cautiously lifting his head above the bank to check their progress every few hundred feet.
'This is as close as we can get to the helicopter,' he whispered and the girls sank down, resting below the lip of the bank. Craig slipped out of the heavy pack and had another look over the bank.
The helicopter stood out in the open, a hundred and fifty paces away. The pilot was squatting beside the landing-gear in the shade cast by the fuselage. The Super Frelon was a bulky, blunt, nosed machine, painted dull sage green. Craig sank down Again beside Sally-Anne.
'VA-iat range does it have?' Craig asked in a whisper.
'Not certain,' Sally-Anne whispered back. 'With full tanks about six hundred miles, I'd guess.'
'Pray for full tanks.' Craig glanced at his Rolex. 'Ten minutes.' From his pocket he handed them each another slab of chocolate. A Sally-Anne's sweat had streaked the blackening on her cheeks. Craig mixed dirt and water from the bottle into a muddy paste and repaired her make-up. Then she did the same to him.
'Two minutes.' Craig checked the time, and glanced over the bank.
The helicopter pilot stood up and stretched, then he climbed back into the Super Frelon.
'Something is happening, 'Craig murmured.
The helicopter partially obscured his view of the tent across the clearing, but he could see that there was activity over there as well.
A small group was leaving the tent. The guards were saluting and strutting about importantly, and then suddenly the rotors of the helicopter turned and the starter motor whirred noisily. Blue smoke fired from the exhaust vents and with a roar the main engine of the Super Frelon came to life.
A pair of officers left the group in front of the tent and started across the clearing, heading for the helicopter.
'We have got trouble,' Craig muttered grimly, 'they are pulling out.' And then he started, 'That's Peter Fungabera!' Peter was wearing the burgundy beret with silver leopard-head cap-badge, the bright rows of decoration ribbons on his chest, and the scarf in the opening of his battle smock Under one arm was tucked his swagger-stick. While he walked, he was in deep discussion with a tall, elderly white man whom Craig had never seen before.
The white man wore a plain khaki safari jacket. His head was bare. His hair was cropped to the scalp and his skin had a peculiarly repulsive pasty white texture. He carried a black leather attache case which was locked to his wrist with a steel chain. He cocked his head to listen to Peter Fungabera's impassioned discourse as they walked towards the waiting helicopter.
Halfway between the tent and the helicopter, the two of them came to a stop, and argued animatedly. The white man was gesticulating vehemently with his free hand. He was close enough now for Craig to notice that his eyes were so pale that they gave him the sightless stare of a marble bust. His skin was pocked with ancient scars, yet he was very much the dominating figure of the pair. His manner was brusque, almost contemptuous, as though he now regarded Peter Fungabera as superfluous, unworthy of his serious attention. Peter Fungabera, on the other hand, had the shattered look of a survivor of an air crash He appeared confused. His voice was raised so that Craig could hear its pleading tone, if not the actual words. This was hardly the man that Craig had known.
The white man made a gesture of dismissal and, turning away from Peter Fungabera, started once more towards the helicopter.
At that moment there was the crumping detonation of an exploding grenade and the two men in the clearing turned quickly to look up the valley in the direction from which the explosion had sounded. Now there was a burst of automatic AK 47 fire from the same direction and immediately the urgent shout of orders around the tent.
Troopers began doubling along the edge of the clearing, heading up the valley.
Another burst of automatic fire, and the attention of every man was focused in that direction. Hastily, Craig pulled the pack onto his back.
'Come on!' he snapped. 'You know what to do! The three of them scrambled out of the ravine and moved out into the clearing.
'Don't hurry,' Craig cautioned them softly. They kept in a compact group, moving quickly but purposefully over the open ground towards Fungabera and is companion.
Craig took the grena4e from his pocket and with his teeth drew the pin. Helheld the grenade in his left hand.
In his right he carried the Uzi, loaded and cocked and with rapid, fire selected. They were within five paces before Peter Fungabera, glanced around and his astonishment was almost comical as he recognized Craig, even under his mud mask.
'At this range I can cut you in half,' Craig warned him, lifting the Uzi to the level of Peter's belly. 'This grenade is armed. If I drop it, it will blow us all to hell.' He had to shout above the sound of the helicopter's engine.
The white man spun to face him, and his pate arctic eyes were savage.
'Go for the pilot,' Craig ordered the girls and they ran to the fuselage port of the helicopter.
'Now, both of you,' Craig told the two men, 'walk to the helicopter. Don't hurry, don't shout.' Craig followed three paces behind them. Before they reached the helicopter, the pilot appeared in the open port, both his hands high above his head, and Sarah behind him with the Tokarev pistol in his back.
'Get oud' Craig ordered, and with obvious relief, the pilot jumped down to the ground.
'Tell them that General Fungabera is a hostage,' Craig said. 'Any attack will endanger him. Do you understand?'
'Yes,' the pilot nodded.
'Now walk back to that tent. Walk slowly. Don't run.
Don't shout.' The pilot set off gratefully, but as soon as he was clear, he broke into a trot.
'Get in!' Craig gestured to the port with the Uzi, but Peter Fungabera glared at him and his head sank down menacingly on his wide shoulders.
'Don't do it.' Craig backed off a pace, for there was an air of desperation about Peter Fungabera, the reckless quality of a man with nothing more to lose.
'Move!' Craig ordered. 'Get up that ladder! and Peter Fungabera charged at him. Almost as though he were courting death, he ran straight onto the muzzle of the Uzi.
However, Craig was poised to meet him. He brought up the weapon and crashed the barrel across the side of Peter Fungabera's head with a force that dropped him onto his knees.
As Peter went down, Craig swung the Uzi back on to the white man, anticipating any move he might make.
'Help him up the ladder, 'he ordered, and although the white man was encumbered by the black attache case chained to his wrist, the menace of the Uzi was persuasive and he stooped over Peter Fungabera and lifted him to his feet. Still stunned by the blow, Peter reeled in the man's grasp. He was mumbling dazedly.
It doesn't matter now, it's all over anyway.'
'Shut up, you fool,' the white man hissed at him.
'Get him into the helicopter.' Craig prodded the Uzi into the white man's back, and the pair started towards the ladder.
'Keep the gun on them, Sarah,' Craig called and glanced over his shoulder. The helicopter pilot had almost reached the edge of the clearing. 'Hurry it up,' Craig snarled at them, and the white man shoved Peter Fungabera through the port and clambered up after him, with the black case dangling on its chain from his wrist.
Craig jumped up into the body of the helicopter.
'Over there! he ordered his two prisoners to the bench seat. 'Strap yourselves in! 'Then to Sarah, 'Tell Pendula. to get going!' The helicopter lifted off and rose swiftly out of the clearing, and Craig tossed the grenade out of the open port. It dropped away and exploded in the forest far below.
Craig hoped the explosion would heighten the confusion down there.
Craig stood behind Peter Fungabera with the Uzi pressed to the nape of his. neck while with his free hand he reached over and pu&d the Tokarev pistol from the holster on Peter'shipt He thrust it into his own pocket, then he backed off and buckled on the engineer's safety straps at the doorway. As Sarah clambered down from the cockpit, he ordered her, 'Cover them both!' and he leaned out of the port and peered ahead.
Almost immediately, he saw Tungata. He was already out of the trees, just below the rock slope, waving both hands over his head, brandishing the AK 47.
'Hold on! I'm going down for the pick-up,' Sally Anne -voice squealed from the twoway speaker above Craig's head.
The big helicopter dropped swiftly down towards where Tungata was waiting, and Sally' Anne steadied the machine and hovered above his head.
All around Tungata the grass was blown flat by the down-draught and Tungata's stolen battle-smock rippled and whipped about his body. He threw the AK 47 aside and looked up at Craig. The helicopter sank down the last few feet, and Craig leaned out of the hatch and made an arm for him. Tungata jumped and they locked arms at the elbows and Craig swung him aboard.
'Okay!' he yelled up at the speaker. 'Go for it!' And they went bounding up into the sky so swiftly that Craig's knees buckled.
At a little over a thousand feet, Sally' Anne went straight
