High Citadel / Landslide. Desmond Bagley
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could hear a woman screaming endlessly in the passenger cabin and someone else was moaning monotonously. ‘For Christ’s sake, what’s happened back there?’
No one answered because Grivas began to speak. He mumbled in a low whisper and blood frothed round his mouth. ‘They’ll get you,’ he said. ‘They’ll be here any minute now.’ His lips parted in a ghastly smile. ‘I’ll be all right; they’ll take me to hospital. But you – you’ll …’ He broke off in a fit of coughing and then continued: ‘… they’ll kill the lot of you.’ He lifted up his arm, the fingers curling into a fist. ‘Vivaca …’
The arm dropped flaccidly and the look of hate in his eyes deepened into surprise – surprise that he was dead.
Rohde grabbed him by the wrist and held it for a moment. ‘He’s gone,’ he said.
‘He was a lunatic,’ said O’Hara. ‘Stark, staring mad.’
The woman was still screaming and Forester said, ‘For God’s sake, let’s get everybody out of here.’
Just then the Dakota lurched sickeningly and the whole cockpit rose in the air. There was a ripping sound as the spike of rock that had killed Grivas tore at the aluminium sheathing of the fuselage. O’Hara had a sudden and horrible intuition of what was happening. ‘Nobody move,’ he shouted. ‘Everyone keep still.’
He turned to Forester. ‘Bash in those windows.’
Forester looked in surprise at the axe he was still holding as though he had forgotten it, then he raised it and struck at the opaque windscreen. The plastic filling in the glass sandwich could not withstand his assault and he made a hole big enough for a man to climb through.
O’Hara said, ‘I’ll go through – I think I know what I’ll find. Don’t either of you go back there – not yet. And call through and tell anyone who can move to come up front.’
He squeezed through the narrow gap and was astonished to find that the nose of the Dakota was missing. He twisted and crawled out on to the top of the fuselage and looked aft. The tail and one wing were hanging in space over the valley where the runway ended. The whole aircraft was delicately balanced and even as he looked the tail tipped a little and there was a ripping sound from the cockpit.
He twisted on to his stomach and wriggled so that he could look into the cockpit, his head upside-down. ‘We’re in a jam,’ he said to Forester. ‘We’re hanging over a two-hundred-foot drop, and the only thing that’s keeping the whole bloody aeroplane from tipping over is that bit of rock there.’ He indicated the rock projection driven into the side of the cockpit.
He said, ‘If anyone goes back there the extra weight might send us over because we’re balanced just like a seesaw.’
Forester turned his head and bawled, ‘Anyone who can move, come up here.’
There was a movement and Willis staggered through the door, his head bloody. Forester shouted, ‘Anyone else?’
Señorita Montes called urgently, ‘Please help my uncle – oh, please.’
Rohde drew Willis out of the way and stepped through the door. Forester said sharply, ‘Don’t go in too far.’
Rohde did not even look at him, but bent to pick up Montes who was lying by the door. He half carried, half dragged him into the cockpit and Señorita Montes followed.
Forester looked up at O’Hara. ‘It’s getting crowded in here; I think we’d better start getting people outside.’
‘We’ll get them on top first,’ said O’Hara. ‘The more weight we have at this end, the better. Let the girl come first.’
She shook her head. ‘My uncle first.’
‘For God’s sake, he’s unconscious,’ said Forester. ‘You go out – I’ll look after him.’
She shook her head stubbornly and O’Hara broke in impatiently, ‘All right, Willis, come on up here; let’s not waste time.’ His head ached and he was panting in the thin air; he was not inclined to waste time over silly girls.
He helped Willis through the smashed windscreen and saw him settle on top of the fuselage. When he looked into the cockpit again it was evident that the girl had changed her mind. Rohde was talking quietly but emphatically to her and she crossed over and O’Hara helped her out.
Armstrong came next, having made his own way to the cockpit. He said, ‘It’s a bloody shambles back there. I think the old man in the back seat is dead and his wife is pretty badly hurt. I don’t think it’s safe to move her.’
‘What about Peabody?’
‘The luggage was thrown forward on to both of us. He’s half buried under it. I tried to get him free but I couldn’t.’
O’Hara passed this on to Forester. Rohde was kneeling by Montes, trying to bring him round. Forester hesitated, then said, ‘Now we’ve got some weight at this end it might be safe for me to go back.’
O’Hara said, ‘Tread lightly.’
Forester gave a mirthless grin and went back through the door. He looked at Miss Ponsky. She was sitting rigid, her arms clutched tightly about her, her eyes staring unblinkingly at nothing. He ignored her and began to heave suitcases from the top of Peabody, being careful to stow them in the front seats. Peabody stirred and Forester shook him into consciousness, and as soon as he seemed to be able to understand, said, ‘Go into the cockpit – the cockpit, you understand,’
Peabody nodded blearily and Forester stepped a little farther aft. ‘Christ Almighty!’ he whispered, shocked at what he saw.
Coughlin was a bloody pulp. The cargo had shifted in the smash and had come forward, crushing the two back seats. Mrs Coughlin was still alive but both her legs had been cut off just below the knee. It was only because she had been leaning forward to comfort Miss Ponsky that she hadn’t been killed like her husband.
Forester felt something touch his back and turned. It was Peabody moving aft. ‘I said the cockpit, you damned fool,’ shouted Forester.
‘I wanna get outa here,’ mumbled Peabody. ‘I wanna get out. The door’s back there.’
Forester wasted no time in argument. Abruptly he jabbed at Peabody’s stomach and then brought his clenched fists down at the nape of his neck as he bent over gasping, knocking him cold. He dragged him forward to the door and said to Rohde, ‘Take care of this fool. If he causes trouble, knock him on the head.’
He went back and took Miss Ponsky by the arm. ‘Come,’ he said gently.
She rose and followed him like a somnambulist and he led her right into the cockpit and delivered her to O’Hara. Montes was now conscious and would be ready to move soon.
As soon as O’Hara reappeared Forester said, ‘I don’t think the old lady back there will make it.’
‘Get her out,’ said O’Hara tightly. ‘For God’s sake, get her out.’
So Forester went back. He didn’t know whether Mrs Coughlin was alive or dead; her body was still warm, however, so he picked her up in his arms. Blood was still spurting from her shattered shins, and when he stepped into the cockpit Rohde drew in his breath with a hiss. ‘On the seat,’ he said. ‘She needs tourniquets now – immediately.’
He took off his jacket and then his shirt and began to rip the shirt into strips, saying to Forester curtly, ‘Get the old man out.’
Forester and O’Hara helped Montes through the windscreen and then Forester turned and regarded Rohde, noting the goose-pimples on his back. ‘Clothing,’ he said to O’Hara. ‘We’ll need warm clothing. It’ll be bad up here by nightfall.’
‘Hell!’ said O’Hara. ‘That’s adding to the risk. I