. Fancy a bite to eat and a coffee? I'll go see what I can rustle up in the galley.'

By the time Callaghan returned, they had crossed the coastline slightly farther north than he had supposed… at Año Nuevo Bay. As he handed her a plate of ham sandwiches and a cup of coffee, they were crossing the Santa Cruz Mountains and she noticed that the extensive sprawl of San José and San Francisco Bay were obscured by a pall of haze hanging over the suburbs like a great, off-white blanket. The Santa Clara valley opened up below sliced through with the thin line of US Highway 101 running down its length… a ribbon that sparkled and flashed as the sun caught the scurrying tiny automobiles of the commuters hurrying home.

The valley gave way to the heavily wooded sculpture of the lower slopes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, which, in turn, faded to the snowy shoulders of the higher peaks as the Constellation sped over them at twenty thousand feet. There was a little turbulence rising from the mountains, but it wasn't a big deal. The Captain turned on the seat belt sign which remained illuminated for twenty or so minutes; however, what bumps there were, were not particularly uncomfortable.

The east slope of the steep Sierra Escarpment range fell away and the southern edge of the ragged, heart-shaped Great Basin Desert of Nevada began to spread out off to the left of their flight path. It was a harsh expanse of dry desert and high mountains between Utah's Wasatch Range… the western edge of the greater Rocky Mountains and the Sierra Nevada; extending into western Utah, and parts of Idaho; south-eastern Oregon, and Wyoming; Callaghan remarked that it covered roughly two-hundred-thousand square-miles, almost one-fifth of the West. He said that he had seen aerial photographs taken at night, which showed the bright lights of Las Vegas, Reno, and Salt Lake City. In between them was a vast, black hole. That was the Great Basin; an immense emptiness in the heart of the West. He continued; saying that many considered this area to be little more than "fly-over" country… a dreary, dry, empty expanse of sagebrush, and nothing much else. Most people would be wrong. The Great Basin contained all manner of fascinating sights… recent volcanoes, earthquake activity and faults, deep trenches such as Death Valley; ancient, dried-up rivers, and fossil sand dunes; as well as canyons and badlands. The pity was; that up here at twenty-thousand-feet, it all looked brown; with odd patches of green, and snow on the highest mountain ridges.

Callaghan checked his watch… a quarter-to-seven. The few light clouds in the sky were just beginning to hint at pink and gold. He glanced out of the cabin window.

'We'll soon be crossing into Utah. You just might be able to see The Great Salt Lake over to the north. It'll be about a hundred miles away from our flight path. It just depends on how much cloud there is up there.'

Charlotte smiled.

'Maybe we'd be better if we settled down to get some sleep instead of sightseeing. If it's two-thirty in the morning when we arrive at Andrews, then it's going to be a long day tomorrow. They'll want us to get up to Foggy Bottom right away for debriefing, and then there will be all the arrangements for accommodation and redeployment to deal with.'

Callaghan nodded.

'I suppose you're right. What's it to be, then? Sleeper seats or bunk?'

She smiled.

'Nice try, big boy! With those guys up front, it's "bunks" with an "S." There'll be plenty of time for fooling around when we get home.'

Callaghan grinned.

'Who said I was fooling around? I want us to be much more than just that.'

She smiled again.

'Good answer, Callaghan. Not bad… not bad at all.'

02.00 Hrs. Monday, October 24, 1960.

Approaching the Appalachian Mountains,

West Virginia.

USA.

A gentle hand on her shoulder woke Charlotte with a start from a weird dream in which she was being pursued by someone… or something she could not see; through a labyrinth of narrow, shabbily varnished, wooden passages lit with flickering candle lamps, which resembled a mineshaft, but was not a mineshaft. The floor was planked; rising and falling without any logical progression. The passage was dark and twisting; the low roof… also clad in planks, was supported by large, rough-hewn timber beams. At intervals; withered old men dressed in shabby, turn-of the-century clothes, sat at grimy desks and tables continually shuffling reams of dog-eared, yellowing papers, and paying no attention to her passing. It was like something out of a Dickensian novel. What the hell it meant was anybody's guess.

Gil Callaghan stood by her bunk and smiled down at her.

'Good morning, Ma'am. It's time to get up. We're half-an-hour out of Andrews.'

The familiar drone of the airplane's engines allayed her sleepy anxiety, and gathering her thoughts, she gave Callaghan a quizzical look.

'We're very formal this morning, Callaghan.'

He nodded towards the galley aft of the sleeping bunk area and gave her a wry smile. Following his gaze, she saw that it was occupied by one of the crew members making coffee. She nodded,

Thank you, Staff Sergeant. Where are we?'

Callaghan glanced back at the crewman for confirmation of her question. The young airman paused from pouring the coffee,

'Good morning Ma'am; Good morning, Staff Sergeant. We're just passing Clarksburg, West Virginia, Ma'am. If you look out of the window, you'll see the lights of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania out on the port quarter. Would you care for a coffee, whilst I'm making it?'

Charlotte smiled and nodded. Callaghan moved back to the galley to pour each of them a cup whilst the airman moved back along the fuselage to the flight deck with cups for the crew. She pulled back the cabin window curtain and gazed out across the port wing. In the distance, was a faint glow, lighting the few scattered clouds from below. Those must be the lights of Pittsburgh. At twenty-thousand-feet, dawn was beginning to break; a faint grey, merging into pink, pearly light was visible on the eastern horizon. Below, there was still darkness. There were few clouds in the area they were flying though; but there was little to see; and what there might have been was obscured by the gentle flare of the spears of pale blue flames emanating from the engines' exhausts and reflecting back from the underside of the wing.

As the airplane banked on its final heading she saw out of the cabin window that the vast carpet of darkness was sprinkled with a scattering of distant, faint lights from the far-flung townships across the immense, thinly populated tracts of West Virginia and to the north; Pennsylvania. Callaghan returned with the coffee. He smiled.

Here; it's good coffee. Sorry about the formal wake-up, but I figured that it's bad manners to compromise a Captain's rank in front of enlisted airmen. Now I'll do it properly.'

He glanced along the fuselage. The airman had disappeared into the cockpit and closed the door. He knelt beside her bunk and made to kiss her. She pushed him back.

'God… No, Callaghan! I've got yuck mouth from breathing pressurised air all night. At least let me brush my teeth first! Besides which; how can you want to, with me looking like this?... all black, raccoon-eyes and Bride of Frankenstein hair?'

He grinned.

'That, baby, is what love is all about.'