“Things written and unwritten-”
“Bullshit! ” screamed McAuliff. The driver removed a pistol from his
belt; his action was obvious. Alexander looked rapidly back and forth
between the Minister of the Halidon and the British Intelligence
officer. “Listen to me.
You said on that phone for them to do what they can. You.
Hammond. You offered your … goddamned ‘best efforts.” All right.
Give me a chance!”
“How?” asked Daniel. “There can be no Jamaican police, no Kingston
troops.”
The words came back to Alexander. Words spoken by Sam Tucker in the
glow of the campsite fire. A quiet statement made as Sam watched the
figure of Charles Whitehall and the black giant, Lawrence, talking in
the compound. They’re our protection. They may hate each other …
They’re our protection.
McAuliff whirled on Hammond. “How many defectors have you got here?”
“I brought six specialists from London-”
“All but one has sold out to Dunstone,” interrupted Daniel.
“That’s five. How many others could they pick up?”
McAuliff addressed the Halidonite.
“On such short notice, perhaps three or four; probably mercenaries. That
is only a guess…. They would be more concerned with speed than
numbers. One automatic rifle in the hands of a single soldier-”
“When did they get the Dunstone orders?” asked Alex swiftly, breaking
off Daniel’s unnecessary observations.
“Within the hour is our estimate. Certainly no more than an hour.”
“Could they get a plane?”
“Yes. Ganja aircraft are always for hire. It would take a little time;
ganja pilots are a suspicious breed, but it could be done.”
Alex turned to Hammond. The agent was wiping his lips with his fingers
… his goddamn fingers, as if dusting the pastry crumbs off his mouth
during tea at the Savoy! “Can you raise the people monitoring the
signals from the campsite? With that radio?” McAuliff pointed to the
panel under the dashboard.
“I have the frequency—2′ “Does that mean yes?”
“Yes.
“What is the point?” asked Daniel.
“To see if his goddamn specialists have reached them. To get the
position–2’ “You want our plane?” interrupted the Minister of the
Halidon, knowing the answer to his question.
“Yes!
Daniel signaled to the driver to start the car. “You don’t need the
position. There is only one place to land: the grassland two miles
southwest of the campsite. We have the coordinates.”
The automobile lurched out of the parking area, careened off the
primitive border, and sped into the darkness toward the highway.
Hammond gave the frequency-band decimals to Daniel; the minister
transmitted them, handing the microphone to the British agent.
There was_no pickup.
No answer over the airways.
“It will take time to get the plane.” Daniel spoke quietly as the car
roared over the wide roadway.
Alex suddenly put his hand on the minister’s shoulder.
“Your runner, the one who used the name Marcus. Tell him to get word to
Sam Tucker.”
“I have instructed our men to pull out,” answered Daniel icily. “Please
remember what I told you.”
“For Christ’s sake, send him back. Give them a chance!”
“Don’t you mean give her a chance?”
McAuliff wanted-as he had never wanted anything before-to kill the man.
“You had to say it, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” replied Daniel, turning in his seat to look Alexander in the eye.
“Because it is related to the condition on which you have use of the
plane. If you fail, if the woman is killed, your life is taken also.
You will be executed. Quite simply, with her death you could never be
trusted.”
Alexander acknowledged the penetrating stare of Daniel the Halidonite.
“Quite simply,” he said, “my answer is easy.
I’ll give the firing order myself.”
R. C. Hammond leaned forward. His speech was measured, precise as
ever. “I am going in with you, McAuliff,”
Both Daniel and Alex looked at the Englishman. Hammond, in a few words,
had quietly moved into a strange defenseless position. It astonished
both men.
“Thank you.” It was all McAuliff could say, but he meant it profoundly.
“I’m afraid that is not possible, Commander,” said Daniel. “You and I
… we have matters between us. If McAuliff goes, he goes alone.”
“You’re a barbarian.” Hammond spoke sharply.
“I am the Halidon. And we do have priorities. Both of us.”
J it McAuliff nosed the small plane above cloud cover.
He loosened the field jacket provided him by the M driver of the car. It
was warm in the tiny cabin. The Halidon aircraft was different from the
plane he and Malcolm had flown from the field west of Accompong. It was
similar to the two-seater Comanche in size and appearance, but its
weight and maneuverability were heavier and greater.
McAuliff was not a good pilot. Flying was a skill he had half mastered
through necessity, not from any devotion. Ten years ago, when he had
made the decision to go field commercial, he had felt the ability to fly
would come in handy, and so he had taken the prescribed lessons that
eventually led to a very limited license.
It had proved worthwhile. On dozens of trips over most continents. In
small, limited aircraft.
He hoped to Christ it would prove worthwhile now. If it did not,
nothing mattered anymore.
On the seat beside him was a small blackboard, a slate common to grammar
school, bordered by wood. On it was chalked his primitive flight plan
in white lettering that stood out in the dim light of the instrument
panel.
Desired air speed, compass points, altitude requirements, and sightings
that, with luck and decent moonlight, he could distinguish.
From the strip outside Drax Hall he was to reach a height of one
thousand feet, circling the field until he had done so.
Leaving the strip perimeter, he was to head southeast at 11 5 degrees,
air speed 90. In a few minutes he would be over Mount Carey-two brush
fires would be burning in a field; he would spot them.
He did.
From Mount Carey, maintaining air speed and dropping to 700 feet, he was
to swing east-northeast at 84 degrees and proceed to Kenipshot Hill. An
automobile with a spotlight would be on a road below-, the spotlight
would flicker its beam into the sky.
He saw it and followed the next line on the chalkboard.
His course change was minor-8 degrees to 92 on the compass, maintaining
air speed and altitude. Three minutes and thirty second later, he was
over Amity Hall. Again brush fires, again a fresh instruction; this,
to, was minimal.
East at 87 degrees into Weston Favel.
Drop altitude to 500 feet, maintain air speed, look for two automobiles
facing each other with blinking headlights at
1 the south section of the town. Correct course to exactly 90 degrees
and reduce air speed to 75.
The instant he reached Martha Brae River, he was to alter course 35
degrees southeast, to precisely 122 on the compass.
. At this point he was on his own. There would be no more signals from
the ground, and, of course, no radio contact whatsoever.
The coordination of air speed, direction, and timing was all he had …
everything he had. Altitude was by pilotageas low as possible,
cognizant of the gradual ascent of the jungle hills. He might spot
campfires, but he was not to assume any to be necessarily those of the
survey. There were roving hill people, often on all-night hunts. He
was to proceed on course for exactly four minutes and fifteen seconds.
If he had followed everything. precisely and if there were no variants
of magnitude such as sudden wind currents or rainfall, he would be in
the vicinity of the grasslands. Again, if the night was clear and if
the light of the moon was sufficient, he would see them.
And-most important-if he spotted other aircraft, he was to dip his right
wing twice. This would indicate to any other plane that he was a ganja
runner. It was the current courtesy-of-recognition among such gentlemen
of the air.
The hills rose suddenly, far more rapidly than McAuliff had expected. He
pulled back the half wheel and felt the updrafts carry him into a
one-o’clock soar. He reduced the throttle and countered the high bank
with pressure on the left pedal; the turbulence continued, the winds
grew.
Then he realized the cause of the sudden shifts and crosscurrents. He
had entered a corridor of harsh jungle showers.
Rain splattered against the glass and pelted the fuselage; wipers were
inadequate. In front of him was a mass of streaked, opaque gray. He
slammed down the left window panel, pulled out the throttle, went into a
swift ten-o’clock bank, and peered down. His altimeter inched toward
650; the ground below was dense and black … nothing but jungle
forest, no breaks in the darkness. He retraced the leg from the Martha
Brae in his mind. Furiously, insecurely.
His speed had been maintained, so too his compass. But there had been
slippage; not much but recognizable. He was not that good a pilot–only