Given the pet name of Doris by its crew, after the Greek mythological sea goddess, this particular Shackleton had seen quite a bit of action, first during the Aden crisis, where it was used to attack NLF insurgents during the uprising, and more recently intercepting a Soviet submarine, cruising just off Gibraltar on a secret spying mission. In this particular incident, and following an alert, Doris had been scrambled and, using an experimental radar tracking system known as ALISS, had easily located the submarine as it moved just below the waterline. Squadron Leader Marks had been behind the controls that day as well, and as the submarine’s signature had bounced back to the aircraft, he had thought about the Soviet captain probably sharing a joke with his crew, of how the British had sent a museum piece to try to detect them. Although she was deemed of vintage class, the Shackleton could still pack a heavy punch with her armament of depth charges and mines; the Soviet captain had soon realised this when he had heard the signature from her sonar bounce off his hull, followed by a polite but firm radio message to warn him that a show of force would be actioned, if he failed to vacate British waters immediately. Deciding not to risk his Romeo-class vessel in a stand-off, the captain had made the decision to head back to the safety of international territory.
As Doris approached the north-west tip of the island, Marks couldn’t help but feel a little sad for the old girl. Having flown her for just over twelve years, he had developed a personal attachment her, and had been dismayed when he had heard about her impending fate. His decision to make an early start, and on a Saturday, had been thought through carefully as the current situation on the island was almost at boiling point since Tuesday’s military coup d’état by the paramilitary organisation supported by the Greek junta. The Turkish government had even threatened invasion, in order to protect their own citizens from the carnage, in the aftermath of the coup.
Before departing Gibraltar, the Shackleton crew had been briefed about this possibility; political tensions were now extremely high between the two NATO countries.
Marks took hold of his mask and spoke into his radio microphone. ‘Nicosia Tower, this is Doris-two-zero-three, approaching from the west, requesting landing instructions — over.’ He listened as the controller gave him instructions for landing, and turned the four-engine aircraft in line with the runway.
Rowse peered out of the windscreen and through the heat haze, saw the light grey strip in front of them.
Marks flipped his head. ‘Nothing to worry about, Jack, I’ve brought a number of aircraft down here before, including a couple of Shacks. So this should be just a matter of routine.’
With the old plane now level with the runway, Marks pulled on a lever to lower the flaps. Suddenly, the controller was on the radio again. ‘Attention, Doris-two-zero-three, this is Nicosia Tower. We have unidentified fast and slow traffic on our radar, approaching from the east. Please land immediately and proceed to military dispersal area.’ The radio then cut off.
Hornsby glanced at Marks. ‘What’s that all about then, Skip?’ He was puzzled at the sudden instruction.
Marks shook his head. ‘Beats me,’ he replied, also having no clue as to what was happening. He brought the Shackleton in on finals, for the landing to touch down safely on the tarmac. Jack Rowse watched with interest, as the white centreline markings came towards them and then disappeared under the aircraft’s nose wheel. The Shackleton decelerated and turning off the runway, the crew over their own engines suddenly heard a thunderous rumble of jet noise above them.
Marks turned his head sharply to look out of the side window. ‘My god, they’re Starfighters!’
The rest of the crew reached over and also peered out, as four silver American-built Lockheed F-104 Starfighter interceptors flew low in formation overhead and with the afterburners of their single Pratt and Witney J79 engines ablaze, they buzzed the control tower.
The men watched in awe as the planes broke formation, fanned out over the far side of the airport and turned for another run in. Behind them, another wave of jets suddenly roared overhead, with Foster identifying them as F-4 Phantoms.
Surprised by the sudden appearance of the jets, Marks continued steering Doris to the airport’s military dispersal area. Then, as a suggestion of an invasion was now clearly on the pilot’s mind, Marks’ suspicions were justified as in the distance, the specks of transport aircraft approached the airport.
‘After the last five days, it looks like the Turks have finally had enough of what’s been going on here.’
The C-130 transports flew over the Shackleton, and Hornsby watched them as a rain of parachutes began to cascade from their rear ramps. ‘Jesus, this is it, the Turks are invading!’ He turned to Marks. ‘What do we do, Skip?’ He looked at the fuel gauge on the instrument panel. ‘We could take off for Akrotiri, but I don’t fancy us being used as target practice for their bloody missiles, as we try and fly away from here.’
Marks agreed. He brought the aircraft to a halt and switched off the engines. Watching the cascade of propellers feather to a stop, he shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea, I’ll try the radio again. Tower, this is Doris-two-zero-three — come in — over.’
They were answered with static silence. Marks tried again and after a few minutes, gave up.
Around them, the first of the Turkish paratroopers began to land on the airfield; some came down near a Cyprus Airways, British-built, Trident airliner parked outside the terminal building. Two more had landed on their feet, directly in front of the Shackleton. Brandishing their machine guns, the soldiers ran towards them as all 24 propeller blades slowly rotated to a stop.
Marks stared, swearing at the sight through the windshield. Directly behind him, Rowse was now panicking. He picked up his briefcase and reached inside to pull out a thick manila envelope. ‘Christ,’ he said under his breath, as outside, the approaching Turkish paratroopers split and walked to either side of the old plane. Remembering the comments at the meeting and the importance of the package he had transported, Rowse opened the envelope to read the top document. As he read the contents, he gasped in horror, his jaw dropping in disbelief. ‘Dear Lord!’ He could not let what he held fall into Turkish hands and knowing that the soldiers would search the case, he had to hide it — and quick. Thrusting it back into the envelope, he searched around the cockpit, looking for a suitable hiding place.
Then, suddenly, he found one. Noticing the three RAF men were busy watching to what was going on outside, he leapt into action to ensure that this political hot potato was hidden securely enough for it not to be found. As Rowse was concluding his task, there was a knock on the portside door.
Outside the aircraft, a Turkish officer spoke in a raised voice, in clear English. ‘British airmen. We are B Commando Force of the Turkish army. Please open up and surrender. I assure you that if you comply, you will not be harmed.’