if.thunderball-第15章

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second　step　he　was　down　on　his　knees。　He　lurched　sideways　and　collapsed。　Now　the　three　other　men　began　to　fight　for　air；　briefly；　terribly。　The　co…pilot　and　the　flight　engineer　writhed　off　their　stools　together。　They　clawed　vaguely　at　each　other　and　then　fell　back；　spread…eagled。　The　pilot　groped　up　toward　the　microphone　above　his　head；　said　something　indistinctly；　got　half　to　his　feet；　turned　slowly　so　that　his　bulging　eyes；　already　dead；　seemed　to　stare　through　the　hatchway　into　Petacchi's；　and　then　thudded　down　on　top　of　the　body　of　his　co…pilot。
　
　Petacchi　glanced　at　his　watch。　Four　minutes　flat。　Give　them　one　more　minute。　When　the　minute　was　up；　he　took　rubber　gloves　out　of　his　pocket；　put　them　on；　and；　pressing　the　oxygen　mask　tight　against　his　face　and　trailing　the　flexible　tube　behind　him；　went　forward；　reached　down　into　the　map　rack；　and　closed　the　valve　on　the　cylinder　of　cyanide。　He　verified　George　and　adjusted　the　cabin　pressurization　to　help　clear　the　poison　gas。　He　then　went　back　to　his　seat　to　wait　for　fifteen　minutes。
　
　They　had　said　fifteen　would　be　enough；　but　at　the　last　moment　he　gave　it　another　ten　and　then；　still　with　his　oxygen　mask　on；　he　went　forward　again　and　began　slowly；　for　the　oxygen　made　him　rather　breathless；　to　pull　the　bodies　back　into　the　fuselage。　When　the　cockpit　was　clear；　he　took　a　small　phial　of　crystals　out　of　his　trousers　pocket；　took　out　the　cork；　and　sprinkled　the　cabin　floor　with　them。　He　went　down　on　his　knees　and　watched　the　crystals。　They　kept　their　white　color。　He　eased　his　oxygen　mask　away　and　took　a　small　cautious　sniff。　There　was　no　smell。　But　still；　when　he　took　over　the　controls　and　began　easing　the　plane　down　to　32；000　and　then　slightly　northwest…by…west　to　get　into　the　traffic　lane；　he　kept　the　mask　on。
　
　The　giant　plane　whispered　on　into　the　night。　The　cockpit；　bright　with　the　yellow　eyes　of　the　dials；　was　quiet　and　warm。　In　the　deafening　silence　in　the　cockpit　of　a　big　jet　in　flight　there　was　only　the　faint　buzz　of　an　invector。　As　he　verified　the　dials；　the　click　of　each　switch　seemed　as　loud　as　a　small…caliber　pistol　shot。
　
　Petacchi　again　checked　George　with　the　gyro　and　verified　each　fuel　tank　to　see　that　they　were　all　feeding　evenly。　One　tank　pump　needed　adjustment。　The　jet…pipe　temperatures　were　not　overheating。
　
　Satisfied；　Petacchi　settled　himself　fortably　in　the　pilot's　seat　and　swallowed　a　benezedrine　tablet　and　thought　about　the　future。　One　of　the　headphones　scattered　on　the　floor　of　the　cockpit　began　to　chirrup　loudly。　Petacchi　glanced　at　his　watch。　Of　course！　Bosbe　Air　Traffic　Control　was　trying　to　raise　the　Vindicator。　He　had　missed　the　third　of　the　half…hourly　calls。　How　long　would　Air　Control　wait　before　alerting　Air　Sea　Rescue；　Bomber　mand；　and　the　Air　Ministry？　There　Would　first　be　checks　and　double…checks　with　the　Southern　Rescue　Center。　They　would　probably　take　another　half　hour；　and　by　that　time　he　would　be　well　out　over　the　Atlantic。
　
　The　chirrup　of　the　headphones　went　quiet。　Petacchi　got　up　from　his　seat　and　took　a　look　at　the　radar　screen。　He　watched　it　for　some　time；　noting　the　occasional　〃blip〃　of　planes　being　overhauled　below　him。　Would　his　own　swift　passage　above　the　air　corridor　be　noted　by　the　planes　as　he　passed　above　them？　Unlikely。　The　radar　on　mercial　planes　has　a　limited　field　of　vision　in　a　forward　cone。　He　would　almost　certainly　not　be　spotted　until　he　crossed　the　Defense　Early　Warning　line；　and　DEW　would　probably　put　him　down　as　a　mercial　jet　that　had　strayed　above　its　normal　channel。
　
　Petacchi　went　back　to　the　pilot's　seat　and　again　minutely　checked　the　dials。　He　weaved　the　plane　gently　to　get　the　feel　of　the　controls。　Behind　him；　the　bodies　on　the　floor　of　the　fuselage　stirred　uneasily。　The　plane　answered　perfectly。　It　was　like　driving　a　beautiful　quiet　motor　car。　Petacchi　dreamed　briefly　of　the　Maserati。　What　color？　Better　not　his　usual　white；　or　anything　spectacular。　Dark　blue　with　a　thin　red　line　along　the　coachwork。　Something　quiet　and　respectable　that　would　fit　in　with　his　new；　quiet　identity。　It　would　be　fun　to　run　her　in　some　of　the　trials　and　road　races…even　the　Mexican　〃2000。〃　But　that　would　be　too　dangerous。　Supposing　he　won　and　his　picture　got　into　the　papers！　No。　He　would　have　to　cut　out　anything　like　that。　He　would　only　drive　the　car　really　fast　when　he　wanted　to　get　a　girl。　They　melted　in　a　fast　car。　Why　was　that？　The　sense　of　surrender　to　the　machine；　to　the　man　whose　strong；　sunburned　hands　were　on　the　wheel？　But　it　was　always　so。　You　turned　the　car　into　a　wood　after　ten　minutes　at　150　and　you　would　almost　have　to　lift　the　girl　out　and　lay　her　down　on　the　moss；　her　limbs　would　be　so　trembling　and　soft。
　
　Petacchi　pulled　himself　out　of　the　daydream。　He　glanced　at　his　watch。　The　Vindicator　was　already　four　hours　out。　At　600　m。p。h。　one　certainly　covered　the　miles。　The　coastline　of　America　should　be　on　the　screen　by　now。　He　got　up　and　had　a　look。　Yes；　there；　500　miles　away；　was　the　coastline　map　already　in　high　definition；　the　bulge　that　was　Boston；　and　the　silvery　creek　of　the　Hudson　River。　No　need　to　check　his　position　with　weather　ships　Delta　or　Echo　that　would　be　somewhere　below　him。　He　was　dead　on　course　and　it　would　soon　be　time　to　turn　off　the　East…West　channel。
　
　Petacchi　went　back　to　his　seat；　munched　another　benezedrine　tablet；　and　consulted　his　chart。　He　got　his　hands　to　the　controls　and　watched　the　eerie　glow　of　the　gyro　pass。　Now！　He　eased　the　controls　gently　round　in　a　fairly　tight　curve；　then　he　flattened　out　again；　edged　the　plane　exactly　on　to　its　new　course；　and　reset　George。　Now　he　was　flying　due　south；　now　he　was　on　the　last　lap；　a　bare　three　hours　to　go。　It　was　time　to　start　worrying　about　the　landing。
　
　Petacchi　took　out　his　little　notebook。　〃Watch　for　the　lights　of　Grand　Bahama　to　port；　and　Palm　Beach　to　starboard。　Be　ready　to　pick　up　the　navigational　aids　from　No。　1's　yacht…dot…dot…dash；　dot…dot…dash；　jettison　fuel；　lose　height　to　around　1000　feet　for　the　last　quarter　of　an　hour；　kill　speed　with　the　air　brakes；　and　lose　more　height。　Watch　out　for　the　flashing　red　beacon　and　prepare　for　the　final　approach。　Flaps　down　only　at　the　check　altitude　with　about　140　knots　indicated。　Depth　of　water　will　be　40　feet。　You　will　have　plenty　of　time　to　get　out　of　the　escape　hatch。　You　will　be　taken　on　board　No。　1's　yacht。　There　is　a　Bahamas　Airways　flight　to　Miami　at　8：30　on　the　next　morning　and　then　Braniff　or　Real　Airlines　for　the　rest　of　the　way。　No。　1　will　give　you　the　money　in　1000…dollar　bills　or　in　Travellers　Cheques。　He　will　have　both　available；　also　the　passport　in　the　name　of　Enrico　Valli；　pany　Director。〃
　
　Petacchi　checked　his　position；　course；　and　speed。　Only　one　more　hour　to　go。　It　was　three　a。m。　G。M。T。；　nine　p。m。　Nassau　time。　A　full　moon　was　ing　up　and　the　carpet　of　clouds　10；000　feet　below　was　a　snow…field。　Petacchi　dowsed　the　collision　lights　on　his　wingtips　and　fuselage。　He　checked　the　fuel：　2000　gallons　including　the　reserve　tanks。　He　would　need　500　for　the　last　four　hundred　miles。　He　pulled　the　release　valve　on　the　reserve　tanks　and　lost　1000　gallons。　With　the　loss　of　weight　the　plane　began　to　climb　slowly　and　he　corrected　back　to　32；000。　Now　there　was　twenty　minutes　to　go…time　to　begin　the　long　descent。　。　。　。
　
　***
　
　Down　through　the　cloud　base；　the　moments　of　blindness　and　then；　far　below；　the　sparse　lights　of　North　and　South　Bimini　winked　palely　against　the　silver　sheen　of　the　moon　on　the　quiet　sea。　There　were　no　whitecaps。　The　met。　report　he　had　picked　up　from　Vero　Beach　on　the　American　mainland　had　been　right：　〃Dead　calm；　light　airs　from　the　northeast；　visibility　good；　no　immediate　likelihood　of　change；〃　and　a　check　on　the　fainter　Nassau　Radio　had　confirmed。　The　sea　looked　as　smooth　and　as　solid　as　steel。　This　was　going　to　be　all　right。　Petacchi　dialed　Channel　67　on　the　pilot's　mand　set　to　pick　up　No。　1's　navigational　aid。　He　had　a　moment's　panic　when　he　didn't　hit　it　at　once；　but　then　he　got　it；　faint　but　clear…dot…dot…dash；　dot…dot…dash。　It　was　time　to　get　right　down。　Petacchi　began　to　kill　his　speed　with　the　air　brakes　and　cut　down　the　four　jets。　The　great　plane　began　a　shallow　dive。　The　radio　altimeter　became　vocal；　threatening。　Petacchi　watched　it　and　the　sea　of　quicksilver　below　him。　He　had　a　moment　when　the　horizon　was　lost。　There　was　so　much　reflection　off　the　moonlit　water。　Then　he　was　on　and　over　a　small　dark　island。　It　gave　him　confidence　in　the　2000　feet　indicated　on　the　altimeter。　He　pulled　out　of　the　shallow　dive　and　held　the　plane　steady。
　
　Now　No。　1's　beacon　was　ing　in　loud　and　clear。　Soon　he　would　see　the　red　flashing　light。　And　there　it　was；　perhaps　five　miles　dead　ahead。　Petacchi　inched　the　great　nose　of　the　plane　down。　Any　moment　now！　It　was　going　to　be　easy！　His　fingers　played　with　the　controls　as　delicately　as　if　they　were　the　erotic　trigger　points　on　a　woman。　Five　hundred　feet；　four　hundred；　three；　two　。　。　。　There　was　the　pale　shape　of　the　yacht；　lights　dowsed。　He　was　dead　on　line　with　the　red　flash　of　the　beacon。　Would　he　hit　it？　Never　mind。　Inch　her　down；　down；　down。　Be　ready　to　switch　off　at　once。　The　belly　of　the　plane　gave　a　jolt。　Up　with　the　nose！　Crash！　A　leap　in　the　air　and　then　。　。　。　crash　again！　Petacchi　unhinged　his　cramped　fingers　from　the　controls；　and　gazed　numbly　out　of　the　window　at　the　foam　and　small　waves。　By　God　he　had　done　it！　He；　Giuseppe　Petacchi；　had　done　it！　Now　for　the　applause！　Now　for　the　rewards！　The　plane　was　settling　slowly　and　there　was　a　hiss　of　steam　from　the　submerging　jets。　From　behind　him　came　the　rip　and　crack　of　tearing　metal　as　the　tail　section　gaped　open　where　the　back　of　the　plane　had　broken。　Petacchi　went　through　into　the　fuselage。　The　water　swirled　around　his　feet。　The　filtering　moonlight　glittered　white　on　the　upturned　face　of　one　of　the　corpses　now　soggily　awash　at　the　rear　of　the　plane。　Petacchi　broke　the　perspex　cover　to　the　handle　of　the　port　side　emergency　exit　and　jerked　the　handle　down。　The　door　fell　outward　and　Petacchi　stepped　through　and　walked　out　along　the　wing。
　
　The　big　jolly…boat　was　almost　up　with　the　plane。　There　were　six　men　in　it。　Petacchi　waved　and　shouted　delightedly。　One　man　raised　a　hand　in　reply。　The　faces　of　the　men；　milk…white　under　the　moon；　looked　up　at　him　quietly；　curiously。　Petacchi　thought：　These　men　are　very　serious；　very　businesslike。　It　is　right　so。　He　swallowed　his　triumph　and　also　looked　grave。
　
　The　boat　came　alongside　the　wing；　now　almost　awash；　and　one　man　climbed　up　on　to　the　wing　and　walked　toward　him。　He　was　a　short；　thick　man　with　a　very　direct　gaze。　He　walked　carefully；　his　feet　well　apart　and　his　knees　flexed　to　keep　his　balance。　His　left　hand　was　hooked　in　his　belt。
　
　Petacchi　said　happily；　〃Good　evening。　Good　evening。　I　am　delivering　one　plane　in　good　condition。〃　（He　had　thought　the　joke　out　long　before。）　〃Please　sign　here。〃　He　held　out　his　hand。
　
　The　man　from　the　jolly…boat　took　the　hand　in　a　strong　grasp；　braced　himself；　and　pulled　sharply。　Petacchi's　head　was　flung　back　by　the　quick　jerk　and　he　was　looking　full　into　the　eyes　of　the　moon　as　the　stiletto　flashed　up　and　under　the　offered　chin；　through　the　roof　of　the　mouth；　into　the　brain。　He　knew　nothing　but　a　moment's　surprise；　a　sear　of　pain；　and　an　e