by Wilbur Smith
Stride did not smoke; Parker removed the old black briar from his own mouth, regarded it affectionately for a moment. It was his one indulgence, a harmless one despite what the surgeon-general of the United States had determined, and he took the stem firmly between his teeth again.
Stride took alcohol in moderation and was considered knowledgeable on the subject of wine. He raced occasion ally, more as a social outing than as a serious punter, and the odd fifty pounds he could well afford. There was no evidence of other gambling. However, he did not hunt, nor did he shoot traditional pursuits of the English gentleman.
Perhaps he had moral objections to blood sports, Parker thought, though it seemed unlikely, for Stride was a superlative marksman with rifle, shotgun and pistol. He had represented Britain at the Munich Olympics as a pistol shot, winning a gold in the fifty metre class, and he spent at least an hour every day on the range.
Parker turned to the page of the print-out that gave the man's medical history. He must be superbly fit as well his body weight at the age of thirty-nine was one pound less than it had been at twenty-one, and he still trained like a front-line soldier. Parker noticed that he had logged sixteen parachute jumps the previous month.
Since joining Atlas he had no opportunity or time for golf, though when he was with NATO Stride had played off a handicap of three.
Parker closed the folder and played on softly, but neither the sensual polished feel of cool ivory beneath his fingertips nor the achingly lovely lilt of the music could dispel his sense of disquiet.
Exhaustive as the report was, yet it left unanswered questions, like why Stride had downgraded himself to accept the command of Thor he was not the kind of man who acted ill-advisedly. Yet the most haunting questions that nagged at Parker were just how strong were his qualities of resilience and independent thought, just how strongly was he driven by his ambitions and that penetrating intellect and just how great a threat such a man would present to the evolution of Atlas into its ultimate role.
"Doctor Parker, sir," his assistant knocked lightly and entered, "there are new developments." Parker sighed softly. "I'm coming," he said, and let the last sad and beautiful notes fall from his long, powerful fingers before he stood up.
The Hawker slid almost silently down the sky. The pilot had closed down power at five thousand feet and made his final approach without touching the throttles again. He was ten knots above the stall as he passed over the boundary fence and he touched down twenty feet beyond the chevron markings of the threshold of runway One five, instantly applying maximum safe braking. One five was the secondary cross-wind runway and the Hawker's roll-out was so short that every part of the approach and landing had been screened by the buildings of the main airport terminal from where Speedbird 070 stood at the southern intersection of the main taxiway.
The pilot swung the Hawker through 360" and backtracked sedately up runway 15, using just enough power to keep her rolling.
"Well done," grunted. Peter Stride, crouching behind the pilot's seat. He was almost certain that nobody aboard 070 had remarked their arrival.
"They've prepared a slot for us, with hook up to the electrical mains at the north-" Peter broke off as he saw the apron marshal waving them in with the bats, and beyond him a tight group of four men waiting. Three of them wore camouflage battle dress and the other the trim blue uniform, cap and gold insignia of a senior South African police officer.
The uniformed officer was the first to greet Peter as he came down the Hawker's fold-out air-stairs.
"Prinsloo." He shook hands. "Lieutenant-General." He ranked Peter, but it was a police, not a military appointment. He was a stocky man, with steel-rimmed spectacles, a little paunchy, and not less than fifty-five years of age. He had the rather heavy features, the fleshiness of jowl and lips, that Peter had noticed so often in Belgian and Dutch peasants during his NATO tour in the Netherlands.
A man of the earth, dour and conservative.
"Let me introduce Commandant Boonzaier." This was a military rank, equivalent to that of colonel, and he was a younger man, but with the same thick accent and his features cast in the same mould. A tall man, however, only an inch or so shorter than Peter but both of the South Africans were suspicious and resentful, and the reason was immediately apparent.
"I have been instructed to take my orders from you, General," and there was a subtle shift of position, the two officers ranging themselves beside Peter, but facing each other, and he was aware instantly that not all the hostility was directed at him. There had been friction between police and military already and the basic value of Atlas was underlined yet again.
A single clean-cut line of command and of responsibility was absolutely essential Peter's mind flicked back to the shoot-out at Larnaca Airport between Egyptian commandos and Cypriot national guardsmen, from which the hijackers of the grounded jet emerged unscathed while the airfield was littered with the burning wreckage of the Egyptian transport aircraft and dozens of dead and dying Cypriots and Egyptians.
The first principle of terrorist strategy was to strike at the point where national responsibilities were blurred. Atlas cut through that.
"Thank you." Peter accepted command without flaunting it. "My backup team will land in just over three hours" time. We will, of course, use force only as a last resort but if it comes to that, I will use exclusively Atlas personnel in any counter-strike. I would like to make that quite clear immediately." And he saw the line of the soldier's mouth harden with disappointment.
"My men are the elite "It's a British aircraft, most of the hostages are British or American nationals it's a political decision, Colonel. But I would value your help in other areas." Peter turned him aside tactfully.
"Firstly, I want you to suggest a position where I can place my surveillance equipment and then we will go over the ground together."
Peter had no difficulty selecting his forward observation post. The service manager's roomy, sparsely furnished office on the third floor of the terminal building overlooked the entire service area and the southern portion of the taxiway where the Boeing stood.
The windows had been left open when the offices were evacuated, so there was no need to change the external appearance of the room.
The overhang of the observation balcony on the floor above shaded the interior, and the office was deep enough to ensure that an observer out there in the bright glare of sunshine would not be able to see into the room, even with a powerful lens. The militants would expect surveillance from the glass control tower high above any deception, however trivial, was worth while.
The surveillance equipment was lightweight and compact, the television nm eras were neither of them bigger than a super 8 mm. home movie camera and a man could carry in one hand both of the aluminium extension tripods.
However, the cameras could zoom to 800 mm. focal length, and then repeated on the screens of the command console in the cabin of the Hawker, while the image was simultaneously stored on videotape.
The audio intensifier was more bulky, but no heavier. It had a four-foot dish antenna, with the sound collector in the centre.
The telescopic sight could aim the intensifier at a sound source with the accuracy of a sniper's rifle. It could focus on the lips of a human being at eight hundred yards" distance and clearly record normal conversation at that range, passing sound directly to the command console and at the same time storing it on the big magnetic tape spools.
Two of Peter's communications team were posted here, with a plentiful supply of coffee and doughnuts, and Peter, accompanied by the South African colonel and his staff, went up in the elevator to the glass house of the control tower.
from the air traffic control tower there was an unobstructed view across the airfield and over the apron and service areas around the terminal. The observation platform below the tower had been cleared of all but military personnel.
I have road blocks at all the main entrances to the airfield.
Only passengers
with confirmed reservations and current tickets are being allowed through, and we are using only the northern section of the terminal for traffic." Peter nodded and turned to the senior controller. "What is the state of your traffic pattern?"
"We have refused clearance to all private flights, incoming and departing. All domestic scheduled flights have been re-routed to Lanseria and Germiston airports, and we are landing and despatching only international scheduled flights but the backlog has delayed departures by three hours."
"What separation are you observing from 070?" Peter asked.
"Fortunately the international departures terminal is the farthest from the aircraft, and we are not using the taxiways or the apron of the southern section. As you see, we have cleared the entire area except for those three S.A. Airways aircraft which are undergoing overhaul and servicing, there are no other aircraft within a thousand yards of 07O."
"I may have to freeze all traffic, if-" Peter paused, "or should I say, when we have an escalation."
"Very well, sir."
"In the meantime, you may continue as you are at present." Peter lifted his binoculars and once again very carefully examined the huge Boeing.
It stood in stately isolation, silent and seemingly abandoned. The bright, almost gaudy marking gave her a carnival air.
Red and blue and crisp sparkling white in the brilliant sunlight of the high veld She was parked fully broadside to the tower, and all her hatches and doors were still armed and locked.
Peter traversed slowly along the line of perspex windows down the length of the fuselage but over each of them the sunshades had been firmly closed from the interior, turning them into the multiple eyes of a blinded insect.
Peter lifted his scrutiny slightly onto the windshield and side panels of the flight deck. These again had been screened with blankets, hung over them from inside, completely thwarting any glimpse of the crew or their captors and certainly preventing a shot into the flight deck, although the range from the nearest corner of the terminal was not more than four hundred yards, and with the new laser sights one of Thor's trained snipers could pick through which eye of the human head he would put a bullet.
Snaking across the open tarmac of the taxiway was the thin black electrical cable that connected the aircraft to the mains supply, a long, vulnerable umbilical cord. Peter studied it thoughtfully, before turning his attention to the four Panhard armoured cars. A little frown of irritation crossed his forehead.
"Colonel, please recall those vehicles." He tried not to let the irritation come through in his tone. "With the turrets battened down, your crews will be roasting like Christmas geese
"General, I feel it my duty-" Boonzaier began, and Peter lowered the glasses and smiled. It was a charming, friendly grin that took the man by surprise, after the previous stern set of features and yet the eyes were devoid of humour, cracking blue and hard in the craggy granite of the face.
"I want to defuse the atmosphere as much as possible." The necessity to explain irked Peter, but he maintained the smile.
"Somebody with four great cannons aimed at him is more likely to make a bad decision, and pull the trigger himself. You may keep them in close support, but get them out of sight into the terminal car park, and let your men rest." With little grace the colonel passed the order over the walkie-talkie on his belt, and as the vehicles started up and slowly pulled away behind the line of hangars, Peter went on remorselessly.
"How many men have you got deployed?" He pointed to the line of soldiers along the parapet of the observation balcony, and then to the heads visible as specks between the soaring blue of the African sky and the silhouette of the service hangars.
"Two hundred and thirty."
"Pull them out," Peter instructed, "and let the occupants of the aircraft see them go."
"All of them?" incredulously.
"All of them," Peter agreed, and now the smile was wolfish, "and quickly, please, colonel." The man was learning swiftly, and he lifted the miniaturized walkie-talkie to his mouth again. There were a few moments of scurrying and confusion among the troops on the observation deck below before they could be formed up and marched away in file.
Their steel helmets, like a bobbing line of button mushrooms, and the muzzles of their slung weapons would show above the parapet, and would be clearly visible to an observer in the Boeing.
"If you treat these people, these animals-" the colonel's voice was choked slightly with frustration, if you treat them soft-" Peter knew exactly what was coming, "and if you keep waving guns in their faces, you will keep them alert and on their toes, Colonel. Let them settle down a little and relax, let them get very confident." He spoke without lowering the binoculars. With a soldier's eye for ground he was picking the site for his four snipers. There was little chance that he would be able to use them they would have to take out every single one of the enemy at the same instant but a remote chance might just offer itself, and he decided to place one gun on the service hangar roof, there was a large ventilator which could be pierced and would command the port side of the aircraft, two guns to cover the flight deck from both sides he could use the drainage ditch down the edge of the main runway to get a man into the small hut that housed the approach radar and ILS beacons. The hut was in the enemy's rear. They might not expect fire from that quarter. point by point from his mental checklist Peter planned his dispositions, scribbling his decisions into the small leather-covered notebook, poring over the large-scale map of the airport, converting gradients and angles into fields of fire, measuring "ground to cover" and "time to target" for an assault force launched from the nearest vantage points, twisting each problem and evaluating it, striving for novel solutions to each, trying to think ahead of an enemy that was still faceless and infinitely menacing.
It took him an hour of hard work before he was satisfied.
Now he could pass his decisions to Colin Noble on board the incoming Herc, and within four minutes of the big landing wheels hitting tarmac his highly trained team with their complex talents and skills would be in position.
Peter straightened up from the map and tucked the notebook under the flap of his button-down breast pocket.
Once again he scrutinized every inch of the silent, battened-down aircraft through his glasses but this time he allowed himself the luxury of gut emotion.
He felt the anger and the hatred rise from some hidden depth of his soul and flush his blood and tighten the muscles of his belly and thighs.
Once again he was confronted by the many-headed monster. It crouched out there in ambush, waiting for him as it had so often before.
He remembered suddenly the shards of splintered glass littering the cobbles of a Belfast street and glittering like diamond chips in the arc lamps, the smell of explosives and blood thick in the air.
He remembered the body of a young woman lying in the gutted interior of a fashionable London restaurant. Her lovely young body stripped by the blast of all but a flimsy pearl-coloured pair of French lace panties.
He remembered the smell of a family, father, mother and three small children, burning in the interior of their saloon car, the bodies blackening and twisting in a slow macabre ballet as the flames scorched them. Peter had not been able to eat pork since that day.
He remembered the frightened eyes of a child, through a mask of blood, a dismembered arm lying beside her, the pale fingers still clutching a grubby little rag doll.
The images flashed in disjointed sequences across his memory, feeding his hatred until it pricked and stung behind his eyes and he had to lower the binoculars and wipe his eyes with the back of his hand.
It was the same enemy that he had hunted before, but his instincts warned him that it had grown even stronger and more inhuman since last he had met and fought it. He tried to suppress the hatred now, lest it cloud his judgement, lest it handicap him during the difficult hours and days that he knew lay ahead but it was too powerful, had been too long nurtured.
He recognized that h
atred was the enemy's vice, that from it sprang their twisted philosophy and their monstrous actions, and that to descend to hatred was to descend to their sub-human levels yet still the hatred persisted.
Peter Stride understood clearly that his hatred was not only for the ghastly death and mutilation that he had witnessed so often. More it was fostered by the threat that he recognized to an entire society and its civilized rule of law. If this evil should be allowed to triumph, then in the future laws would be made by the wild-eyed revolutionary, with a gun in his fist the world would be run by the destroyers instead of the builders, and Peter Stride hated that possibility more even than the violence and the blood, and those he hated as a soldier hates. For only a soldier truly knows the horror of war.
His soldier's instinct now was to immediately engage the enemy and destroy him but the scholar and philosopher in him warned that this was not the moment, and with an enormous effort of will he held that fighting man's instinct in check.
Yet still he was deeply aware that it was for this moment, for this confrontation of the forces of evil, that he had jeopardized his whole career.
When command of Atlas had been plucked away and a political appointee named in his place, Peter should have declined the offer of a lesser position in Atlas. There were other avenues open to him, but instead he had elected to stay with the project and he hoped that nobody had guessed at the resentment he felt. God knows, Kingston Parker had no cause for complaint since then. There was no harder working officer on Atlas, and his loyalty had been tested more than once.
Now all that seemed worth while, and the moment for which he had worked had arrived. The enemy waited For him out there on the burning tarmac under an African sun, not on a soft green island in the rain nor in the grimy streets of a crowded city but still it was the same old enemy, and Peter knew his time would come.
His communications technicians had Colin Noble on the main screen as Peter ducked into the Hawker's cabin that was now his command headquarters, and settled into his padded seat. On the top right screen was a panoramic view of the southern terminal area, with the Boeing squatting like a brooding eagle upon its nest in the centre of the shot. On the next screen beside it was a blow-up through the 800 mm. zoom lens of the Boeing's flight deck. So crisp was the detail that Peter could read the maker's name on the tab of the blanket that screened the windshield. The third small screen held a full shot of the interior of the air traffic control tower. In the foreground the controllers in shirt sleeves sitting over the radar repeaters, and beyond them through the floor to ceiling windows still another view of the Boeing. All these were being shot through the cameras installed an hour earlier in the terminal building. The remaining small screen was blank, and Colin Noble's homely, humorous face filled the main screen.
