The Tango Briefing q-5

by Adam Hall

  Are you capable of carrying the device as far as the freighter?

  Should have known, shouldn't I, what he was going to do to me.

  Perfectly capable.

  Silence for half a minute. I thought he was calculating something. Maybe he was.

  Quiller.

  Hear you.

  London would like you to proceed with the end-phase.

  How the hell can I do that if the timer won't -

  I didn't finish.

  Got it now.

  The sun was burning on my legs and I drew them up, forcing myself higher against the rock-face, the effort increasing the circulation and bringing me fully awake. I would have to think about this. He was saying:

  Control has asked me to point out that your action would be seen as generous, and therefore much appreciated.

  Death sentence.

  Civil of them.

  He didn't say anything; I suppose he was giving me time to think. They were all being very considerate.

  Give me ten minutes, Loman, will you?

  Of course. There's no immediate hurry.

  I clipped the mike back and stared through the cleft in the rocks. They were still at it, their ragged plumage fluttering as they jerked about, hooking at the meat. That, at least, I would be spared.

  Of course the potential expendability of an executive is part of the contract and we know what we're signing. The Bureau is the sacred bull and its first credo is that the mission is more important than the man, otherwise you wouldn't be issued with a capsule if you wanted one, on your way through clearance. And after all, providing you accept the fact at any given time during an operation that you've become expendable the actual means of despatch don't matter: all we ask is that it shall be quick and the only thing quicker than a cyanide pill is putting your thumb on a nuclear detonator.

  I couldn't assess my chances when they shifted their search over this area and found me: the thing was that I'd want to initiate some kind of hostile action and they'd finish me anyway. That situation was entirely academic in any case because if London wanted me to complete the mission I'd have time to do it before I was seen.

  And I didn't have any choice. I had contracted to hazard my life if the needs of a mission demanded and that was that. I was only taking time out to think about it because if there was an alternative I wanted to use it, but I knew there wasn't one: Loman would throw me to the dogs if it suited his purposes and his present purposes were to go back to London with his instructions carried out and Tango Victor obliterated. Technically there wasn't an alternative because we didn't have time to send for a new delay-mechanism and without one the onlyway to detonate was to press the button myself.

  Sense of unreality creeping on me because the whole thing was so calculated: I'd come close to dying in Tunis among the flying glass and in Kaifra when the marksman had me in his sights but there'd been no time to think about it, and now there was.

  Bloody little organism up on its back legs and whining, don't want to die,shuddup.

  My ten minutes wasn't up but I'd had all the time I needed and it was no good sitting here with this strange hollow feeling, the almost physical sensation of the life blood beginning to drain away. Possibly normal: a question of mind over matter and when the mind knows that death is imminent the body starts dying automatically, it happens in Africa, put a curse on a man and he'll die without a mark on him.

  Irrelevant.

  Mission running, end-phase initiated, instructions perfectly, clear, so go on, pick up that mike.

  Loman.

  Receiving you.

  Just tell me again, will you, what exactly I'm going to achieve?

  No change of tone when he spoke. He'd known I'd have to do it. He'd known, earlier this morning when he'd walked across the sand and stood with his back to me, that I wouldn't refuse. And so had I.

  They're bastards in London, mean with the money and slow on promotion and that sort of thing, but certain gestures are made in the name of decency: despite the contracts we sign they like us to feel that we're not irrevocably committed, that when the crunch comes we'll still have a part in the decision-making. But it's only a gesture, the same as being asked if you'd like a blindfold before the bolts click back.

  It is less a question of what you'll achieve than of what you will vouchsafe your country to avoid. If the objective is not destroyed, the influence of the United Kingdom at the international conference tables will be greatly enfeebled, and her work for peace tragically undermined.

  I waited but that was all he said. The second half of the equation was tacit: compared with these disastrous eventualities, what value had the life of one man?

  All right, Loman.

  Pause.

  You are prepared to complete your mission?

  Did you think 1'd back out?

  No.

  Never make a mistake, do you?

  Wished I hadn't said it but an hour from now he'd be alive and I wouldn't and I hated him for that, for that alone and for nothing else.

  The most important mistake I could have made, Quiller, would have been to choose an executive in the field with a sense of responsibility less admirable than your own. Please accept my compliments.

  A certain style: the man had a certain style, give him that.

  Good of you.

  She'd be there, I supposed, listening and not liking it, her own fault, she shouldn't have looked for work in this trade, her downy arms and her sooty face and her quick little way of nodding, all I knew, really.

  Loman, is that girl there?

  Yes. Do you want to -

  No. Just do something for me. Get her out of it when this mission's over, get her out of this bloody trade, it's not for her. Do that for me.

  Then it occurred to me that this was the final signal, so I ended it the way the little bastard would want me to, right out of the copy-book.

  Tango out.

  20: DETONATION

  They flew up screaming as I neared them, one of them with meat hanging from its beak. I remembered them from the nightmare, and had to stand still for a while, the sweat running on me, until something inside the spirit of a dying man was roused to his last needs, and I managed to go on towards the freighter, the weight of the two containers slowing my feet through the sand.

  The birds didn't go far away: I'd interrupted their feeding and by the time I reached the doorway they'd settled again. I thought it odd how the chemical processes of life were still going on: a minute ago I'd drunk the last of the water, and these birds were busy absorbing nourishment, but very soon we would no longer exist. The scene was surrealistic: a man and some birds perpetuating the motions of life in a desert landscape, without purpose.

  The influence of the United Kingdom at the international conference tables,so forth. Purpose, yes.

  I took great care going into the freighter because some of the cylinders had been lying at an angle and could fall if I caused vibration. This is characteristic of the end-phase of a mission: you take pains to see that at the eleventh hour you don't wreck everything you've been working for.

  I didn't think I could go into the actual freight section and set up the device without the risk of inhaling gas: the movement of my feet could stir up the bubble pooling there. The flight-deck wasn't contaminated because it was at a higher level, so I carried the containers inside and slid the door closed after me, switching on the torch.

  Stifling heat, tendency to claustrophobia, not because the cabin was small but because I knew I would never leave it in the form of a living creature. Rapid increase of sweating, pulse accelerated, mouth dry: the organism mortally afraid and the forebrain alone driving it on, forcing its hands, arranging the movement of its fingers, performing the necessary motion's that would assemble the black-painted components as required.

  Annular clamp, the brass threads smelling of silicone lubricant and an additive, the toggle action precise and almost silent as I brought the levers home and set the pins.

&n
bsp; By-pass conduit, the channels lined up by a sprung ball-and-socket: I listened for the click and the lingering musical tone of the spring.

  Main body-locking, the three-start thread fairly coarse, but even so there was provision for alignment by sighting, to avoid the risk of crossing them. Push-fit pin location, precise to less than a thousandth: the entire mechanism was built to maximum-security specifications, giving me confidence in it.

  It had to perform with absolute satisfaction and somewhere in the last confused interplay of thoughts I felt adamant about this: since I was prepared to detonate it I didn't want it to fail me because of slip-shod work at some stage during its manufacture.

  Oven heat.

  Aware of my breathing, rather loud in the confines and faster than normal. Sweat in the eyes, stinging. Some area of the brain noting the immediate environment, instinct plus training: appraisal of physical factors in hazardous situation. Instruments and controls, parachutes, pair of tennis shoes in the open locker, carved teakwood statuette, copy ofPlayboy, so forth. Nothing significant.

  As I worked I could hear them cackling outside. The sand was still piled against the Perspex windows and I couldn't see them but they were much in my mind, adding to the incipient terror that was trying to overwhelm conscious thought.

  Cackle cackle.

  The awful thing was that I couldn't hear them without seeing them in my imagination, tugging and pulling as they fed. If they'd been doing anything else, if they'd simply been flying around like ordinary birds, they would have kept me company in these last minutes. As it was, the world I was leaving had the aspect of nightmare.

  But I was ready now.

  The activator was a cylindrical spigot, not very different from a press-button but two inches across, its surface grooved to mate with the grooves I'd seen on the timing-mechanism. The extent of travel was less than half an inch, the extent by which the activator stood proud of the casing. Thumb pressure would suffice: the mechanism of the timer had been sensitive rather than heavy. I put my thumb on the grooved surface.

  The organism was at this point in a state of excitation: the blind instinct to preserve itself was in fierce conflict with the will. I think it would have been easier for me if I'd been in fit condition: there wouldn't have been this need to drive a bruised and terrified subconscious into contributing to the final act of extinction. In the confused cerebral state there was only one area with any kind of ability to reason, and here the technician in me was observing the situation in his own terms, and noting things like the complementary factors of requirements and facilities available, the requirements being to press the activator and detonate the device, the facilities being my thumb and its motor nerves.

  At some time this idea became linked with philosophicalconsiderations containing a marked awareness of self: the activator has to be pressed, therefore all we need is pressure; I can exert pressure with my thumb, but I'd rather it were something else because if I press this thing with my thumb it's going to kill me.

  Cerebration is very fast and I doubt whether more than half a minute had passed before the whole idea took shape. I could still hear them cackling, and another sound, a kind of secret laughter, gloating and vengeful, rising from the vortex of myown subliminal.

  Vaguely aware that I was laughing at the birds out there, the horrible sounds inside me echoing theirs, but not a lot of time to think about it, the need was to move back from the edge of clinical hysteria and perform acts.

  The first was to remove my thumb from the detonator.

  Of the various objects on the flight-deck I thought the carved teakwood statuette was most suitable. For a little while I held it, feeling its shape with my fingertips. It was a couple of feet long, the carving quite good except where the tool had slipped and one of the feet had been narrowed; or it could have been damaged at some time and the break smoothed off. It was Nahudian, obviously a god, wide nosed and with tribal markings on the forehead, a burning brand held at the side: perhaps it was N'Gami, god of lightning.

  Other material was available and I wedged the nuclear device on its flat end between the seats and moved the throttle levers parallel with each other, driving the feet of the statuette between them to inhibit lateral movement. At the other end I used the parachute packs as lateral guides, so that N'Gami's body lay horizontal, his head resting on the grooved activator. And while I made these simple arrangements the unnerving muted laughter went on inside my skull, echoing the noise of the birds outside, perhaps defying them.

  Because it would be difficult to do,what I would have to do now. I had done it before, to save my life; and I would do it again, to save my life; but this time it would be more difficult because I would have to make myself do it, in cold blood. Nevertheless, I would do it.

  The daylight struck in as I slid the door open, and for a minute I stood listening, my eyes closed against the glare. But the noise of the birds overlaid the more distant sound and I had to go outside before I could note the difference in volume: the helicopters had moved westwards and were flying the same north-south pattern. I could see them more easily now because they were nearer, but their configuration was much larger than mine and I discounted the immediate risk of my being seen on the ground.

  On this side of the freighter, the lee side, the sand had barely drifted across the top of the cabin, and I climbed them, feeling the solidity of the mainplane root somewhere under me. As I dug with my right hand, bringing the sand away, I saw that Tango Victor had been overtaken by a storm and had turned to head into it, some time before landing blind: the flight-deck windows were abrased to the point of opaqueness. But they were translucent, and that was all I needed.

  Then I came down and looked at the birds against the glare coming up from the sand, nausea starting in me and bringing doubts whether I could do it. The heat pressed on my back and I stood swaying, watching them.

  All right, they were merely feeding and we all do that, all living creatures have to feed; but it was their ruby-red eyes and the fact that their meat had once been man.

  Sleep was trying to blot everything out: fatigue plus the soporific after-effects of the gas, and this was dangerous because there was a chance of staying alive if I made an effort, pity to let it all, slope of sand and my hand to break theget up spin of the blinding skyget up you bloody fool, near one.

  That was a near one all right.

  Stupid bastard, get moving, do what you've got to do, think where you are: no more water left and the tissues already drying out, helicopters moving closer, a matter of half an hour before they're over here, you going to stand here till you drop, stay here till you fry, Christ sake put some effort into this thing or you've had it and you know that.

  Still hadn't moved but now I did, going down the slope towards them, jerk jerk, cackle cackle, towards them.

  When I was within a dozen yards of them the nearest one flew up, shrieking its alarm cry. The others chorused it instinctively, some moving away but all turning to face me, one lifting its ragged wings and waddling towards me, threatening.

  I dropped on to my knees and rolled over and lay face down with the sand's heat burning under me and the sun's heat on my back. Already their cry had changed from the alarm to a desultory cackling and the one that had flown up came drifting across to rejoin the others. I lay watching them, catching their foetid stench on the air. There'd be no danger if I fell asleep. If I slept, they'd wake me.

  Cackle.

  Very close and in front of me.

  Sense ofdeja vu: I'd lain here on the sand before, in this or another lifetime, and the bird had come for me, cackling. It voiced again and I opened my eyes and from between my fingers I saw the thing standing close to me on its wide-straddling legs, the head forward and the hooked beak open, the wings raised, menacing, the guttural racketing in my ears.

  Difficult not to move, not to yell at it, not in some way to show defiance. But I mustn't even show life.

  Others were coming, encouraged. They came waddling,
their heavy bodies moving from side to side under their bald white necks and heads, their red eyes brilliant. It was the.biggest of them that had come over to me first, and now it came closer, taking a single hop with the black wings spreading and folding again as it landed and stood over me. I felt the draught it had made, and began taking slow shallow breaths because of its smell. It voiced again, uncertain of me, knowing that minutes ago I'd been alive and moving. As the sound rattled from its throat I saw the sharp red tongue stiffened in the gaping beak and the small eyes glaring.

  Lie still.

  The others came waddling and I heard the hiss of the sand as their feet displaced it; but the big one, standing over me, gave a low cackle and lifted its head; and they stopped. This was the leader, and according to the protocol of the flock it would be the first to take meat.

  Lie still.

  Peck.

  Shocking in its force, part pincer and part hammer blow, numbing my wrist. I didn't move. I could do it now because the thing was close enough but it was still uncertain, hopping back after taking the first trial peck in case I reacted. Now it came closer again, more boldly, the hooked beak half open for the strike, this time to feed.

  Then I took it.

  The beak struck but I went for the legs and got a grip on their scaly hardness and held on and tried to stand up but its weight stopped me and I rolled over and buried my face against an arm as the shrieking broke out and the wings beat in a frenzy to churn the sand and send it clouding and scattering, the strong legs tugging as I held them and one pulling free and its talons hooking at my face and hooking again, the gross body swinging from its single tether while I found a purchase on the sand and stood up, lurching and snatching for the free lag because the talons were murderous and if the other leg snapped and the thing got free and flew away I was done for.

  Then I got it and held on and let it struggle, the wings thrashing and the beak striking and striking again and again at my wrists and arms as I walked with the thing to the aeroplane while the rest of the flock wheeled screaming overhead.

  I had left the sliding door to the flight-deck fully open and now I hurled the bird inside and shut it in and came away and dropped to the sand and began walking, began lurching into some kind of a run towards the rock outcrop, hearing the mad shrieking behind me as the thing battered at the windows for escape.