Murray dropped the wad of bills into his lap. ‘Just a random sample off the top.’
Ryderbeit picked it up with his free hand, riffling his thumb through it with a quick snapping sound, then nodded slowly and put the money away inside his tunic, while his left hand moved the stick gently forward and the jewelled pattern of lights, which were the twin cities of Saigon and Cholon, slid away on their left. ‘But we’re not out of it yet, soldier,’ he said, with a strange lack of emotion, as he levelled the wings and headed now into the darkness of D Zone and the Iron Triangle — sixty miles of rainforest reaching to the Cambodian border.
‘We’re running into a rise,’ No-Entry called: ‘Take her up one hundred.’
‘Up one hundred,’ Ryderbeit repeated, moving the stick back and switching the R/T over several wave-bands until a harsh Kansas voice came ringing through the cockpit, loud and clear: ‘We have five negative calls on Lazy Dog! Get a check on her and a call on Curly Mantle for immediate instructions!’ Another voice, pure mellow cotton-picker, chimed in: ‘Curlay Mayntle rayports immediate ground-to-air sweep for Layzy Dawg!’
Murray glanced back and saw Jackie Conquest busy edging herself along between the cargo, tearing open the top packages on both sides.
‘We’re getting ’em on radar, Sammy!’ No-Entry called suddenly: ‘Three bleeps coming up from near due south off the sea. Probably Navy boys off one o’ the carriers.’
Ryderbeit swore in Afrikaans. ‘What speed?’
‘Mach One, coming into Mach Two, and closing fast. Look like Phantoms.’
Murray swallowed and glanced at the air-speed dial, the needle creeping round to over two hundred knots. ‘Those Navy pilots know their job — they’re the best,’ he murmured. Astronaut material every one, he thought: getting their action learning to buzz Iluyshin reconnaissance planes over the Arctic Circle — and that kind of run does not allow for error. He turned to Ryderbeit. ‘What can they do? Try to force us down? Or shoot us down — with the risk we make a forced landing and Charlie Cong gets the lot?’
‘You’re the thinking man, soldier. You tell me what they’ll do.’
‘Well, unless they’ve got close contingency planning for this kind of emergency, which is hardly likely, I’d say they’d have to get top priority clearance to shoot down one-point-five billion worth of Federal Reserves.’
Ryderbeit nodded. ‘But I’ll say this for the Yanks — they’re bloody quick on the draw!’
Jones said calmly, watching the radar bleeps: ‘They’re closing at about nine hundred knots — height about four thousand feet. Can we take her down a little, Sammy?’
‘What do the charts say? This D Zone’s not all flat, and it’s just goin’ to need one little hill to have that whole load of Ben Franklins back there burnin’ like a bonfire.’
‘Down another fifty feet and we’re under any radar they got,’ Jones said.
Ryderbeit shrugged: ‘You’re the navigator.’ His hand eased the stick forward, the tilt of the aircraft scarcely perceptible, the darkness ahead and below total.
‘They’ll be over us in less than two minutes,’ Jones added, as the R/T crackled out: ‘Lazy Dog — whoever you are — now hear this! You will identify yourself, your position and your destination within thirty seconds or our aircraft will take appropriate action!’
Ryderbeit grinned under the red light: ‘That means the sods don’t know what to do — just goin’ to try and bluff us out.’ As he spoke he began to slow the air-speed — the needle dropping to 180, 160, holding at 150. Murray watched with the same baffled awe as when they had begun to crawl down through the high mountains west of Dien Bien Phu — wondering now, as he had then, how much of it was luck, how much sheer skill, and how much just the gambler’s wilful instinct to win through.
The Phantoms closed a few seconds later and the radar screen became a confusion of spattered light. ‘They’ve lost us,’ Jones said; and Ryderbeit chuckled grimly: ‘What do they expect at those speeds?’
‘They’re coming round again — about five miles ahead,’ Jones said, ‘speeds down to around six hundred —’ and the R/T broke in: ‘Lazy Dog, this is Navy Phantom Squadron Silky Tawdry. We have air-to-air missiles and orders to use them.’
‘Silky Tawdry, you’re full o’ shit,’ Ryderbeit muttered, and the R/T went on: ‘We’re giving you twenty seconds or the missiles go off, Lazy Dog!’
‘Sounds as though they mean it,’ said Murray.
‘They’re bluffing,’ Ryderbeit said. He reached inside his tunic and took out one of his Romeo y Julietas, biting the end and handing it back to Murray without turning his head. ‘Light it for me, soldier.’
His nerve was extraordinary. Murray took the full twenty seconds to light the cigar, keeping the flame well shielded, knowing that even the flare of a match can destroy minutes of a pilot’s night-sight. He handed it back and Ryderbeit said, ‘Have one yourself.’
‘No thanks.’ The twenty seconds passed — thirty seconds — and Ryderbeit called suddenly, ‘Let’s try ’em with a mayday. Say we’re on one of the military transport routes, coming down from Pleiku, losing height fast and need medivac choppers.’
No-Entry switched the channels over to the international distress wavelength, calling quickly: ‘Mayday, mayday, eleven-nine-four-zero — Marine Transport Caribou Big Brother out o’ Pleiku to Can Tho…’
Ryderbeit began to cackle over his cigar: ‘You genius, No-Entry! Those Navy bastards are go in’ to have to think
