This was the same date (02 09) that he delivered the Vietnamese Declaration Of Independence, twenty four years earlier.
Ho Chi Minh’s wish was that following his death his remains should be cremated and placed in three urns to be positioned on top of three low hills in the North, Centre and South of Vietnam so that he could be with his people. This was totally ignored and in 1967 in absolute secrecy, three eminent doctors were sent to Russia for seven months to be trained in the methods of body preservation. They learned how to preserve a body for the first fifteen to twenty days following death. He died in Hospital 108 and it was decided that in the first instance his body should be displayed in a glass coffin in the Ba Dinh Square meeting hall, to enable dignitaries, officials and the public of Ha Noi to file past. They had no glass thick enough to make a coffin so soldiers were sent into the commercial centre to obtain suitable glass from shop windows, however this was still too thin but eventually some sheets of thick glass were located under the stage of the hall. The cortege left the hospital heading for the hall but on the way the driver took a wrong turn!
Ha Noi and it’s surrounds were subject to American bombing at this time so plans were made to move him to a hill top site designated K84 in the north of the country. Extreme preparations took place, every night for weeks military officer pall bearers practised carrying a glass coffin full of bags of rice up and down steps. on top of the coffin was a bowl of water which musn’t be spilt. Special Russian trucks were modified, their suspension softened their tyre pressured lowered. K84 itself had special bombproof chambers constructed inside it with three sets of emergency generators, it’s own recirculated well water for the air conditioners and humidity controls. At the time of the actual transfer a Russian Doctor travelled inside the ice filled truck placing his glasses on top of the coffin to ensure there was no vibration or upset. The badly bomb damaged roads were repaired by thousands of workers then after the convoy had past they returned the roads and bridges to their damaged states so that American photographs wouldn’t arouse any suspicion.
In November 1970 the hill was subjected to American Helicopters who were actually looking for a North Vietnamese prisoner of war camp in a raid to release American prisoners. In light of this the Vietnamese decided the hill was too vulnerable, too exposed and move ‘Bac Ho’ back to Ha Noi.
In August 1971 Ha Noi and the Red River basin experienced exceptionally high levels of rain. This was blamed on the Americans, who it is said, had an operation to seed the clouds and cause rain. It was feared that the dykes would be breached and the city flooded, and so they move ‘Bac Ho’ back to his hill top refuge using the faithful Russian Zin trucks and two tons of ice. Because of the floods the convoy had an amphibious vehicle called a ‘PAP’. When they arrived at the base of hill K84 the roads were severely flooded. In order to complete their journey they had to load the Ambulance carrying ‘Bac Ho’ onto the PAP, negotiate the floods and then unload it. One of the Russian experts assigned to the preservation was a man called Debov. He became homesick and so, to please him the Vietnamese soldiers bought him a parrot. Early one morning the parrot escaped, fearing Debov would be very upset they sent to Ha Noi for a replacement parrot and also sent soldiers out into the woods to look for it. The soldiers found it, captured it and replaced it in the cage all before Debov woke up at 10 a.m.
In the summer of 1972 following Nixons resumption of bombing the North the government considered K84 was not safe enough and in August he was transferred to a remote cave that had been extensively strengthened and equipped with electricity and water. The area was infested with snakes but not for long as they soon became a valuable source of food. On the 8th of Feb 1973 he was moved back to his hill top.
At 4 p.m. on the 18th of July 1975 ‘Bac Ho’ left hill K84 for the last time and arrived at Ba Dinh Square Ha Noi at 8pm to finally be at peace in a huge Mausoleum he never wanted.
He was born in the village of Hoang Tru in the centre of Vietnam. It is now a visitors centre where everything is neat and tidy. Visitors are shown around in small groups guided by young ladies in flowing white ‘Ao Dai’s’ and equipped with a boom mic and belt attached speaker. The delivery is serious and sombre and at the climax her voice breaks down and her tears flow along with several members of her audience. Then she leads us all to the next location where it happens all over again. Brilliant acting!
The young Ho Chi Minh was tutored by his father a Confucian scholar, teacher and magistrate but failed to progress in Imperial bureaucracy as he refused to serve the French. This didn’t prevent his son attending a French College in the Imperial City of Hue for his secondary education. Coincidentally a fellow student was Nho Dinh Diem, the future president of South Vietnam and his political rival.
In 1911 he left Vietnam on a French steamer as a kitchen hand. He travelled the world working on ships until 1917. He spent time in New York, Paris and London working in menial positions in Hotels. From 1919 he was in Paris. It is during this period that he developed socialist visions becoming an activist for civil rights and the independence of Vietnam. His activities caught the attention of Dmitry Manuilsky, a prominent member of the Soviet Comintern (Communist International) and so, in 1923, began his first experience of Russia. In 1924 he went to China, Married a Chinese woman in the same place as the famous leader Zhou En Lai and lived with the famous Russian adviser to the Chinese Communists, Mickhail Borodin. Over the next few years he travelled extensively. India, China, Russia, Hong Kong, Thailand. In 1930 he created the ‘Communist Party of Vietnam’. Then in 1941 he returned to Vietnam to lead the Viet Minh independence movement. This guerrilla force was clandestinely funded and supplied by the American OSS (forerunner of the CIA.)
The Gun – Chapter 4.
Chapter 4.
“You’re home late love. Did you have a good day?” Rosamund got up from the settee to make him a cup of tea.
“The usual, you know. Strained quiet start, blah blah blah, coffee and a few biscuits that you really want to dunk but daren’t for fear of being labeled an uncouth moron. More blah blah blah, Lunch usual picky buffet and orange juice. Blah blah blah, coffee, blah jokes blah jokes. Someone suggests a pint in the local, one stretches to three then we’re hungry so time to track down the local curry house and here I am home late.”
“Never mind, here’s your tea. Don’t fall asleep with it in your hand and spill it over your trousers again. I see what you mean about that rash, it hasn’t gone has it? I’ll get you some cream from Boots tomorrow.”
“Rosamund ——————————————————–?”
“What?”
“Nothing, it’s OK.”
Rosamund turned back to watch Jeremy Paxman savage his current victim.
Reg drank his tea feeling uncomfortable. The gun was used and dirty in the plastic bag. He couldn’t clean it ‘til at least tomorrow morning. He imagined the corrosive cordite eating away at the almost pristine bore.
“You going speed walking tomorrow morning?” Rosamund asked.
“Yes if it’s dry.”
“We better get to bed then.”
“Good weekend Reg? What did you do? Weather was rubbish as usual.” Corrallee called out as Reg ambled passed her desk, tan coat on his right arm black briefcase in his left hand.
“Nothing much. Police escort and sirens up to Faslane Naval base, Atomic powered submarine, thirty five knots per hour under water all the way to the site of the Titanic then torpedo and sink a private submarine owned by a conglomeration of Irish and Libyan terrorists who were trying to refloat it with balloons and sell it on Ebay.”
“Did you manage to paint your garage door then?”
“No but I got the undercoat on between the showers”
Allan Mayor was waiting outside Reg’s office looking like a Cheshire cat on speed. Reg unlocked his office and entered with Allan close behind.
“We got them Reg. We got the bloody Ram Raiders.” Allan was jubilant.
“How?” Reg asked, hanging up his coat and putting down his briefcase.
“Well it was down to you really. After our little chat I did what you said. I drew a list of all potentially vulnerable properties then got the lads to go round and warn the owners. Anyway one of the garage owners said he noticed two iffy looking black lads in a smart Subaru Impreza. They didn’t have fuel, just came in for one bag of crisps. He said their eyes were everywhere. We checked his CCTV tapes, got the number and low and behold it’s a nicked vehicle from Solihull; put it out on PNC and on Saturday afternoon it’s pulled in Redditch.”
“Fantastic!” Reg responded.
“It gets better.” Allan jigged about. “In the boot was some of the nicked gear from our Truckers job they must have been trying to punt it out.” Allan shook Reg’s hand vigorously.
“Thanks Reg. You’re a star!” Allan left the office as though he was on cloud nine.
Reg looked at his right hand and considered.
There was nothing on his computer about Richmond in Yorkshire. He knew that in Yorkshire and its surrounds, algorithms would be crunching their way through trillions of ones and zeros looking for anything or anyone that matched the crime.
“I’ll be away the weekend after next. Got to go to Scotland. To Edinburgh, there’s a Crimes Analysis convention that the boss wants me to attend.”
“Oh that’s a pity Reg, it’s little Neil’s birthday party that Saturday he’s two.”
“Can’t be helped I’ve ducked out of most of the dross but this one I’ve got to attend.”
“Never mind we’ll get him something nice. I was thinking of a pedal car, what do you think?”
“Sounds good, I’ll have a look on the internet, see if I can get him something traditional made of metal not something that’s come out of a plastic mould in China.”
“Well don’t go mad Reg, he’s only two, we don’t want an Aston Martin replica in the lounge.”
“OK! OK! A Maserati then.” Rosamund looked over with disdain towards her childish meek and mild husband.
Reg came out of Boots and turned right. It was warm and sunny; people were beginning to wear shorts. He crossed the road and made towards the bookshop on his left. He often wondered how it survived. He surmised that it must be a labour of love for the ageing gentle male owner. Opening the door and walking in made a bell tinkle. How quaint he thought. He wanted two books; it didn’t matter what they were. The only criteria being their thickness. The thicker the better. He found them easily. One about medication the other about Zoology. They cost him twelve pounds. He paid cash and left with the heavy books in a plain white carrier bag.
Reg locked his office at 17.02 on Friday evening and made his way to the stairs.
Glennys was just putting on her coat.
“Jumping the gun a bit aren’t you Reg? It’s usually at least five past.”
“Trying to re-adjust my work-life balance.” Reg flung back as he briskly walked towards the office door.
“Come on! Come on! Come on!” Reg tapped impatiently on the steering wheel as the barrier wafted through vehicles one at a time. Turning right instead of left at the T junction he headed for Fownhope and Gloucestershire. On the back seat was a black Adidas sports bag. Rosamund had packed him three clean shirts (He only needed two but she figured he might spill something down one of them) clean socks and pants, a pair of black corduroy trousers, his razor, shaving foam, deodorant toothbrush and paste. He had no use for a comb. Reg had added the two thick books from out of the boot. In his pocket was five thousand pounds in fifty pound notes. In his wallet was three hundred pounds in tens and twenties. In his back pocket was his passport.
The rush hour traffic cleared after Fownhope village. Reg pressed on quickly in his normally sedate civic. It was six o’clock as he turned into the gates of Staverton airport. The Gloster Javelin gate sentry, a sad reminder of Britain’s independent aviation past.
He parked and locked the car behind Helo-Ferry’s offices and walked around the building to the hard standing. A shiny white helicopter was impatiently waiting for it’s customer, it’s rotors swishing and biting at the warm evening air.
“Mr. Moorcroft?” One of the ground crew asked.
Reg nodded.
“Your flight awaits you, here’s your receipt in case you need it for expenses.”
“I don’t.” Reg answered. The crew man escorted him in under the blades and strapped him in. The Helicopter clattered skywards.
“What time’s your flight?” The co-pilot turned and asked.
“Eight fifteen.”
“No problem, it takes about forty five minutes from here to Heathrow.”
“How do I get from where we land to Terminal five?”
“How are you travelling, first, business or economy?”
“First.”
“Not a problem, we’ll radio ahead and a car will be waiting for you.”
The black Toyota Lexus scooped him up and dropped him outside Terminal five. By seven fifteen he was checking in.
“Would you like to take dinner in the Concorde Lounge or onboard Sir?” The professionally charming hostess inquired.
“It’ll be rushed if I eat before so I’ll wait and eat onboard.” Reg wasn’t used to the service and consideration that money bought. He liked it. The machine produced his boarding pass.
“Boarding will commence at 19.45 Sir.”
Reg made his way to the Concorde lounge. Really it was just an ‘Officers Club’ The only requirement for entry – Money. The large airy lounge, simply an opulent shed. The stressed white struts and girders, lit and displayed were there to keep the roof on and make the building stand up. Architectural laziness, he thought! Don’t bother to conceal the ugly bits. Make a feature of them. He sat down in a large comfortable grey easy chair with a window view and watched civil aviation parade before him. A glass of champagne and a dish of olives helped him to relax. An immaculate young woman came over and discreetly told him that his aircraft was now boarding.
A good meal served on bone china with more champagne led to a comfortable horizontal sleep for the rest of the four hour journey. Midnight in Moscow actually meant three fifteen AM. Reg made his way to the near deserted VIP lounge and sank into an easy chair to await his nine forty hop to Nizhny Novgorod airport.
The Avia Air Embraer 120 turboprop aircraft was the exact opposite to British Airways first class. Small, noisy and cramped, it safely deposited thirty people at the provincial city airport of Nizhny Novogod at ten fifty five. With no hold luggage to collect he was one of the first to exit the airport. Amongst the waiting congregation was a chubby flaxen haired short Russian driver with a green peaked cap and a placard stating R. Moorcroft. Reg headed in her direction. Her English was stilted and awkward but together they smiled and gestured. The car, black and heavy with chrome, was comfortable and warm. The city, unremarkable and typically unpretentious, swept quickly by. Reg was in an alien world where nothing registered. Buildings, trees, bridges, fields, parks, churches, just seemed to merge into an unfathomable scenario. Then there they were, entering the first security post of Dolinsk Sokol Military Airbase. The historic home of Russian MIG jet fighters. Papers, permits, copies of visa and passport were passed out, inspected and returned. On the left was a row of historic MIG fighters. 15,s 19,s 21,s 25,s and finally a 29, its sharp aggressive profile in direct contrast to the more rounded ‘friendlier’ predecessors. Two more security posts were successfully passed before the big black car swept out into the airbase heading for a cluster of huts and hangers on the other side of the vast concrete and grass facility.
“Hi my name’s Dimitri. You haven’t paid yet. How do you want to pay?” Dimitri’s voice was like him. Thick set and heavy. The fair hair and blue eyes sat on top of a strong jaw with just a hint of developing jowls.
“Cash, English Pounds.”
“Deposit of two thousand pounds you paid by credit card. Do you have fifteen thousand pounds cash with you?”
“Yes.” Reg produced a roll of a hundred fifty pound notes from his pocket and handed it over.
“There’s five thousand.” He unzipped his bag and pulled out the two old thick books. Dimitri looked bemused.
“There’s five thousand in that one and five thousand in this one.” Reg started extracting the flat individual notes from out between the pages.
Dimitri did as Reg.
“Fifteen thousand pounds cash English.” Dimitri confirmed after fifteen minutes.
He held out his hand, this time smiling. “Welcome to Fulcrum Flights Mr. Moorcroft. How was your journey? Pleasant I hope?”
Reg reciprocated his change in attitude.
“It was OK Dimitri. Now, what do I do now?”
“Now we begin your trip of a lifetime. I promise you will never have a better experience than this. Follow me”
Reg followed in the wake of Dimitri who was still clutching his fifteen thousand pounds. A dark green timber door led into a room manned by a small young man. The paraphernalia was that of a medical nature. A blood pressure check and a questionnaire of ‘have you ever suffered from’ questions led to his signing of a disclaimer. Dimitri disappeared out of the room but reappeared a few minutes later minus the cash.
“Your flights at two thirty so we’ve got plenty of time to kit you up. I would advise you to skip lunch. Follow me we have a practice ejection seat. I will show you the drill.”
The drill left Reg dangling from a harness in a Russian shed
The next shed saw him kitted out in an Anti-G suit, a flying overall, a life jacket and a helmet. It wasn’t ‘til he saw Dimitri climbing into the same gear that Reg realized Dimitri was his pilot.
Out from the final room and into the afternoon sun brought them face to face with the blue and white MIG 29 Military jet fighter. It’s pod like double cockpit arched out in front of the plane like something from a Star Trek movie. The twin rudder fins at the rear sprouted at angles that looked just right. The sloping back rectangular air ducts for the engines were slung underneath like two yawning coffins ready to gulp and use the air they breathed. The whole vicinity smelt of burnt paraffin. The afterburner shrouds still cracked and clicked as the metal cooled. Silver slender complicated oleo legs supported the hawkish craft. Pipes and leads tethered the machine down. It looked like a sleek skittish stallion that would prance away at the slightest chance. The cockpit was hinged open.
Dimitri led the way towards the plane. Reg followed as he made a close physical examination of the aircraft. Looking at, feeling and shaking the six stores carriers underneath the wings. The various tubes and sensors that emerged at odd places. The Tyres and removable panels underneath the fuselage. Eventually he was satisfied and ordered Reg up the ladder. Reg eased his way into the rear cockpit. The seat sprouted the red double D –Do not touch unless you’re about to Die – handles from between his legs. A friendly ground crew man strapped him in, pointed out the rudder pedals and gesticulated which way the aircraft would turn if you pushed with your left or right. The joystick, throttle levers and some of the main instruments. Another technician was strapping in Dimitri. The large back hinged Perspex canopy remained open as Dimitri started up the engines. The gentle swoosh of their start up phase soon turned into a positive hot exhaust as the turbines built up speed deep underneath them.
The ground crew man removed some red tagged pins from the ejection seat and stowed them in a metal block on the left bulkhead. He mouthed “Good luck” as he climbed down the ladder and removed it. Reg was alone in his cockpit. Separated from Dimitri by a black riveted hump that housed instruments. He was surrounded by functional tough looking instruments, dials, switches, displays and buttons. The large blue/grey helmet felt heavy and cumbersome on his head. The intercom crackled into life.
“Please put on your oxygen mask Mr. Moorcroft.” Reg clipped it up into position and spoke back.
“OK Dimitri, it’s on.” The straps holding Reg into the seat were very tight. He felt ‘compressed’.
Dimitri and the crewman swapped waves, Chocks were pulled away from the wheels and the sharp angled blue and white fighter lurched forward only to jolt to a standstill as he tested the brakes. Released from the brakes it cruised forward, jet exhaust gently wafting and whistling from the two massive after burner tubes. Thin sharp anhedral wings itching to dig deep into soft Russian air.
The aircraft turned in its own length to line up with the runway. The cockpit lowered slowly then hissed as locks slid home and seals inflated. Reg’s life was in the hands of a five foot eleven Russian he had only met three hours ago. The runway with its black rubber marquetry undulated before them. He couldn’t see the end. Dimitri was talking to the tower, first in Russian, then in English. Reg heard ‘Fulcrum 002 you are clear for take off’
“Feeling OK Mr. Moorcroft?” Reg’s intercom asked.
“Fine, Just fine Dimitri.” It was not a lie. Reg Moorcroft was excited by his nervousness and relishing the unknown that lay before him.
There was no gentle acceleration. The throttles were pushed forward the craft arched upwards for a second as the brakes held then!
The massive acceleration pushed him so hard back into his seat he felt that the belts were loose. The Airfield was rushing by, the concrete rumbled louder and louder under the spindly fragile wheels then it happened. Two rockets were ignited underneath the aircraft as the afterburners ignited. The roar of sheer unadulterated power permeated and shook everything. The cockpit felt like a child’s rattle. Everything was moving. Within seconds the ground fell away, undercarriage hissed and clunked away and the fighter was banking hard right. Reg immediately felt the clamping of the anti G suit on his legs and arms as his head lolled involuntarily to the side.
The aircraft gained effortless rapid height Reg heard the tower speak.
“Fulcrum 2 you are clear for low level pass.”
The ascending jet was now nose diving towards the Russian fields. A thought flashed through his brain that this was the moment to find God.
Dimitri pulled the MIG out of the dive and leveled out. The altimeter directly in front of Reg read 200 feet. The closeness of the ground gave a true sensation of speed; it was like riding a bullet.
“700 miles per hour Mr. Moorcroft, just subsonic” Dimitri laughed. “Don’t go away.”
The agile aggressive aircraft stood on its tail. The afterburners once again ignited. This time there was no rattling or earth induced vibration, just massive thrust upwards. Reg’s heavy head was pinned back onto the seat as they climbed into the heavens.
Dimitri leveled out the aircraft. It was almost silent. Reg looked at the altimeter, it showed 80,000 feet.
“Twenty five kilometers or about fifteen miles.” Dimitri had guessed his thoughts
“It’s beautiful is it not Mr. Moorcroft?” Dimitri crackled.
Reg stared into the nearby blackness of space then at the amazing curved globe below them. Between the two on his seen horizon was a halo of glistening white.
“I don’t think I can describe it Dimitri. Beautiful is insufficient”
The aircraft gently and almost in a whisper glided downwards, black space becoming once more blue sky.
“Hang on tight Mr. Moorcroft; we’re going to have some fun.”
The aircraft lurched upwards but this time no afterburners and very little thrust. Lift and forward movement ceased as it slid backwards on its tail towards earth, only to be elegantly flipped and recovered as engines and attitude brought back control. Spins, more spins, barrel rolls and loops bounced his weak heavy head from side to side like a broken doll. He became used to the vicious clamping of his limbs by the anti-g suit but still had problems with his brain trying to catch up with his vision as ground and sky swapped places so quickly and often. Then it was over, undercarriage dropped down spoiling the quiet aerodynamics. The rubber speckled runway apron approached rapidly and then they were down and cruising slowly with the cockpit open towards the hard standing. Reg’s oxygen mask dangled on its small black chain as he once again breathed normally.
Hot dark coffee and a ham sandwich waited for them in the pilot’s room. Reg tried not to be in awe of Dimitri’s skills telling himself it was simply his day job but couldn’t really imagine Reg Moorcroft being able to do it. It required a certain bravado coupled with superb hand eye coordination and intelligence. A rare combination he decided.
Over the coffee Reg found out Dimitri had two children, a boy of nine and a girl of eleven. That he lived in a modern three bed roomed apartment and liked to holiday on the Black Sea. Dimitri found out his first name was Reg, and that he worked in an office.
“Would you like me to get someone to show you around Nizhny Reg?”
“No it’s OK. I’ve got a plane to catch. Could you arrange for the black car to take me back to Nizny Airport?”
“You mean the Moskvitch?”
“If you say so.” Laughed Reg.
“Sure. It’ll take about half an hour.”
“That’s fine. It’ll take me that long to get all this kit off.” Dimitri stood up and shook his hand.
“Good luck with your life Reg Moorcroft.”
“Thank you.” Reg replied. They both knew they would never see each other again. Why would they?
And relax!
Take care out there! Love and Peace – John
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