The plane skidded for a moment, stopped when the brakes were released, and then screamed again as they were reapplied. Finally the plane lurched to the left and shuddered still.
Fine got to his feet and went forward. Out of Wilson's side window, he saw that they were perhaps a hundred feet from the end of the runway threshold. Beyond that, fifty feet below, was a pile of rocks, onto which the waters of the Atlantic splashed in slow rolling waves. "Here comes somebody," Homer Wilson said, nodding his head toward his side window. A procession of vehicles was racing down the runway toward them.
It was led by an automobile of a make none of them could identify.
Next came a small fire truck on a Ford chassis. And finally two Mercedes trucks.
"I think we should shut the engine down," Wilson said, "and then practice smiling. You're going to do the talking, right, Stan?" Fine went back through the fuselage and, with great difficulty, because a strong wind was blowing from the sea, pushed the large door open. The Spaniards were waiting for them. The trucks each carried a dozen soldiers. They now formed a ring around the door. The m
uzzles of their rifles were toward the ground. They were wearing German helmets, and the rifles were Mausers. Fine did not need to be reminded that the sympathies of Generalissimo Francisco Franco were with the German-Italian japanese Axis.
Behind the fine of soldiers were three officers. To judge both by his more luxurious uniform and by his air of arrogance, one was a senior officer. He was tall, stocky, mustachio ed, and good-looking. He's standing there, Fine thought, with all the arrogance of a Marine Corps second lieutenant. "It is forbidden to land here," the Spanish officer said in British accented English.
"You will consider yourselves under arrest."
"It was an emergency, Colonel," Fine said.
"We lost an engine. If the officer wasn't a colonel, flattery would not make things worse. The officer snapped his fingers, and two of the soldiers laid a wooden ladder against the fuselage. The officer climbed up it. "I don't think you're Chinese," he said.
"English?" American," Fine said." Is Colonel di Fortini available?
"I am not familiar with that aircraft," the officer said, igporing the question. "It is a Boeing," Fine said.
"A Strato cruiser transport. We're ferrying it from the factory to China."
"May I see your documents, please?" the officer asked. "I'll get them for you," Fine said, and turned toward the cockpit. When he returned he held a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills. These were bound together with a paper band marked 110,000 in $100."
"It really means a great deal to me to be able to get in touch with Colonel di Fortini," he said. "Colonel di Fortini is not here," he said.
"He may be on Las Palm as. I will make inquiries." He took the stack of money and put it in an inner pocket of his tunic.
Or may e you' just put the money in your pocket and not make inquiries.
"And now if I may have your documents, please?" the officer said.
THREE I The Dorchester Hotel London, England 1720 Hours August 17, 1942
Two American field artillery officers, a colonel and a lieutenant colonel, were standing under the marquee when the Austin Princess limousine rolled up to it. Except for a narrow slit, the headlights of the limousine had been painted black, and the front fenders were outlined with white paint, in the standard if not very successful attempt to prevent fender benders on streets that were no longer illuminated, These small irregularities, however, did little to mask the elegance of the limousine. It stopped under the marquee, and the driver, a young woman in the uniform of a sergeant of the Royal Women's Army Service Corps, stepped quickly out from behind the wheel, trotted around the front of the limousine, and opened the rear door.
The American officers had their luggage at their feet. They had come to London on seventy-two-hour passes and had just been politely but firmly denied accommodations in the hotel. They both looked at the car out of the corners of their eyes, partly in simple curiosity, and partly because the limousine more than likely carried a general officer entitled to a salute. The officer who got out of the limousine was American. He wore a leather-brimmed fur felt cap and a finely tailored Class A uniform. (It was, in fact, brand new.) But he was not a general officer, just a lowly lieutenant colonel. Nevertheless, the full colonel and the lieutenant colonel knew him. "I'll be damned," the full colonel said.
"Stevens!" Stevens looked at him, then saluted.
"Good evening, Sir," he said.
After the colonel returned the salute and shook hands, Stevens then offered his hand to the lieutenant colonel.
Hello, Bill," he said," how are you? "Awed by your car," the lieutenant colonel said.
"And surprised to see you. They had been classmates at West Point, and they had served together at Forts Bliss and Riley. The last time the lieutenant colonel had seen Edmund T. Stevens, they had both been captains, and Stevens had been in the limbo of an officer who has submitted his resignation but has not yet been released from duty.
Stevens ignored the implied questions.
"Just checking in?" he asked. "Just turned away," the full colonel said.
"This place is apparently reserved for VIPS." His question was direct: "What are you doing here?"
"Dealing with a V.I.P," Stevens said.