When Willow showed up, carrying the visored “brain bucket” with its dangling oxygen mask, she appeared flushed. Her dark eyes flashed with anticipatory excitement. What she did to a nondescript flying suit was remarkable. Mine hung on me, even though it was the right size. Willow filled hers both front and back in a most exciting way.
She climbed into the jeep beside me. The sailor at the wheel had to be reminded we were ready to go. The freckle-faced lad shook his head unbelievingly and licked his lips one more time before he stopped staring at Willow.
I owed her an explanation. “When Hawk decided we weren’t to lose any time, I had no idea to what lengths he’d go to make up what’s been lost. These orders he pried loose from the Defense Department is his way of saying that commercial airliners lose too much time making intermediate stops. Hawk’s brought General Jarrett’s clout to bear. We’ll be using military airlift for this next leg in this wild game of hide-and-seek.”
Ten
The aircraft parked in a secluded corner of the airfield was unlike any other in the world. The huge, black monster was guarded by two rifle-armed marines wearing battle fatigues. I recognized the futuristic, needle-nosed machine. It was built almost entirely of titanium by Lockheed. The air force called it the SR-71A. The fuselage was twice as long as its mere fifty foot wingspan. Two immense and powerful turbojet engines made it the fastest, highest-flying aircraft to be put in service. Its cruising speed was well above 2,000 miles per hour when it was flying at 85,000 feet.
“We’re going to fly in that?” exclaimed Willow incredulously. “What is it?”
I told her that the plane, known as the Blackbird, was an unarmed reconnaissance craft that held every conceivable flight performance record of speed and altitude. It had made a New York to London ran in less than two hours, averaging 1,807 miles an hour.
Our pilot was Major Griffiths who appeared bored with the whole proceedings. He and an enlisted man helped Willow and I cram into a space behind the pilot which had been jury-rigged to accomodate both of us in tight tandem. Some camera and electronic equipment had been removed, but not nearly enough to provide any real comfort.
I sat in front of Willow. Her long legs stretched forward on either side of the narrow bucket seat strapped to my butt. With the padded, close-fitting helmet clamped over my head, I barely heard the starting rumble of the engines turning over. The sound grew louder during the taxi run. The end of the long runway backed up against a salt-white beach holding back a lazy Pacific surf.
The sudden acceleration jammed me back in my seat. When the afterburner cut in to give added power, I thought I would go deaf. The noise outside behind the plane must have been horrendous.
As I felt the plane lightening, Major Griffiths started the acrobatics of a high performance climb. My seat rotated and tilted until I was mostly laying on my back. Only a rocket being launched for the outer reaches of space would climb at a steeper angle.
We gazed straight up while G-forces held us fast. Then the aircraft leveled out. Major Griffiths moved in his seat for a time, then seemed to go immobile. His voice came over earphones buried in my helmet. “We’re set now,” he said. “On course at 78,500 feet. Don’t unbuckle. If you have to talk, listen first before you press the intercom button I pointed out to you earlier. The weather ahead is fine. As a matter of fact, at this altitude we seldom see any weather. It’s all below us.”
The flight was tedious. By stretching up, I could see the top row of instruments on the pilot’s panel. There was nothing but dark blue air beyond the thick glass windscreen. Willow let me know that she was present by lifting her foot alongside my seat and nudging my thigh occasionally. I captured her calf once and squeezed it in return.
I must have dozed. I woke with a start because something was different. The steady roar of the engines had changed. We were going down. I looked at my watch. We had been airborne just under two hours. A quick mental calculation caused my mouth to go dry. We couldn’t be anywhere near land. Two hours flight time would put us in mid-Pacific somewhere between Wake and Guam. Only water lay beneath us... fifteen miles straight down.
Willow kicked me again. I gripped her leg and shrugged my shoulders.
Major Griffiths had slowed the plane. We had lost altitude. He didn’t seem worried enough to tell us what was going on. He had, however, disengaged the autopilot and taken over manual control of the aircraft. He was bending forward. The craft shuddered and vibrated. More speed was lost. I unbuckled, lifted myself up and leaned forward. I could see out ahead.
At first I thought it was a commercial airliner until I saw the business trailing out behind it. Griffiths was making an intercept on a refueling tanker. He had hit the rendezvous right on the button which included descending to the height reachable by the converted Boeing 707. Four contrails stretched out behind its laboring engines: The low angle given off by the rosy light of dawn gave an orange tint to the streamers of ice crystals. We had been flying so fast we were running away from the sun.
The connection made, the two planes remained linked together a very short time. Before I thought it possible, the vaned boom of the tank detached itself and telescoped. Major Griffiths applied power immediately and commenced a climb.
The next time engine power was reduced, the nose dipped and I realized we were in a long, maximum speed descent. Far forward on the horizon was a dark mantle of land pinpointed with tiny lights. We and the dawn were reaching China at the same time.
Griffiths put the plane down on the Hong Kong airport as if it carried a touchy cargo of nitroglycerine. It was led to a distant part of the field. A British Land Rover with two men in it was waiting beside a protected hardstand. Royal Air Force personnel guided the shadow-black aircraft into a high-banked, U-shaped revetment.
I found myself stiff, a little giddy, and muscle-tired. Willow leaned on me heavily when I helped her down the handholds from cockpit to ground. The RAF Group Captain introduced himself as Harrington, mostly to Willow. It was a compliment to her; in the Crown Colony, overcrowded with Chinese, only beauty as unique as Willow’s would get a second glance. He even opened the door of the Land Rover for her.
I would have shaken hands and thanked Griffiths, but he was busy filling out some form that recorded the flight data. I waved. He acknowledged with a nod. A 6,300 mile flight in just over four hours was routine for him.
The way Group Captain Harrington drove made me aware that I had been safer with Major Griffiths. He spent most of his time leering at Willow instead of watching the perimeter road. It led to a clump of buildings over which a Royal Air Force standard was flying.
A short, plump man of fifty with a bald head, full, white mustache and wearing a beautifully-tailored business suit was waiting in an austerely-furnished office. He had a ruddy complexion and an articulate British accent. Harrington treated him with marked respect. The reason became obvious when he was introduced as Sir Hodley-Smythe, Deputy Governor General of the British Crown Colony and New Territories. He was standing next to a slate-topped table where a batman in RAF battle dress was brewing tea over a hot plate. Willow and I were excused immediately after the initial reception.
I was back in minutes, having made room for the tea. Sir Hodley-Smythe was puffing on a pipe between sips of tea from a heavy mug. He gestured to a chair. I sat down. Group Captain Harrington stooped in front of a closed office safe and worked the combination. When he stood up he had a long brown envelope in his hand. He offered it to Sir Hodley-Smythe in keeping with protocol. The chubby Englishman bobbed his head in my direction.