The engine noise suddenly vanished in a roar like a waterfall – and it was. The windscreen flooded; water sputtered explosively in at the tight-shut side windows and over my lap.
The lift-shaft reversed and we fell. I was jerked off my seat, my sunglasses lifted out of my pocket, bounced off my cheek and on to the roof. The wind computer rose out of my open briefcase, hung weirdly in the air, then smashed down again as we bottomed out with a slam that set the whole instrument panel shaking in its mount.
That did it. 'Tel Aviv, Whiskey Zulu request return clearance.' My voice sounded clenched.
'Whiskey Zu… to turn… up omnirad…7,000 feet…'
Oh no. 'Tel Aviv please say again.' But my own voice was jumping in and out of an echo chamber. The radio was packing up.
I tried to hold the aeroplane with one hand while I reached to change to the second set. And be damned to a clearance anyway. I was turning around.
I pushed into a gentle left turn. Into a storm cell or away from one?
The second VHP set came in clear: '… do you read? Over.'
Tel Aviv: Whiskey Zulu. I have one comm failure. Please say again my clearance.'
'Whiskey Zulu, are you declaring an emergency?'
Am I saying I'm beaten, I quit? In public?
Tel Aviv – any traffic?'
'Negative, Whiskey Zulu.' So at least no mid-air collision.
Then just clear me.'
Formally: 'Whiskey Zulu cleared to turn left pick up 336 omni radial descend to 7,000 feet.'
It was time to make my confession complete. Tel Aviv, my VOR and ILS have also gone unserviceable.'
And then I knew what it was all about. I reached my toes beyond the rudder pedals and touched the brakes. No resistance at all. The first bump of the storm had shaken off my carefully jammed-on reservoir cap; now a whole tide of the foul stuff was sloshing around every box of electronics in the nose.
'Whiskey Zulu, still no emergency?" He sounded faintly incredulous.
'Allright, then. Whiskey Zulu, Pan, Pan, Pan. Now are you happy?' But I'd still compromised by making it only an 'urgency' call. 'I have located my trouble, anyhow. Brake fluid leaking into the avionics. So I could lose this comm set and my ADF's at any time. Also no brakes. Request radar assistance.'
'Whiskey Zulu, stand by.'
By now I was heading roughly 145 and for the moment the vertical currents weren't too bad. It was like being dragged downstairs on your bottom, but no worse than that. And I was going out a lot faster than I'd come in; now I'd got a major component of the wind behind me, and my ground speed must have gone up a good eighty knots. – Tel Aviv came back. 'Whiskey Zulu, are you getting a useful reading on your ADF?'
'Negative.'
'Whiskey Zulu, steer 148 degrees, maintain 7,000 feet until overhead Bravo Golf November beacon. Change to Ben Gurion Approach, 120.5.'
'Whiskey Zulu.' They'd bring me over the airport, turn me around so I could let down in the holding pattern on the coastline, then back in a sweeping plunge for the runway.
'Ben Gurion Approach, Whiskey Zulu. What is your latest actual?'
'Whiskey Zulu, stand by.' Was it as bad beneath as I wanted it?
'Whiskey Zulu: wind 280 gusting 50 knots, visibility 300 metres in heavy rain, two octas six hundred feet, eight octas eight hundred feet. Understand you may suffer total electrical failure any time.'
'Something like that.'
'Understand you have no brakes. Is your marker receiver okay?'
'Don't know. Haven't been over any markers recently.'
'Whiskey Zulu, stand by.'
I knew what was worrying them. Me, too. The weather on the deck was as bad as I'd hoped for: just possible for an ILS approach but still dicey. I could come below cloud safely on a timed descent from the outer marker, but I'd still be going exactly the wrong way. Then I'd have to do a procedure turn at 500 feet in 300 metres visibility and an erratic strong wind to find the runway again. I was prepared to try.
They weren't. Not with my last radio likely to blow at any moment.
'Whiskey Zulu, unless you declare a full emergency do not repeat not attempt to land at Ben Gurion International. Divert to Jerusalem; weather there is still in visual limits.'
The aircraft heaved like a sick stomach and hit a patch of hail that clammered on the roof like road drills. A ball almost ping-pong size broke on the screen, jammed in the wiper and dissolved slowly.
'I suppose so.' I said, trying to sound reluctant. 'Will you notify Nicosia?'
'Wilco, Whiskey Zulu. Maintain 148 and we'll turn you on the beacon for Jerusalem. Go and crack up ontheir runway.'
'Repeat, please?'
'Shalom.'
Four minutes later I swam into vivid calm sunshine just fifteen miles from the eternal city. And the best thing was, I hadn't even suggested the idea myself.
28
I reached the King David at two o'clock, which happened also to be the middle of a thunderstorm, possibly one I'd already met personally. I walked straight through the big lobby and up the corridor to the bar and just stood there, dripping on to the polished floor. Ken stood up from the gloom, looking pleasantly dry on the outside.
'Where's the aeroplane?'
I jerked my head and sprayed water over an approaching waiter. 'Where you wanted it. Whisky sour, please.'
I took off my jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. The bar had an air-conditioned chill and my shirt was wet as well. The hell with it. I put the jacket back on and sat down.
'Could be worse,' Ken said. 'You could be flying in this stuff.'
'I was. Where d'you think this front was, an hour and a half ago?'
'How did you swing it?'
'Sabotaged the ILS and took off for Nicosia. Decided I couldn't penetrate and by then Ben Gurion was clamped for anything but an instrument approach… so they diverted me here.'
'Neat. Could you have penetrated?'
'I'm not sure I could.'
His eyebrows lifted a fraction. I'd wanted to tell him, somebody who'd understand, more of what it had been like. But no need. He'd know.
'It must have been slightly intrepid.' He knew, all right.
'Just moderately slightly.'
The waiter put down my whisky sour and 1 took a gulp and the flight was just an entry in my log-book.
But – 'One thing, Ken. I may have screwed up the whole idea. I managed to louse up most of the avionics; they probably won't even let us take off until we've got a lot of it replaced.' I'd ordered some replacements, but I could hear Kapotas's blood-pressure bubbling at 200 miles.
He didn't seem worried. 'No rush. Once we've got the sword, we can pick our own time to get it out A grounded aeroplane that's opened up a bit, you visiting it twice a day – that's a nice cover for getting something on board. Did you have any trouble at the airport?'
Apart from landing on a downhill runway without brakes? 'No, it just took an hour to get a customs man up to clear me out.'
'You weren't followed?'
'No. But it's no secret that I'm here. A bit of hurry-'
'Sure. What happened to Jehangir yesterday?'
'I may have killed him.'
'Christ… Well, it couldn't happen to a nastier guy. But what about a comeback from Cyprus?'
'It all happened airside and he had a private aeroplane so I pushed him in and…' Should I say he'd taken the champagne boxes as well? I wasn't too proud of letting them go. And Ken would start rhubarbing about 'capital' again. He might even be right. So I said: 'What were you doing in Acre last night?'