He woke in a panic. Ryderbeit was shouting at him, ‘We’re goin’ down, soldier! Fasten your seatbelt, no smoking, we hope you enjoyed your flight and that Air U.SA. has seen the bloody last of us!’
Murray twisted his head, watching through the small round window the clouds racing up towards him, suddenly gone, and he was looking at the ground, tilted on its side like a lime-green wall, with the white thread of a road running across it, joining a town — just a jumble of huts next to a complex of runways looking like criss-crossed strips of Elastoplast. He swallowed hard to clear his ears, holding the metal rungs under his seat, his M16 still laid across his lap, catching Ryderbeit’s eye and seeing him wink and give the thumbs-up sign. The plane flattened out, both engines going strong, flying down low now over rice fields drawn across with fine lines like freshly-cut turf, the edges of the fields dotted with sultana-shaped trees that reminded Murray of those trees they stick on architects’ models.
All around was an amphitheatre of dark hills streaked with rain. There were planes — small bat-winged jets — lined up on the runways in front of a camouflaged control tower. Pol suddenly unfastened his belt, stood up with his shotgun and started to sway clumsily down between the rows of sacks towards the pilot’s cabin.
The plane bumped down a moment later, and Ryderbeit snapped his belt free and stood up, even before they stopped. Murray was shouting above the roar of the reversing props: ‘It’s a bloody big airport they’ve chosen, Sammy!’
But Ryderbeit had already bounded to the open side-door and was peering out, while the plane slewed round to a halt. Murray got up and stood beside him. From the ground the place looked less formidable: a grey Asian town, with the rain splashing off the tarmac. Ryderbeit leapt out, his M16 in his hand, with No-Entry Jones right behind. Murray waited to give Jackie a hand down. Once outside he looked round and saw no sign of Pol or the two pilots. The engines behind them came to a stop. There was a sudden weird silence, broken only by the hiss of rain.
They began to walk together, out across the tarmac towards the control tower. As they did so they saw a number of men coming towards them. Small men in uniform — drab and grey-green like the landscape — flat, short-peaked caps, skeleton-handled machine-pistols in their hands.
Ryderbeit stopped and swung round. ‘Where’s old Charlie?’ he yelled.
Murray grinned unhappily and shook his head. ‘Charlie’s out there in front,’ he said, still walking. Even through the rain he could read the name on the control tower; and now, as he took Jackie gently round the waist and held her tightly, he recognised the framed photograph above the door of the building — the frail, wispy-bearded features of the little man who had once worked as a pastry cook in a London hotel and was now known as Uncle Ho, Hero of the People.
Ryderbeit had seen it too and just stood with his hands helpless round his M16. The soldiers were coming closer — fanning out in two groups, one towards them, the other round towards the C 46.
‘Dien Bien Phu,’ said Jackie softly, with a strange reverence, reading the name on the control tower.
Ryderbeit turned, his gun dropping limply on to the wet tarmac. ‘We’re in North Vietnam,’ he muttered. ‘Fuck!’
***
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ALSO BY ALAN WILLIAMS
THE CHARLES POL SERIES
Barbouze
Gentleman Traitor
Shah-Mak
Dead Secret
Holy of Holies
OTHER NOVELS
Long Run South
The Widow’s War
Snake Water
The Beria Papers
The Brotherhood
Published by Sapere Books.
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United Kingdom
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Copyright © Alan Williams, 1970.
Alan Williams has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.
eBook ISBN: 9781913335908
