Sanger smiled. ‘Sure, it is. Apollo Eleven’s lander’s call sign, is Eagle, and the command module, is Columbia.’
Sanger saw the ashen look on Swan’s face. ‘So, what’s going on, Alex?
‘You are aware of the German rocket engineer, who was murdered on the banks of the Thames?’
Sanger nodded.
‘Well, his last words to the man who found him were, The Eagle will fall.’
Sanger suddenly felt a lump in his throat. ‘Jesus, the Onyx Cross are targeting the Moon mission? Goddammit, Alex, millions will be watching around the world on TV.’
Swan said nothing, he was unable to. He could see the vision in his head. The spindly module spinning out of control and crashing into the Moon’s surface. A worldwide audience, gasping in shock, as the announcer informs them of the disaster. He suddenly thought of how Walter Cronkite had acted, following the assassination of President John F Kennedy; the newsreader announcing the news of Kennedy’s death, then removing his glasses, as he succumbed to the reality of it all.
Ross also thought of it. She took hold of his arm. ‘Those poor astronauts. They have no idea. Isn’t there some way to call them and delay the launch?’
Sanger was sceptical. ‘What proof do we have, Janet? Only dying words from some German guy.’ Suddenly, he shook himself. ‘Hell, Alex, we gotta move on this, damn fast. We need to find this guy of yours and beat it out of him, as to how he plans to bring her down.’
Swan agreed. ‘So, what do you suggest?’
‘Listen, you know the guy, what he looks like an all. You got to get over there. I’ll contact the Florida State Police and FBI, and maybe they can put out an APB on him.’
Swan shrugged. ‘I’m not sure if I’ll get there in time. Earliest I can probably be there is tomorrow morning, which leaves us very little time between, for the launch the next day.
Sanger thought for a few moments ‘Actually, Alex, there may just be a way, I could get you there, for late this afternoon.’
Swan gave his American friend a puzzled look. ‘How on earth can you possibly do that, Clinton?’
Sanger smiled. ‘Ever ridden shotgun, in an F-111?’
Chapter 42
At London’s Heathrow Airport, Patrick Thomas looked at his radar console inside the control tower, and spoke into the microphone attached to his headset. ‘Speedbird One Five, you are clear for controlled descent to Runway Two. Cloud is cumulus at two thousand feet. Wind direction south easterly at 20 knots.’ Thomas listened, as the pilot of the BEA Trident confirmed his communication. He leant back in his chair, and looked over at his colleague, Derek Reid. ‘What time is that military traffic due in, Derek?’
Reid reached for a clipboard on his desk, then looked at the clock above Thomas’s head. ‘Due in half an hour.’
Thomas shrugged. ‘Beats me why a Yank air force jet bomber is coming into Heathrow.’
Reid was just as puzzled, why an F-111 would be landing, taxiing out to the perimeter hangars, and then taking off again. ‘Me, too. But if you ask me, it all sounds like some cloak and dagger job. We’ve already had a truck and some cars go out there.’
On the other side of the airport, Swan stood in a hangar being checked over by US Air Force ground crew. On arrival, he had been asked to take off his own clothes, and was given a green thermal under-suit to put on. Over this, he had put on a pair of grey thermal socks, climbed into a US Air Force issue navy blue Anti G flying suit, and put on some black insulated gloves. On the table beside him, was a white flying helmet, a black visor and oxygen mask attached to it. He suddenly began to feel nervous about this. Having seen film reels of what military jet pilots are subjected to at high speeds, he hoped that he would be okay, during the crossing.
A USAF Sergeant, addressed him. ‘The aircraft, will be arriving soon, Mr Swan. Do you feel comfortable in the suit?’
Swan shook his head. ‘Not really, but it is all necessary, so I will have to put up with it. How long will the flight take?’
‘Oh, about three and a half hours in total, with two top-ups from the tankers over the Atlantic. The Sergeant smiled to reassure him. ‘Relax, sir, you’ll be okay. Once the pilot pulls the bird at Mach 2 point 3, it will be as smooth as parachute silk.’
Swan suddenly realised something. ‘Speaking of parachutes, shouldn’t I have one?’
‘No need. They are built into the seats and besides, the F-111, has been fitted with a CEM.’
Swan’s eyes widened, not understanding this term.
The Sergeant explained. ‘Sorry, Crew Escape Module. The whole cockpit section, ejects away from the plane, in any emergency Evac situation. You and the pilot will just float back to earth, while still sitting in ya seats.’
Swan sighed, then suddenly thought back to what Howard Barnett had explained to him during the Silver Angel affair. ‘Ah yes, I remember now, someone already told me about it.’
Back in the control tower, Reid was in communication with a Pan Am Boeing 747 Jumbo Jet. ‘Clipper One Nine’ from London Tower. Please hold on taxiway for military traffic — over.’
The pilot of the big white and blue airliner acknowledged him. Reid looked on his radar screen, glanced quickly at the flight schedules on his list, and spoke into his microphone.
‘Rapier Two Five, this is London Tower, confirm position — over.’ Reid listened to the static, then an American voice came to life in his headphones.
‘London Tower, this is Rapier Two Five, ETA Heathrow. Four minutes. Descending now, wheels down.’
Reid checked the screen, then replied. ‘Roger, Rapier Two Five, you are clear for landing on Runway Two. Cloud is Cumulus at two thousand feet. Wind speed 22 knots, south easterly.’
The F-111 pilot confirmed. Thomas looked through the large window, holding a pair of binoculars. Noticing the call sign for the aircraft, he commented to his colleague. ‘Cheeky sods, choosing the call sign of Rapier. That’s what the Silver Angel, was going to be called. Talk about rubbing our noses in it.’
Reid laughed. ‘Here she comes.’
Thomas focussed his binoculars on the tiny speck of lights, dropping rapidly down out of the sky, and approaching the runway at high speed. Underneath the aircraft, a large airbrake opened, causing the speed of the low-level bomber to drop dramatically.
Reid stood up to also watch. They were then joined by two other members of the air traffic control team, situated on the other side of the room. They all stared in awe as the machine, clad in its South East Asian tropical camouflage scheme, touched down on the runway, extracting its big white brake chute.
As it passed them, one of the Air Traffic Control team made a comment. ‘That’s a shame, I was expecting the parachute to be daubed with the star-spangled banner.’ The others sniggered, as they watched the aircraft come to the end of Runway 2 and release its chute, then turn on to a taxiway, bobbing up and down on its nose wheel.
A US jeep passed by and drove out to the runway. The single occupant climbed out, rolling up the chute along the grey tarmac, packed it into the back of the jeep and moved back towards the perimeter hangars.
The pilot brought the big aircraft close to the hangars, and following instructions from the marshal waving his bats in front of the plane, he came to a stop. After carrying out his post-flight checks, Major Eugene Wenham and his weapons officer, Captain Tom Foley, opened the canopies and waited for the ground crew, as they rushed over, wheeling the boarding ladder, placing it beside the aircraft’s cockpit. They then hooked up a hose from the portable generator allowing the engines to continue running at idle.
As Wenham and Foley climbed out and walked around the plane checking the control surfaces, Swan walked over to meet them. ‘Good morning gentlemen. Alex Swan, Ministry of Defence.’