The Game of X: A Novel of Upmanship Espionage (13 page)

Guesci was saying something to me, but I wasn’t listening. I was filled with the sensation of accomplishment. I had gotten this airplane into the air! I was by God flying!

It was a moment of personal triumph, to be savored as long as possible. I decided not to concern myself just now with the interesting problem of how or in what condition I would get down to earth again.
One thing at a time:
that is the only motto for a soldier of fortune, especially if he is somewhat inclined toward hysteria.

21

The takeoff had been frightening, but exhilarating. As we soared gloriously into the blue, I had come to the conclusion that flying was not so terribly difficult after all; that it was, in fact, a skill that any reasonably bright man could perform by the concentrated application of his intellect. It seemed to me that the professionals had made a mystery cult out of this essentially simple operation for much too long; they had been guarding their livelihoods with calculated guile.

There was an alternative possibility: that flying
was
in fact extremely difficult, but that I was just one of those seat-of-the-pants naturals who instinctively do everything right.

Some moments later I had rejected both explanations. I knew that I had gotten the plane into the air through sheer luck, aided by the craft’s built-in tendency to do the right thing whenever possible.

This insight came to me very suddenly, when the plane turned sharply to the left for no apparent reason.

We were still climbing. The tachometer showed 2,300 rpms, the stick was back, and my feet were resting lightly on the rudder pedals. The airspeed indicator showed 50 miles per hour—dangerously close to the indicated stalling speed of 40. The altimeter gave me 500 feet; too close to the ground, but we were still gaining altitude.

And then we were turning to the left for no reason whatsoever.

I pushed down gently on the right rudder pedal. The plane straightened, but the airspeed fell to 45. The engine sounded unhappy. I tried to feed more gas, but the throttle was wide open. We skidded into a flat right turn and the engine stalled momentarily. In a panic I kicked the left pedal and pushed the stick forward. The plane’s nose dropped toward the horizon and the airspeed increased to 60; but the rpms edged up to the red line, and the plane turned hard to the left, and I suddenly needed four hands and at least two heads.

I corrected the turn and pulled back gently on the stick. The rpms fell to a safe level as soon as the plane started to climb; but of course, the airspeed dropped again toward a stall. I moved the stick carefully, forward and then backward, until I found a point where rpms and airspeed were both in the black. The plane was climbing very shallowly. I had to keep using left rudder to keep a straight course, and this worried me. But for the moment everything was nicely balanced.

“What happened?” Guesci asked, his voice trembling.

“Bit of rough air,” I told him. No sense in alarming the passengers; there was no room on this plane for anyone’s panic but my own.

“But you really do know how to fly, don’t you?” he asked. “I mean, you were joking earlier and you really do know how to fly, don’t you?” His whining voice irritated me.

“You can see for yourself,” I said brusquely, correcting for a left turn and easing the stick forward to stop a stall and reducing engine speed somewhat to keep the tachometer out of the red and then correcting for a left turn again.

“You seem to be having trouble,” he said.

“Look,” I told him, “it takes time to adjust to a crate like this after you’re used to a Mach 2 fighter.” I swear, I hardly knew what I was saying.

Guesci nodded vehemently. He wanted to believe in my skill, despite a certain amount of evidence to the contrary. There are no atheists in foxholes, especially when the foxhole is a thousand or so feet above northern Italy.

“You have had much experience with jet fighters?” he asked.

“Mostly with Sabres and Banshees,” I said, correcting for a left turn and easing the stick forward to prevent a stall and reducing engine speed, etc. “Did I ever tell you about the time I had a flameout over Chosin Reservoir?”

“No—Was it very bad?”

“Well, I suppose it was kinda hairy,” I said, and bit my lip to keep from giggling. Then my attention was taken up by the plane, which needed correcting for a left turn and simultaneously easing of the stick forward to prevent a stall and then reducing engine speed, etc., etc. When I had completed this, I told Guesci to take care of Karinovsky. Then I sternly rid myself of all notions of frivolity and concentrated on the serious task of trying to outguess the airplane.

We were doing 105 miles an hour, and somehow we had climbed to 3,000 feet. I closed the throttle to the indicated cruise-setting, and the airspeed dropped and held at 90. The compass had us traveling nearly southwest. It was full dawn now, and the gleaming, wrinkled hide of the Adriatic was below me. Tolmezzo, our destination, was in the Alps, which meant somewhere in the north. I moved the stick gently to the right.

The plane responded by dipping her right wing. Her nose lifted at the same time, and her airspeed began to fall. I was sure that the damned engine was about to quit on me, and I pulled the stick abruptly back.

It was the wrong move. The plane rolled, the engine coughed, like a wounded panther, and the nose came up alarmingly. I gave full power (slamming the throttle to the firewall) and corrected with left rudder and stick.

The plane rolled, I corrected again, and the distant line of the horizon teetered back and forth. My airspeed had fallen to 60.

I realized at last that I should have pushed the stick
forward
, not back. I did so now, dove, regained airspeed, and found my right wing slanting toward the sea.

I corrected, and the right wing came up and the left wing snapped down. Guesci was shouting at me, and Karinovsky had been roused from the contemplation of his wound.

We were in trouble. Each time I corrected, the plane rolled more deeply to the other side. I could feel a heavy vibration in the tail, and we had somehow dropped to 990 feet and were still falling. I couldn’t seem to straighten the plane out; she seemed determined to flip herself over or tear off a wing.

Then Guesci made a lunge for the controls, and I fought him off, and Karinovsky was shouting at both of us. Guesci and I clawed and grunted at each other, and Guesci tried to bite my wrist, and I hit him on the nose with my forehead. That calmed him down.

During this time, no one had been flying the plane. I turned quickly to the controls and found that we were no longer rolling. With my hand removed from the helm, the plane had quietly corrected herself. She was descending now, and making a wide turn to the right.

I had learned an extremely valuable lesson: when in doubt, let the plane do it.

I worked the stick carefully, trying to let the plane fly itself. I got us up to 4,000 feet, traveling slightly east of north at 95 miles an hour. The plane kept itself in level flight with very little help from me. When everything seemed in order, I turned to Guesci.

“Don’t ever do that again,” I said, in a cold, hard voice.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Guesci said. “I didn’t understand what you were doing.”

Karinovsky said, “He was testing the responses of the aircraft. Any fool could see that.”

“Of course, of course, I realize that now,” Guesci said.

There is no greater marvel on earth than the will to believe. Even I was starting to believe.

“Mr. Nye,” Guesci said, “I am truly sorry. … Will you have to do any more testing?”

“That,” I said, “depends on conditions.”

Guesci nodded. Karinovsky didn’t even bother to nod; it was obvious that one tested according to conditions.

“How do conditions seem?” Guesci asked timidly.

I thought for a while before answering. I had a splitting headache, and my clothes were drenched with perspiration. I had acquired a pronounced tic in the right eye, and there was a tremor to my hands reminiscent of the early stages of locomotor ataxia. But the main fact was that I was still flying the plane.

“Conditions are not bad,” I told him. “In fact, at the moment, everything is very much in order.”

How does the fool build his paradise?—out of the crumbling bricks of illusion and the watery cement of hope. Thus spake Zarathustra Nye.

22

We had flown to the northeast for nearly 15 minutes. The Adriatic was behind us, and the wide North Italian plain was below. I decided that it was time to find out where we were going. I asked Guesci if we had any maps.

“Of course,” Guesci said. “I provided everything.” He reached under the seat and brought out a chart numbered ONC-F-2. It showed northern Italy and most of middle Europe, and it was filled with symbols for airports, DF stations, restricted areas, cities, towns, mountains, swamps, oceans, lakes, power lines, dams, bridges, tunnels, and many other interesting features. It bore absolutely no resemblance to the flat green and brown land beneath us.

I decided to delegate responsibility. “Guesci,” I said, “find out where we are. Then find out where we should be, and how we get there.”

“But I know nothing of aerial maps!” Guesci said.

“Karinovsky will help you. After all, you can’t expect me to do everything.”

They went to work on the map. I used the time trying to learn something about flying an airplane. I performed gentle banks to the right and left, dove, climbed, tried different throttle settings, and experimented with the trim. I began to feel a modest sensation of confidence.

“Would, you mind flying a little lower?” Guesci asked. “I can’t seem to find any landmark.”

I brought the plane down to 2,000 feet. After a while, Guesci sighed and said, “The countryside around here is featureless.”

“You’re a great help,” I said.

Guesci had been studying the map. Now he asked, “How long has it been since we left the Adriatic and crossed the coast?”

“About 17 minutes, I’d guess.”

“At what speed and direction?”

“About 90 miles an hour, northeast. But that’s only an estimate.”

Karinovsky waved his hand negligently. “Well call it a hundred miles an hour, since it makes the calculation easier. That means we have traveled approximately 25 miles. Continuing to the north, we shall soon intersect the Piave River. It is a landmark we are not likely to miss.”

“What do we do when we find it?”

“We then follow it. It will bring us to Belluno, and then we can follow the Piave valley all the way to San Stefano di Cadore.”

“How will we know when we get there?”

Guesci had the answer to that one. “There is a power station just before the town.”

“Are you sure you can find it?”

“Don’t worry,” Guesci said. “You take care of the piloting, and we will handle the navigating.”

Somehow I didn’t like the sound of that; but of course, there was nothing to do but bash on.

I continued to the north, and soon we spotted the Piave. I turned the plane and followed the course of the river to the northwest, past a double loop, and then a second one. We checked out our position on Valdobbiadene. The ground was beginning to rise now, and I had to keep the plane in a gentle climb.

In a few minutes we came into the foothills of the Alps, about 2,000 feet above sea level. The river turned north, and then northeast. Guesci spotted the town of Feltre on our left, and Karinovsky located a windmill on the right. Everything checked out nicely. We were 9,000 feet above sea level by the time we reached Belluno. The Alps stretched in front of us like massed spear-points. It was getting cold in the cabin.

The plane was harder to control now. Strong up-drafts buffeted the wings, and the engine labored in the thin air. Below us, the valley of the Piave was a distinct curving slash through the Dolomites. The upward trend of the land forced me to 10,000 feet.

I heard Karinovsky gasp. Turning, I saw the peak of a mountain slide by a hundred yards to my right. It towered at least a quarter of a mile above our present elevation.

“Any more around like that?” I asked.

“Nothing else to worry about at this altitude,” Karinovsky said. “Unless we miss San Stefano.”

The Piave valley continued to curve to the east, and Guesci spotted the last power station. Then we saw San Stefano to the right, at an elevation of 8,481 feet. I banked and began a gentle descent.

Individual houses came into focus. There were steeply tilted little meadows, and a single-track railroad cut through one edge of the town.

“There is our destination!” Guesci cried.

I saw the lodge, U-shaped, set about a mile from the village. There was a stretch of open land in front of the U; from the air it looked about the size of a postage stamp. I couldn’t possibly land on anything so small, of course; but I didn’t see anything else that looked any better. I continued to let down, circling the field and hoping that it wouldn’t be so bad as it looked.