'What, with submachine guns and high-powered rifles?'
'We'll use them if we have to.'
Brady said dryly, 'You surprise me. Those weapons are illegal, of course ? for police use. Right?'
'That's the trouble with being in a remote northern town ? you don't keep up as much as you might with all the notes, minutes and regulations that Edmonton issues every other day.'
'Of course not.'
Sometime later, Brady winced as the jet engines went into reverse thrust. Even though reason told him that the decibel level was no higher than normal, his apprehensive frame of mind made him feel he was listening to a continuous thunderclap of sound. When they had landed, he said to Willoughby, 'You could have heard that racket clear back in Fort McMurray.'
'Wasn't all that bad.' Willoughby seemed unconcerned. 'Well, stretch the legs, a little fresh air. Coming?'
'What? Out in that mess?'
'What mess? It's not even snowing. And it's seven miles to Crowfoot Lake. A little exercise, a little acclimatization. Remember what you told me back in Sanmobil? Inside the human frame there's no room for both cold and daiquiris. Let's put it to the test, shall we?'
'Hoisted on your own petard,' Dermott said behind him. Brady scowled, hauled himself upright and followed Willoughby to the fore end of the cabin. He looked at Ferguson and stopped.
'You look worried, boy. That was a perfect touchdown.'
'Thank you. But I am, as you say, a little concerned. Aileron controls got a bit stiff as I came in to land. Nothing much, I daresay. Soon locate the trouble. First landing on ice, and maybe I was being a little oversensitive.'
Brady followed Willoughby out and looked around. Deerhorn was a singularly bleak and unprepossessing place. Snow-dusted ice beneath their feet, flat, barren land, devoid of any form of vegetation, stretching away in featureless anonymity on three sides. To the northeast lay a range of low hills, sparsely covered with a scattering of stunted, snow-laden trees.
'Those are the Birch Mountains?'
'I told you. I don't think the person who named them knew much about mountains.'
'And those are birch trees?'
Willoughby said, 'He wasn't much of a botanist either. These are alders.'
'And seven miles beyond ? '
'Look out! Stand back!' Both men whirled around to see Ferguson racing down the boarding steps clutching in one hand a cylindrically-shaped object about ten inches long and three in diameter.
'Keep clear, keep clear!' He sprinted by them, covered another fifteen yards, arched his back while still running and, like a cricket bowler, overarmed the cylinder with a convulsive jerk of his body. The cylinder had traveled not more than three yards when it exploded.
The blast was powerful enough to knock both Brady and Willoughby, even at a distance of almost twenty yards, off their feet. For several seconds they lay where they had fallen, then made their way unsteadily toward the prone figure of Ferguson. Even as they reached him they were joined by Dermott, Mackenzie and Carmody, who had been inside the plane.
Ferguson had fallen face down on the ice. Gently, they turned him over. His face and body appeared unmarked. It was difficult to tell whether or not he was breathing.
'Into the plane with him,' Brady said. 'Warm blankets and heating pads from the Red Cross chest. His heart may have stopped. Anyone here know anything about heart massage?'
'We do,' Carmody said. He picked up Ferguson and headed for the plane. 'First aid certificates.'
Three minutes later, Carmody, still kneeling in the aisle, sank back on his heels and smiled.
'Ticker's going like a watch,' he said. 'Bloody fast watch, mind you, but it's going.'
'Good work,' Brady said. 'We leave him there?'
'Yes,' Dermott said. 'Even when he regains consciousness ?:no- reason why he shouldn't, there's no sign of any head injury ? he's still going to be in shock. Heat pads we have in plenty. That's all we can give him, and probably all he requires. Can someone tell us what the hell happened? He came running up the aisle shouting, 'Stay where you are!' and clutching this damned thing in his hand. He was out through the door like a greyhound clearing his trap.'
'I know what happened,' Brady said. 'He complained that the controls were a bit stiff when he came in to land. That was because whoever placed this charge did a sloppy job. The thing stayed in place while we were climbing or cruising at a steady altitude but slid forward and wedged itself against the ailerons when we started to descend. As we left the plane he told me he was going to look for the cause of the stiffness.' Brady pursed his lips. 'He found it all right.'
'He was lucky,' said Dermott. 'Had it been a metal-cased bomb, the casing would have turned into shrapnel when it exploded and the backlash would have caught him. Not a mark on him. So, a plastic bomb. For plastic bombs, plastic fuses ? chemicals, really. You have two acids separated by some synthetic plastic barrier. One of them eats through the barrier, and when the two different acids meet they detonate. When an acid eats its way through the plastic barrier it generates considerable heat. I'm sure Ferguson not only felt this heat but knew right away what it meant.'
Brady looked somber. 'If we weren't such a devious bunch, we'd have been flying at thirty-thousand feet on the way up. Our last trip, gentlemen.'
'Right,' said Dermott. 'Even flying low, like we did, we had the luck of the devil. The drawback of a chemical detonator is that it's almost impossible to get timing accuracy within ten or fifteen per cent. The timing could have gone off ten minutes earlier ? and that would have been curtains for us. Our friends didn't want us out of this country ? they wanted us out of this world. What better way to do it, neatly, cleanly and efficiently than have your plane's tail fall off six miles up?'
The Sikorsky Sky-Crane landed in darkness just after three-thirty in the afternoon. It was, as Willoughby had promised, the biggest helicopter they had ever seen. The engines cut, the huge rotors idled to a standstill, and there was left only the sound of a generator whining somewhere inside the massive hull. Telescopic steps snaked down from an opened door and two men climbed nimbly down to the ice and approached the waiting group.
'Brown,' the leading figure said. 'Lieutenant Brown, Air Force, alleged skipper of this craft. This is Lieutenant Vos, co-pilot, also alleged. Which of you gentlemen are Mr. Willoughby and Mr. Brady?'
They shook hands and Brown turned to introduce a third person who had joined them. 'Doctor Kenmore.'
'How long can you stay?' Willoughby asked.
'As long as you wish.'
'Very kind. You have some cargo for me?'
'We have. Okay to unload now?'
'Please.'
Brown shouted instructions. Brady said: 'Two requests, Lieutenant?'
'You have but to ask.'
'I wish we had some more of this civility in the United States Air Force,' Brady said. He addressed Dr. Kenmore. 'My pilot's been hurt. Would you look at him?'
'Of course.'
'Donald?' The two men left for the aircraft. 'George? Lieutenant, this is Mr. Dermott. Second request. We have an excellent transmitter on our plane, Lieutenant, but unfortunately the pilot who operates it, is out of action…'
'We've got an excellent transmitter and a first-class radio operator who's ready for action. James!'
A young man appeared at the head of the steps. 'Take Mr. Dermott to Bernie, will you?'
Bernie was a bespectacled fellow seated by a huge RCA transceiver. Dermott introduced himself and said, 'Could you get me some numbers do you think?'
'Local, sir? Albertan, I mean.'
'Afraid not, Anchorage and New York.'
'No problem. We can patch in through a radio link via our Edmonton H.Q.' Bernie's professional confidence
