'Oh. Enough to ditch this thing, I mean it can do that for itself, but I've got to get it off auto-pilot and then we've got to steer clear of the Azores and the African land-mass. I don't -'
Have you lost blood?
It wasn't wholly telepathy. In the final hours of the end-phase there's often a bit of blood drawn by someone or other. This place looked like an abattoir.
'Yes. But I don't need long.'
I worked my way round to the front of the lefthand seat and dropped into it and buckled the harness on and the instrument array swung into an arc and I blacked out, gradually came back.
'… in terms of morale?'
Oh Jesus Christ they wanted to know about my bloody morale when all I needed was the strength left to hit the auto switch to manual and bring the control column back. I did that. 'Listen,' I told Control, 'I'm going to bring her down and make a -'
It was like hitting a wall.
Stars whirling through the dark, through the silence.
She watched me, one shoulder strap hanging down, her eyes innocent, her skin cool, with water droplets on it from the pool.
I hope we'll meet again, she said.
'I know, where to find you, I told her,' and brought my head away from the instrument panel with a jerk as the roar of the jets slammed back.
Come in, please. Come in.
The display lights swam and steadied and I looked for the altimeter and the shock went through me and I brought the control column back and locked my arms round it, feeling the g-force as the huge mass of the aircraft pulled out of its dive.
Asked London: 'How long was I out?'
Seventeen minutes.
'I lost altitude. I'm down to 3000 feet.'
What is your position?
'36°04' north by 25°02' west.'
What is your heading?
'160°.'
You are approximately 150 miles south of the Azores and will pass them to the north-west if you maintain your heading. What is your altitude now?
'Still 3000.'
I'd kept her steady at that level since I'd pulled her out of the dive.
You're well placed to put down in Ponta Delgada.
The airport in the Azores. It sounded comforting, an island in the night, in this vast sea. But I was not in point of fact well placed to land there.
'I can't put this thing down anywhere at all. I've got to ditch it.'
What have you flown before?
'The nearest thing to this was a single-seat jet fighter.'
Then you're familiar with the basics.
'The basics are,' I said, 'that I've got enough explosive behind me to blow the Azores out of the Atlantic, if I mess up the landing.'
Silence for a bit. They were putting their heads together, Shatner, Croder, perhaps Loman, I didn't know how many of them were in the Signals room now but there'd presumably be quite a few because it wouldn't go down terribly well with the Portuguese government if I wrote off their sea-girt real estate.
'Listen,' I said, 'there's nothing -'
Oh Jesus Christ.
I'm ordering you to land your airplane in Ponta Delgada.
It wasn't London. There was a US Air Force F- I5 right alongside, sleek and pointed and with the moonlight flashing on its wings.
This is Major J. F. Franklin of the United States Air Force. If you wish to avoid attack, you must land your airplane immediately.
There was another one sliding up on the port side. I was flying in formation. They'd picked up my radio call to London and they'd heard me say that the White House had been the target and they'd got off the ground in the Azores or they'd been on night-flying exercise from Spain and they were up here to start a war.
'I can't do that,' I said. 'I've had no training with this aircraft. If -'
I will give you one minute to alter your course for the Azores. Your failure to do this will bring an immediate attack.
Hadn't believed me, thought I was playing for time.
'Major,' I said, let me give you a little advice. If you attack this aircraft you'll blow yourself out of the sky. I'm carrying the equivalent of a small nuclear bomb.'
I could see his helmet through the cockpit cover; his face was turned towards me.
You will alter course immediately for the Azores.
Had the White House on his mind, I could quite understand. He -
Major Franklin – London – this is the British Foreign Office. Good-morning. We can vouch for the identity of the person flying the Pan American plane. This is the flight that has been missing since early last evening from Berlin, Flight 907. The pilot has seized control from Iranian terrorists, but has not flown this type of plane before. The British government would be most grateful for your assistance in any way possible.
I think he said a bit more but I went into another coughing fit, clearing the last of the blood out of my throat. It was nice to have company up here with me but there wasn't anything they could do. They were pall-bearers, that was all.
Please identify yourself.
'What? Oh. Name's Locke.'
I couldn't think how it would help, could have said I was Moses.
London was quiet, waiting for some kind of answer from Major Franklin.
I watched the instrument panel. We were still at 3000 feet, airspeed 350, heading un-changed.
Shut my eyes for a bit. I knew what I'd got to do and I wanted to do it and get it over. The radio was quiet; I suppose they were both thinking things out, the US pilot and London. Then another voice came on.
This is Walter J. Cummins, the American ambassador in London. Can you hear me, Major Franklin?
Yes, sir.
Now that had been very fast work. Control had told someone at his elbow to get the ambassador on the phone as soon as he'd started talking to the US pilot, in case he refused to accept the authority of the British FO. They'd got him on the phone at his bedside and told him the brief position and patched him in through the Signals room amplifiers: he sounded as if he was speaking into a bucket.
I can vouch for the authenticity of the gentleman speaking to you from the British Foreign Office. You may therefore accept what he has just told you about the person at the controls of the Pan American airplane. I'm not completely clear about the situation apart from that. Is there any assistance you can give Mr Locke at this time?
The US pilot still had his head turned to watch me. OK, sir, I guess it's over to him. What are your intentions, Mr Locke?