Rowse was also not far away from the Lindholme raft. Managing to grab one of the ropes dangling in the water, he pulled himself towards it. Swan was now leaning over the side and seeing the Foreign Office man, he reached for a hand and pulled him aboard.
Rowse swung his leg over the lip of the dinghy, and as he did this, the small briefcase attached to him fell into the water. In panic, he turned to retrieve it, but the current was taking it further away from his clutches.
‘Alex, the bloody Ankara agreement!’
Swan studied the case, as water washed over it and it began to sink. There was nothing more they could do but helplessly look on, watching it slowly sink beneath the waves.
Rowse sighed. ‘At least that damn document is now out of harm’s way.’
Swan agreed with Rowse. The document’s final resting place would be the best place for it.
The two men were then relieved to see a small grey navy launch, heading towards them.
‘So, Jack, what do you think of parachuting?’ Swan asked.
‘Do you know, Alex, I wouldn’t mind doing it all again. I quite enjoyed it.’
As a sailor stood at the bow of the launch, ready to throw a rope to them, Rowse thought about the Shackleton, then noticed Reynolds had not bailed out with them.
‘What happened to Reynolds?’
Swan explained to him what the mercenary had suggested.
‘Do you think they will make it, Alex?’
‘With two good men like them handling the old girl, I think she’s in safe hands.’
Chapter 34
With one starboard side engine now feathered, and on the port side one on fire, the huge plane growled over the deserted countryside, heading towards the civilization of a populated capital city.
The city of Nicosia was already in complete turmoil; the last thing its people needed was the terror of a crashing plane coming down on them.
David Reynolds glanced out of the side window and watched the flames dance around the engine nacelle, being beaten back by the thrashing contra-rotating propellers. He had no idea of the Shackleton’s anatomy, but assumed that, like most multi-engine aircraft, the fuel tanks were situated within the wings, like the old Hastings at Hereford that was used for anti-hijack training. As the orange tongues spat over the surfaces, he thought this might be the appropriate time for a quick silent prayer.
Hornsby ignored the fire. His eyes were too busy scrutinizing the needle of the fuel gauge, and as if mesmerized by it, he screwed up his face as he watched it dropping towards the red zone of the dial. Then, suddenly, on the horizon appeared a mass of church spires and white buildings spread out in all directions.
‘There’s the city, the airport is just to the west of it!’
Hornsby spoke into the radio. ‘Attention Nicosia control, this is a Royal Air Force Shackleton, call sign Doris-two-zero-three, mayday! Mayday! Two engines out, we have a fire in number two engine and we are losing fuel rapidly. Have also lost some control. Request emergency landing — over.’
The response was almost instant, the tower granting them permission to land and informing them a crash team would be on standby.
Hornsby nodded. ‘That’s that bit done, now we need to turn her so that we’re all lined up. This may be a bit tricky, considering we’ve now only got one working rudder, but here goes.’
The two men took the controls and pulled them over to the left. At first this met with little response, but suddenly the Shackleton began to bank in the same direction.
Reynolds watched as the built-up city of Nicosia moved across the panes of the windshield and disappeared, allowing them to see the airport at almost dead centre.
Hornsby then prepared himself for the next manoeuvre, which, if it did not go well, would land them with a major problem. They only had one shot at this; having to go around and try again would result in their simply dropping out of the sky.
‘Okay, we now need to bank to the right, hopefully our one rudder can do this. Ready?’
Hornsby decided to keep the consequences of failure to himself.
Reynolds gripped tighter on the controls.
‘Right with you, Johnno,’ he barked in reply.
Hornsby held his breath, then as the plane dipped over, turning just where he wanted it, he let out a jubilant cry of relief.
‘Okay, we’ve done it, there’s the runway, keep her on course and the rest should be a doddle!’
The only fully working rudder had enabled the Shackleton to make that crucial turn, now putting it in direct line with the runway at the desolate Nicosia International Airport. Hornsby and Reynolds almost sighed at the same time as in the distance, the inviting strip of dark concrete greeted them through their windshield.
Hornsby checked the speed and altitude, satisfied that should no more engines fail, they might just be able to make it. He reached for the lever to lower the undercarriage, but to his dismay, the familiar whirring of the doors opening and then the clunking, as the huge oleo legs locked into place, was not heard. He swallowed a gulp and tried the lever again, but as he feared, there was still no response from the units below them.
‘Cart’s not responding, I think those damn skirt-wearing pottery makers must have shot out our hydraulics.’
Reynolds looked over to him. ‘So, what’s the plan?’
Hornsby turned to him. ‘Only one option left, and that is to belly-land the thing. I did this once with an old Varsity in Malta, but never anything this big. You better make sure you’re well strapped in, David. This is going to be one bumpy ride. I’m also going to need you to grip that wheel tight, because when she hits, she is going to put up a hell of a fight to flip us over, so we need to be able to counteract every move she throws at us to keep her stable.’
Reynolds did not need to be told this twice and grabbed at the control yoke, holding it with a vice-like grip.
‘Okay, Johnno, let’s do this!’
The black and white threshold markings, indicating the start of the runway, came into view and Hornsby brought the aircraft into line with the concrete strip.
Now, at sixty feet, with minutes of fuel remaining, the old four-engine grey and white maritime plane dropped ever nearer to the runway. Hornsby struggled to keep in the centre, however he knew that, without wheels, to land on the tarmac could mean trouble; the slightest spark would ignite the fuel tanks, which was more than likely to cause the plane to explode on contact. His best bet was to go for the softer overshoot area, hoping the combination of grass and dirt would suppress their crash landing enough for them to get down without catching fire.
‘Hold on David, I’m going to take her down into the dirt. I think we have a better chance.’
Reynolds nodded. ‘Whatever you say, Johnno, you’re the skipper.’ He tensed, as he felt the plane tilting forward.
Hornsby wrestled with the controls and pulled the lever for the flaps. Reynolds suddenly felt the aircraft was slowing, then it dipped violently. ‘Looks like we just lost our elevators!’
Hornsby nodded in agreement. ‘Come on, Doris, old girl, one last lift, just for us.’ He continued to grapple with the yoke, pulling with all his might, then cheered.
‘Yes! Good on you, girl.’
The nose of the aircraft was beginning to climb enough for him to level out and cut the engines. Then like a paper plane, the machine lost height and floated down towards the ground.