The Call of the Thunder Dragon (56 page)

“So long as you don’t stick it on
my seat!
⁶¹
” Falstaff laughed.
“If this works and we can top up the fuel and oil. I’m sure we’ll
make it over the Black Mountains tomorrow!”

“We’ll have to move some of our
kit into the bow and load up with Gasoline as well. Tomorrow we’ll
fly over the Black Mountain, at something like 17,000 feet. I hope
the old girl can make it?”

“Zam! The old girl is called now
Zam remember.” She had become used to Falstaff talking of the
Caproni as ‘she’, the second female member of the party clearly
held a special place in Falstaff’s heart if not both of their
hearts. He seemed saddened by the prospect of their last flight.
Zam wasn’t sure this was because of Falstaff’s fondness for the
aircraft or herself.

Falstaff carried on oiling and
greasing the transmission chains behind the control yokes and
checking over cables, muttering about the timing of the magneto,
unaware that Zam was watching. She bit her lip. Wondering at
Falstaff. He was so intent on making the flight. A record he had
boasted. A feat of strength. He was so wrapped up in his own
thoughts about dragons, treasure, his secret in Hong Kong and now
some girl called ‘Pila Pupu?’ Zam shook her head. He was hopeless
she thought.

Falstaff carried on working,
unaware the Zam was watching him.

After an early start, having
spent the night in the aircraft beneath the furs they started with
a hot breakfast. Tea, rice and fried eggs with pork. Then they
started rearranging the luggage for the journey ahead.

Falstaff watched impatiently as
the fuel bowser, a tanker truck and trailer full of fuel and cans
slowly rolled up. Falstaff parted with the last of his gold,
filling the two Caproni tanks, then purchasing another sixteen 5
gallon cans, a mix of Shell-Mex and BP. Falstaff also managed to
persuade the old Indian driver to part with a foot pump; which
would enable Zam to refuel without having to lift the heavy
cans.

Roy arrived shortly, in less than
an hour he was satisfied that the engines were fit for the journey.
Additional Ether to boost the Octane levels significantly, along
with antiknocking additives to smooth out any miss-timing.
Anti-freeze and white lead on any flap, joint, crack or crevasse
around the engines.

“You know you’ll never get that
plug out again, donch’ya?” Roy muttered to Falstaff.

“I know, but it's only got to
last today. After that, there’ll be no more fuel. For the Caproni,
it’s a one-way trip!” Falstaff said sadly. “And I’m not looking
forward to the prospect of walking back! But, hell! When my minds
made up, I do it!”

“You’re a bloody fool then! But
seriously I’m sure you and the lass will be very happy together!”
Roy said. “Do you mind if I stick around until you leave? See how
you lift off?”

Falstaff paused a moment thinking
about what he’d said. A one-way trip, what about the war he
reminded himself, would it be over by next summer? What about his
promise in Hong Kong?. He’d never thought of staying in Bhutan
beyond the spring. He had to go to Hong Kong. He felt a pang of
guilt. He looked at Zam pulling on her overcoats and buttoning up.
She was used to the routine now; a plucky, tough, young,
high-flying princess and she was keen as rabbit between the
sheets.

Falstaff asked Roy another
question. “Have you heard any news about the war?”

“Nah, it’s so far from here. I’m
from New Zealand, which is distant from everything. Here I am
puttin’ my roots down in India. I like Guwahati, - it’s my world
now.”

Falstaff thought for a moment. If
he’d settled down like Roy in Bora Bora or Hong Kong would he feel
the same. Would that be his world? A bar and workshop? What would
he do he thought? Boats, cars, maybe motorcycles? He took a deep
breath; he knew what he liked doing most. Breaking free of his
thoughts he turned to Roy.

“Fancy a test flight?” Falstaff
suggested, eyeing the turbaned cyclist approaching. “Oh, no! Here
comes trouble, we’re five minutes late!”

“Please sir, you must sign
papers, I also have the weather forecast, which is not good for
Bhutan today!”

Falstaff gave Roy his hand. “My
thanks, Roy, it’s been a pleasure. If I’m ever back in Guwahati,
I’ll come by for a drink! I better get this seen too.”

The weather forecast was moderate
winds from the west, gusting from the north later in the day. The
temperature on the airstrip was -1°; the temperature over the black
mountains was expected to be -10°. Strong turbulence, thick
Lenticular clouds due to the uplift coming off the mountains.

‘I must be mad’ thought Falstaff.
He took several pictures of Zam standing stiffly in front of the
Caproni, muffled with coats, she was hardly recognisable. ‘I hope I
live to see these developed?’

He explained the freezing
temperatures and harsh, Oxygen lean, conditions they were likely to
experience. Zam nodded enthusiastically telling him how their
horses would keep going, plodding on no matter what the weather
was.

Silently Falstaff thought on, Zam
was less afraid of the prospect of freezing weather than he was.
She may actually be more used to it as well. The winters in Bhutan
must be harsh for her to have grown up so tough or there were
benefits of steam baths and hot rocks he hadn’t thought of yet.

While Zam climbed aboard,
Falstaff ran up to the nearest of the sheds. One fitted with a
windsock and weather vane. Inside was empty except for benches and
broken luggage straps. There was a poster for the Tata Airlines;
‘Bombay to Trivandrum’ boasting, ‘for the comfort and benefit’ of
passengers, a six-seater Miles Merlin for its longest domestic
flights. Karachi-Madras, starting in 1936. Next to it on the notice
board was a thermometer, which Falstaff appropriated for the
comfort and benefit of his flight.

The Caproni, with a fearsome
roar, exploded into life. Falstaff let the engines warm slowly,
then throttled up and accelerated off the turf of the pan onto the
main strip. There was a strong headwind from the North. They were
airborne and climbing well before they reached the end of the
runway.

Falstaff hung the thermometer off
a loose screw on the instrument console.

“That’s funny? He said out loud.
“I’ve not noticed that before?” He shook himself and hoped there
was nothing else they’d missed. He didn’t believe in luck. He’d
never been prepared just to jump in any old crate. You could not
just expect it to fly. Something always needed to be fixed. He put
the seed of doubt aside.

The air was damp as they climbed
up to three thousand feet. Then turned to follow the river
Brahmaputra west.

In little under an hour, they
were over Beki River, they took bearings north-west watching out
through the murky freezing cold rain. Little could be seen of the
mountains they were to climb, they too were shrouded in grey, wet
clouds. Falstaff remained confident, pleased to hear that the note
of the engines was crisp and firm. He didn’t have time to worry now
he told himself.

Drinking coffee, chewing on dried
beef, they kept their circulation going until they found the next
tributary, the Manas river, to its source.

“In about two hours, we’ll be in
Bhutan!” Falstaff smiled. “It’s not going too badly, shame about
the wet weather!”

Falstaff set the controls to
neutral. Checked his notes committing to memory as much as he
could. Through his goggles, he squinted at his handwriting on the
paper now soggy at the edges, with pages flapping about in the
wind. If he let go now, they’d be lost. If the wind took the book,
they would have to turn back. He carefully shut the book, slipping
it into the map case.

It was over an hour before they
were due to reach the first peak, but ahead was nothing but cloud.
A dark, ominous wall that was bearing down on them faster than they
could climb.

Illustration 7: The
air was damp as they climbed up to three thousand Feet

The rain continued, thick, heavy,
wet and cold. The headwind forced the water running down Falstaff's
face horizontally across his bright red cheeks. His teeth
chattered, the wind biting through the sodden woollen coat and the
leather jacket underneath. He looked over towards the port engine.
Steam rose from rainwater collecting on the engines was normal; a
faint wisp whirling in their wake. Through the rain, he could see
nothing ahead, just water smashing into the engine, splattering
into the wings. Water dripped, filling his goggles, only to freeze
again. Everywhere freezing rain was lashing at the Caproni.

He looked down at Zam huddled
under the control console; she looked up from her position lying on
her side. Under the bow, she was out of the wind and dry. It was so
cramped she could not sit up. She resented being moved out of the
Nacelle to make way for fuel. She had little space to move, now
packed with food, bags, blankets and furs.

Falstaff took his hand off the
yoke to wave her, trying to smile through the layers of coats and
scarfs. Zam met his eye but remained downcast. The wind buffeted
the Caproni, the taut canvas cover over the bow hatch bouncing in
the wind. Water collecting on it was thrown up into the air
regularly hitting the small windshield, which only deflected the
flow of the air and water up into Falstaff’s face. Falstaff’s cheer
started to fade.

Looking at the windshield again,
it had abruptly frozen over. Trails of ice crystals spread over the
glass filling it completely with a maze of angular patterns or
flowers of frost. He checked the thermometer; -7°; they were at
four thousand feet. He should write it down, but didn’t want to get
the notebook out again. Nor did he want to get out his pocket
watch. The clock on the console was ten minutes slow he knew
already, but how much behind were they? Concerned he kept looking
up at the fuel pump, driven by a small propeller above the cockpit
it spun, driven by the wind. He kept glancing up to check it was
turning. So far, it had stayed free of ice.

Falstaff revved the engines up
and pulled back gently on the yoke, letting the nose rise shallowly
as they started climbing. Every action he crossed his fingers
hoping nothing would go wrong.

They burst out of the cloud as if
surfacing from under an ocean of grey treacle. The cloud below them
seemed to move as a body of liquid, trails swirling and sinking
back into the mass of wet rain. The wind was sharper; the water on
the surfaces of the wings freezing over. The wires and cables
bracing the floats and wings started to grow a white layer of
frost. Five thousand feet, Falstaff tried to move his shoulders. He
flexed his neck. The layer of ice that had grown around his helmet
and scarf broke, cracking as he moved.

“Christ it’s cold! If you see any
brass monkeys, let me know!” Falstaff started gently moving the
control surfaces. Checking their heading he began to climb again,
revving the engines even further.

“Arh! Why do people like snow?”
He shouted. “Cold like this does funny things to your head!”

A crack had appeared in the glass
of the altimeter, which was now showing over 16,000 feet. The sky
ahead was a clear dark blue. A dark deep blue, like unbroken Lapis
Lazuli stone. The peaks of the Black Mountains appeared like
snow-capped stepping stones in the sea of clouds. The Sun blazed
brightly behind them. Falstaff hoped it would warm the ice on the
wings or the frost on the cables, he was glad to have oiled
them.

“Zam, you’ll want to get up here
to see this!” Falstaff waved encouraging her out of the bow.

“Is this Bhutan?” Falstaff asked
with a grin.

Zam gazed at the sky ahead of
them. “We have flown off the edge of the world!”

“Feels like it” Falstaff’s teeth
chattered.

Zam took a long look at the world
below, then she glanced at the bright smudge of the sun in the grey
haze behind them. She thought she knew what it felt like to be a
moth flying into the light.

“Which mountain is that?” Zam
asked turning to look forward.

“Who knows! We are in Bhutan now
that big peak to the northeast will be the Black Mountain?”
Falstaff shivered. “Get under cover, can you brew up something
hot?”

Zam wormed her way back into the
bow, pressing back the furs and blankets. Lying on her side with
her body curved around she could manage to light the stove. Boiling
water for tea and rice. While she waited, she watched the clouds
through the viewing port.

Suddenly they yawed forward, she
screamed as the neat wall of blankets and furs rolled over. She
turned to stick out her head to investigate.

Falstaff had slumped forward, his
head was up, barely. He was struggling to keep his eyes open.
“John! John!”