Authors: Wilbur Smith

Wild Justice (8 page)

BOOK: Wild Justice

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C
olin Noble's rugged frame almost filled the hatchway of the Hawker, and for once his expression was deadly serious, no trace of laughter in his eyes or at the corners of the wide friendly mouth.

âDoctor Parker is on the screen.' He greeted Peter who was still buttoning his overalls as he hurried to the command plane. âWe copied every word, and he was hooked into the system.'

âChrist, it's bad, Colin,' Peter grunted.

âThat was the good news,' Colin told him. âWhen you have finished with Parker, I've got the bad news for you.'

âThanks, pal.' Peter shouldered his way past him into the cabin, and dropped into his leather command chair.

On the screen Kingston Parker was hunched over his desk, poring over the teleprinter sheet on which the entire conversation between Ingrid and Peter had been recorded, the cold empty pipe gripped between his teeth, the broad brow creased with the weight of his responsibility as he studied the demands of the terrorist commando.

The communications director's voice from off-screen alerted Parker.

âGeneral Stride, sir.' And Parker looked up at the camera.

âPeter. This is you and me alone. I have closed the circuit and we will restrict to single tape recording. I want your first reaction, before we relay to Sir William and Constableâ' Sir William Davies was the British Ambassador and Kelly Constable was the United States Ambassador to Pretoria.

âI want your first reaction.'

âWe are in serious trouble, sir,' Peter said, and the big head nodded.

âWhat is the militant capability?'

âI am having my explosives team take down the grenade â but I have no doubt that they have the physical capability to destroy 070, and all aboard. I reckon they have an overkill potential of at least ten.'

âAnd the psychological capability.'

âIn my view, she is the child of Bakunin and Jean Paul Sartreâ' Again Parker nodded heavily and Peter went on. âThe anarchist conception that destruction is the only truly creative act, that violence is man recreating himself. You know Sartre said that when the revolutionary kills, a tyrant dies and a free man emerges.'

âWill she go all the way?' Parker insisted.

âYes, sir.' Peter answered without hesitation. âIf she is pressed she'll go all the way â you know the reasoning. If destruction is beautiful, then self-destruction is immortality. In my view, she'll go all the way.'

Parker sighed and knocked the stem of his pipe against his big white teeth.

âYes, it squares with what we have on her.'

âYou have read her?' Peter asked eagerly.

âWe got a first-class voice print, and the computer crossmatched with her facial structure print.'

âWho is she?' Peter cut in impatiently; he did not have to be told that the sound intensifier and the zoom video cameras had been feeding her voice and image into the intelligence computer even as she issued her demands.

âHer born name is Hilda Becker. She is a third-generation American of German extraction. Her father is a successful dentist widowed in 1959. The girl is thirty-one years oldâ' Peter had thought her younger, that fresh young skin had misled him. ââ I.Q. 138. University of Columbia 1965-68, Master's degree in Modern Political History. Member of SDS â that's Students for a Democratic Societyâ'

âYes.' Peter was impatient. âI know.'

ââ Activist in Vietnam war protests. Worker for the draft evasion pipeline to Canada. One arrest for possession of marijuana 1967, not convicted. Implicated with Weathermen â and one of the leaders of on-campus rioting in the spring of 1968. Arrested for bombing of Butler University and released. Left America in 1970 for further study at
Dusseldorf. Doctorate in Political Economics 1972. Known association with Gudrun Ensslin and Horst Mahler of the Baader-Meinhof. Went underground in 1976 after suspicion of implication in the abduction and murder of Heinrich Kohler, the West German industrialistâ' Her personal history was an almost classical development of the modern revolutionary, Peter reflected bitterly, a perfect picture of the beast. âBelieved to have received advanced training from the PFLP in Syria during 1976 and 1977. No recorded contact since then. She is a habitual user of cannabis-based drugs, reported voracious sexual activity with members of both sexesâ' Parker looked up. âThat's all we have,' he said.

âYes,' Peter repeated softly âShe'll go all the way.'

âWhat is your further assessment?'

âI believe that this is an operation organized at high level â possibly governmentalâ'

âSubstantiate!' Parker snapped.

âThe co-ordination with U.N.O proposals sponsored by the unaligned nations points that way.'

âAll right, go on.'

âFor the first time we have a highly organized and heavily supported strike that is not seeking some obscure, partisan object. We've got demands here about which a hundred million Americans and fifty million Englishmen are going to say in unison, “Hell, these aren't unreasonable” '

âGo on,' said Parker.

âThe militants have picked a soft target which is the outcast pariah of Western civilization That U.N. resolution is going to be passed a hundred to nil, and those millions of Americans and Englishmen are going to have to ask themselves if they are going to sacrifice the lives of four hundred of their most prominent citizens to support a government whose racial policies they abhor.'

âYes?' Parker was leaning forward to stare into the screen. âDo you think they'll do a deal?'

âThe militants? They might.' Peter paused a moment and then went on. âYou know my views, sir. I oppose absolutely dealing with these people.'

âEven in these circumstances?' Parker demanded.

âEspecially now. My views of the host country's policies are in accord with yours, Doctor Parker. This is the test. No matter how much we personally feel the demands are just, yet we must oppose to the death the manner in which they are presented. If these people win their objects, it is a victory for the gun â and we place all mankind in jeopardy'

âWhat is your estimate for a successful counterstrike?' Parker demanded suddenly, and even though he had known the question must come, still Peter hesitated a long moment.

âHalf an hour ago I would have put the odds at ten to one in our favour that I could pull off condition Delta with only militant casualties.'

âAnd now?'

âNow I know that these are not fuddle-headed fanatics. They are probably as well trained and equipped as we are, and they have had years to set this operation up.'

âAnd now?' Parker insisted.

âWe have a four to one in our favour of getting them out with a Delta strike, with say less than ten casualties.'

âWhat is the next best chance?'

âI would say there is no middle ground. If we failed, we would be into a situation with one hundred per cent casualties â we would lose the aircraft and all aboard, including all Thor personnel involved.'

âAll right then, Peter.' Parker leaned back in his chair, the gesture of dismissal. âI am going to speak with the President and the Prime Minister, they are setting up the link now. Then I will brief the ambassadors â and be back to you within the hour.'

His image flickered into darkness, and Peter realized that
all his hatred was suppressed. He felt cold, and functional as the surgeon's blade. Ready to do the job for which he had trained so assiduously, and yet able to assess and evaluate the enemy and the odds against success.

He pressed the call button. Colin had been waiting beyond the soundproof doors of the command cabin, and he came through immediately.

The explosives boys have taken down the grenade. It's a dandy. The explosive is the new Soviet CJ composition, and the fusing is factory manufacture. Professional stuff â and it will work. Oh, baby, will it ever work.'

Peter hardly needed this confirmation, and Colin went on as he flung himself untidily in the chair opposite Peter.

âWe put the list of names and the text of the militant statement on the teleprinter for Washingtonâ' He leaned forward and spoke into the cabin intercom. âRun that loop

â without sound first.' Then he told Peter grimly. âHere's the bad news I promised.'

The loop of video tape began to run on the central screen. It had clearly been shot from the observation post in the office overlooking the service area.

It was a full shot of the Boeing, the background flattened by the magnification of the lens and swimming and wavering with heat mirage rising from the tarmac of the main runway beyond the aircraft.

In the foreground were Peter's own naked back and shoulders as he strode out towards the aircraft. The lens had again flattened the action so that Peter appeared to be marking time on the same spot without advancing at all.

Suddenly the forward hatch of the Boeing changed shape as the door was slid aside, and the cameraman instantly zoomed in for the closer shot.

The two pilots and the air hostess in the doorway, the camera checked for a few frames and then zoomed closer. The aperture of the lens adjusted swiftly, compensating for the gloom of the interior, and the shot was close and tight
on the blonde girl's head for a heartbeat, then the head turned slightly and the lovely line of her lips moved as she spoke â it seemed like three words â before she turned back full face to the camera.

âOkay,' Colin said. âRun it again â with neutral balance on the sound.'

The entire loop reran, the cabin door opened, there were the three hostages, the fine golden head turned, and then the words âLet's slide,' from Ingrid, but there was background hiss and clutter.

â“Let's slide”?' Peter asked.

âRun it again with the bass density filter on the sound,' Colin ordered.

The same images on the screen, the golden head turning on the long neck.

â“It's slide.” ' Peter could not quite catch it.

âOkay,' Colin told the technician. âNow with full filter and resonance modulation.'

The repetitive images, the girl's head, the full lips parting, speaking to somebody out of sight in the body of the aircraft.

Very clearly, unmistakably, she said, âIt's Stride.' And Peter felt it jolt in his belly like a fist.

âShe recognized you,' said Colin. âNo, hell, she was expecting you!'

The two men stared at each other, Peter's handsome craggy features heavy with foreboding. Atlas had one of the highest security classifications. Only twenty men outside the close ranks of Atlas itself were privy to its secrets. One of those was the President of the United States â another was the Prime Minister of Great Britain.

Certainly only four or five men knew who commanded the Thor arm of Atlas â and yet there was no mistaking those words the girl had spoken.

âRun it again,' Peter ordered brusquely.

And they waited tensely for those two words, and when
they came they were in the clear lilt of that fresh young voice.

âIt's Stride,' said Ingrid, and the screen went blank.

Peter massaged his closed eyelids with thumb and forefinger. He realized with mild surprise that he had not slept for nearly forty-eight hours, but it was not physical weariness that assailed him now but the suddenly overwhelming knowledge of treason and betrayal and of undreamed-of evil.

âSomebody has blown Atlas,' said Colin softly. âThis is going to be a living and breathing bastard. They'll be waiting for us at every turn of the track.'

Peter dropped his hand and opened his eyes. âI must speak to Kingston Parker again,' he said. And when Parker's image reappeared on the main screen he was clearly agitated and angry.

âYou have interrupted the President.'

âDoctor Parkerâ' Peter spoke quickly. ââ Circumstances have altered. In my opinion the chances of a successful Delta strike have dropped. We have no better than an even chance.'

âI see.' Parker checked the anger. âThat's important. I will inform the President.'

T
he lavatories were all blocked by this time, the bowls almost filled, and the stench permeated all the cabins despite the air-conditioning.

Under the strict rationing of food and water most of the passengers were suffering from the lethargy of hunger, and the children were petulant and weepy.

The terrible strain was beginning to show on the hijackers themselves. They were standing a virtual non-stop watch, four hours of broken rest followed by four of ceaseless vigil and activity. The red cotton shirts were rumpled and
sweat-stained at the armpits, the sweat of nervous and physical strain, eyes bloodshot and tempers uncertain.

Just before nightfall, the dark-haired girl, Karen, had lost her temper with an elderly passenger who had been slow to respond to her command to return to his seat after using the toilet. She had worked herself up into an hysterical shrieking rage, and repeatedly struck the old man in the face with the short barrel of her shot pistol, laying his cheek open to the bone. Only Ingrid had been able to calm her, leading her away to the curtained tourist galley where she pampered and hugged her.

âIt will be all right,
Liebchen'
She stroked her hair. âOnly a little longer now. You have been so strong. In a few more hours we will all take the pills. Not long now.' And within minutes Karen had controlled the violent trembling of her hands, and although she was pale, she was able to take her position at the rear of the tourist cabin again.

Only Ingrid's strength seemed without limits. During the night she passed slowly down the aisles, pausing to talk quietly with a sleepless passenger, comforting them with the promise of imminent release.

âTomorrow morning we will have an answer to our demands, and all the women and children will be free â it's going to be all right, you just wait and see.'

A little after midnight the little roly-poly doctor sought her out in the cockpit.

âThe navigator is very ill,' he told her. âUnless we get him to a hospital immediately we will lose him.'

Ingrid went back and knelt beside the flight engineer. His skin was dry and burning hot and his breathing rasped and sawed.

âIt's renal failure,' said the doctor, hovering over them. âBreakdown of the kidneys from delayed shock. We cannot treat him here. He must be taken to hospital.'

Ingrid took the semi-conscious flight engineer's uninjured hand. âI'm sorry, but that's impossible.'

She went on holding his hand for another minute.

âDon't you feel anything?' the doctor demanded of her bitterly.

âI feel pity for him â as I do for all mankind,' she answered quietly. âBut he is only one. Out there are millions.'

BOOK: Wild Justice

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