The Fish Kisser (48 page)

“Do you think we're high enough?”

Owain scratched his chin contemplatively. “Maybe.”

Bliss thought hard, trying to recall his school geography lessons. “Everest is twenty-seven thousand feet,” he said.

“We're nowhere near the Himalayas.”

“I know, I was just trying to get some idea of how high to fly. I think I'll try to stay at about ten thousand feet. What do you think?”

It was the Welshman's turn to panic “How will we know when we're over Turkey? How will we find an airport?”

Bliss reassured him, “Yolanda will know. She'll be alright when she's had a rest. She's got to wake up to land us.”

Owain's mumbled tone was ominous, “What if she doesn't wake up?”

Bliss risked a quick glance toward the pilot's seat. She had formed herself into a self-comforting ball and seemed to be sleeping. “She'll be alright,” he said with a silent prayer.

“People have managed before,” said Owain finishing his thoughts aloud. “I've read about it in
Reader's Digest.”

“I've no intention of trying to land this, if that's what you're thinking,” said Bliss, as a distant range of mountains caught his eye. Craning forward he squinted for a better view. The starboard wing immediately drooped as he relaxed his grip. “Damn!” he shouted and struggled for control. Overcompensating, he dropped the other wing. “Gently,” said her voice in his mind, and he carefully brought the craft under control again.

A head poked into the cockpit. “Is there any heating? We're freezing to death back there.”

Bliss kept his eyes fixed ahead. The distant jagged mountains had grown into a castellated fortress and were approaching at an alarming speed. “Not now,” he shouted.

The voice in his ear persisted. “It'll be your fault if …”

“Go away,” he yelled, frantically. “Owain. Wake Yolanda. We've got a problem.”

She woke, screaming in pain as she uncurled and huskily demanded a cigarette.

“Is that a good idea …” started Bliss, but one look at the approaching mountains told him not to argue. “Take the controls and I'll light one for you,” he continued, as she forced her limbs into position to fly.

“I've got it,” she said, and Bliss cautiously slackened his hold until she was in full command.

The plane banked sharply away from the mountains under her expert control, then she forced the throttles as far back in their sockets as they would go. The warm engines picked up and thrust the plane forward with a kick. Bliss delved into her purse, found cigarettes and a lighter, and was pleasantly surprised by the taste of his first puff in ten years.

Rising out of the dusky blue shadow of the mountains, the circling plane emerged into the full glare of the sun; Yolanda spotted a saddle between two peaks and headed straight for it. They were at least' five hundred feet above the ridge but Bliss' was trying hard not to look as he took another puff and watched Yolanda expertly handling the controls. Every breath was a fight, but her hands and feet were rock steady and her eyes pierced the sky ahead. She didn't ask for the cigarette again and he smoked it, inhaling deeply, feeling the calming effect as his body relished the thought of him renewing his old habit.

“Are you alright?” he asked, checking she was still concentrating.

“I'm Okey dokey Dave,” she replied, in a light-headed tone that concerned him; he took a final drag on the cigarette, determined it would be his last whatever happened, then closed his eyes and tried picturing Samantha,
but came up with an image of her mother, his ex-wife, Sarah. With a shudder he quickly replaced her with a memory of Yolanda—naked, gambolling in the waterfalls in southern Turkey—then opened his eyes to find the rocks skimming by just below. He held his breath, then exhaled with a puff of relief as the plane safely hopped over the ridge and slid into the valley beyond.

Her lungs were straining in the thin atmosphere and she felt herself slipping back to sleep. “Dave … You'd better practice landing … I might not be able to help.”

Bliss was in the midst of a nightmare. “How the hell do I land?” he wailed, feeling as if someone had scrunched his testicles in a garlic press.

Yolanda's explanation was punctuated by bouts of coughing and Bliss found himself dealing with information overload. Air speed, brakes, flaps, rudder, and a dozen other factors appeared critical and he tried to memorize each. “It's better to be too fast than too slow,” she said as fatigue finally drained her. “You can always go round again,” she breathed as her voice faded.

“D'ya think you can do it, Dave?” enquired Owain as Yolanda drifted off.

“I can try. Unless you've get a better idea. Anyway she'll probably be feeling better by then.”

The complainer was back. “It's still bloody freezing.”

Owain was rude. “This ain't fuckin' British Airways.”

Bliss was kinder. “Find the heater switch and we'll put it on.” He turned to Owain, “The problem isn't how to land, it's where to land. Is that Iraq down there or Turkey?”

Owain surveyed the scorched brown plateau. “It could even be Iran,” he suggested unhelpfully. “I've no idea without a map.”

Bliss was getting the hang of flying and allowed himself the luxury of taking his eyes off the sky for a
second as he searched the cabin. “Try up there,” he said, with a meaningful nod toward a document pouch. Owain reached in, rifled through a bundle of papers and selected some maps. “Great,” he cried as he began unfolding them. Five minutes later he'd changed his tune. “Bloody useless,” he said, screwing them up and stuffing them back in the pouch. “I've no idea where we started. What's that old saying. You've got to know where you've come from … How bloody true.”

A speck, just above the horizon, glinted in the steeply slanting rays of the early morning sun. The tiny flash of reflected light triggered an alarm in Bliss' mind and set his nerves jangling. He gave a warning shout to Owain. “There's a plane.”

Owain swept the horizon but saw nothing until the sunlight struck it again. It was now bigger; much bigger.

“Shit,” cried Bliss as he lost control. “Wake her up,” he screamed as he tried to stop the plane from staggering across the sky.

Yolanda moaned but wouldn't wake.

Silver flashes marked the approach of the sleek jet fighter as it swept toward them out of the deep blue sky. Like a raptor attracted by the writhing of wounded prey this killer sensed the agony of its larger quarry. But the raptor held off, seemingly stopping mid-air, as if suspended by an invisible thread, gauging the distance, testing the air, watching for its quarry's death throes. Bliss jinked the plane. The fighter responded instantly, blocking their path one way, then the other. The gap was closing, the fighter hadn't stopped, merely slowed.

Bliss' fearful eyes were glued to the approaching plane as his faltering voice cut the air. “You'd better warn the others.”

Owain didn't move, couldn't move. “Why?”

An answer would have been fruitless as the gap narrowed in seconds to a mile or less. Suddenly the fighter rocketed into the stratosphere and disappeared, leaving a thread of vapour hanging in the still morning air.

“Where is it?” Bliss screamed.

Owain slammed his face against Yolanda's window and strained skyward. “I can't see it.”

“Mind the controls,” yelled Bliss, then risked a quick look, craning forward to squint at the empty sky, fully expecting to see the fighter, or a missile, hurtling toward them. Nothing, and looking down he was just in time to catch the nose of their plane slice neatly through the fighter's vapour trail, then he glanced out of his side window and had the fright of his life.

“Oh my God!” he shrieked.

“What?”

“Look,” he croaked.

Owain looked. The fighter was there, right alongside, wing-tip to wing-tip, no more than a hundred feet away. The pilot, clearly visible in his cockpit, slowly turned his head toward them and flicked up his visor. Bliss felt the anger in the man's piercing cold glare.

“If looks could kill,” whimpered Owain, shaking at the intensity of the stare. “What are we going to do?”

For five seconds the other pilot kept up the hazing, then stabbed a finger rearward, over his shoulder; three quick meaningful jabs.

“He's telling us to go back.”

“Bollocks to him,” said Bliss with chutzpah, “I don't know about you but I'd rather die quickly in an air crash than go back and let those bastards get me on the ground.”

“I'm with you, Dave.”

The pilot insistently stabbed the air three more
times, re-enforcing his instruction, and even turned his head over his shoulder pointedly.

“Not bloody likely,” mouthed Bliss as he shook his head at the pilot.

A crinkle of a smile creased the pilot's eyes and, with a malicious jerk of his leather-clad fist, he gave the thumbs-down.

“Bugger you,” mumbled Bliss, holding the man's gaze and, a split second later, he viciously flicked the freighter's controls, flinging the old crate sideways, directly into the path of the fighter.

“What the fuck …” shouted Owain in alarm.

The highly alert fighter pilot twitched his controls and slipped effortlessly out of reach. A few seconds later he was back.

“I think they want us alive,” said Owain.

“I bet they do,” replied Bliss. “But they'll be disappointed.” He returned the fighter pilot's malevolent stare, holding his attention, awaiting another opportunity to smash him out of the sky. Without breaking his gaze, the pilot made an angry performance of tapping the side of his helmet.

“Radio, Dave,” said Owain, getting the message. “He wants to talk.”

Snatching a pair of headphones off the back of Yolanda's seat, Owain rammed them onto Bliss' head and twiddled with the controls. They burst into life with such ferocity he almost jumped out of his seat. “D'ya speak English?” the voice demanded.

“Yes,” responded Bliss guardedly, as his confused brain wrestled with the American accent.

“Boy! Are ya crazy or what?” the voice continued.

Bliss still wasn't comprehending. “Are you American?” he quizzed timidly.

“Sure thing, Buddy. Why—who're you expecting?”

The tension melted from Bliss, leaving him soaked from head to toe. He tried to reply, but his mouth wasn't cooperating.

“Hey Bud. Are ya still there?”

Bliss responded finally, “Yes. Sorry … I'm a British police officer …”

The American cut in, “Yeah, and my ass is an alligator.”

He tried again. “I'm a police officer …”

“Listen, Bud. This is your one and only chance. You're in the UN no-fly zone. Now do yourself a favour and …” he paused, doubt crossed his mind and was reflected in his voice. “Say again.”

Bliss spoke every syllable with authority. “I am a British police officer escaping from Iraq. The pilot's been shot and I need help.”

“Oh, brother!” exclaimed the American. “Are ya expecting company?”

“Why?”

“Something's coming up mighty fast behind you.”

“Help,” he yelled in a panic. “I've got a load of escaped prisoners.”

“O.K. Bud,” the pilot was saying in his ear. “Leave it to me.”

Two minutes later the American was back. “All clear,” he said without explanation, then he flung a flurry of questions at Bliss. “Who are ya? Where've ya come from? Where are ya going? What's your fuel status?”

After giving his name and rank to the first question he was forced to admit he had no idea about any of the others.

“Boy, you sure as hell don't know much. Maybe I should send ya back and let the Eye-Raks deal with you.”

Anger and frustration simmered through Bliss' veins and he tore into the American, “Listen you effin
smart-ass …” then he calmed, “I'm sorry, but I've got a seriously injured pilot and a group of freed hostages. I can't fly. I've never flown before. I don't know what the hell I'm doing, and I certainly can't land.”

The American mocked him with a reasonable attempt at a British accent. “Cor blimey a red hot limey.” Then added, “O.K., Bud. I get the message, but who's flying the plane now.”

“I am,” he admitted. “But I don't know where I'm going or how to land.”

The American seemed to ignore the response, suddenly concerned at how close he'd come to downing an aircraft full of fleeing Brits. “Boy is it your lucky day,” he said. “We're supposed to shoot first and ask questions later. Well, let's get ya out of here.”

Changing course as instructed, Bliss headed the plane northwest and tried unsuccessfully to relax. After a few seconds he risked taking his eyes off the controls to cast a quick look at Yolanda. She'd slumped lower in the seat and the life had drained from her cheeks and lips so they melded.

“She's alright,” said Owain, sensing Bliss' concern. “Just asleep.”

“He's checking with H.Q.,” said Bliss, nodding toward the pilot off his right wing. Owain looked, and wryly smiled in agreement.

Bliss pictured the frantic activity in London as sleep-starved, night duty officers scurried to phones, asking questions, demanding answers.

Fumbling in his pocket, he was amazed to discover he had not lost his watch. “5 a.m.,” he muttered, as the strap parted with the old battered Timex; still set on London time. He smiled, thinking of Superintendent Edwards' explosive reaction to a 5 a.m. call telling him his officer had been found in Iraq with Yolanda. “I'll
bloody have him,” Bliss pictured him hollering as he stormed the office, spouting disciplinary charges: “Absent without leave. Disobeying an order. Fraternizing with the opposite sex on duty.”

Superintendent Edwards wasn't shouting, neither had it been necessary for anyone to call him. Since the stolen Mercedes had surfaced at the Iraq border on Monday afternoon, diplomatic wheels had been in full spin, and he'd hitched a ride to south eastern Turkey aboard an RAF plane with a few Foreign Office personnel and several hard-faced men who seemingly conversed only in code—secret service, he assumed, but didn't risk asking.