Inside it was almost like a film set. Lights blazed down on the ungainly shape of the Army helicopter and from somewhere came the cough of a small generator. The place seemed to be full of people. Bond recognized the faces of the Union men. The others were, he assumed, the local mechanics. Two men on ladders were busily engaged painting red crosses on white backgrounds on the black-painted fuselage of the machine, and the paint of the recognition letters, FL-BGS, presumably civilian and false, still glittered wetly. Bond was introduced to the pilot, a bright-eyed, fair-haired young man In overalls called Georges. «You will be sitting beside him,» explained Marc-Ange. «He is a good navigator, but he doesn’t know the last stretch up the valley and he has never heard of Piz Gloria. You had better go over the maps with him after some food. The general route is Basle-Zurich.» He laughed cheerfully. He said in French, «We are going to have some interesting conversation with the Swiss Air Defences, isn’t it, Georges?»
Georges didn’t smile. He said briefly, «I think we can fool them,» and went about his business.
Bond accepted a foot of garlic sausage, a hunk of bread, and a bottle of the «Pis-de-Chat», and sat on an upturned packing-case while Marc-Ange went back to supervising the loading of the «stores» – Schmeisser sub-machine guns and six-inch square packets in red oilcloth.
In due course, Marc-Ange lined up his team, including Bond, and carried out a quick inspection of side-arms, which, in the case of the Union men, included well-used flick-knives. The men, as well as Marc-Ange, were clothed in brand-new ski clothes of grey cloth. Marc-Ange handed to all of them armlets in black doth bearing the neatly stitched words «Bundesalpenpolizei». When Marc-Ange gave Bond his, he commented, «There is no such force as the ‘Federal Police of the Alps’. But I doubt if our SPECTRE friends will know that. At least the armbands will make an important first impression.»
Marc-Ange looked at his watch. He turned and called out in French, «Two forty-five. All ready? Then let us roll!»
The farm tractor attached to the wheel-base of the helicopter started up, the gates of the barn were thrown wide, and the great meed insect moved slowly out on to the grassland under the pale winter sun. The tractor was uncoupled and the pilot, followed by Bond, climbed up the little aluminium ladder and then into the raised cockpit and strapped themselves in. The others followed into the ten-seat cabin, the ladder was pulled up, and the door banged and locked. On the ground, the mechanics lifted their thumbs and the pilot bent to his controls. He pressed the starter and, after a first indecisive cough, the engine fired healthily and the great blades began to turn. The pilot glanced back at the whirring tail-rotor. He waited while the needle on the rotor speed-indicator crept up to 200, then he released the wheel-brakes and pulled up slowly on the pitch-lever. The helicopter trembled, unwilling to leave the earth, but then came a slight jerk and they were up and climbing rapidly above the trees. The pilot retracted his wheels above the inflated snow-floats, gave the machine left rudder, pushed forward the joystick, and they were off.
Almost at once they were over the Rhine and Basle lay ahead under a thick canopy of chimney-smoke. They reached two thousand feet and the pilot held it, skirting the town to the north. Now there came a crackle of static over Bond’s ear-phones and Swiss Air Control, in thick Schwyzerdütch, asked them politely to identify themselves. The pilot made no reply and the question was repeated with more urgency. The pilot said in French, «I don’t understand you.» There was a pause, then a French voice again queried them. The pilot said, «Repeat yourself more clearly.» The voice did so. The pilot said, «Helicopter of the Red Cross flying blood plasma to Italy.» The radio went dead. Bond could imagine the scene in the control room somewhere down below – the arguing voices, the doubtful faces. Another voice, with more authority to it, spoke in French. «What is your destination?» «Wait,» said the pilot. «I have it here. A moment please.» After minutes he said, «Swiss Air. Control?» «Yes, yes.» «FL-BGS reporting. My destination is Ospedale Santa Monica at Bellinzona.» The radio again went dead, only to come to life five minutes later. «FL-BGS, FL-BGS.» «Yes,» said the pilot. «We have no record of your identification symbol. Please explain.» «Your registration manual must be out of date. The aircraft was commissioned only one month ago.» Another long pause. Now Zurich lay ahead and the silver boomerang of the Zürichersee. Now Zurich Airport came on the air. They must have been listening to Swiss Air Control. «FL-BGS, FL-BGS.» «Yes, yes. What is it now?» «You have infringed the Civil Airlines Channel. Land and report to Flying Control. I repeat. Land and report.» The pilot became indignant. «What do you mean ‘land and report’? Have you no comprehension of human suffering? This is a mercy flight carrying blood plasma of a rare category. It is to save the life of an illustrious Italian scientist at Bellinzona. Have you no hearts down there? You tell me to ‘land and report’ when a life is at stake? Do you wish to be responsible for murder?» This Gallic outburst gave them peace until they had passed the Zurichersee. Bond chuckled. He gave a thumbs-up sign to the pilot. But then Federal Air Control at Berne came on the air and a deep, resonant voice said, «FL-BGS, FL-BGS. Who gave you clearance? I repeat. Who gave you clearance for your flight?» «You did.» Bond smiled into his mouthpiece. The Big Lie! There was nothing like it. Now the Alps were ahead of them – those blasted Alps, looking beautiful and dangerous in the evening sun. Soon they would be in the shelter of the valleys, off the radar screens. But records had been hastily checked in Berne and the sombre voice came over to them again. The voice must have realized that the long debate would have been heard at every airport and by most pilots flying over Switzerland that evening. It was extremely polite, but firm. «FL-BGS, we have no record at Federal Air Control of your proposed flight. I regret but you are transgressing Swiss air-space. Unless you can give further authority for your flight, kindly return to Zurich and report to Flying Control.»
The helicopter rocked. There was a flash of silver and a Dassault Mirage with Swiss markings flashed by not a hundred yards away, turned, leaving a trail of black vapour from the slow-burning of its fuel at this low altitude, and headed straight back at them, swerving off to port only at the last moment. The helicopter gave another lurch. The pilot spoke angrily into his mouthpiece. «Federal Air Control. This is FL-BGS. For further information contact International Red Cross at Geneva. I am just a pilot. I am not a ‘rond de cuir’ a chairborne flyer. If you have lost the papers, that is not my fault. I repeat, check with Geneva. And, in the meantime, kindly call off the whole of the Swiss Air Force which is at present trying to make my passengers air-sick.» The voice came back, but now more faintly, because of the mountains. «Who are your passengers?» The pilot played his trump card. «Representatives of the world’s press. They have been listening to all this nonsense coming from the home of the famous International Red Cross. I wish you happy reading of your newspapers at breakfast-time tomorrow, gentlemen. And now, a little peace, yes? And please record in your log-books that I am not, repeat, not, the Soviet Air Force invading Switzerland.»
There was silence. The Dassault Mirage had disappeared. They were climbing up the valley and were already past Davos. The gold-tipped needles of the glittering mountains seemed to be dosing in on them from right and left. Ahead were the great peaks. Bond looked at his watch. Barely another ten minutes to go.