They know her face better than they do Fawcett Majors’,’ Colin grunted, and then, ‘the bitch is so goddamned lovely – I had to run the video of the executions three times for them, twice in slow motion, to wipe out a little of the old chivalry bit.’ It is difficult to get a man to kill a pretty girl, and a moment of hesitation would be critical with a trained fanatic like Ingrid. ‘I also made them take a look at the little girl before they put her in a basket and took her down to the morgue. They’re in the right mood.’ Colin shrugged. ‘But what the hell, Atlas isn’t going to call Delta. We’re wasting our time.’
‘Do you want to play make-believe?’ Peter asked, and then without waiting for an answer, ‘Let’s make believe we have a Delta approval from Atlas. I want you to set up a strike timed to “go” at exactly 10.45 local time tonight. Do it as though it was the real thing – get it right in every detail.’
Colin turned slowly and studied his commander’s face, but the eyes were level and without guile and the strong lines of jaw and mouth were unwavering.
‘Make-believe?’ Colin Noble asked quietly.
‘Of course,’ Peter Stride’s tone was curt and impatient, and Colin shrugged.
‘Hell, I only work here,’ and he turned away.
Peter lifted the binoculars and slowly traversed the length of the big machine from tail to nose, but there was no sign of life, every port and window still carefully covered – and reluctantly he let his binoculars sink slightly until he was staring at the pitiful pile of bodies that still lay on the tarmac below the forward hatch.
Except for the electrical mains hook-up, the delivery of medicines and the two occasions when Peter himself had made the long trip out there, nobody else had been allowed to approach the machine. No refuelling, no refuse nor sanitary removals, no catering – not even the removal of the corpses of the murdered hostages. The hijackers had learned the lesson of previous hijacking attempts when vital information had been smuggled off the aircraft in refuse and sewerage at Mogadishu, and at Lod where the storming party had come disguised as caterers.
Peter was still gazing at the bodies, and though he was accustomed to death in its most obscene forms, these bodies offended him more deeply than any in his life before. This was a contemptuous flaunting of all the deepest rooted taboos of society. Peter was grimly content now with the decision of the South African police not to allow any television teams or press photographers through the main gates of the airport.
Peter knew that the world media were howling outrage and threats, protesting in the most extreme terms against the infringement of their God-given rights to bring into the homes of all civilized people images of dreadful death and mutilation, lovingly photographed in gorgeous colour with meticulous professional attention to all the macabre details.
Without this enthusiastic chronicling of their deeds, international terrorism would lose most of its impetus and his job would be a lot easier. For sneaking moments he envied the local police the powers they had to force irresponsibles to act in the best interests of society, then as he carried the thought a step further, he came up hard once again against the question of who was qualified to make such decisions on behalf of society. If the police made that decision and exerted it, was it not just another form of the terrorism it was seeking to suppress? ‘Christ,’ thought Peter angrily, ‘I’m going to drive myself mad.’
He stepped up beside the senior air traffic controller.
‘I want to try again,’ Peter said, and the man handed him the microphone.
‘Speedbird 070 this is the tower. Ingrid, do you read me? Come in, Ingrid.’
He had tried a dozen times to make contact in the last few hours, but the hijackers had maintained an ominous silence.
‘Ingrid, come in please.’ Peter kept trying, and suddenly there was the clear fresh voice.
‘This is Ingrid. What do you want?’
‘Ingrid, we request your clearance to have an ambulance remove the bodies,’ Peter asked.
‘Negative, Tower. I say again, negative. No one is to approach this aircraft.’ There was a pause. ‘We will wait until we have a round dozen bodies for you to remove—’ The girl giggled, still on the drug high, ‘– wait until midnight, and we’ll make it really worth your while’ And the radio clicked into silence.
‘We are going to give you dinner now,’ Ingrid shouted cheerfully, and there was a stir of interest down the length of the cabin. ‘And it’s my birthday today. So you’re going to have champagne – isn’t that great!’
But the plump little Jewish doctor rose suddenly to his feet. His grey sparse hair stood up in comical wisps, and his face seemed to have collapsed, like melting candle wax, ravaged and destroyed by grief. He no longer seemed to be aware of what had been said or what was happening. ‘You had no right to kill her.’ His voice sounded like a very old man. ‘She was a good person. She never hurt anyone—’ He looked about him with a confused, unfocused look, and ran the fingers of one hand through his disordered hair. ‘You should not have killed her,’ he repeated.
‘She was guilty,’ Ingrid called back at him. ‘Nobody is innocent – you are all the cringing tools of international capitalism—’ Her face twisted, in an ugly spasm of hatred. ‘– You are guilty, all of you, and you deserve to die—’ She stopped short, controlled herself with an obvious effort of will, and then smiled again; going forward to the little doctor, she put an arm around his shoulders. ‘Sit down,’ she said, almost tenderly, ‘I know just how you feel, please believe me, I wish there had been another way.’
He sank down slowly, his eyes vacant with sorrow and his fingers plucking numbly at themselves.
‘You just sit there quietly,’ Ingrid said gently. ‘I’m going to bring you a glass of champagne now.’
‘Prime Minister—’ Kelly Coristable’s voice was husky with almost two days and nights of unceasing tension, ‘– it’s after ten o’clock already. We must have a decision soon, in less than two hours—’
The Prime Minister lifted one hand to silence the rest of it.
‘Yes, we all know what will happen then.’
An airforce jet has delivered a copy of the videotape from Johannesburg, a thousand miles away, and the cabinet and the ambassadors had watched the atrocity in detail, recorded by an 800-mm lens. There was not a man at the table who did not have children of his own. The toughest right-wingers amongst them wavered uncertainly, even the puckish little Minister of Police could not meet the ambassador’s eyes as he swept the table with a compelling gaze.
‘And we all know that no compromise is possible, we must meet the demands in full or not at all.’
‘Mr Ambassador—’ the Prime Minister broke the silence at last, ‘– if we agree to the terms, it will be only as an act of humanity. We will be paying a very high price indeed for the lives of your people – but if we agree to that price, can we be absolutely assured of your support – the support of both Britain and the United States – in the Security Council the day after tomorrow at noon?’
‘The President of the United States has empowered me to pledge his support in return for your co-operation,’ said Kelly Constable.
‘Her Britannic Majesty’s Government has asked me to assure you of the same support,’ intoned Sir William. ‘And our governments will make good the 170 million dollars demanded by the hijackers.’
‘Still I cannot make the decision on my own. It is too onerous for one man,’ the Prime Minister sighed. ‘I am going to ask my ministers, the full cabinet—’ he indicated the tense, grim faces around him, ‘– to vote. I am going to ask you gentlemen to leave us alone now for a few minutes while we decide.’
And the two ambassadors rose together and bowed slightly to the brooding, troubled figure before leaving the room.
‘Where is Colonel Noble?’ Kingston Parker asked.
‘He is waiting—’ Peter indicated with a jerk of his head the sound-proof door of the Hawker’s command cabin.
‘I want him in on this, please,’ Parke
r said from the screen, and Peter pressed the call button.
Colin Noble came in immediately, stooping slightly under the low roof, a chunky powerful figure with the blue Thor cap pulled low over his eyes.
‘Good evening, sir.’ He greeted the image on the screen and squeezed into the seat beside Peter.
‘I’m glad Colonel Noble is here.’ Peter’s voice was crisp and businesslike. ‘I think he will support my contention that the chances of a successful Delta counterstrike will be greatly enhanced if we can launch our attack not later than ten minutes before eleven o‘clock.’ He tugged back the cuff of his sleeve, and glanced at his watch. ‘That is forty minutes from now. We reckon to catch the militants at the moment when the drug cycle is at its lowest, before they take more pills and begin to arouse themselves to meet their deadline. I believe that if we strike then, we will have an acceptable risk—’
‘Thank you, General Stride—’ Parker interrupted him smoothly, ‘– but I wanted Colonel Noble present so there could be no misunderstanding of my orders. Colonel Noble—’ Parker’s eyes shifted slightly as he changed the object of his attention. ‘Commander of Thor has requested an immediate Delta strike against Speedbird 070. I am now, in your presence, disapproving that request. Negotiations with the South African Government are at a critical state, and under no circumstances must there be either overt or covert hostile moves towards the militants. Do I make myself entirely clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Colin Noble’s expression was stony.
‘General Stride?’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Very well. I want you to stand by, please. I am going to confer with the ambassadors. I will re-establish contact as soon as I have further concrete indications.’
The image receded rapidly, and the screen went dark. Colonel Colin Noble turned slowly and looked at Peter Stride, his expression changed slightly at what he saw, and quickly he pressed the censor button on the command console, stopping all recording tapes, killing the video cameras so there would be no record of his words now.
‘Listen, Peter, you’re in line for that NATO command, everybody knows that. From there the sky is the limit, pal. Right up there to the joint chiefs – just as far as you want to go.’
Peter said nothing, but glanced once more at the gold Rolex wristwatch. It was seventeen minutes past ten o’clock.
‘Think, Peter. For God’s sake, man. It’s taken you twenty heart-breaking years of hard work to get where you are. They would never forgive you, buddy. You’d better believe it. They’ll break you and your career. Don’t do it, Peter. Don’t do it. You’re too good to waste yourself. Just stop and think for one minute.’
‘I’m thinking,’ said Peter quietly. ‘I haven’t stopped thinking since—’ he checked, ‘– always it comes back to this. If I let them die – then I am as guilty as that woman who pulls the trigger.’
‘Peter, you don’t have to beat your head in. The decision is made by someone else—’
‘It would be easier to believe that, wouldn’t it,’ Peter snapped, ‘but it won’t save those people out there.’
Colin leaned across and placed a large hairy paw on Peter’s upper arm. He squeezed slightly. ‘I know, but it eats me to see you have to throw it all away. In my book, you’re one of the tops, buddy.’ It was the first time he had made any such declaration, and Peter was fleetingly moved by it.
‘You can duck this one, Colin. It doesn’t have to touch you or your career.’
‘I never was very hot at ducking.’ Colin dropped his hand away. ‘I think I’ll go along for the ride—’
‘I want you to record a protest – no sense us all getting ourselves fired,’ said Peter, as he switched on the recording equipment, both audio and video; now every word would be recorded
‘Colonel Noble,’ he said distinctly, ‘I am about to lead an immediate Delta assault on Flight 070. Please make the arrangements.’
Colin turned to face the camera. ‘General Stride, I must formally protest at any order to initiate condition Delta without express approval from Atlas Command.’
‘Colonel Noble, your protest is noted,’ Peter told the camera gravely, and Colin Noble hit the censor button once again, cutting tapes and camera.
‘Okay, that’s enough crap for one day.’ He came nimbly to his feet. ‘Let’s get out there and take the bastards.’
Ingrid sat at the flight engineer’s desk, and held the microphone of the on-board loudspeaker system to her lips. There was a greyish tone beneath the sun-gilded skin; she frowned a little at the throbbing pulse of pain behind her eyes and the hand that held the microphone trembled slightly. She knew these were all symptoms of the drug hangover. She regretted now having increased the initial dosage beyond that recommended on the typed label of the tablet phial – but she had needed that extra lift to be able to carry out the first executions. Now she and her officers were paying the price, but in another twenty minutes she would be able to issue another round of tablets. This time she would stay exactly within the recommended dosage, and she anticipated the rush of it through her blood, the heightened vision and energy, the tingling exhilaration of the drug. She even anticipated the thought of what lay ahead; to be able to wield absolute power, the power of death itself, was one of life’s most worthwhile experiences. Sartre and Bakunin and Most had discovered one of the great truths of life – that the act of destruction, of total destruction, was a catharsis, a creation, a reawakening of the soul. She looked forward, even through the staleness and ache of the drug let-down, she looked forward to the next executions.
‘My friends—’ she spoke into the microphone, ‘– we have not heard from the tyrant. His lack of concern for your lives is typical of the fascist imperialist. He does not concern himself with the safety of the people, though he sucks and bloats himself on the blood and sweat—’
Outside the aircraft the night was black and close. Thunderheads blotted out half the sky, and every few minutes lightning lit the clouds internally. Twice since sundown abrupt fierce downpours of torrential rain had hammered briefly against the Boeing hull, and now the airport lights glinted on the puddled tarmac.
– We have to show the face of unrelenting courage and iron purpose to the tyrant. We cannot afford to show even a moment’s hesitation. We must now choose four more hostages. It will be done with the utmost impartiality – and I want you all to realize that we are now all part of the revolution together, you can be proud of that—’
Lightning exploded suddenly, much closer, a crackling greenish, iridescent flaming of the heavens that lit the field in merciless light, and then the flail of the thunder beat down upon the aircraft. The girl Karen exclaimed involuntarily and sprang nervously to her feet and crossed quickly to stand beside Ingrid. Her dark eyes were now heavily underscored by the dark kohl of fatigue and drug withdrawal; she trembled violently, and Ingrid caressed her absently the way she might calm a frightened kitten as she went on speaking into the microphone.
‘– We must all of us learn to welcome death, to welcome the opportunity to take our place and add our contribution, no matter how humble it might be, to man’s great reawakening.’
Lightning burst in fierce splendour once again, but Ingrid went on talking into the microphone, the senseless words somehow hypnotic and lulling so that her captives sat in quietly lethargic rows, not speaking, unmoving, seeming no longer capable of independent thought.
‘I have drawn lots to choose the next martyrs of the revolution. I will call out the seat numbers and my officers will come to fetch you. Please co-operate by moving quickly forward to the first-class galley.’ There was a pause, and then Ingrid’s voice again. ‘Seat number 63B Please stand up.’
The scarred German in the red shirt and with the lank black hair hanging over his eyes had to force the thin, middle-aged man to his feet, twisting his wrist up between his shoulder blades. The man’s white shirt was crumpled and he wore elastic braces over his shoulders and old-fashioned narrow trouser
s.
‘You can’t let them,’ the man pleaded with his fellow passengers, as Henri pushed him up the aisle. ‘You can’t let them kill me, please.’ And they looked down at their laps. Nobody moved, nobody spoke.
‘Seat number 43F.’ It was a handsome dark-haired woman in her middle thirties, and her face seemed to dissolve slowly as she read the number above her seat, and she covered her mouth with one hand to prevent herself crying out – but from the seat exactly across the aisle from her a sprightly old gentleman with a magnificent mane of silver-grey hair rose swiftly to his feet and adjusted his tie.
‘Would you care to change seats with me, madam?’ he said softly in a clipped English accent, and strode down the aisle, on long, thin, stork-like legs, contemptuously brushing past the blond moustached Frenchman who came hurrying forward to escort him. Without a glance to either side, and with thin shoulders thrown back, he disappeared through the curtains into the forward galley
The Boeing had a blind spot that extended back from the side windows of the flight deck at an angle of 20° to the tail, but the hijackers were so well equipped and seemed to have considered every eventuality in such detail that there was no reason to fear that they had worked out some arrangement to keep the blind spot under surveillance.
Peter and Colin discussed the possibility quietly as they stood in the angle of the main service hangar, and both of them carefully studied the soaring shape of the Boeing tailplane and the sagging underbelly of the fuselage for the glint of a mirror or some other device. They were directly behind the aircraft and there was a little over four hundred yards to cover, half of that through knee-high grass and the rest over tarmac.
The field was lit only by the blue periphery lights of the taxiway, and the glow of the airport buildings.
Peter had considered dousing all the airport lights, but discarded the idea as self-defeating. It would certainly alert the hijackers, and would slow the crossing of the assault team.