by Gavin Lyall
They stared at me. Whitmore said: ‘Bricks? D’you mean that?’
‘Yes, I mean it.’
‘Bricks? What’d they do to jets?’
‘Ever seen a jet fighter that’s hit a brick wall at 150 miles an hour?’
After a while he said: ‘Yeah – I mean no, but I get the idea.’
‘It works the other way round, too. We throw the brick wall at the jets – at ISO miles an hour.’
J.B. said: ‘D’you think a brick would knock out a jet?’
‘Hell, you run into a bird at that speed and it’ll knock a hole in a metal skin. And Vampire fuselages aren’t even metal: they’re plywood. With a lot of delicate stuff inside: radio, hydraulics, ancillary drives. We won’t turn them into scrap, like a bomb would, but I’m damned if I’d fly a fighter with several brick-sized holes in it. We’ll wreck some and knock out the rest for several days – and that’s all you need, isn’t it?’
Luiz said: ‘One day is probably all we need.’
Whitmore asked quietly: ‘How about loading bricks on just four shackles?’
‘Yes.’ That was a point I hadn’t thought out. There was another silence while they let me get down to it.
Suddenly I remembered I was giving up smoking. ‘Anybody got a cigarette?’
Without a word, Whitmore handed one over: Luiz flicked a Zippo under my nose.
‘Thanks.’ I went back to deep thought. It was very quiet in the cold, still glare of light from the headlamps. The things in the trees had given up squawking and squealing and either got down to business quietly or knocked off for the night. The stars were still there, but somehow flatter and dimmer, as if already touched by the dust of the coming day. I didn’t know anybody up there.
Whitmore said gently: ‘Well, fella?’
‘Nets,’ I decided. ‘Fisherman’s nets.’
‘Huh?’
‘When I first came out here, I knew a pilot who was using an old bomber to fly nitro-glycerine up to a mining company in the Andes. You know hownitrobehaves? Well, he slung it in a fisherman’s net in the bomb bay. So it was a sort of hammock, cushioned against rough air bumps. But if he got stuck in really bad weather, he could open the bay doors, press the shackle release – and nonitroto worry about.’
‘And it worked?’ Luiz asked.
‘Fine. Until one day some fool pressed the release when they were still refuelling on the ground. That was five years back and on a clear day you can still hear the echoes. But he wasn’t a particular friend of mine anyhow.’ – A short silence. Then Luiz said quietly: ‘My friend, are you cheering yourself up with these little stories?’
I grinned. ‘Sorry. But I think we can do the same thing. Except use several nets, stretched along the bomb-bay in layers. With bricks on each. Then I can release them in sequence, one-two-three-four, right down the Une.’
Whitmore frowned. ‘Would that give you enough spread to hit eleven jets?’
‘I think so. The bricks’ll be pouring out of just one end of the net, so that’ll give them a spread. And they aren’t streamlined, so some’ll topple and slow up a bit, some’ll fall end-on, and that’ll spread them a bit more. And I’ll be going in low -hundred feet or so – so they’ll still have most of their forward speed. So those that miss will probably bounce or slide, and that could rip off a wheel – at 150.’
Whitmore looked around at each of us in turn. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘that seems the best we can do – right?’
Miss Jiminez said: ‘You are really going to drop just bricks on these aeroplanes?’
‘We ain’t got anything else, honey. You heard what Carr said; it adds up. Anyhow – if he just knocks out half of them, we’re fifty per cent ahead of the game. Your old man’s going to move anyway, right?’
She frowned. ‘He seems to be taking the “calculated risk”: that he will gain more from the hurricane than he will lose from Capitán Carr.’
I said: ‘Thanks.’
‘All right, then,’ Whitmore said soothingly. ‘Tell J.B. what you need and she can track it down in the morning.’
‘I need four nets – strong, but not too big. You’ll get them in Kingston or Mo Bay, probably. Then I’d like the remains of that drum of control cable your boys were using to rig the bomb release. And the bricks. Say two thousand pounds of bricks. Don’t know where you’d get them.’
Luiz said: ‘Roddie used some bricks for the foundation of his church.’
Whitmore snapped his fingers. “That’s right. We’re tearing the thing down tomorrow anyway. We just send the bricks along here.’
Luiz smiled, a little wanly. ‘There is a philosophy there somewhere, Walt. An illusion of a church is used for a real bombing raid.’
‘Hell, are you getting religion?’
‘No.’ Luiz shook his head. ‘Come to think of it, it is not a new philosophy.’
TWENTY-THREE
The glow of the station-wagon’s lights faded up the coast road. J.B. watched it out of sight, her hand on the Avanti’s door.
Then she said: ‘So you talked yourself right back into the war. Nobody else would’ve thought of bricks and nets; the whole deal would’ve been off.’
‘A good deputy’s supposed to put up ideas to the sheriff, isn’t he?’
She may have winced. ‘I might have been wrong about you, Carr. You’ve really worked on this thing, you really want to go… Why?’
I took a deep breath. ‘I suppose, because Ned Rafter’s there.’
‘You mean it’s just a private war between you two?’ She looked at me curiously, her face very still in the soft underglow from the car’s headlights.
I shrugged. ‘I suppose, in a way.’
‘Just because he beat you? Took your plane off you? So now you’ve got to beat him?’
‘No.’
‘He called you a killer.’
‘Ah, he’s been seeing too many movies. There shouldn’t be anybodybut killers in fighters.’
‘The boy in that jet over Santo Bartolomeo.’ And her voice was as cold and distant as the tall night.
I nodded. ‘That’s right. You’d thought I got into combat in Korea by accident? That I’d shot down three Migs by mistake? Of course I’m a killer; it was my job. And it’s the only way I can fight a war – if I’m fighting one.’
‘A private war.’
I blew up. ‘Christ, so what about your tall friend? I know why Luiz is in it – but Whitmore isn’t exactly a great liberal leader.’
She stared. ‘At least you’re right there. Whenever he talks politics he ends up about three goose-steps to the right of the Nazi Party.’
‘That’s what I guessed. Well, that shouldn’t put him behind Jiminez, but there he is, all right. Ifthat isn’t a private war…’
‘You didn’t fenow?’
‘Know what?’
‘I heard himtell you. He’s got $250,000 in profits frozen in the República.And he’s also got a piece of paper saying the first thing Jiminez does when he takes over will be unfreeze them. Along with your aeroplane.’
I just nodded stupidly. But hehad told me about that money, back in the bar at Santo Bartolomeo. I said slowly: ‘And I thought he just wanted to play Bolivar Smith in real Ufefor once.’
‘Well, maybe… but not at less than his normal rates.’
I found myself laughing softly. ‘Well, it sort of restores yourfaith in human nature. What’s good for Walt Whitmore is good for the República.’
She looked up sharply. ‘You aren’t exactly a great Jiminez-for-Presidente man yourself, are you?’
‘I don’t give a damn about Jiminez; never have. It’s not my business. Not my country.’
‘So you’re just going because you want to get that man Rafter.’
‘Well, somebody’s got to, haven’t they?’
There was a long silence. Then she said curiously: ‘Just what d’you mean?’
‘Somebody’sgot to stop Ned and those Vamps getting off the ground when Jiminez moves. I’d
just as soon stop Jiminez moving – but I can’t. So somebody’ll get killed. Somebody’ll poop off guns in the streets, stick somebody else against a wall. All right, so that’s normal. But the Vamps aren’t.’
She frowned. ‘I still don’t get it…’
‘You wouldn’t. Not you, not Whitmore, not Jiminez, not even the generals. None of you’s seen a real pro like Ned leading a squadron on ground-attack. But I’ve seen it. I saw Ned and just five planes behind him take out a village in Korea. Napalm and cannon fire. It took them forty-five seconds and then there just wasn’t any village. Imaginehim and ten planes loose over a nice crowded target like Santo Bartolomeo. No anti-aircraft fire, and maybe six or seven missions a day. Their base is only a few miles out. After that, the town’ll just be a dirty word in the history books. And win, lose, or draw won’t matter. There won’t be the pieces to pick up. Nor the people.’
After a time she asked: ‘Would the generals really do that?’
‘I told you, they don’t know. Only Ned and I know…’ Then, quieter: ‘Yes, they’ll do it. They’ll have to: with the Army stuck in the hills, Ned and the Vamps are the only weapon they’ve got. They’ll use him.’
‘Only you’re going to stop him.’
‘Hurricane permitting.’
She nodded, then walked slowly and thoughtfully out across the headlights to the Mitchell and stood looking up at theshining wrinkled side. And said softly: ‘And that’s the only reason?’
‘Call it good commercial sense, if you like,’ I growled. ‘There won’t be much trade for a charter pilot to pick up in SB after Ned and the boys have worked the town over.’
‘I like your noble reasons better, Keith.’ Then her voice got serious again. ‘It’s not something personal against Rafter?’
‘I left that business eight years back – remember?’
‘Was… this sort of thing why?’
‘Perhaps. Or perhaps because you get to like it. You like seeing a man go down burning.’ I shrugged. ‘Why not? Most people who’re good at their jobs like the job – and I was good, all right. But – I didn’t have to like liking it. And I couldn’t change: go on shooting down fighters but change the reasons. I couldn’t think “That’s a blow for freedom and democracy” or “That’s probably saved a pal’s Ufe.“I’d always be doing it because I was Keith Carr, the Great Unbeatable – because I liked it.’
‘But – tomorrow?’
I smiled. ‘You don’t count the ones you knock out on the ground anyway. Old fighter pilot tradition.’
She looked up at me. ‘Keith – I’m sorry; I was wrong about you…’ She shivered, as if from a sudden wind or an old memory. But there wasn’t any wind. ‘Give me a cigarette, will you?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Of course: you aren’t an owner-smoker. Some in the car.’
I found a pack on the crash-pad above the dashboard. I also found the headlight switch and turned it off. Then walked back to her in the quiet, dusty starlight.
We lit the cigarettes. For a long time nobody said anything. Far down the strip a small light twinkled like a fallen star; my oil lamp, waiting patiently to become a flarepath. Waiting for the north wind.
I reached and ran a hand through her long, tangled silky hair. She stiffened. ‘Wait – Keith… You know I fixed this whole thing. I got Jiminez’s signature on his promise to the Boss Man, that afternoon.’
Td guessed that. A nice watertight contract?’
‘Look – I’m Whitmore’slawyer.’ There was a small, desperate edge to her voice. ‘Ihad to^ say it was a good deal. He spends twelve thousand on the aeroplane and a few hundred on you – and most of it deductible – for a chance, a good chance, at a quarter of a million. Ihad to say that’s a good deal. But not for you. You don’t have to be any part of it.’
‘I know. I’m a free man.’
‘Keith, you could get killed.’
‘Not me. I told you: I was good. The type that waits until he’s got the height and he’s up-sun and can get the other fighter in the back. We don’t take risks. We don’t gamble. We cheat.’
‘Korea was a long time ago,’ she said doubtfully. ‘You could have forgotten-‘
I stretched my hands and laid them on her shoulders. ‘Like I had over Santo Bartolomeo that day?’
And suddenlyshe was holding me, her strong body straining against me, her hair flooding my eyes. And whispering: ‘Keith – don’t get yourself killed, justdon’t…’
Then the dusty starlight and the lamp glittering at the end of the strip and the north wind itself, if it were there, were something in another country, beyond another hill Much later, and much sleepier, she said: ‘Youare slipping, you know… you forgot to ask me what the J.B. is for.’
‘Yes. You must tell me sometime, when we’ve got nothing better to talk about.’
‘I will. I absolutely insist on you knowing. Besides, you might lose your British citizenship if they found out you didn’t even know my name.’ Then her voice changed. ‘What about that man – Colonel Rafter?’
‘What about him?’
‘If you raid him tomorrow – won’t he have to come after you?’
‘I don’t think so. Ned’s a commercial pilot. He flies ground-attack, but just the way Pan Am flies passengers. He won’t like it – but he won’t come chasing me unless he’s got a nice watertight contract saying he’ll make a profit out of it.’
She was quiet for a while. I gave up groping around theengine covers for the cigarettes and just lay, watching the dim square of light that was a gun window.
Her voice was sleepy again when she said: ‘You know, I’ve never been seduced in an aeroplane before. I wonder, if it was flying…’
‘Greedy.’
She chuckled softly. ‘Maybe sometime then. Keith – do I get to go with you?’
‘Where?’
‘Wherever you go – when you get run out of the Caribbean on a rail.’
‘Hmm. It may not be exactly a Man and a Home and a Back Yard and… I don’t know what it’ll be.’
‘I think I’d like that.’
I frowned. ‘What about Whitmore?’
‘You’re going to need a hot lawyer a lot more than he will, after tomorrow. And I don’t think you could afford my fees.’
‘Why d’you think I seduced you?’
She laughed sleepily and put her arms around me again.
I was woken by a banging on the fuselage side. The morning sun was streaming dustily through the gun windows; the fuselage was stuffy – and empty, apart from the rumpled engine covers.
One of the spray pilots shoved his head up through the aft hatch. ‘God, but you charter pilots really believe in your sleep. It’s nine o’clock.’
I stared athim blearily. ‘What’s the weather?’
He grinned. ‘No hurricane. She recurved; turned north-west four-five hours ago. So no trip to Caracas.’ He looked around the fuselage. ‘Well, at least you had a quiet night.’
I nodded. ‘Yes. A quiet night.’
TWENTY-FOUR
I staggered down to the Golden Head for a wash and several cups of coffee. I’d finally found J.B.‘s pack of cigarettes; I lit one and just sat, brooding.
A quiet night. And suddenly, something in your Ufethat you may never say goodbye to. Something fixed; a commitment. Funny how it changes a man. And funny how it doesn’t. I was still Keith Carr, still unbeatable, still going on a visit to Ned Rafter in… about seventeen hours’ time.
I was back with the Mitchell by ten.
Until the nets and bricks arrived, I couldn’t do much practical work, so I sat down in the shade of a wing to work out me theory. I’d said a fighter pilot could do any low-level attack -but perhaps mostly because, like most fighter pilots, I’d never had a high opinion of bomber pilots. In fact, like most fighter pilots, I’d never had a very high opinion of any other pilot.
Now, it began to look a little complicated.
Say I was going in at 150 mph at 100 feet. In f
alling a mere 100 feet, a brick would hardly lose any of its forward speed -it would hit the ground when I was still dead overhead. I suddenly became glad I wasn’t using bombs.
Working backwards from that, I had to drop the first bricks as many seconds before I passed over the first Vampire as it took a brick to fall 100 feet. Let that be known as Carr’s First Law. On to number Two.
A brick accelerates downwards at 32 feet per second per second – ignoring air resistance. So it falls 16 feet in the first second, 48 in the second, 80 in the third – say two-and-a-half seconds for 100 feet. Bung in air resistance and call it three: I dropped three seconds early. Carr’s Second Law.
Number Three was easy: at 150 mph. I was doing just over 200 feet a second, so I dropped a bit more than 600 feet early… It seemed a hell of a long way. But it was right.
That left me with just the problems of holding precise speed, height, and course and judging exactly 600 and a fewfeet. Possibly bomber pilots did need a trace of intelligence. The few that ever hit anything, that is.
Whitmore’s white station-wagon swung in through the gates and trundled slowly up the runway. I watched it quietly, almost apprehensively. It stopped; Luiz got out. Only Luiz.
I went over to help him unload. He took die bundle of nets, I picked up the small drum of cable.
‘From Montego Bay,’ he said, carrying the bundle. ‘Officially, we are supposed to be having a fishing scene but -such scenes often get cut.’
‘All deductible, anyway.’
He dumped the bundle and gave me a look. I avoided it, put down the drum, and started unpicking the nets. ‘Whitmore or J.B. coining down?’ I asked, casually.
‘Perhaps when they have the church sequence finished. I spoke to J.B. on the phone. She seemed… tired.’ Again he tried to catch my eye, but I went on sorting the nets.
They turned out to be about a three-quarter-inch mesh, roughly circular, perhaps ten feet in diameter. I didn’t know anything about fishing, but I guessed these had been the type diey used for casting into the surf – before the snorkel-fisher tourists had chased every fish outside the reef.
