Dark Flo

“Kapitänleutnant, an aircraft has been spotted flying over the base.”

            “Stand the anti-aircraft crews to, but don’t do anything to attract attention.   It’s probably just the Yanks doing some stunt to get in the Guinness Book of Records again.”

            At last, thought Bamse, this must be Larry’s response to my call for help.  

            The day after sending out his radio message, not being one to waste time waiting, he had climbed onto the plateau above and behind the whaling station and had marked out a landing area with a large yellow X in the snow.   For good measure he had drawn a prominent yellow arrow pointing to the cross and written ‘Over here’ in joined up writing.   Each day he had revisited the spot and refreshed the markings.   And now help was at hand.   The Norwegian sea dog made his way through the back alleys, out of the camp and up to the landing site.

Beryl flew the Loening in a wide circle round the New Swabian whaling station, satisfying herself that they had reached the correct destination.   She could see the coleyfishtrawler Lord Ancaster in the harbour below.   Then she commenced a straight run directly over the harbour, trailing Red-White-and-Blue smoke.   Throwing the bi-plane into a series of loops and tight turns she sky-wrote Hi Folks across the heavens.

            “Might as well be obvious.   They’re bound to have seen us,” Beryl called down to Flo who, was kneeling over the Elsan.

            The Loening turned south, heading towards the pole until Beryl was reasonably sure their audience would have lost interest.   Then she climbed to ten thousand feet and turned back towards the coast.    In the cabin Dark Flo had changed into her new Class A1 16TOG ninja outfit.   It was dyed Mountbatten Pink – a Greyish-mauve all but invisible to simian optical sensors.   Over it she pulled on an X-Bird 3 wingsuit of mottled blues.   Her minimalist katana, devoid of decoration, and her Fukiya blow pipe were across her back, daisho and feather duster tucked in her waistband, and she carried a haversack filled with assorted Shuriken throwing stars, darts for the blowpipe, her war fan, and Happo eggs filled with Metsubushi blinding powder.

            “Ready to go, Flo?”

            “All set.   Keep her steady.”

            Flo clambered out onto the wing, there was a loud crack as her wing suit stretched out in the slipstream, and without a word of farewell, she was gone.   As the Loening continued northwards Flo swooped over the polar terrain, a tiny blue dart invisible from below.   Her speed sucked the breath out of her and an icy wind pressed her goggles into her face.   Looping above the barren land she took stock of her surroundings, spotted a line of despondent emperor penguins trudging inland and then noted a group of men – sailors, judging by their visorless caps - a few miles from the whaling station, proceeding in an open, skirmish formation.   Back tracking, Flo identified Bamse’s fresh yellow X and dove towards the landing area, deploying her chute at the last possible moment and ploughing into the snow with a thud.   She quickly wound in the parachute, unzipped her wing suit and buried the ensemble.   For good measure she kicked clean snow over the landing markers.   When she looked up Bamse was strolling across the snowfield towards her.   Being a dog, he could just make her out despite the camouflage pink.   Canine rods and cones differ significantly from those of monkey descendants and are less likely to be confused by weird colours.

            “Let’s get under cover and out of the cold.   I’ve built a bit of an igloo back there amongst the drifts.   It’s fairly cosy.”   He had also brought a thermos of builders’ tea and some pickled cabbage sandwiches.

The igloo was compact, inconspicuous, beautifully crafted, a handy bolthole and sufficiently warm for Flo to feel the need to remove much of her ninja kit.   While they drank their tea, Bamse launched into his report.

            “We got the shore detail away before we were captured so I don’t think anyone knows they are here.   The Lord Ancaster’s down in the harbour, but a bloody big sub took Harold and the crew off somewhere.   This whaling station is just an outpost - from what I’ve gleaned in my time here the main operation’s elsewhere.   And they all think it’s something special”

            “I believe I saw your Russians down the coast,” said Flo, “I wonder if the New Swabians have a submarine base over that way.   We need to locate the rest of the crew and find out what’s going on.   Sounds as if it’s every bit as big as Larry reckons.

“Don’t suppose we could manage the trawler on our own so it looks like we’re on foot for now.   Best save the sandwiches in case we need them later.   Let’s go and explore.”

Aqaba

Beryl was naked under her voluminous indigo thobe, reclining on rugs and cushions within a traditional Bedouin black tent.   An embroidered and tasselled wool camel bag nearby was playing As Time Goes By.   She concentrated, hard.   Phone.   That’s my iPhone.   I’m…   I’ve got a phone call!   Beryl dived for the bag, rummaged about in it and found the phone just as it stopped ringing.   She was cursing fluently in Arabic, English and Swahili when it rang again.   This time she answered.

            “Agent 160?   Can we talk freely?”

            “We can,” she replied, “The boy is with his sheep.”

            “Get down to Aqaba as quickly as you can,” it was Larry’s factotum, Barrymore, on the other end of the phone, “There will be a Loening Air Yacht down at the waterfront and Dark Flo will be joining you.   She has all the details for your mission.”

            “OK…” Beryl paused as if to say more.

            “That’s not a problem is it?”

            “Not a problem.   I’ll be there sometime this afternoon.”

            Beryl felt a weight lifted from her mind – action at last, and an excuse to move on.  She really had enjoyed her time with Abdulla, but his affair with the blond English woman was doing much too much for his confidence after a short lifetime with nothing but his goats and camels.   Before long he would have become a pain.   It was better this way.   Quickly changing into her flying kit and throwing a few necessaries into a threadbare carpetbag she wrote a hasty note of thanks and regret and left it on the brass tray under a coffee pot.   It was but a short stroll to her Dragon Rapide.   Beryl checked the fuel gauge, waved goodbye to the cluster of Bedouin children that had gathered around and, buckling her flying-helmet under her chin, taxied to the makeshift landing strip.   She was airborne when she noticed Abdulla’s Toyota kicking up dust as it sped towards the camp.   She banked the Rapide, flew low over his pick-up truck and dipped the wings in salute before heading south.

Beryl found the seaplane swinging gently at its buoy as the tide turned.   She selected a café on the Aqaba Corniche, sat at an outside table, ordered a strong Turkish coffee and the fill of a shisha pipe.   She would wait for Dark Flo to contact her, and pulling a well-thumbed Penguin paperback copy of Freya Stark’s Valleys of the Assassins from her canvas knapsack, she settled back in the uncomfortable plastic chair.

            She had reread a chapter and a half and was beginning to drift when the winsome figure of Dark Flo appeared in front of her.   The thick black hair was plaited into a single pigtail down her back and a thin, sleeveless frock exposed bare brown arms and legs glistening damp in the heat of the early afternoon.   Flo sat, took a long drag on the mouthpiece of Beryl’s hookah and waved to a waiter.

            “A glass of mint tea, if you would be so kind.”

            “So…” Beryl beamed and leaned in close to her willowy companion, “What have you got us into this time?”

            “We’re going to Antarctica.   Well I am.   You’re to overfly New Swabia and I will bail out over some whaling station or other.   Larry’s heard from Bamse at last and it appears they’ve made a right hash of things.   So good old Ninja Flo gets to don a wingsuit and do her Wonder Woman act.

“Larry reckons it’ll be easier to find places on the way to set down and refuel with the amphibian than your Dominie.   So he’s lumbered us with that crate over there.”

            “Great.”   The pair giggled together.

They took a room in a family run, backstreet hotel for the night.   Throughout the nocturnal hours there was no let up in the clamour from the street and the fragrant air hung hot and humid.   They did not sleep much.   Next morning they had a breakfast of croissants and grilled halloumi cheese before setting off for the waterfront.   After some hard bargaining Beryl secured the services of a local felucca skipper and they were ferried out to the air yacht.   Flo produced the keys to the Loening and balanced on the felucca’s thwart as she reached for the door.   Beryl passed up their luggage and they clambered, without much dignity, into the seaplane.   Giving them an appreciative leer, the boat skipper sheeted in the large lateen sail on his skiff and veered away.

            Within the fuselage most of passenger seats had been ripped out to make room for additional fuel tanks.   An Elsan ‘Bristol’ chemical toilet and pipe cots had also been installed so that the duo would not have to go in search of accommodation every time they stopped for the night.

            “How far is Antarctica?   This is going to be real fun, I don’t think,” muttered Dark Flo as Beryl climbed to the open cockpit to begin flight checks.

            “Don’t know.   Check the charts.   And can you make sure they cover the entire journey?   I don’t want to be trying to track down a copy of ‘Admiralty 4075’ in some one horse South American back water.”