Wild Justice

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘Diamond One, this is Cheetah. Position for head-on attack.’

  The Mirage thundered instantly ahead and climbed away swiftly, the other four aircraft of the flight sweeping in to resume their tight ‘finger five’ formation as they went out in a wide turn ahead of the Boeing.

  ‘Cheetah. We are in position for a head-on attack.’

  ‘Diamond Flight. Simulate. Attack in line astern. Five-second intervals. Minimum separation. Do not, I say again, do not open fire. This is a simulated attack. I say again, this is a simulated attack.’

  ‘Diamond One – understands simulated attack.’

  And the Mirage F.1 winged over and dived, its speed rocketing around the mach scale, booming through the sonic barrier in a fearsomely aggressive display.

  Cyril Watkins saw him coming from seven miles ahead.

  ‘Jesus,’ he shouted. This is real,’ and he lunged forward to take manual control of the Boeing, to pull her off the automatic approach that the electronic flight director was performing.

  ‘Hold her steady.’ Ingrid raised her voice for the first time. ‘Hold it.’ She swung the gaping double muzzles of the shot pistol onto the flight engineer. ‘We don’t need a navigator now.’

  The captain froze, and the Mirage howled down on them, seemed to grow until it filled the whole view through the windshield ahead. At the last possible instant of time the nose lifted slightly and it flashed only feet overhead, but the supersonic turbulence of its passage struck and tossed even that huge machine like a piece of thistledown.

  ‘Here comes another,’ Cyril Watkins shouted.

  ‘I mean it.’ Ingrid pressed the muzzles so fiercely into the back of the flight engineer’s neck that his forehead struck the edge of his computer console, and there was the quick bright rose of blood on the pale skin.

  The jet blasts struck the Boeing one after the other as the Mirages attacked. Ingrid clutched wildly for support with her free hand, but kept the pistol jammed into the navigator’s neck. ‘I mean it,’ she kept shouting. ‘I’ll kill him,’ and they could hear the screams of the passengers even through the bulkhead of the flight deck.

  Then the last Mirage was passed and gone and the Boeing’s flight director recovered from the battering of close separation and quickly realigned the aircraft on the radio navigational beacons of Jan Smuts Airport.

  They won’t buzz us again.’ Ingrid stepped back from the flight engineer, allowing him to lift his head and wipe away the trickle of blood on the sleeve of his shirt. ‘They can’t come again. We are into controlled airspace.’ She pointed ahead. ‘Look!’

  The Boeing was down to five thousand feet, but the horizon was obscured by the haze of smog and summer heat. To the right rose the smooth silhouette of the Kempton Park Power Station cooling towers and, closer at hand, the poisonous yellow tablelands of the mine dumps squatted on the flat and featureless plain of the African highveld. Around them human habitation was so dense that hundreds of windowpanes caught the early morning sun and glittered like beacons.

  Closer still was the long, straight, blue streak of the main runway of Jan Smuts Airport.

  Take her straight in on runway 21,’ Ingrid ordered.

  ‘We can’t—’

  ‘Do it,’ snapped the girl. ‘Air traffic control will have cleared the circuit. They can’t stop us.’

  ‘Yes, they can,’ Cyril Watkins answered. ‘Just take a look at the runway apron.’

  They were close enough now to count five fuel tenders, to see the Shell company insignia on the tanks.

  ‘They are going to block the runway.’

  With the tankers were five brilliant red vehicles of the fire service and two big white ambulances. They bumped wildly over the grass verge of the runway and then, one after the other, tenders and fire control vehicles and ambulances parked at intervals of a few hundred yards down the white-painted centre line of the runway.

  ‘We can’t land,’ said the captain.

  Take her off automatic and fly her in by hand.’ The girl’s voice was different, hard, cruel.

  The Boeing was sinking through a thousand feet, lined up for runway 21 and directly ahead the revolving red beacons on top of the fire vehicles seemed to flash a direct challenge.

  ‘I can’t pile into them,’ Cyril Watkins decided, and there was no longer hesitation nor doubt in his tone. ‘I’m going to overshoot and get out of here.’

  ‘Land on the grass,’ the girl shrieked. ‘There is open grass on the left of the runway – put her down there.’

  But Cyril Watkins had leaned forward in his seat and rammed the bank of throttles forward. The engines howled and the Boeing surged into a nose-high climb.

  The young flight engineer had swivelled his stool and was staring ahead through the windscreen. His whole body was rigid, his expression intense and the smear of blood across his forehead was in vivid contrast to the pallor of his skin.

  With his right hand he gripped the edge of his desk, and the knuckles of his fist were white and shiny as eggshell.

  Without seeming to move the blonde girl had pinned the wrist of that rigid right hand, pressing the muzzles of the pistol into it.

  There was a crash of sound, so violent in the confines of the cabin that it seemed to beat in their eardrums. The weapon kicked up as high as the girl’s golden head and there was the immediate acrid stench of burned cordite.

  The flight engineer stared down incredulously at the desk top. There was a hole blown through the metal as big as a teacup, and the edges were jagged with bright bare metal.

  The blast of shot had amputated his hand cleanly at the wrist. The severed member had been thrown forward into the space between the pilots’ seats, with the shattered bone protruding from the mangled meat. It twitched like a crushed and maimed insect.

  ‘Land,’ said the girl. ‘Land or the next shot is through his head.’

  ‘You bloody monster,’ shouted Cyril Watkins, staring at the severed hand.

  ‘Land or you will be responsible for this man’s life.’

  The flight engineer clutched the stump of his arm against his belly and doubled over it silently, his face contorted by the shock.

  Cyril Watkins tore his stricken gaze from the severed hand and looked ahead once more. There was wide open grass between the runway markers and the narrow taxiway. The grass had been mown knee-high, and he knew the ground beneath it would be fairly smooth.

  Cyril’s hand on the throttle bank pulled back smoothly, almost of its own volition, the engine thunder died away and the nose dropped again.

  He held his approach aligned with the main runway until he was well in over the threshold lights. He did not want to alert the drivers of the blocking vehicles to his intention while they still had time to counter it.

  ‘You murderous bitch,’ he said under his breath. ‘You filthy murderous bitch.’

  He banked the Boeing steeply, realigned it with the long strip of open grass and cut the throttles completely, bringing her in nose-high and just a fraction above the stall, flaring out deliberately low and banging the Boeing down into the grass for positive touch down.

  The huge machine settled to the rough strip, jolting and lurching wildly as Cyril Watkins fought the rudders to keep them lined up, holding his nose wheel off with the control yoke, while his co-pilot threw all her giant engines into reverse thrust and trod firmly down on the main landing gear brakes.

  The fire engines and fuel tankers flashed past the starboard wing tip. The startled faces of their crews seemed very close and white – then 070 was past, her speed bleeding off sharply so her nose wheel dropped and she rocked and swayed gradually to a dead stop just short of the brick building which housed the approach and landing beacons, and the main radar installations.

  It was 7.25 a.m. local time and Speedbird 070 was down.

  ‘Well, they are down,’ intoned Kingston Parker. ‘And you can well understand the extreme efforts that were made to prevent them. Their choice of final destination set
tles one of your queries, Peter.’

  ‘“À l’allemande”—’ Peter nodded. ‘It’s got to be political. I agree, sir.’

  ‘And you and I must now face in dreadful reality what we have discussed only in lofty theory—’ Parker held a taper to his pipe and puffed twice before going on. ‘– Morally justifiable militancy.’

  ‘Again we have to differ, sir.’ Peter cut in swiftly. ‘There is no such thing.’

  ‘Is there not?’ Parker asked, shaking his head. ‘What of the German officers killed in the streets of Paris by the French resistance?’

  ‘That was war,’ Peter exclaimed.

  ‘Perhaps the group that seized 070 believes that they are at war—’

  ‘With innocent victims?’ Peter shot back.

  ‘The Haganah took innocent victims – yet what they were fighting for was right and just.’

  ‘I’m an Englishman, Dr Parker – you cannot expect me to condone the murder of British women and children.’ Peter had stiffened in his chair.

  ‘No,’ Parker agreed. ‘So let us not speak of the MauMau in Kenya, nor of present-day Ireland then – but what of the French Revolution or the spreading of the Catholic faith by the most terrible persecution and tortures yet devised by man – were those not morally justifiable militancy?’

  ‘I would prefer to call it understandable but reprehensible. Terrorism in any form can never be morally justifiable.’ Provoked himself, Peter used the word deliberately to provoke and saw the small lift of Parker’s thick bushy eyebrows.

  ‘There is terrorism from above – as well as from below.’ Parker picked up the word and used it deliberately. ‘If you define terrorism as extreme physical or physiological coercion used to induce others to submit to the will of the terrosist – there is the legal terror threat of the gallows, the religious terror threat of hell fire, the paternal terror threat of the cane – are those more morally justifiable than the aspiration of the weak, the poor, the politically oppressed, the powerless victims of an unjust society? Is their scream of protest to be strangled—’

  Peter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Protest outside the law—’

  ‘Laws are made by man, almost always by the rich and the powerful – laws are changed by men, usually only after militant action. The women’s suffragette movement, the civil rights campaign in this country—’ Parker broke off and chuckled. ‘I’m sorry, Peter. Sometimes I confuse myself. It’s often more difficult to be a liberal than it is to be a tyrant. At least the tyrant seldom has doubts.’ Parker lay back in his chair, a dismissive gesture. ‘I propose to leave you in peace for an hour or two now. You will want to develop your plans in line with the new developments. But I personally have no doubts now that we are dealing with politically motivated militants, and not merely a gang of old-fashioned kidnappers after a fast buck. Of one other thing I am certain: before we see this one through we will be forced to examine our own consciences very closely.’

  ‘Take the second right,’ said Ingrid quietly, and the Boeing swung off the grass onto the taxiway. There seemed to be no damage to her landing gear, but now that she had left her natural element, the aircraft had lost grace and beauty and became lumbering and ungainly.

  The girl had never been on the flight deck of a grounded Jumbo before, and the height was impressive. It gave her a feeling of detachment, of being invulnerable.

  ‘Now left again,’ she instructed, and the Boeing turned away from the main airport building towards the southern end of the runway. The observation deck of the airport’s flat roof was already lined with hundreds of curious spectators, but all activity on the apron was suspended. The waiting machines and tenders were deserted, not a single human figure on the tarmac.

  ‘Park there.’ She pointed ahead to an open area four hundred yards from the nearest building, midway between the terminal and the cluster of service hangars and the main fuel depot. ‘Stop on the intersection.’

  Grimly silent, Cyril Watkins did as he was ordered, and then turned in his seat.

  ‘I must call an ambulance to get him off.’

  The co-pilot and a stewardess had the flight engineer stretched out on the galley floor, just beyond the door to the flight deck. They were using linen table napkins to bind up the arm and try and staunch the bleeding. The stench of cordite still lingered and mingled with the taint of fresh blood.

  ‘Nobody leaves this aircraft.’ The girl shook her head. ‘He knows too much about us already.’

  ‘My God, woman. He needs medical attention.’

  ‘There are three hundred doctors aboard—’ she pointed out indifferently. The best in the world. Two of them may come forward and attend to him.’

  She perched sideways on the flight engineer’s bloodsplattered desk, and thumbed the internal microphone. Cyril Watkins noticed even in his outrage that it needed only a single demonstration and Ingrid was able to work the complicated communications equipment. She was bright and very well trained.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have landed at Johannesburg Airport. We will be here for a long time – perhaps days, even weeks. All our patience will be tried, so I must warn you that any disobedience will be most severely dealt with. Already one attempt at resistance has been made – and in consequence a member of the crew has been shot and gravely wounded. He may die of this wound. We do not want a repetition of this incident. However, I must again warn you that my officers and I will not hesitate to shoot again, or even to detonate the explosives above your heads – if the need arises.’

  She paused and. watched a moment as two selected doctors came forward and knelt on each side of the flight engineer. He was shaking like a fever victim with shock, his white shirt splashed and daubed with blood. Her expression showed no remorse, no real concern, and her voice was calm and light as she went on.

  Two of my officers will now pass down the aisles and they will collect your passports from you. Please have these documents ready.’

  Her eyes flicked sideways, as movement caught her eye. From beyond the service hangars a line of four armoured cars emerged in line ahead. They were the locally manufactured version of the French Panhard with heavily lugged tall tyres, a raked turret and the disproportionately long barrels of the cannons trained forward. The armoured vehicles circled cautiously and parked three hundred yards out, at the four points – wing tips, tail and nose – around the aircraft, with the long cannon trained upon her.

  The girl watched them disdainfully until one of the doctors pushed himself in front of her. He was a short, chubby little man, balding – but brave.

  ‘This man must be taken to a hospital immediately.’

  That is out of the question.’

  ‘I insist. His life is in danger.’

  ‘All our lives are in danger, doctor.’ She paused and let that make its effect. ‘Draw up a list of your requirements. I will see that you get them.’

  ‘They have been down for sixteen hours now and the only contact has been a request for medical supplies and for a power link-up to the electrical mains.’ Kingston Parker had removed his jacket and loosened the knot of his tie, but was showing no other ill effects of his vigil.

  Peter Stride nodded at the image on the screen. ‘What have your medics made of the supplies?’ he asked.

  ‘Looks like a gunshot casualty. Whole blood type AB Positive, that’s rare but one of the crew is cross-watched AB Positive on his service record. Ten litres of plasmalyte B, a blood-giving set and syringes, morphine and intravenous penicillin, tetanus toxoid – all the equipment needed to treat massive physical trauma.’

  ‘And they are on mains power?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Yes, four hundred people would have suffocated by now without the air-conditioning. The airport authority has laid a cable and plugged it into the external socket. All the aircraft’s support system – even the galley heating – will be fully functional.’

  ‘So we will be able to throw the switch on them at any time.’ Peter made a note on the pad in
front of him. ‘But no demands yet? No negotiator called for?’

  ‘No, nothing. They seem fully aware of the techniques of bargaining in this type of situation – unlike our friends, the host country. I am afraid we are having a great deal of trouble with the Wyatt Earp mentality—’ Parker paused. ‘I’m sorry, Wyatt Earp was one of our frontier marshals—’

  ‘I saw the movie, and read the book,’ Peter answered tartly.

  ‘Well, the South Africans are itching to storm the aircraft, and both our ambassador and yours are hard pressed to restrain them. They are all set to kick the doors of the saloon open and rush in with six-guns blazing. They must also have seen the movie.’

  Peter felt the crawl of horror down his spine. ‘That would be a certain disaster,’ he said quickly. ‘These people are running a tight operation.’

  ‘You don’t have to convince me,’ Parker agreed. ‘What is your flying time to Jan Smuts now?’

  ‘We crossed the Zambesi River seven minutes ago.’ Peter glanced sideways through the perspex bubble window, but the ground was obscured by haze and cumulus cloud. ‘We have another two hours ten minutes to fly – but my support section is three hours forty behind us.’

  ‘All right, Peter. I will get back onto them. The South African Government has convened a full cabinet meeting, and both our ambassadors are sitting in as observers and advisers. I think I am going to be obliged to tell – them about the existence of Atlas.’

  He paused a moment. ‘Here at last we are seeing Atlas justified, Peter. A single unit, cutting across all national considerations, able to act swiftly and independently. I think you should know that I have already obtained the agreement of the President and of your Prime Minister to condition Delta – at my discretion.’

  Condition Delta was the kill decision.

  ‘– but again I emphasize that I will implement Delta only as a last possible resort. I want to hear and consider the demands first, and in that respect we are open to negotiation – fully open—’

  Parker went on speaking, and Peter Stride shifted slightly, dropping his chin into the cup of his hand to hide his irritation. They were into an area of dispute now – and once again Peter had to voice disagreement.