But the slapping did not stop so he opened his eyes.
It was Forester who was administering the punishment, and, as O’Hara opened his eyes, he turned to Rohde who was standing behind him and said, ‘Keep your gun on him.’
Rohde smiled. His gun was in his hand but hanging slackly and pointing to the floor. He made no attempt to bring it up. Forester said, ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’
O’Hara painfully lifted his arm to his head. He had a bump on his skull the size of an egg. He said weakly, ‘Where’s Grivas?’
‘Who is Grivas?’
‘My co-pilot.’
‘He’s here—he’s in a bad way.’
‘I hope the bastard dies,’ said O’Hara bitterly. ‘He pulled a gun on me.’
‘You were at the controls,’ said Forester, giving him a hard look. ‘You put this plane down here—and I want to know why.’
‘It was Grivas—he forced me to do it.’
‘The señor capitan is right,’ said Rohde. ‘This man Grivas was going to shoot me and the señor capitan hit him.’ He bowed stiffly. ‘Muchas gracias.’
Forester swung round and looked at Rohde, then beyond him to Grivas. ‘Is he conscious?’
O’Hara looked across the cockpit. The side of the fuselage was caved in and a blunt spike of rock had hit Grivas in the chest, smashing his rib cage. It looked as though he wasn’t going to make it, after all. But he was conscious, all right; his eyes were open and he looked at them with hatred.
O’Hara could hear a woman screaming endlessly in the passenger cabin and someone else was moaning monotonously. ‘For Christ’s sake, what’s happened back there?’
No one answered because Grivas began to speak. He mumbled in a low whisper and blood frothed round his mouth. ‘They’ll get you,’ he said. ‘They’ll be here any minute now.’ His lips parted in a ghastly smile. ‘I’ll be all right; they’ll take me to hospital. But you—you’ll…’ He broke off in a fit of coughing and then continued: ‘…they’ll kill the lot of you.’ He lifted up his arm, the fingers curling into a fist. ‘Vivaca…’
The arm dropped flaccidly and the look of hate in his eyes deepened into surprise—surprise that he was dead.
Rohde grabbed him by the wrist and held it for a moment. ‘He’s gone,’ he said.
‘He was a lunatic,’ said O’Hara. ‘Stark, staring mad.’
The woman was still screaming and Forester said, ‘For God’s sake, let’s get everybody out of here.’
Just then the Dakota lurched sickeningly and the whole cockpit rose in the air. There was a ripping sound as the spike of rock that had killed Grivas tore at the aluminium sheathing of the fuselage. O’Hara had a sudden and horrible intuition of what was happening. ‘Nobody move,’ he shouted. ‘Everyone keep still.’
He turned to Forester. ‘Bash in those windows.’
Forester looked in surprise at the axe he was still holding as though he had forgotten it, then he raised it and struck at the opaque windscreen. The plastic filling in the glass sandwich could not withstand his assault and he made a hole big enough for a man to climb through.
O’Hara said, ‘I’ll go through—I think I know what I’ll find. Don’t either of you go back there—not yet. And call through and tell anyone who can move to come up front.’
He squeezed through the narrow gap and was astonished to find that the nose of the Dakota was missing. He twisted and crawled out on to the top of the fuselage and looked aft. The tail and one wing were hanging in space over the valley where the runway ended. The whole aircraft was delicatelybalanced and even as he looked the tail tipped a little and there was a ripping sound from the cockpit.
He twisted on to his stomach and wriggled so that he could look into the cockpit, his head upside-down. ‘We’re in a jam,’ he said to Forester. ‘We’re hanging over a two-hundred-foot drop, and the only thing that’s keeping the whole bloody aeroplane from tipping over is that bit
It was Forester who was administering the punishment, and, as O’Hara opened his eyes, he turned to Rohde who was standing behind him and said, ‘Keep your gun on him.’
Rohde smiled. His gun was in his hand but hanging slackly and pointing to the floor. He made no attempt to bring it up. Forester said, ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’
O’Hara painfully lifted his arm to his head. He had a bump on his skull the size of an egg. He said weakly, ‘Where’s Grivas?’
‘Who is Grivas?’
‘My co-pilot.’
‘He’s here—he’s in a bad way.’
‘I hope the bastard dies,’ said O’Hara bitterly. ‘He pulled a gun on me.’
‘You were at the controls,’ said Forester, giving him a hard look. ‘You put this plane down here—and I want to know why.’
‘It was Grivas—he forced me to do it.’
‘The señor capitan is right,’ said Rohde. ‘This man Grivas was going to shoot me and the señor capitan hit him.’ He bowed stiffly. ‘Muchas gracias.’
Forester swung round and looked at Rohde, then beyond him to Grivas. ‘Is he conscious?’
O’Hara looked across the cockpit. The side of the fuselage was caved in and a blunt spike of rock had hit Grivas in the chest, smashing his rib cage. It looked as though he wasn’t going to make it, after all. But he was conscious, all right; his eyes were open and he looked at them with hatred.
O’Hara could hear a woman screaming endlessly in the passenger cabin and someone else was moaning monotonously. ‘For Christ’s sake, what’s happened back there?’
No one answered because Grivas began to speak. He mumbled in a low whisper and blood frothed round his mouth. ‘They’ll get you,’ he said. ‘They’ll be here any minute now.’ His lips parted in a ghastly smile. ‘I’ll be all right; they’ll take me to hospital. But you—you’ll…’ He broke off in a fit of coughing and then continued: ‘…they’ll kill the lot of you.’ He lifted up his arm, the fingers curling into a fist. ‘Vivaca…’
The arm dropped flaccidly and the look of hate in his eyes deepened into surprise—surprise that he was dead.
Rohde grabbed him by the wrist and held it for a moment. ‘He’s gone,’ he said.
‘He was a lunatic,’ said O’Hara. ‘Stark, staring mad.’
The woman was still screaming and Forester said, ‘For God’s sake, let’s get everybody out of here.’
Just then the Dakota lurched sickeningly and the whole cockpit rose in the air. There was a ripping sound as the spike of rock that had killed Grivas tore at the aluminium sheathing of the fuselage. O’Hara had a sudden and horrible intuition of what was happening. ‘Nobody move,’ he shouted. ‘Everyone keep still.’
He turned to Forester. ‘Bash in those windows.’
Forester looked in surprise at the axe he was still holding as though he had forgotten it, then he raised it and struck at the opaque windscreen. The plastic filling in the glass sandwich could not withstand his assault and he made a hole big enough for a man to climb through.
O’Hara said, ‘I’ll go through—I think I know what I’ll find. Don’t either of you go back there—not yet. And call through and tell anyone who can move to come up front.’
He squeezed through the narrow gap and was astonished to find that the nose of the Dakota was missing. He twisted and crawled out on to the top of the fuselage and looked aft. The tail and one wing were hanging in space over the valley where the runway ended. The whole aircraft was delicatelybalanced and even as he looked the tail tipped a little and there was a ripping sound from the cockpit.
He twisted on to his stomach and wriggled so that he could look into the cockpit, his head upside-down. ‘We’re in a jam,’ he said to Forester. ‘We’re hanging over a two-hundred-foot drop, and the only thing that’s keeping the whole bloody aeroplane from tipping over is that bit
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