Part 26 (1/2)

'Ryderbeit, get away from me!' Grant's voice was almost a scream, muted only by the flat intonation of the R/T. But Ryderbeit - perhaps out of some obscure gallantry or a mere natural show of heroics - persisted in his almost impossible feat. He continued to carry Grant's plane at a steady height of 500 feet. 'Thurgood! Come on down, you crazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Let's see what the b.l.o.o.d.y RAF taught you!'

But there was no answering call from Thurgood. At that moment, Rawcliff, in a kind of numbed trance, as though reacting like a man drunk, all inhibitions dispelled, lowered the flaps and pushed the nose down. He felt the soft thump of air and heard the scream of the screws churning downwards, the cargo creaking under its straps behind him.

His gloved hands were pressed stiff against the controls, bringing the plane down in a howling dive, tensing himself just as he got almost level with Grant's starboard wing: then he used all his force, throttle full-back, all flaps up, dragging with the whole weight of his body against the 'stick'.

He could feel the sweat all over his body, and could hear Peters' voice somewhere through the singing in his ears, ”Get back into line, Rawcliff!

That's an order!' then Ryderbeit's cackle, 'Holy Moses, it's BEA to the rescue!'

At that moment both Rawcliff's port engines lost all power. He now felt himself being dragged violently down, in the wake of Grant. He got one engine started again, saw the other one coughing black smoke; while Ryderbeit, hidden by the vast bulk of Grant's plane, was still issuing calm instructions, only to be interrupted by Grant's voice, in a rushed furious whisper, 'Get off me, Ryderbeit! And you, Rawcliff! What the f.u.c.k are you both trying to do? Tip me into the f.u.c.king sea!'

Rawcliff's second port engine had ignited at last, and he steadied the wing under Grant's, feeling the perilous weight of that mighty stricken aircraft, as both he and Ryderbeit struggled to give Grant more time - time to regain control of himself, to fight to get his flaps up.

Ryderbeit was talking to him again, but Grant was now. more interested in a strip of grey beach less than 500 feet below, on his right, and coming up fast. It looked smooth and clear, and Grant was either fool enough, or desperate enough, to think that he could judge terrain, even from that height.

Peters' voice cut in, 'Ryderbeit - Rawcliff - regain, alt.i.tude. That's an order! At once!'

Something in his cold, prim voice may have jolted Gram, more than Ryderbeit's patient persuasion: for at the last moment, as the tail of his great Hercules began to rise again, with his speed still holding at less than 150 knots, he appeared to make one final, frantic effort to lift his nose.

Rawcliff felt the lurch, as his wing was almost torn off Grant was flying for himself,and for no one else. Rawcliff heard a familiar obscenity from Ryderbeit, and saw the Rhodesian's aircraft drop skilfully below Grant's, out of range. Grant had now totally lost control.

Everything that happened in the air, Rawcliff reflected, is either very long, gradual - a leaking fuel-tank, freezing up of the wings - or it happens very fast, often so fast that you have no chance to react or make a judgement. In this case. Grant had already made the judgement for them. He had refused their help, and was once again set on his own downward course to disaster.

He must already have seen how hopeless the beach was. He still had his R/Topen and said, 'Oh f.u.c.k'. It was sloping rock-gnarled ropes of dead lava running steeply down into the sea, each one forming a broad hump that would be like trying to land on a vast sheet of corrugated iron.

His nose-wheel snapped off and sprang upwards, tearing a gash in the aircraft's belly. Some of the cargo began to sag out, like some horrid mechanical hernia: and Rawcliff had difficulty concentrating on his own controls, as he watched, with the same numb fascination. The black nose of Grant's Hercules crumpled, its mighty wings flopping down with exhaustion, three of the engines wrenched from their [housings, while the great tail began to rise - very slowly, it [seemed, like some grey monument to the Red Cross being [ erected in this ma.s.sive wilderness.

A slow swelling cauliflower of flame now began rippling up the body of the Hercules, whose skin shrivelled and peeled away, showing the white-hot bones of the fuselage, while all around rivers of burning fuel spilled out, spitting and crawling between the ropes of dead lava.

Rawcliff felt the thud of hot air, as he banked steeply, struggling round rapidly to regain height. There were two dull explosions as Grant's external tanks went up, and now an oily black smoke was coiling round the buckled wings, rising from the bubbling flames in a single column, straight and steady into the still air - a beacon that would be visible for fifty, perhaps a hundred miles. And all as a result of four half-empty tanks, plus a payload of harmless medical supplies. He tried not to think of what Grant's last moments would have been. The man would probably have been crushed under the weight of the controls, strapped helplessly in as the tanks exploded. His arms and legs would have lifted up, with the tension of his roasting muscles, his sweaty face charred while to his grinning teeth; while the rest of his body shrank, except for his belly which would have swollen up and burst, its residue boiled out of existence by the intense heat.

Rawcliff drew back into formation, leaving s.p.a.ce where Grant had been flying.

He had never seen a man die in a crash before. In that moment all the flavour and excitement of flying was gone.

Peters was ordering Ryderbeit back into line. The Rhodesian seemed reluctant to leave Grant's resting place -almost as though, on some crazy impulse, he wished to go down and somehow drag his remains free from what was left of the burning Hercules.

'Prepare to dump cargo and return,' Peters ordered.

Ryderbeit's voice came back, 'We're two minutes from the drop-zone!'

'And risk a few MiGs up our a.r.s.es?' Peters snapped back, with uncharacteristic coa.r.s.eness.

Rawcliff joined in, 'These people in Eritrea are starving The stuff we're carrying is life-blood to them!'

Peters had already banked his plane round in a wide south-westerly circle, beginning to head out towards the Dhalak Islands. His only response to Rawcliff was to read out the new flight-course. 'When you're steady, go on to auto-pilot and cut loose the cargo-bindings. Then prepare to climb.'

Rawcliff yelled into his transceiver, 'But this is blood-, insane! We've come all this way, then we dump the stuff in the p.i.s.s - like b.l.o.o.d.y murder in reverse! There are women and children down there, for Christ sake!' 'He's right, hero,' Ryderbeit came in. 'We farted back there - or rather, Granty did. First rule when you fart, get out of the area!'

The smoke had now risen several thousand feet, its stem thick and black above the still boiling orange roots, at its full height beginning to drift and spread out like a Roman pine It would signal every Ethiopian look-out in the whole war-zone: but with any luck, and with their inexperience and confused communications, they would think it was the result of one of their own air-strikes.

Bitterly, cursing Peters and the miserable Grant, Rawcliff switched on to auto-pilot, then went back and snapped off the belts. He could hear the canvas-covered cargo alread s.h.i.+fting on its rollers. He stood gripping the parachute-lines, waiting for Peters to give the order. The formation had now closed into a blunt 'U', with Ryderbeit pulling up to port of Peters.

Peters gave the order to spread out, each aircraft at 500 metres from the one in front; then he gave the signal to climb.

Rawcliff strained back hard and felt the weight lift from him with a sense of physical release; the shrill scream of the rollers, even above the engines, as the cargo went b.u.mping and trundling down the steep floor; then the sudden uplift, jerking forward as the whole plane put on at least 40 knots airspeed, and for a moment he had difficulty controlling her, holding down the flaps so that she didn't roll over and go into a downward spin.

He watched the cargoes spew obscenely out of the rear end let Peters' and Ryderbeit's aircraft, then the tiny splashes of [haphazard foam as the loads of milk and medicines and tents [and stretchers and surgical equipment scattered and [smashed into the rocky shallows of the Red Sea. Whoever [was financing this little caper must have a fine sense of how I to balance his accounts.

Peters gave the order to head back to Cyprus.

With their increased speed, they came in sight of Larnaca just before noon.

The return flight had been mercifully without incident: and as Serge talked them down, Rawcliff's main worry was once again his frustrated phone-call to Judith. She must be frantic with worry by now.

As soon as he had switched off the engines and climbed out, he was aware of a sense of urgency. The Beachcraft Duke had been brought out of the hangar; and besides Serge, Matt Nugent-Ross was there to meet them, together with the full complement of the local ground-crew.

Serge now gathered them round in the hangar, and demanded a full debriefing - concentrating on the incident at Jeddah and the death of Guy Grant - again using Rawcliff as interpreter. He listened impa.s.sively, interrupting only to elucidate some small point. He was an experienced commander, not given to venting his feelings. He would know the right time at which to apportion blame. Peters made a meal out of Thurgood's performance, and was clearly disappointed by the Frenchman's apparent lack of response.

Serge then ordered them to check their watches and to return to their hotels for some rest. The five of them -excluding Jo - were to be back at the airfield at 20.00 hours. Final take-off 01.00 hours, weather permitting - which left five clear hours for the refuelling and loading of the five deadly cargoes.

Before they left the field, Rawcliff noticed that some of the ground-staff hadbegun bringing out the loudspeaker equipment from the end of the hangar. He also guessed that at least five of those precious boxes, in the locked office at the back, would be produced in due course.

He already saw, as he drove away, that Matt Nugent-Ross was remaining with Serge on the airfield. The American's expression was detached, enigmatic; he gave no gesture, not the least intimation of sharing a secret with Rawcliff, let alone an incubating conspiracy; and Rawcliff, having nothing to report, made no overtures of his own.

He rode back into town with Ryderbeit. The Rhodesian, with his hooked nose sniffing the wind, said, 'Tonight's the big one, soldier! I'm going to have a few stiff drinks first You've got to keep your wits about you, one step ahead - or you finish up like Granty.'

'Matt's got his computers out.'

'Yeah. That confirms that the poor b.l.o.o.d.y Eritreans can kiss goodbye to our next few loads of goodies. From now on we drop the mask and start earning our money!' He sat with a long cigar jammed between his white teeth, his single yellow eye squinting down the dusty road ahead.

Several times Rawcliff checked behind them for a glimpse of an Innocent! Mini, or a brown sedan driven by a young man called Klein who was staying at the Sun Hall Hotel.

'What's the matter?' Ryderbeit said. 'You got a worm up your a.r.s.e?'

Rawcliff again wanted to tell him - about Ritchie and Jo and the meeting outs We the Post Office, even about the cynical, dispirited Matt Nugent-Ross, and about his own call to Judith - but while Ryderbeit still appeared, in his loose, independent way, to be perhaps the straightest, even the most honourable, of them all, Rawcliff's capacity for trust was now badly corroded.

He trusted no one except his wife, and she was more than two thousand miles away.

Eight.

Rawcliff had had nearly forty-eight hours, since his call to Judith on Tuesday afternoon, in which to make his plan. It had a pathetic simplicity: he would take a taxi to the capital, Nicosia, and if anyone followed him, he would at least know where he stood.

He waited until Ryderbeit was busy with his third ouzo, before slipping out to the cab-rank at the corner of Athens Street. The shops were already closing for the afternoon. He felt uncomfortably conspicuous.

The drivers were all dozing, curled up in front of their stifling, ramshackle Mercedes diesels. He had to haggle for the price, which would include waiting-time and the return journey, but he was too tired to extract a decent bargain. The taxi was sweating hot, full of flies, the seats of humped cracked leather with broken springs; and his driver treated the road with the dumb abandon of someone playing Russian roulette with the rest of the traffic, which at this hour consisted mostly of very old trucks and donkey-carts, goats and sheep.