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for them, and sent them to "a place I think you will like" in Lisbon. It turned out to be an elegant turn-of-the century hotel. They were met by a desk clerk in a morning coat who told them he had had a telephone call about them from the Air Force officer. He then took them to a finely furnished two-bedroom suite on an upper floor overlooking Rossi Square and the Dona Maria 11 National Theater. The bathroom contained an enormous bathtub and thick towels. After Fine came out of his bath, he found the others sitting before a large assortment of hors d'oeuvres.
"No Scotch," Homer Wilson said dryly.
"The war, you know. But they did manage to scrape this up." He raised a quart bottle of I. W, Harper. The dining room offered a wide menu at incredibly low prices, and they ate ravenously. Wilson arranged with the maitre duiel for box lunches to be prepared for the morning chicken and ham sandwiches.
At half past six the next morn in , China Air Transport Two-zero-six requested taxi and takeoff for Porto Santo, in the Madeira islands.
Almost exactly four hours later, they were telling another amiling, friendly Portuguese Air Force officer that all they were going to do was top off the tanks and get back in the air. The next leg was a long one, twenty-six hundred miles, ten hours plus, to Bissau in Portuguese Guinea on the lower tip of the Horn of Africa. They climbed slowly to twenty thousand feet and set up a course that would place them no closer than a hundred miles off the African coast. They also planned to fly just to the west and out of sight of the Spanish Ca nary Islands, If they were spotted by Spanish aircraft, it was likely that the Spanish would make their presence known to the Germans. Twenty minutes after Wilson had turned the pilot's seat over to Will Nembly, the other ex-PAA pilot, and gone back into the cabin to sleep, a buzzer sounded and the oil-pressure warning light for the starboard engine lit. Almost immediately, there was another warning buzzer, louder than the first, and the fire light for the starboard engine lit. "You better go get Wilson," Nembly ordered calmly as he quickly shut off fuel to the starboard engine and pulled the lever that engaged the carbon dioxide fire extinguisher. Fine looked out the window as he entered the cabin. Thick black smoke was pouring from the engine nacelle. it turned gray and white as carbon dioxide mixed with the smoke, and then the gray smoke vanished. Wilson, instantly awake, went to the cockpit and sat down, hastily fastening his seat and shoulder harness. Fine stood between the two pilots' seats, He could see that the starboard propeller, feathered, had stopped spinning, and that the airspeed was already down well under two hundred miles per hour and dropping. Wilson did not take over the controls from Nembly. He didn't even seem especially upset. "We have an oil leak," he announced conversationally. "No shit?" Nembly asked sarcastically. "What the hell do we do now?" Homer Wilson asked rhetorically. "Go back? How long can we rely on the other engine? And where the bell are we?" He reached beside him for the chart. "We're a hundred fifty miles, roughly, from Santa Cruz in the Canary Islands," Nembly said.
"The Spanish Canary Islands."
"Christ, if we sit down there, we'll be interned for six months," Wilson said.
"And when they finally let us go, there will be a flight of German fighters waiting for us." Nembly began to adjust the engine controls.
Fine saw that he was unable to maintain altitude without moving the RPM needle into the red. "We're just going to have to dump some fuel," Nembly said finally "And try to make it back."
"Set a course for Lanzarote," Fine said, "That sounds like an order," Wilson said with a hint of annoyance. "I suppose that's what it amounts to," Fine said.
Wilson considered that a moment, then looked at the chart. "Lanzarote, you said?" he asked.
"There's only a fighter strip on Lanzarote, according to the chart."
"There is a contingency plan," Fine said, 'for an emergency like this."
"Why is this the first I've heard of it?" Wilson said, but then, without waiting for a reply, told Nembly to "Steer zero-eight-five."
Nembly began a slow, wide turn to the east. "I'm going to start dumping fuel," Nembly said. "No," Fine said. Wilson looked at him questioningly. "Our only hope to continue the mission is that when we have a look at the engine, we'll be able to fix it. With a little bit of luck, we'll find we have a loose-not broken--oil feed line. If we have fuel aboard, we can take off again."
"What makes you think they'll let us take off? Or that there won't be a squadron of Messersclunitts waiting for us? Lanzarote is close to the Moroccan coast, well within the range of German fighters, " "If the Spaniards at Lanzarote don't tell them we've landed, they won't come looking for us," Fine said, "Why wouldn't they?" Nembly asked. "I've got a name to use," Fine said.
"And some money to give him."
"Then the only small little problem we have," Wilson said, "is trying to set this big sonofabitch down on a fighter strip with nearly full tanks."
"I think we have to try," Fine said, "That's presuming, of course," Wilson said, "that Nembly can keep us in the air until we get there, and that the Spanish don't shoot us down for violating their airspace.
I don't suppose this contingency plan of yours says we can call the name you have before we get there?"
"We'll just have to try to set it down at Lanzarote," Fine said.
"I don't see where we have any other choice."
The island appeared to their right forty minutes later. When they got closer to the island, they could see the single strip, running diagonally across the only level part of it, a sort of plateau on the northern shore." Should we try to call their tower? You have the frequency?" Wilson asked.
"No," Fine said.
"Let's just go in. Straight in."
"If I screw this up with all this fuel aboard, I won't be able to go around," Nembly said. "Then don't screw it up," Wilson said reasonably.
Fine wondered why Wilson, as the senior pilot, didn't take over the controls himself, but this was not the time to ask. Homer Wilson turned and looked at Fine.
"You better go strap yourself in," he said. "I will," Fine said.
"There's time. He continued to look out the windshield until he saw they were lined up on the runway. Then he dropped to the floor, braced his feet against he bulkhead of the radio panel, put his arms over his knees, then rested t his head on his arms. Nembly, unused to the sink rate of the aircraft on one engine, misjudged, and came in too low. He reached up and shoved the throttle to full emergency power. The airplane turned to the dead engine. He made a violent crab maneuver, then chopped the throttle, and crabbed nearly as violently in the other direction.
They landed heavily, bounced, and then touched down again. Nembly reversed pitch on the propeller, which sent the plane off the centerline of the runway. The right tire screamed as he applied the brake. Fine felt himself being thrown into the aisle and for a moment sensed the aircraft was on the edge of turning over. But then it settled, and there was a lower-pitched scream as both brakes locked.
