Chapter Twenty-Four.
In the cockpit, Captain Peter Kincaid lined up "Pembroke's" bow on Bahrain's Khawr al Qulay'ah sound, and began to wash off altitude. From up here, he could easily see the sprinkling of dhows bobbing up and down; but the alighting lane was clear. He reached for the flap control switch and set it at one-third flaps. The flap motors started to whine on approach as he eased the flying boat down, clearing the swing bridge linking the two major islands of Muharraq and Al Manāma by fifty feet, as Tim began to gently throttle back the engines and checked that the engine cowling gills were closed. Flipping the mixture levers to "Rich," he checked that the airscrew speed controls were fully "Up." Kincaid double-checked, and set the flaps at two-thirds out.
He gently eased her onto final approach. Watching the airspeed creeping back to one-hundred-and-ten knots, he fed in a touch of flare to get the tail slightly down, and watched the altimeter needle drifting down. Airspeed crept down to ninety knots... she seemed to hang in the air for a few moments... then came the slight jolt and hiss of water under the keel as she alighted on the sound between the Muharraq, and Sitrah islands to the east of the main Bahrain island. Tim closed the throttles as her bow began to rise slightly... he inched the outer engine throttle levers forward and her nose settled back down as she came off the step and began to slow rapidly with the drag on her hull.
Tim reached forward; set the mixture controls to "Normal," and opened the engine cowling gills. Kincaid put out full flap as "Pembroke" wallowed gently and began to come to a standstill. Kincaid reached forward again, and pulled out the inner engines' slow-running cut-off controls as Tim closed the inner engines' throttles. A passenger terminal was located nearby at Gudaibiya; a neighbourhood in Al Manāma, the capital city of Bahrain, from where passengers were ferried to and from the flying boats.
The purser came through the cabins, inviting the passengers to vacate their seats and move to the entry doors to transfer to the waiting boats that would ferry them ashore. Charlotte and Max moved to the rear starboard door, where a BOAC passenger tender was waiting. After the relative cool shade of the cabin, it was extremely hot, humid, and oppressive as they sat in the covered passenger tender that chugged fitfully across the placid water to the jetty. The pungent smell of crude oil and petroleum hung in the still air. The first sight of the Bahrain skyline was not impressive. The land seemed to rise no more than six feet from the water; little more than a patch of sandy beach edged with scrappy huts made from woven Palm Fronds, mixed in with a few dirty white gypsum buildings. The largest buildings were two-storeyed, but were not particularly impressive. A sprinkling of squat minarets loomed distantly in the background almost overshadowed by the harsh industrial sprawl and pipelines of the Bahrain Petroleum Company.
The BOAC Agent was waiting to welcome them at the Custom-house/Arrivals hall... a small, square, two-storey cement building with a ground floor veranda and a square watchtower built on the left-hand corner of the flat roof, overshadowed by a red-and-white-striped windsock fluttering from a similarly striped pole on the opposite corner of the roof. The optimistic legend: "Bahrein Marine Airport" was painted in large letters across its façade. He informed the passengers that the refuelling and taking on of stores would take approximately one hour. Refreshments were available in the lounge. Inside the building it was almost as hot as it was, outside. The air conditioning consisted of two very ancient, four-bladed electric fans suspended from the ceiling, which were not particularly effective, and merely stirred the heat around.
Custom formalities were rudimentary, to say the least. The Customs Official merely glanced at the passports, nodded, and waved them on. Out on the sound; Refuelling was being carried out at the mooring from tanker barges brought out from the old Imperial Airways moorings at Mina Sulman on the western side of the sound, and while this was under way, the BOAC Agent invited the passengers to join him in the Speedbird Hotel with its colonial shutters, sun-blinds, huge ceiling fans; balconies, and wind towers, for afternoon tea.
Unusually, for an Islamic country; beer and wines were freely served in the various cafes to anyone. As Bahrain was only twenty minutes by ferry from the Saudi mainland, thirsty Saudis flocked into the Kingdom... some of them staying there all day long, guzzling beer, and having to be literally carried back to the boat for the return trip in the evening. The Speedbird Hotel was no exception, and Charlotte, and the svelte Oriental girl they had seen in the upper cabin of the flying boat, early in their journey, were soon being ogled by a group of drunken Arabs.
One of them; a particularly large, and obnoxious-looking specimen, staggered across to the Oriental girl's table; sat down without invitation, and began harassing her. She ignored his advances until he blatantly groped her breast. Almost faster than the eye could follow, a squat pistol appeared in her hand and the Arab found himself staring into the business end of a Walther PPK. His other friends rose from their table, their hands on their daggers, with the obvious intent of coming to his assistance... and a corpulent silence fell about the lounge of the Speedbird Hotel. The Arabs had accomplished, perhaps, three paces towards the Oriental girl, when they froze; staring into the black, impersonal muzzles of Lambert's and Hollis' Beretta nine-millimetre automatics which they had silently drawn as all eyes were upon the Oriental girl and her table companion... the middle-aged man wearing the immaculately-tailored three-piece suit.
The Maître d'Hôtel was making a fanatic telephone call from behind the bar as time seemed to stop in the brooding silence that had descended in the lounge. Charlotte glanced at Max. His eyes told her to do nothing.
The oppressive silence that had fallen in the lounge was broken after a few tense minutes by the sound of a truck skidding to a halt outside, and the doors burst open to reveal two Arab guards, wearing the local "Thawb"... the full-length tunic, and the "Kaffiyeh"... the white head cloth, bound in place by a black, camel-hair cord known as an "ʿIqāl." Both were festooned with cartridge belts and carried Short-Magazine Lee Enfield rifles. They were backed up by two tough-looking British Army MPs, wearing their ominous Military Police Red top, peaked caps, with their hands on the butts of their Webley service revolvers protruding from their opened, white-blancoed webbing belt holsters.
The drunken Arabs were quickly rounded up and shoved out of the lounge to the waiting truck. The MP Sergeant glanced across to the man at the Oriental girl's table and briefly touched the highly-polished peak of his cap.
The Oriental girl's table companion turned to Lambert's and Hollis.
'Gentlemen; you may put your weapons away. Neither I, nor Mademoiselle Thị Chung poses any threat to your charges. May I introduce myself? I am Cameron Bray; Diplomatic Advisor to the Provisional Central Government of Vietnam.'
The girl spoke softly with the hint of a French accent.
'My name is Sophie Thị Chung; I am from the République Autonome de Cochinchine... that is; the region encompassing the southern third of Vietnam whose principal city is Saigon. It is a French colony, and I am an officer of Le Service de Documentation Extérieure et du Contre-Espionnage, working against the Communist Việt Minh.
Lambert gave her a wry grin.
'So, you're both CIA.'
She smiled sweetly.
'And you're both British Intelligence.'
Cameron Bray quietly interrupted her.
'That's not strictly correct, Major.'
He waved his hand indolently towards Lambert and Hollis.
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'Our two new friends belong to a far more covert department than MI6.'
He gestured towards Charlotte and Max with an expansive flourish of his hand.
'They are here to oversee the journey of our two fellow passengers here; who have been targeted by the opposition for whatever reason. 'He grinned apologetically, and turned to Charlotte.
'Please accept my sincere apologies for all this subterfuge. We have no option but to play at smoke-and-mirrors out in French Indochina, and it's become something of a habit. The stakes are high out there. One mistake... one careless moment, and they will eventually discover you floating face-down in the Perfumed River.'
Lambert and Hollis cautiously replaced their Beretta pistols and regarded Bray with a singular suspicion. He knew far too much about this operation. Just who the hell was he? He wasn't CIA... he wasn't MI5 or MI6; and most certainly was not one of Max's former colleagues from Luisenstrasse or Karlshorst in Berlin.
Charlotte studied him carefully. Cameron Bray presented an impression of urbane and sophisticated elegance. The exquisitely-tailored silk shirt and tie; the suit from the cutting rooms of Punjab House... the tailor of choice for Hong Kong's British colonial masters; the Savile Row hand-made Oxford Brogue shoes. He held her stare with his steady, green-grey eyes for a few moments, and smiled.
'I can see that you are uneasy about how I have access to this information, Captain Mckenna. Please don't look so concerned. I have been fully briefed with regard to your journey out East. I represent an Internationally-funded Organisation that has been set up to counter the insidious spread of Communism in the vulnerable territories in the region of South-east Asia.'
He glanced back at the pretty Oriental girl, who, by now, had replaced her Walther PPK pistol into its holster concealed against her thigh beneath her dress. Charlotte smiled discreetly. Shades of "Aktion Donnerwaffe" and her own Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife scabbard! Bray continued.
'Ostensibly, Major Thị Chung is with Le Deuxième Bureau de l'État-major general... France's external military intelligence agency; however, her remit is to keep the black channels open between Saigon and the Chinese mainland authorities, in respect of the distasteful enterprises that the French colonial administration, aided by the CIA are engaged in across French Indochina.'
He paused to sip his tea; then continued:
'French intelligence and the CIA have become involved in clandestine activities that have played a major role in making the Triads and the Golden Triangle the greatest factors in the narcotics business. French intelligence deal in narcotics to bankroll their costly war against Ho Chi Minh.
The CIA, obsessed with the perceived cold war threat of monolithic communism, has assisted criminal empires on the assumption that they would provide a buffer to post-war Communist expansion. The policies of these intelligence agencies have transformed the region into the leading heroin-producing and smuggling centre. The French developed a wide-ranging intelligence apparatus throughout the region, by colluding with the river pirates. This was financed by the Opium trade, and the proceeds of prostitution, which is also financing the present conflict against the Việt Minh.
An unfortunate and unseen spin-off from this is that their clandestine operations are increasing the strength and influence of the Tongs and triads across the entire region, which, of course is of great concern to the Nationalist Chinese Government, who have their own problems with the Civil War which is forcing General Chiang Kai-shek south towards Taiwan Island. When, as we fear, the Nationalists abandon mainland China and it falls under Communist control; the assumption is that the Triads and Tongs will relocate west to Hong Kong and Shanghai.'
Sophie Thị Chung nodded, and turned to Charlotte.
'There is another problem, Captain Mckenna. We are aware of the Triad interest in a large Garnet gemstone that was discovered in Germany. The original carrier was found murdered in Port Said, and we think a rival Triad member was responsible. This gemstone carries significant reverence in Chinese beliefs as bestowing immunity to injury upon its wearer. It is also believed to attract the energy and influence of the Sun. The larger the gem, the greater the attraction; and a Triad Dragon Lord would bestow great favour upon one of his lieutenants offering such a prize.
As such, this gem could cause all manner of lawlessness if it falls into the hands of any one of the Triads in Hong Kong or Shanghai. It could easily provoke all-out street war amongst the rival factions competing for overall control if one of the Dragon Lords imagines he is invincible.'
Charlotte shivered... as though at that same moment, a grey goose had flown over her grave. She glanced at Max. Sophie Thị Chung must be describing "The Red Horseman". Max raised an eyebrow. Say nothing. Act dumb.
Any further conversation was interrupted by the BOAC agent announcing that refuelling was complete, and all passengers should proceed to the jetty for embarkation. As the passengers filed out of the building, Sophie Thị Chung touched Charlotte's arm.
'The gemstone must be recovered. We dare not let it loose to inflict its evil anywhere in the tinderbox that, at present, is the Far East.'
Charlotte studied the impassive face. She could read nothing in the pretty black, almond-shaped eyes; Sophie Thị Chung knew... but did she know everything?
With his passengers safely on board and the engines idling; Peter Kincaid saw the green light begin flashing from the stern of the BOAC control tender off to his port bow, indicating that he had clearance to taxi. He turned the flying boat into the wind and went through his final checks. The next leg of the flight would take them down the Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Oman; then across the northern edge of the Arabian Sea, flying parallel to the coast. It was a leisurely flight of eleven-hundred nautical miles.
At cruise speed they would reach Karachi in a little over seven hours. It would be getting dusk, and the alighting area parallel to the breakwater, with Shark Island to port and Kiamari Island to starboard would be no problem. The only worry was that this leg of the flight was subject to monsoon conditions from June to August with much turbulence and upward convection currents. Tropical storms were also frequent in May and June and again in October and November. He studied the skies to the East. Clear as a bell... but these damned tropical storms just seemed to suddenly appear without much warning. Upper air reports were available from most of the weather stations along the route, giving wind speeds and directions, but they weren't always accurate. As usual, Johnnie Blake was silent; tweaking the tuning knobs on his radio equipment. Kincaid turned and looked at him, questioningly. Johnnie Blake shrugged and shook his head. No reports from any ground stations for now.
Kincaid had two options to consider if they ran into one of these tropical storms. Either he could fly very low, sometimes between two, and three-hundred feet in the very hot, disturbed air and risk upsetting the passengers by the inevitable buffeting, or he could climb higher into cooler and calmer air, to face head winds of between forty, and fifty knots. During the south-west monsoon... which occurred at this time of year; the route was frequently covered in dense cloud with intervals of heavy rain. High ground was cloud covered, and wind direction and strength were difficult to forecast.
Cumulus clouds over the high ground, with their strong vertical air currents, could reach up to as much as fifteen-thousand-feet. In these conditions, weather balloons could not be tracked through the overcast, and consequently, wind speed and direction would have to be estimated by his navigator, Simon Wallis, from the synoptic chart which was not the easiest task... even for someone as good as Simon. Dead reckoning positions could not always be confirmed by radio D/F "fixes" in heavy tropical storms, which made course holding, even on the comparatively short sector distances, extremely difficult.
In these sort of conditions the higher the altitude, the calmer the weather. Even in the worst of the southwest monsoon, the boats could often be flying in sunshine above the clouds at ten, to fifteen-thousand-feet. Getting down through the soup would be the main problem. Kincaid sighed. No point in worrying about something that might not occur. He scanned the instruments. Everything normal. Nothing from Johnnie to suggest anything untoward, weather-wise. Kincaid nodded to Tim Walker.
'Right, Tim; let's go.'
Tim Walker pushed the two outer engine throttle levers all the way forward to their stops on the quadrant, watching the rev counter needles climbing around the dials to their maximum safe readings. The spray from the bow wave began recede from the arc of the idling inner props, and, as the flying boat's bow began to rise, he pushed the throttle levers of the inner engines up to full power. "Pembroke" surged forwards across the sparkling aquamarine mirror of the bay and the floats lifted clear as she rose up onto her planing step. With his control column pulled hard back, Kincaid watched the speed building up. Moving on the water at speed was potentially dangerous, so the shorter the take-off run, the better. He eased back a little more on his control column... she began to respond. Still accelerating, he gradually brought her up out of the water until she was skimming the surface, with just the aft point of the main step in contact. He could then fly her off the water with more gentle backward pressure on control column.
She was running straight and true with scarcely a bump. One-hundred knots...one-hundred-and-five... her tail settled, and she came free from the clutches of the water. Tim gentled the throttles back and flicked the flap switch. As the servos whined gently, raising the flaps into the wings, "Pembroke" rose gracefully into the skies above Khawr al Qulay'ah sound, with the deep roar of her engines rolling back and forth across the waters between the two main islands of Bahrain, as she headed out across the Persian Gulf towards the Indian Sub-continent.