Retribution

RETRIBUTION

(PART 6)

BY

WALLACE

Any ideas I'd had about cargo planes flew out of my head the moment I arrived at Stansted. For some reason I'd been expecting an old, khaki coloured, twin prop Dakota held together with bits of string and lined inside with nothing more than wooden slats, the kind of thing paratroops used to jump out of.

What I got was an A320 Airbus with a sleek jet turbine slung under each wing. Pure white apart from a red/blue tail and built on two levels with a spacious cabin and galley and a crew consisting of two pilots, a navigator and two stewardesses. When I got on board I found that not only was I not the only passenger that night but that the guests of honour, whose food was just being loaded from a large truck, were three thoroughbred horses on their way to stud in the States.

It is fair to say that if they got star treatment then I and the head lad from the Somerset stable they came from, who was actually a head lass, and the vet who the insurance company insisted had to be with them at all times, also got looked after far better than we would have done under normal circumstances.

Juliet, the dark haired head lad, loved horses and spent most of the first couple of hours below decks with them. Val, the tall, blonde haired vet was battling the flu, worried by the behaviour of Carlton Prince, one of her charges and also determined to ease my pain as well.

She'd watched me shifting uncomfortably in my seat for some time before actually asking me what was wrong .The cabin crew were quite happy to ply us with as much drink as we required but we had so far refused, then the co-pilot Mike Mey, an hospitable South African from Cape Town with a fund of stories about flying who also knew what had happened to me earlier, eased himself into the cabin with an odd shaped bottle which he plonked in front of me and Val and winked broadly.

"It's Imoya brandy. Imoya means Ancient Wind of Africa. Get a coupla glasses of that down your neck and you'll forget about your back!" he looked at Val, "It'll sort that cold out as well."

Val, who was a natural sceptic, looked at him obliquely.

"Anything it doesn't do?" she asked picking up the bottle and studying it closely.

Mike looked at her carefully. It was the look of a man wondering just how far he could go.

"Well, it's not very good as a contraceptive apparently!" he said taking the bull by the horns. Val continued to study the brandy bottle.

" That's good!" she replied with just the trace of a smile, "'Cos there's about as much chance of me needing a contraceptive tonight as there is of Juliet needing a saddle to ride the horses around the flight deck!" Mike had taken on an expression of mock puzzlement.

"Oh, so you're of that age where you don't need 'em any more. Is that what you mean?" he said innocently. Val bristled and took hold of the bottle by its neck

"It would be a terrible waste if I emptied this over your head… but it wouldn't be the first time." Mike grinned.

"Time to go fly the plane. If you need anything just ring." I nodded and Val settled back in her seat.

"Try not to hold your breath!" she said with more than a trace of sarcasm. I turned slightly awkwardly to face her.

"So? When are you going to ring?" she didn't look at me

"What time does hell freeze over?" she asked quietly then she picked up her medical bag and began to rummage in it. "Now let's see, what's good for pain?" and at that moment I wasn't sure if she wanted to ease it or inflict it.

*

The journey to Stansted Airport was just another odd moment in a pretty odd day. Mister Price-Cunningham, the consultant orthopaedic surgeon, had pronounced me fit to travel after poking my back a few times and telling me jovially that my subcutaneous fat had probably saved me from more serious injury whilst regarding his own spare tyre through the half moon glasses perched on the end of his nose.

Breaking every hospital rule possible Emma had immediately phoned DS Jones and told her to buy me some clothes and get me to the airport ASAP.

Just under an hour later I was sitting in the passenger seat of Barbara Jones' small but surprisingly spacious little car as she picked her way quickly but confidently through the rat runs that would avoid the East India Dock Road which was still closed and take us on to the M11 which would lead us to Stansted Airport.

Maybe it was me.

Barbara and I didn't usually get on. It was something about her I think. An aura of dislike that she seemed to radiate. I always got the impression that she resented the relationship; such as it was, between Emma and myself. Whenever we needed to talk Barbara seemed to make it her business to be around. If ever I was with Emma, Barbara always seemed to phone and whatever we seemed to talk about Barbara always managed to pop into the conversation.

Tonight however things were different.

She smelt gorgeous and she looked radiant somehow, there was a definite glow about her. She wore a short leather blouson over a dark blouse and midi skirt but the skirt had ridden up to show her plump pantyhose covered thighs and the panty hose were sheer enough to show just a glimpse of pale white flesh through them. Her hair was soft and fluffy and her eyes were just lightly made up. As we grew closer to Redbridge and the M11 so Barbara Jones seemed to grow closer to me.

We had talked about the bomb, we had talked about the incident involving Charlie and we had talked about Emma's injuries and mine. At traffic lights she had briefly touched my back and drew a breath when she felt the padded gauze that had been taped from my shoulders to my waist just to stop the blood ruining everything I wore because none of the lacerations had been deep enough to warrant stitching. When we reached the entry slip and as she changed gear her hand just grazed my upper thigh. She looked at me.

"I wish you didn't have to go tonight," she said huskily.

I felt something; a frisson of something or other ran down my spine. I didn't get on with Barbara but there was something there, something lurking in her personality that attracted me to her.

Something that attracted me strongly.

I needed to steer her away from this. I noticed the clock on the dashboard.

"Look at the time Babs! At this rate we won't make it at all." She looked at me through the rear view mirror.

"Oh yes we will. I've already phoned on ahead and if there ARE any problems I'll just handcuff you and take you through Check-In and Customs as an escaped prisoner!" It wasn't my imagination; she really did lick her lips. She was staring at me through the mirror again.

"Would you like that?" she asked softly, "Would you like me to handcuff you?" that frisson again accompanied by a shivery tingle down my spine. I shifted in my seat but it wasn't my back this time, it was something a little further down. Her voice was now even lower, no more than a dark erotic whisper. Even the Sodium/ Mercury lighting of the Motorway seemed dim and full of shadows at that point

"Emma says you like to be in charge. I know you tie her up. I know she likes it. She likes being helpless." Barbara's face was full of shadows now. "She loves you!" she said hoarsely. "She was crying today because of what you said to her, because of what you think she's doing but she loves you. And you and her both think I hate you but you're wrong! You're both really, really wrong! The nearest thing to hate…" I realised she was already signalling and looking over her shoulder. We crossed two lanes of traffic and passed under a bridge. In a matter of seconds we were on the hard shoulder and stationary.

Before I could do or say anything she had leaned over and put her arms very gently around my sore shoulders drawing me into her. Her mouth was already open, her breath warm and fragrant. She started where she had finished,

"…the nearest thing to hate, Bill, is love!" and then she kissed me full on the lips.

*

Mike eased himself into the right hand seat just as Steve Burton; the Australian pilot was routinely checking his instrumentation. The lights were down on the flight deck and apart from the faraway hiss of the jets all was quiet. Tom Roberts, the navigator, was rechecking his calculations.

"That head wind from earlier? It's dropped. We should be bang on time." Steve smiled.

"Well that'll make a nice change. Probably be a first for Carlton Bloody Prince to be anywhere on time!" Mike looked at him wryly.

"Used to do him when you were betting, huh?" Steve grimaced.

"Every bloody time! Lovely horse, just didn't know where the flaming winning post was when I backed him!" he turned to his co-pilot, "Mike, I'm picking something up on the radar that shouldn't be there, check it for me willya?" Mike was already leading forward.

"Sure. 'bout two miles off to port and closing?"

"That's the baby! Wanna try New York for me?" Mike had the microphone in his hand.

"New York Centre, this is British United Airlines flight two niner. Do you copy?" The reply was instantaneous. A female voice studiedly bored.

"Good evening two niner, this is New York Centre. We currently have you on heading zero five two. ETA twenty one thirty nine hours, Eastern Standard Time."

Mike could also sound bored when he needed to.

"Roger that, New York. We have some activity off our port wing, now less than a mile away and closing, are you aware?" he squinted at the radar screen again. "We do not recognise the signature."

The voice was a familiar one. They had spoken before. Echoing a line from Close Encounters of the Third Kind it replied,

"Do you wish to report a UFO, two niner?" he smiled, he could picture the air traffic controller using the remark to buy herself just a little time. No pilot in his or her right mind ever did these days.

"That's a negative New York but it's getting closer!"

"We copy two niner. Appears to be the signature of a large helicopter, maybe a Sikorsky Black Hawk, but its faint and it keeps changing. We have no registered activity in the area and we are contacting the military, suggest you prepare for evasive action. Copy?" but BUA 29 did not copy because at that moment the Sikorsky Black Hawk off their port wing opened fire.

*

I couldn't help myself, I just couldn't. If I had the balls I might try and defend myself but I'd be defending the indefensible. I was tired. I was upset. I was hurt emotionally and physically. At that point I was a big kid like most men are in a crisis and I guess I needed comfort.

If I did then Barbara Lucas was the wrong place to look for it

She was warm and she was soft. I could feel her breasts, her ample buoyant breasts nudging softly against me. Her tongue was already easing itself sensuously into my mouth, her hands moving so gently down my back wanting to soothe and calm and gently arouse that I didn't flinch, as I would have done under other circumstances. It must have gone on for five minutes.

I felt calm and at ease

She broke gently and then insinuated her lips against my neck.

"I want to fuck you Bill!" she whispered. "But I want to make to make you wait!"

I didn't really take on the full impact of her words until her hands began to move south. Until they were stroking around my belt, now she was whispering into my ear.

"I think you need this bill. I think you need a STRONG woman.

Now she was doing the unthinkable, she was stroking her hand across the front of my trousers, ever so gently.

"You need me…" she whispered. "…and I need you!" one soft plump hand was pulling gently at my zipper. Her mouth slipped back over mine. "I need you Bill! " her voice was hoarse and breathy, " I need you as my slave!"

*

Tom saw it first.

"Shit! Tracers! They're firing at us!" Steve Burton glanced over his left shoulder and saw the brilliant white gunfire.

"Okay, seat belts everyone! Mike! Put out a mayday! Tom! Warn the passengers, turbulence will do." Mike was already on the microphone as Steve flicked the switch that would light up the seat belt warning in the cabin.

"Mayday! Mayday! This is BUA two niner. We are under attack. Repeat, we are under attack. Unidentified aircraft approximately eight hundred kilometres West of the Irish coast. Coordinates…." In the background Tom was on the PA to the cabin.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen. This is your navigator Tom Roberts speaking. We have encountered an unexpected squall and turbulence and consequently may have to take avoiding action. Please fasten your seat belts. We apologise for any inconvenience." Steve was talking more to himself than to anyone else at that moment.

"Okay, let's take her up and away from all this. If we can't outrun a helicopter…" but he was already too late. The now visible black helicopter was firing again.

The plane lurched violently sideways. It seemed to hang for a moment as if it were about to fall out of the sky but then it continued onward.

Mike saw it first.

" Christ! We've been hit! Flameout port wing!" he watched incredulously as flames sprouted from the already blackened left turbine and the aeroplane went into a steep and unexpected dive toward the glittering, moonlit ocean below.

*

Inspector Martin was red-eyed and tired. He had undone his tie and was sipping something that tasted like freshly burnt rubber and old string he had got from a vending machine in A and E that alleged to sell coffee earlier. As Jimmy Clarke entered the main door he looked just as tired and just as red-eyed but he was also bad tempered with it.

"Fuck it guv! Fuck it sideways!" This was unusual for Jimmy.

"What's wrong?" he asked quietly and then remembered, "Oh, I got you a tea," he handed Jimmy a brown plastic cup which Jimmy studied for a second. The Inspector grinned, "its hot and wet…well it's wet, that's all I can say." Jimmy took the cup and gulped most of it down as if looking for Dutch Courage. He looked at the Inspector apprehensively.

"Just been on the dog and bone to the factory, they're monitoring radio messages to and from the flight Bill's on." The Inspector nodded silently and Jimmy continued, "The last we got was that they were under attack!" The Inspector stared at Jimmy suddenly galvanised.

"WHAT?" Jimmy nodded.

"From a Sikorsky Black hawk like the one they lost over Dover." The Inspector's body language had changed completely.

"Well? What are we doing about it and why wasn't I told earlier?" Jimmy's voice was placatory.

"It's being dealt with guv and I thought you had enough on yer plate right now as it was. Rose McGregor was in the office when it came in. She's already spoken to the Ministry of Defence and they've scrambled a couple of Tornado's. They've also got a new aircraft carrier, HMS Indefatigable, undergoing sea trials somewhere in Mid Atlantic; she's been apprised of the situation too! " Jimmy's voice dropped.

"How is she guv?" the Inspector seemed suddenly distracted.

"What? Oh. She's critical but stable. Next twenty-four hours should tell. Socco have found it. It's a tiny needle about six inches long, probably fired from some kind of high-powered air rifle. Chances are she didn't realise she'd even been shot, just felt light headed and breathless from the punctured lung. They're not too worried about that at the moment they're more concerned about the needle they found near her heart, they don't know what damage, if any, it's done yet.

Jimmy looked down at his feet.

"Mmm, funny that." he looked at the Inspector. "Y'know, the way the Guv'nor never asked after 'er!" but the Inspector was studying the notice boards around the corridor.

"You said they'd scrambled the RAF?" Jimmy nodded.

"That's right guv! 'bout five minutes ago!" the Inspector was far away.

"You know what current policy is regarding terrorism after 911?" Jimmy was mystified. He shook his head.

"Dunno what you're…" but the Inspector would not be stopped.

"If there is the slightest reason to believe that an aircraft is carrying a bomb they will shoot it down… if anyone should happen to phone the airline or the papers alleging…"

But Jimmy was already running out the door to telephone the Assistant Commissioner.

THE STORY CONTINUES IN PART SEVEN

© Wallace 2004. The writer maintains the right to be recognised as the author of this piece. This is a work of fiction and bears no resemblance to any places, either real or imaginary or any people or characters real or fictitious, living or dead.