Chapter Eleven.

At the deserted warehouse on Kanalgasse in the Landstrasse District of the city; Phips Eberhardt; "Zellenleiter"… cell leader of the Aktionsbüro Siegfrid was debating how he, and his street thugs could coerce more protection money out of the Jewish shopkeepers that they terrorised on a regular basis. One of the thugs was suggesting that maybe they could make their own napalm-type incendiary by using gasoline, polystyrene beads and mothballs. He was about to explain how it was done, when Benny's timer ticked down through its final few seconds. Without warning; a deafening boom rocked the warehouse; the lights went out, and an immense heat blasted them off their feet, as concrete and plaster rained down on them.

Above their heads, the huge explosion erupted and blew the ceiling completely out from the surrounding wall supports as the entire ceiling slab collapsed onto them; crushing and burying them beneath thousands of kilogrammes of ragged concrete and steel reinforcing rods.

The outer walls of the warehouse trembled and groaned as the old brickwork struggled forlornly against the forces of gravity; crumbling in a shower of mortar and brick dust until they swayed drunkenly and collapsed inwards throwing up a thick cloud of dust and lumps of loose rubble.

Benny had set the Semtex as triangular saddle charges around the steel support rods that secured the ceiling slab to the supporting walls. This was a highly effective method of shearing these reinforcing rods; and Benny had succeeded beyond even his own expectations. The effective demolition of the abandoned warehouse was such; that it would take rescuers days to dig down to the victims, and any that had survived the initial collapse would certainly be dead by the time that they were found.

The following morning, the glittering-black, Mercedes-Benz 600, Embassy limousine turned off the main Vienna-Tulin highway and cruised down the side road that divided the twin villages of Langenlebarn-Oberaigen and Langenlebarn Unteraigen lying along the banks of the Danube, thirty kilometres northwest of Vienna. James Hirschell slowed and turned into the entrance road of the Brumowski Air Base. The Austrian Air Force guard stepped out into the road; then spotted the Diplomatic licence plates and stepped back; opening the barrier and saluting smartly as the Mercedes-Benz wafted through the check post. The Air base looked to be deserted, except for a solitary familiar shape on the wide concrete apron in front of the hangars. It was an Austrian Turbo Porter... the newer version of the type of airplanes Stacey and Alex had flown in Laos. James Hirschell stopped the Mercedes-Benz on the edge of the apron and switched off the motor. Lowering the powered window between the front and rear compartments, he glanced at his watch and said,

'Your ride should be here within the next ten minutes...'

He was about to say something else when one of the ugly little Steyr Puch Haflinger trucks, sounding like a demented Volkswagen, pulled up alongside the Mercedes-Benz. A Stabswachtmeister... a staff sergeant jumped out and came to Hirschell's driver's window. He said that the transport to pick up the five Embassy employees in Hirschell's charge had just made radio contact and was ten kilometres out. When it had landed; Hirschell was cleared to follow the taxiway out to the threshold of the active runway to deliver his passengers. They were quietly chatting about the operation when a distant hum attracted their attention.

Out to the south-west, a big airplane was approaching and starting to descend. As it turned onto its final approach, they saw that it was a C-130 Hercules; painted in Israeli Air Force Desert colours. The wheels and flaps came down, and the airplane's nose dropped as the pilot pushed over into an assault approach. He touched down no more than one-hundred-and-fifty-metres from the zero-eight runway threshold and deployed full reverse thrust on the propellers. The Hercules stopped within seven hundred metres, and, as the load ramp began to open and lower; he reversed the big airplane back along the runway to the taxiway where the Mercedes-Benz was waiting. The loadmaster jumped down from the load ramp and walked across the asphalt as they emerged from the car. He grinned.

'Shalom. Your magic carpet awaits! Sorry, but the seating is the ever popular metal and webbing!'

He picked up the few small pieces of baggage and walked with them to the airplane. Tossing the bags into the cavernous cargo deck, he helped the girls up onto the load ramp. As he had said; the seating was the flat, red webbing jumpseats; each supported by a metal rods set-up which folded out from along each side of the cargo bay. Lailah and Stacey strapped themselves in as Alex, Benny, and Yarin jumped up onto the rear load ramp and came, and sat opposite the girls. The loadmaster stowed the baggage and Alex's gun case and came forward. He grinned.

'You're lucky. There's lots of room to move around without tripping over couple of platoons full of smelly chapperim… which is our normal payload. You should also know that this bird is loud; there's lots of vibration, especially on the prop line; which is about half-way along the cargo bay and you'll need to wear earplugs, even back here... or you'll be deaf for a day and a half… these turboprops somehow seem to do something to some folks' inner ear; and lastly, drink lots of water. It's all too easy to get dehydrated when we're pressurised.'

Alex looked up from strapping himself in.

'So, what's the flight time?'

The loadmaster glanced at his wrist chronometer.

'With this bird, say… about four hours. It's 08.30, Central European Time, now; so we should be landing at Sde Dov at about 13.30, local time.'

He handed out earplugs and bottles of water; checked that their seat harnesses were properly adjusted; and walked back to his ramp control panel located on the fuselage wall just aft of the port paratroop door. He operated the controls and the pressure bulkhead descended; locking into place on the cargo deck floor. The hum of hydraulic pumps continued as the loading ramp was raised, until, with a faint thump, it locked into position. He then came back and strapped himself into one of the jumpseats as the engine noise increased to a crescendo… even with the earplugs; and they felt the Hercules begin to move. It was a strange sensation, being forced sideways in the jumpseats under the force of acceleration as the Hercules roared down the runway, and this sensation became even stranger as the nose lifted sharply, and she climbed away at a steep angle into the skies above the Danube; turning her nose into the south-east, and heading for home.

Captain Natan Ben-Shimon brought the Hercules across the Levantine Basin and began to descend as the Israeli coastal plain grew slowly in his windshield. The Mediterranean crossing had been uneventful; the Hercules had maintained her cruising altitude of twenty-nine-thousand feet at her optimum economical cruising speed of three-hundred-and-thirty knots, and he had picked up a tail wind off the Greek Island of Karpathos as he made his course change south of the Island of Rhodes. This tail wind had stayed with them all the way across the remaining four hundred-odd nautical miles of the Eastern Mediterranean, and shaved almost an hour off their flight time. He eased the control yoke over and banked gently to port to follow the coastline on his downwind leg, to his turning point over the Mona beach at Migdeley Ne'Eman; two kilometres north of runway threshold 21; where he would contact Sde Dov control for approach clearance as he turned onto Base leg.

With confirmation received, he banked around to starboard and committed to his final approach. With undercarriage and fowler flaps deployed, Natan Ben-Shimon touched down at the first set of Visual Approach Slope Indicator lights alongside the runway. Sde Dov runway was fifty-seven-hundred feet of downward-sloping asphalt. The Hercules, even at maximum landing weight… which was infinitely more than she weighed now with only the crew and five passengers; would roll to a standstill in less than half that distance. There was no need to deploy reverse pitch on the props, this time.

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Her rolling speed was washing off nicely; she was waddling along at forty knots, indicated… and they hadn't even reached the first taxiway turn-off. As she slowed, rudder directional control faded quickly. He grasped the nose wheel steering wheel to the left of his control yoke, and kept her straight on the runway centre-line with small inputs on the steering wheel as he continued braking with the rudder brake pedals. Reaching normal taxi speed, he released the brakes; moved the throttles forward to maintain the taxi speed; and exited the runway to follow the diagonal taxiway leading down to the to the military apron at the southern end of the airfield.

Rolling onto the military apron; Natan Ben-Shimon pulled the throttle levers back to the Ground idle position and lowered the rear ramp. Inside the fuselage, the sudden daylight was blinding for a few seconds… and then, the heat hit them. Unbuckling themselves from the jumpseats, they emerged from their dark tomb, blinking against the bright sunlight; and jumped down onto the dazzling white concrete apron; only to have their nostrils assailed by the stink of burned JP-4 jet fuel from the idling turboprops.

Two black Chevrolet Blazers fitted with dark tinted, privacy windows were parked up on the edge of the apron. The passenger door of one opened; and a familiar figure stepped down on to the apron and walked towards them. Mossad Officer Rafael Navot spread out his arms in welcome to Benny, Yarin, and Lailah.

'Shalom, my friends. The Director is anxious to see you.'

He snapped his fingers in the direction of the Chevy; which moved forward for them to climb in. Rafael Navot closed the Chevy door and turned back to Stacey and Alex who had been standing to one side. He came and wrapped his arms around them.

'Shalom, my friends, I have not forgotten you. I have something special for you… my steadfast CIA Brother-and-Sister-in-arms.'

He led them to the second Chevy and opened the door for them. Climbing into the driving seat, he turned to them.

'You will not be required to suffer a seventeen-hour, butt-chafing flight in a C-130 jumpseat on your journey home. We have arranged that you shall fly in comfort from the British Royal Air Force base at Akrotiri in Cyprus. The runway here is not long enough for what we have arranged for you, so, we shall shuttle you over there in one of our new toys.'

Firing up the Chevy, he drove off the apron and headed across the airfield past the terminal, and operations building to the helicopter apron. Sitting there, with her rotors already turning, was a large, café-au-lait coloured assault helicopter that Stacey recognised as being from the same family of Sikorsky choppers as the Super Jolly Green Giants that were just beginning to appear when she left Laos. Rafael Navot stopped the Chevy and gave an expansive flourish with his hand in the direction of the chopper.

'There she is… a CH-53 "Yas'ur"... our Defence Force variant of the United States Marine Corps Sea Stallion assault helicopter. We've only had them since September; but, at least they don't have the webbing seats… they are still fold-down, but are made of canvas.'

He saw the look on Alex's face.

'It's not that bad. Your destination is only two hundred miles away. That's about three-quarters of an hour flying time… and then, it's luxury all the way to Washington!'

The blades of the helicopter began to whistle, and spin faster; quickly turning into a whirling black disk that flung a heavy downwash across the apron as the pilot cranked up the throttle, checking his instrument pressures and temperatures. An IDF Staff Sergeant leaned out the rear ramp of the big chopper and shouted over the racket of chopper blades to Rafael Navot;

'Sir!... It's time to go!'

Rafael Navot nodded and turned, embracing Stacey and Alex.

'Until the next time, my friends; Shalom.'

They walked up the ramp into the cavernous interior of the fuselage and each chose a seat. The Staff Sergeant helped them to strap in and handed them both flight helmets. He moved across to the ramp control panel and flicked a switch. The rear ramp rose with a quiet hydraulic hum and thumped shut. There was a pause, and then the rotor blade noise changed in pitch and the big chopper lifted off the apron; spun smartly to the left, and clattered off across the airfield; skimming out over the old harbour mole, and turning north-west across the Levantine Basin towards the vast blue horizon of the shimmering Mediterranean Sea.

Epilogue.

Pilot Officer Eddie Kennett stood on the apron next to the RAF Landrover, and watched as the enormous Israeli helicopter came thundering in from the sea across Cape Gata... the south-eastern cape of the Akrotiri Peninsula; lowered its undercarriage, and lined up, nose-up and tail-down to land on the old, southernmost wartime pan-handle dispersal that Akrotiri ground control had allocated. The pilot shot a low approach, lined up, and came to a hover over the pan-handle dispersal pad. Whilst still hovering, the pilot turned the big chopper on its hover axis and proceeded to put down in a howling downblast from the six mighty rotor blades. Kennett grabbed at his regulation Royal Air Force Officers peaked cap and turned his face away as the helicopter's wheels bounced down onto the sun-bleached concrete, tearing up a chaotic whirlwind of white, sandy dust.

The pilot kept her two turboshaft engines idling and her rotor blades spinning as the rear ramp opened and two figures... a man and a woman, both carrying hand luggage, emerged from the craft, and, ducking their heads, ran towards the Landrover. The girl paused and turned; raising her hand to wave goodbye, as the pilot gently pulled up on his collective, increased the revs, and the enormous Israeli helicopter lifted off in a cloud of dust. He pushed forward on the cyclic, and keeping her straight with the pedals, achieved effective transitional lift, booming away out over the runway, and banking out in a graceful climbing turn towards Cape Gata.

Eddie Kennett walked forwards, brushing the white dust from off his uniform jacket. Extending his hand to the man, he said.

'Welcome to Royal Air Force Station Akrotiri. Officers Mckenna and Shepard, I presume? That was certainly some entrance!'

Alex took his hand and shook it.

'I am Shepard and the Lady is Mckenna.'

Eddie Kennett nodded, and glanced at his RAF issue wristwatch.

'I'm going to have to rush you, I'm afraid. Your transport is scheduled for departure in ten minutes.'

Piling into the Landrover; Kennett banged the long, floor shift lever into first gear and rumbled away along the concrete roadway towards a large apron on the south side of the main runway, where a large, grey-and-white jetliner with its engines paired at the rear of the fuselage and a high, steeply-swept "T" tail, was parked up, with vehicles and ground crew surrounding it, It bore British Royal Air Force, red, white, and blue roundels on the fuselage sides forward of the leading edge of the wing; and a red, white and blue flash on its tail. The words "Royal Air Force Air Support Command" were emblazoned in black letters along the brilliant white paint of the cabin above the Lightning-flash, Royal-Blue stripe framing the line of the cabin windows. Kennett swung the Landrover onto the apron and pulled up with a squeal of brakes. He glanced at Stacey and Alex.

'There she is; she's a beaut'. She's a 10 Squadron, Vickers VC10 C.Mk1. She can carry a hundred-and-thirty-nine passengers in rear-facing seats; but today, she's all yours. She's on a return flight to Brize, where she's based; for a quick turn-around, and then, she's heading out on the scheduled weekly service to Washington carrying both you two, and a bunch of GCHQ civil servants.'

They climbed out of the Landrover and he led them to the airstair which was built into the load bed of an RAF Bedford truck, and said,

'Have a safe flight; 'Bye.'

Stacey and Alex entered the passenger cabin to be welcomed by the Air Steward… an RAF corporal, resplendent in a white jacket. He indicated the empty cabin.

'Please feel free to choose whichever seats you require. You will see that they are all rearward facing in order to meet MoD safety requirements. Similarly, they feature a seat pitch that is more generous than normal commercial rules provide for passengers. I would recommend the forward section of the cabin. The view is superior forward of the wing leading edge, and also, the engine noise is much reduced.'

The seating was arranged in blocks of three seats on each side of the central aisle. Stacey and Alex chose seats on the port side in what would have been the first-class compartment in a similar commercial BOAC airliner. The Air Steward came forward and said that he would serve coffee when they were airborne. Stacey glanced at Alex with a wry expression on her face. Whatever awaited them back at Langley; whatever risky game they would be sent to play, next time; was the gamble that they took when they had first signed up to play the Spook game; but, for now, as the soft roar of the four, powerful Conway bypass jets spooling up penetrated the cabin; there was no doubt that whoever had arranged this elegant flight home had certainly sugar-coated the pill.