The same mountain top came round again, for the third time. A bell rang just above his head, with startling shrillness. One of the Thais screamed something and whisked the wood from under the sledge. The others heaved all at once, and the whole load of sacks went over the edge, very fast, tumbling, then slowing, it seemed, as they drifted out towards the ground. Murray could see figures moving out of the trees like ants. The sacks fell in a straight line along the edge of the track. The Thai paratrooper who had given the shout, and was obviously in command, looked up with a grin and made a thumbs-up signal to Ryderbeit, who was peering back down the length of the plane.
The second sledge-load was already being wheeled into position. The operation began again. This time it took four turns before the drop could be made. Twice the cloud closed in, and the third time the kicker was just a fraction late; but he had the wit to hold his hand and wait for the fourth run. Murray caught his eye and for a moment thought the little man was going to burst into tears. On the fourth turn, the sacks again fell in the same straight line just outside the trees, the rice protected from spilling by the three layers of sacking.
Murray was beginning to get the hang of it now. The track was not a marker-zone, but a dangerously short airstrip, suitable only for a helicopter or the tiniest one-engined aircraft. If the sacks landed near the middle, their impact could put the strip out of action for perhaps several hours. On the other hand, if the load fell into the trees, the branches could split the triple-sacking and that would be the end of several hundredweight of rice — or anything else that happened to be inside.
What Sammy Ryderbeit and No-Entry Jones were doing — in an antiquated aircraft, and in bad weather — was the equivalent of low-flying, high-precision bombing. At these heights, in strong wind, a parachute drop would be less accurate: the rice could be blown off-course and fall miles away, down into some inaccessible gulley that would take days to retrieve.
A freefall drop required skill. A not unbelievable skill — there were plenty of pilots in the world who could no doubt accomplish the same feat without much difficulty. But they might not be the kind of pilots that Murray had in mind.
On the fourth drop the last few sacks hit the trees. It was only a marginal miss — perhaps a gust of wind, a split-second error of judgment — but Murray saw the sacks explode in little white puffs. The head kicker gave Ryderbeit the thumbs-down signal this time, then gestured Murray and the girl back to their seats, and told them to strap themselves in.
During the next few minutes the ride became much rougher. Half the load had now gone, and the rest of the sledges were being rolled down the floor from behind the cabin and jammed with extra wooden slabs. Murray realised they were climbing steeply, his ears cracking with pain. It became very dark in the aircraft. He wondered for a moment about oxygen masks. There were none in evidence. He shouted fatuously at the girl, ‘Ça va?’ but she said nothing. The plane began a new swaying motion, followed by a change in the engine pitch. Even to Murray’s untrained ear, he knew they were losing power. The first flashes of lightning came a moment later. Ryderbeit had appeared in the door of the cabin and was yelling, ‘Cut loose! — the bloody lot!’
The Thais went into action again, slicing the ropes of the remaining sacks, rolling the last half-dozen sledges down the floor at terrifying speed; but this time there was no question of wedges, calculating the drop, waiting for the bell. The sledges tippled out of the door, one after the other, and vanished into cloud. Almost at once the pitch of the engine improved, and there was a slight, perceptible lift.
The six kickers — still moving with a panic-free precision that would have aroused the admiration of the roughest British paratroop sergeant — took their seats along the wall and for the first time began strapping themselves in. Murray also noticed that at least two of them were sweating — no more than a delicate row of beads across the brow — but his experience of the East had taught him that Orientals do not sweat easily, particularly in a temperature barely above zero. And these men were hardened paratroopers. They knew the form, and the form was not good.
Fifteen minutes passed. It was almost 9.30, but there was no sign of the sun burning off the mountain mists, as Luke Williams had predicted. The sun showed only at long intervals, in an ugly crepuscular glow that had nothing to do with daylight. Thunder crashed distantly through the weakening roar of the engines. Lightning lit the oily darkness inside the plane. It was like the studio effects of some horror film.
Murray found himself gripping Jackie Conquest’s hand in a spontaneous gesture which was reciprocated. The port engine had begun to cough again; but this time it was a long angry sound, as though desperately trying to clear something from its twin-throated exhausts. Murray gave the girl’s hand a last squeeze, then unclipped his belt and started to climb precariously towards the pilots, ignoring the vague gestures of warning from the row of kickers.
It seemed quieter up
