The hook descended again with a second crew member. The airship now swung sluggishly, making the transfer harder.
The two men who had alighted crossed to Reilly, spoke for a minute. Reilly pointed at Cain. One headed over to him.
‘Bit brisk.’ The words became mist in front of his face. He held out a mitten to Cain. ‘Ken Duckworth. Second Officer. Or First Mate if you prefer.’ He was a plummy Brit with a nasal drawl that, unlike Rhonda’s, seemed more practised than innate. The thin face behind the glare-glasses featured a long iced moustache. ‘I gather you’re from some dreadful covert outfit.’
‘Yes. Ray Cain. Registered assassin.’
Duckworth’s uneasy look. ‘I’m told some of our blokes have bought it.’
Cain winced at the ancient expression. Did the flake think he was Biggles? ‘Three.’
‘And I believe you killed the prats who did it.’
‘My job.’
‘And now you want our help?’
He pointed to Hunt. ‘We’re both fit enough to stay here. But this man needs to go with you.’ He indicated John. ‘He’s eighty. Can’t handle the altitude.’
‘Oh yes?’ He was suddenly uninterested, a person put-upon. ‘We have strict weight limits unfortunately.’
John put his glove on Cain’s arm. ‘I’ll be all right.’ A fit of gasping.
Duckworth said, ‘Who are you, sir?’
John wheezed, ‘A Catholic priest.’
‘Priest?’ Duckworth frowned. ‘Have to confer with the Old Man on this.’
As the other man came over, Duckworth turned to face him. ‘Spot of bother here, Skipper. Eighty-year-old Catholic priest requesting a berth.’
‘Priest?’
‘This is Captain Patrick Flynn,’ Duckworth said. ‘You are…’
Cain suffered introductions. ‘Ray Cain. Karen Hunt. Father John.’
Flynn, a tall, keen-eyed Irishman, in contrast to his second officer gave no display of self-image. He looked at the pope suspiciously. ‘Could I trouble you to remove your face mask, Father?’
The pope struggled to do it.
Cain helped him get it off then undid the neck of his windsuit, got his finger around a chain, pulled out the crucifix he knew it held. ‘He is a priest.’
John lowered his goggles and squinted against the glare.
Flynn peered at the aged face with a startled expression. ‘And what would a priest be doing at this place you came from?’
‘He was abducted for political reasons,’ Cain said. ‘He managed to escape.’
‘I’d like to hear it from the father if you don’t mind.’
‘I was a cardinal in the Vatican.’ John pushed the crucifix back in, breathing hard. ‘They wanted me removed.’
Flynn’s incredulous stare. ‘And did they, by any chance, pretend — you’d died?’
‘They did, I’m afraid. I’m told my funeral was quite elaborate.’
‘I can’t believe this.’
Duckworth glanced at Flynn, puzzled.
‘My dear mother, God bless her,’ Flynn explained, fighting for breath himself, ‘is devout. Was in Rome for the coronation of John Paul I. Had tremendous hope in his pontificate, couldn’t believe it when he died. Still has pictures of him in her house after all these years — pictures I’ve seen a hundred times. And… when you took your face mask off… I… saw… those pictures.’
That’s torn it, Cain thought.
John looked at him for permission.
He said, ‘Your call.’
The pope turned to Flynn, nodded.
‘You’re…’
‘God’s postman, yes.’
‘The… Holy Father?’
‘Albino Luciani, Patriarch of Venice. Then I drew the short straw.’
Duckworth’s eyes popped. ‘He’s the pope?’
‘My friend is right,’ John gasped. ‘I won’t last much longer here. I don’t wish to be a pest but if you could… give me a lift out of this… beautiful terrible place, I’d be grateful.’
Flynn dropped to his knees and grasped the pope’s glove. John blessed him.
Cain muttered, ‘Lid’s off now.’
‘I’m tired, Ray. I can’t take much more.’
Flynn was up again, eyes wide with reverence. ‘We’ll get him straight into the ship. We’re not pressurised but we have oxygen.’
As they began to help him away, John turned back to Cain. ‘Can you bring my manuscript, my things?’
‘Travelling.’ Glad and relieved, he shuffled toward the vans.
By the time Cain and Hunt saw the bag with the precious manuscript winched up, the weather was closing in. The more distant men in the team were intermittently obscured by ground drift. Visibility here was decided by the amount of blowing snow. The ship seemed fuelled but helium hoses still dangled. The last of the canvas bags were assembled below the hatch.
Cain said, ‘One problem less.’ Fine drift blew in his mouth as he spoke.
‘Long as they don’t know he’s on board.’
‘We’ll have to slot the bodies so there’s no head-count.’
‘Too late. Listen.’
The noise of the airship’s engines had been joined by a far-off thock-thock.
He yelled across to Reilly, ‘Chopper coming in. It’ll be EXIT. Tell your men to take cover.’
He wrenched at his heavily padded parka to get his weapon clear and ran for the supply sledge, wanting to steady the gun on its tray. He could see nothing yet. Just the airship floating above a white sea.
The striped Sikorsky came arcing over about 15 metres up, its downwash cutting a saucer of clear ground through the drift. It circled the airship at a distance, as if instructed not to impede the expedition. In a civil aircraft with no close support, and in such weather, he knew the hard-arses in the cabin wouldn’t hang out of doors or rappel. The machine slapped off toward the encampment, checking the layout below.
Hunt joined him behind the sledge, gun out, yelling, ‘Come back, bastards.’
She knew what to do if they got lucky.
EXIT choppers weren’t designed for engagements or fancy insertions — had no Kevlar seat armour, boron shields, blast barriers. Apart from military style auxiliary tanks, due to procurement rather than defence, they were standard machines adapted for Antarctica.
Cain yelled, ‘It’s coming around again.’
The chopper, undercarriage down, still in clear sky above the drift, circled away from the encampment and back behind the ship. As it banked into a turn, close above, its belly momentarily faced them.
Their bursts were aimed behind the black and orange striped nose at the vulnerable spot just aft of the nose-wheel bay. If just one 9mm round holed the floor — and the pilot’s gluteus maximus…
Nothing.
The chopper straightened out and powered away, nose down, over the parked traverse.
Hunt stamped. ‘Shit. Was sure I’d hit it.’
Cain waved a chilled hand. ‘No stuffed panda.’
Not surprising. They were both excellent shots but this was similar to shooting skeet. A split-second window at a moving target. And the squat weapons were made for close combat.
He said, ‘Short barrels — short expectations.’
‘So they’ve checked the layout. They’ll know they’ve been strafed. They’ll land away in the drift and use the weather as cover to close in.’
‘And we’re drinking from a fire hose.’
Then they heard it.
If the crunch was a landing, the main blades had landed first.
A gust? Miscalculation? He doubted it.
The pilot had been hit — but had got the thing down.
Just.
The jubilant Hunt turned to him. ‘Scored our panda. And it’s stuffed!’
‘Sounded expensive,’ he grinned.
She yipped, ‘First blood.’
51
FIREFIGHT