The cloud had broken, too late. They were flying down below the level of the mountains, as though into a cave. Mist hung from the banks of jungle like shrouds, coming closer and closer — suddenly racing past, and Ryderbeit was making a number of rapid movements that were at the same time curiously delicate, like a pianist executing a complicated trill. Or a surgeon. A surgeon slicing quickly, ripping at the entrails of the aircraft, tearing it apart — thousands of hours of stress-torn machinery howling as the mountains came rolling over towards them and the cloud burst round them again, and Murray found himself lying on the filthy floor among the cigarette ends and the crumpled paper cups.
Ryderbeit had pulled off his earphones and they were dangling down from his seat, giving out a squawking crackle of voices that Murray found all too familiar. Jones was talking into his mouthpiece when Ryderbeit suddenly shouted, ‘Cut that out, you bloody idiot — cut it out!’
No-Entry switched off the set in front of him and slowly removed his dark glasses; his eyes were small and raw, his face like clay.
Murray got to his feet and picked up the earphones, recognising now a few garbled words and numbers — ‘nah-cha-bam-quouc-lim-chi-quouc…!’
‘Understand it?’ Ryderbeit yelled, not moving his eyes from the instrument dials, which seemed to have settled down slightly.
Murray nodded: ‘Vietnamese.’
‘North Vietnamese,’ said Ryderbeit.
‘Who are they?’
‘Dien Bien Phu control tower. They’ve got a military airfield there. We’re getting a direct signal. According to my calculations we’re at least ten miles inside the border.’ He gave a savage laugh: ‘Ten miles inside North Vietnam, soldier. That’s trouble.’
CHAPTER 4
‘What happened?’ Murray asked.
‘We missed the second drop zone,’ Ryderbeit told him.
‘Second?’
‘They gave us two — second one at the last moment, even after the weather reports had come in and I told ’em I couldn’t lift four tons o’ rice an extra thousand feet through a probable flamin’ occluded front. But don’t let’s get too technical. We missed the pass, that’s all. I couldn’t get her over before we had time to jettison the load. The bastards’ll probably try to eat my arse for getting rid of it — but if I hadn’t we’d have crashed.’
‘Where are we?’ The altimeter was wobbling at around eight thousand feet — which was still not above the highest mountains. Ahead there was again nothing but dull yellow cloud.
Ryderbeit said: ‘We’re heading due north for a second pass that should get us back into Laotian airspace. If not, we’re screwed.’
‘How far is that?’ The speedometer showed only about two hundred knots.
‘Five, six minutes,’ said Ryderbeit. ‘We’re flying blind now — I daren’t try for a radio bearing or they may pick us up — and what’s more, the NVA have got radar down there. Only while we’re still in the mountains there’s just a chance they won’t spot us.’
‘What’s the worst that can happen?’
Ryderbeit grinned: ‘You’re a bloody optimist, aren’t you! The worst is several things. They can blow us out of these filthy skies with a SAM — Surface-to-Air Missile. Or they might have Migs down there — but I doubt even those little buggers would try to chase us through this muck. Or we can just crash.’
As he spoke the port engine failed. A couple of splutters, a quick rattling sound, and the prop swung to a standstill. Ryderbeit’s hands worked energetically at a row of switches. Nothing happened. His eyes were on the static gyro-compass now, unblinking, as he moved a lever to the left; then said to Murray, in a voice grown small and tight: ‘Better get back and start putting on parachutes. The kickers’ll show you. And hold the little girl’s hand for me.’
Murray staggered back down into the hull of the aircraft; but when they counted up they found there were only seven parachutes for the eight of them. Murray gave one to Jackie Conquest and made some miserable joke about first-class passengers on the Titanic. The chief kicker tried to sacrifice his own parachute, but Murray declined it with mock-heroism; he was not exactly afraid of having to jump — it was just that he had a feeling that while he kept faith with the plane and its pilots, they might still get through. Putting on a parachute which he’d never used before, and jumping into some unknown crevasse of jungle, seemed the final surrender.
He knew they were losing height fast now. A series of lurching drops that jerked at his guts, wrenched his neck back, made him giddy and muzzy-eyed. The Thais were standing round Jackie Conquest, strapping her into the harness, securing the line to the steel bar along the roof, explaining that the parachute opened automatically. One of them began to demonstrate how to fall, elbows pressed to his sides, knees jack-knifing under him, until he looked like a foetus.
At this moment Jackie Conquest vomited — a spew of instant coffee, quickly swept across the floor and into the cloud. She straightened up at once and glared at Murray with a look of embarrassment and rage. ‘I am sorry!’ she shouted, in English.
He gave a dim smile: ‘It’s the least of our troubles!’ — reflecting, almost sadly, that this physical
