The Tango Briefing q-5

by Adam Hall

  'That is the only possible flight pattern we can use.'

  'Taking us within seven kilometres of this end listening post.' I'd begun sweating. 'What d'you imagine their effective range is? About fifty?'

  'Perhaps.'

  He was sitting perfectly still and I knew he was waiting for me to blow up in his face but I wasn't going to do it because it wouldn't help us and Christ we needed help and a new question was coming into my mind and I tried to get rid of it before it could do any harm, before it could bring down the last few bricks of the mission that still appeared to be standing. But it wouldn't go.

  Question. When does a director in the field start losing his sense of proportion? When does the strain of watching the slow demolition of his plans begin to tell on him and take him beyond the point where reason can only be ignored with fatal results?When does he break?

  Perhaps it is when he finishes up sitting in a helicopter on the edge of the Sahara in the early hours of a sleepless night and awaiting the dawn of a hopeless day, his hands lying unnerved on a map where the only uncharted feature is the ruin he knows is there but refuses to recognize: those last few tumbled bricks of the thing he was trying too hard to build.

  I wouldn't expect a man like Loman to abandon a mission if success or even survival looked unattainable. I would expect him to keep on working at it, no longer for what he could make of it but for its own sake, once it had gone beyond the stage where any useful purpose remained. I would expect him to become obsessive, to make a shrine of it: and I would expect him to regard his executive in the field as a natural sacrifice.

  'Loman,' I said, 'when did you get London's directive on this end-phase?'

  He was now genuinely surprised, couldn't follow me.

  'Just before 03.00 hours.'

  I didn't think he'd actually lie about a thing like that. I didn't think he'd lost his reason: I just thought reason was now being subjugated to the point where he might have me killed off for nothing.

  'Have they been given total intelligence on the disposition of those listening-posts?'

  Then he saw what I meant.

  'I'm sorry, Quiller. The objective has to be destroyed. London insists.'

  'For what reason?'

  Because you can ask questions if you think your life is being moved into a specific hazard: they don't bind your hands behind you and drive you blindfold against the cannon.

  'There are two reasons,' Loman said. He sounded perfectly calm and I thought this is how they sound when their fantasies have had to take control of them to save them from the reality they can't any longer face. 'It requires several days of exposure to the ultra-violet rays in sunlight to alter the atomic structure of Zylon-K-Gamma and render it harmless. If anyone attempted to move the cargo in that aeroplane, not knowing what it was, enough gas could be spilled to wipe out the population of Kaifra, particularly since theGhibli is a south wind. The United Kingdom would be responsible. Secondly a nuclear explosion would not only change the atomic structure of the gas instantaneously, but would obliterate the aeroplane: and this is essential. It will be known that a new BCW weapon was being manufactured in the UK long after the banning of such weapons by the Geneva Convention, and even though it was done clandestinely it can only be embarrassing and the Government will have to explain how it was allowed to occur. This is bad enough. It would be disastrous at this moment when Israel and the Arab world confront each other if it were also known that a consignment of chemical warfare gas had been flown from the UK to North Africa. Allow meto borrow the old cliche of a spark in a powder barrel.'

  I watched his reflection in the glass of the black-dialled chronometer. He was looking at me, waiting. His face was as calm as his speech had been: reaction-concealment was second nature to him and that was why I was worried when he'd suddenly sagged a few minutes ago.

  He would remain perfectly calm, I assumed, after his mind had slipped its focus. He would give careful and cogent reasons for driving his executive headlong against the cannon.

  Decision necessary: stay with the mission or get out. Trust this efficient and merciless little bastard all the way or take a step back and see him for what he might be: an intelligence director turned psychopath.

  Chirac, a dark figure against the pale flank of the dune,waiting. The chronometer ticking in the quietness, the face of Loman reflected on the dial, waiting.

  Do what he says and do it even if you know it's likely to kill you, even if you know he'll never grieve. Or save yourself, tell him no.

  The scream of a ferret in the dark.

  Or refusal.

  19: EPITAPH

  The slam of the wind and the known world gone, the sky on the ground and the sand overhead, spinning. Sink rate rising.

  Tumbling now and a lot of noise and the collar of his flying-suit flapping because the zip had pulled open when I'd jumped. Chirac had lent it to me. helping me on with it in the pre-dawn cold. A good man, Chirac, a man I'd like to see again and probably never would.Adieu, mon ami.

  It was a low level drop at low speed and the conditions were different from the first time: he'd only given me two hundred feet to do it and that wasn't much, even over sand, but he said there was rising ground towards the north-east, the remains of an eroded escarpment, and it could conceivably bounce our acoustic irradiation and fox the scanners, you never know your luck. You've got to try everything when you haven't got a hope in hell, everything.

  Blood pooling in the head, the eyes swollen, the air noise very loud and the terminal velocity coming up close to a hundred knots so pull the thing, lying awkwardly face up but there's not much room left sopull it.

  Canopy deployed.

  Pendulous oscillation setting in and I tried to control it with the shroud lines but couldn't, hadn't the strength, because the opening shock had jerked me upright like a puppet and the harness webbing had bitten into old bruises and all I could do was hang in the air getting my breath, nausea threatening because of the oscillation, fight it.

  Swing, swing, swing.

  Cheer up, the worst is over, so forth.

  Very queasy and I got hold of a line, two lines, pulled on them, an improvement, going almost straight down like a shuttle-cock. Don't think about the ground: it's not going to be comfortable so we'll just settle for that and shut up about it.

  I caught sight of the supply 'chute three times during the drop, lower than I was because I'd shoved it overboard before I'd jumped, and not bad timing: it was nearer the rock outcrop, almost on top of it.

  It would have been nice, yes, if Chirac could have landed me in his Alouette and waited for the estimated forty minutes while I fiddled with the thing and then taken me away before the bang went off, a civilized approach to the end-phase of a mission, a taxi for the executive in the field. But the listening-posts were going to pick us up on their scanners unless the rising ground to the north-east diffused our sound-wake enough to fox them, and there was a chance they'd take us for a prospecting crew or one of the Algerian desert-reconnaissance machines.

  But if Chirac put her down they'd get an immediate fix on our position and I wouldn't have time to set up the bang before we got smothered in ticks. No go.

  Sand coming up fast don't think about it.

  The first light of the day was spilling across the horizon, touching the tips of the rocks with rose and colouring the crests of the dunes and leaving the last of the night pooled in the hollows. Chirac had done his homework and the timing had been precise. With the opposition cells alerted by the Marauder's switch to South 6 we couldn't hope to repeat a night approach by sailplane: this time we had to go right into the target area with a zero margin of error so that I could set up the device as soon as I landed, trigger it and leave an escape-delay on the detonator sufficient to get me clear.

  Nor could we night-fly the mission all the way because dead-reckoning was out of the question: it would demanda margin of error and we couldn't afford one. Chirac had to see the rock outcrop, home in on it and ove
rfly, and do itwithout altering speed so that the doppler factor would remainconstant on the scanners. Nor could we fly by daylight all theway without being seen, even if we flew at dune level the south.

  So Chirac had flown through the last of the dark with an ETA of dawn plus one over the target area and he'd got it spot on.

  I could still hear him, heading south-west for Ghadamis on a decoy run before he turned back to Kaifra.

  Estimate five seconds to go, relax or you'll break a joint.

  I tried to turn bodily but it set up the first swing of an oscillation and I didn't want to land at an angle so I stopped. In any case there was no problem: the supply 'chute had been close to the rocks when I'd last sighted it.

  The decision had been made rather formally. He is like that, Loman. Even when the chances of a successful end-phase are almost nil and he's staring straight into the brick dust as the mission collapses he remains rather formal.

  The situation, Quiller, is simply this. Even if we have only a one per cent chance of completing our mission, London would appreciate our making the attempt.

  Then he'd got out of the observer's seat and dropped on to the sand and walked away in the direction opposite from Chirac's, to stand there with his back to me. His gesture was symbolic, accurate and characteristic: he couldn't go far from the helicopter because if I accepted the end-phase we'd have to take off in three minutes, so he went as far as he could and indicated by turning his back that he was to all intents and purposes out of sight. The final decision was to be my own and no pressure was to be put on me by my director in the field, even by his presence.

  Ground close watch it.

  The situation, Quiller, is simply this. Even if you have only a one per cent chance of surviving the end-phase, London would appreciate your making the attempt.

  One always has to paraphrase just a little, with Loman.

  Then I'd called to Chirac to start up and I was here because I was an old ferret sharp of tooth and I knew my warrens and I'd run them before and I'd run them again because the chance I believe in is the one-per-center and that is the way of things, as I see them. Pure logic, of course: the high risks of my trade drew me to it and that is why I ply it, and the greater the risk the more I am drawn and when the risk is expressed as a one per cent chance of survival then I'm hooked and damned and hell-bound and don't get in my way.

  Their mall heads, I suppose, were raised there among the shadowed crevices of rock as I drifted down, a great circular petal reflected in their gold-rimmed eyes.

  Side of a dune and I was badly placed and pitched flat and the sand burst and I blacked out.

  The supply 'chute was draped across a spur of rock like a sheet hung out to dry. The shroud lines were badly twisted and I had to cut some of them before I could free the two containers, and with each jerk of the knife everything went red again and I had to rest, leaning on the hot surface of the rocks. When I could manage it I dragged the canopy down and folded it and stuffed it into a fissure: all they needed was a landmark but we were all right at the moment because there were some vultures coasting not far away and they'd have sheered off if there were any aircraft about.

  When I'd looked at the containers I went across to the niche in the rocks where I'd left my camp. Chirac had found the transceiver when he'd come for me last evening, and stowed it here out of the sun's direct heat.

  Tango.

  Loman wasn't going to like it.

  He would have been trying to call me up, I knew that, but I hadn't set to receive before I'd dragged the canopy out of sight. Chirac would have picked him up in thegassi an hour ago and dropped him somewhere near base and since then he'd been trying to call me and by this time he'd be certain we'd failed and he was right and he wasn't going to like it when I told him.

  Tango receiving.

  I could hear them scuttling, perhaps in fright at his voice, sharp and metallic and amplified. I said I was in the target area.

  What was the delay?

  Bad landing

  Are you injured?

  No.

  Then I saw the vultures drifting away and knew that there wasn't any doubt left: we'd hit a dead end. We'd thought this mission had an all-or-nothing end-phase, either I'd blow Tango Victor off the face of the earth or the opposition would get her and kill me before I could do it. The idea of a compromise hadn't occurred to us: that I'd get here for nothing, and too late.

  I would appreciate your situation report.

  Talked like a bloody schoolteacher. I'd soon stop that.

  We've had it, Loman. The timer's been smashed.

  Five seconds.

  Please repeat.

  I suppose he had a point. When you're sending the last signal of a mission you might as well make it clear what you're saying, if only for the record.

  The supply 'chute came down on the rock outcrop and the impact has smashed the timing mechanism.

  A longer pause. I waited, listening to the sky.

  My lips tasted salty, had blood on them. It had been dripping on to the shale and I'd only just noticed it and I wiped my hand across, well, what would you expect, I'd hit the side of the dune with my face and opened the stitches.

  Loman asked

  What is that noise?

  Helicopters.

  Silence from the black speaker-grille.

  In his mind he was trying to reorganize the end-phase, signalling London for directives, recreating the ruins I'd just told him about. And he couldn't do it.

  How long have they been there?

  About a minute and a half.

  How far away?

  Five kilometres, maybe six.

  I watched them. There were three of them.

  What is your situation appraisal?

  I wiped my hand across my mouth again.

  They got us on the scanners but not too accurately. They're starting a square search due east of me, three of them.

  Are they moving towards your position?

  No. Directly away, at right-angles.

  I didn't see it could matter. I didn't see it could matter to him or the mission or London because if they found me I was a dead duck and if they didn't find me there wasn't anything I could do here. I wished he'd stop asking questions, too tired for it, not on form.

  Are they military aircraft or civilian?

  Oh for Christ's sake Loman we've had it, I've told you the timer's been smashed, didn't you hear me?

  Are they military, or civilian?

  I shut myeyes, let them water, sand had got into them when I'd hit the dune.

  Ten seconds.

  I can't see from this distance. They're close to the sun.

  I am going off the air for thirty minutes but please keep open to receive.

  Silence.

  Thirty minutes: he'd signal London now for a directive, ask them what to do, but there was nothing to do. He'd tell Diane to use the phone and contact Chirac and request him to stand by with the helicopter but it'd only be a gesture because Chirac wouldn't be able to pick me up without exposing the target area and if he came in after they'd found me there wouldn't be anything to pick up anyway, nothing alive.

  I opened my eyes and squinted towards the horizon. The three choppers were moving back along their initial course, farther south by one prescribed strip of their sweep. They could see these rocks but they couldn't see me because I was in shadow and sighting through a gap in the shale. I'd buried my 'chute under the sand before I'd come here, and last evening Chirac had taken down the fabric shelter I'd set up near the plane, so there was nothing for them to see.

  The birds had come down five hundred yards away and I watched them. They'd obviously been there when I'd landed and the 'chute had startled them and now they were back, feeding on the pilot and navigator. The helicopter crews couldn't have noticed them or they'd come to investigate because they'd know that the presence of vultures marked the presence of recent life.

  Urge to sleep now overwhelming. I took a final look at the ti
mer to make sure it hadn't been the subject of hallucination but it hadn't changed: two of the brass lugs were snapped off near the flange and half the main body of the mechanism had been so badly impacted that I could see one of the intermediary gear-trains lying askew and thrown out of mesh. Strictly no go.

  I crawled deeper between the rocks because of the dark nightmare shapes over there: they reminded me of terror and I didn't want them to see me, to come for me in my sleep.

  My eyes closed and the great weight of my head came to rest against the rock-face, a last thought, we got close, tell London we got close.

  Said I could hear him.

  Caught me in a low sleep-curve, groggy.

  Zenith 06.31.

  I have been in signals with London.

  They were still there, I could just catch their distant purring, throp-throp-throp.

  Can you hear me?

  Hear you.

  What is the position of the helicopters now?

  Damn his eyes, won't ever leave you alone.

  I reached for the water bottle and got the cap off and drank, tasting the blood on my mouth. The sun's heat was beginning to strike into the niche and I couldn't get my legs in the shade. Took my time, thirsty, and he said could I hear him and I didn't answer till I'd finished my drink because that was more important. Then I told him

  They're shifting to a second square.

  How clearly can you see them?

  About distance shot.

  Could they see you, if you went into the open?

  No.

  Of course I should have known.

  Will you please verify that the timing mechanism is out of action, irreparably?

  Verified.

  Is there any damage to the main components?

  No.

  Please verify.

  I should have known by his insistence on these things.

  There's no external damage. The timer took the shock.

  What is your physical condition?

  I need sleep.

  He considered this.