Noordhof re-emerged, gasping, and went under again. He stayed under. Unthinkingly, the pilot began to hold his breath. He was almost panicking when Noordhof appeared once again, his hands reaching up for a runner. The Colonel missed and the current immediately swept him downriver, into the blackness beyond the light. The pilot took the machine along, picked up a bobbing head and dipped the runner into the water, moving with the stream. Noordhof grabbed the runner and this time heaved himself on to it. The pilot took the machine out of the gorge and lowered it on to flat ground. Noordhof, water pouring off him, heaved himself into the gunship.
“The melon truck!”
Angrily, the pilot jerked open the throttle, tilted the machine and flew along the line of the road.
Impact
Around five fifteen the hammering of the rain on the canvas roof began to ease, and by five forty-five the storm had passed. The sky was still black except to the east where, looking through a cut in the tarpaulin, Webb could see the horizon outlined against the sky. The countryside was flatter here, and there were houses dotted around amongst the fields. Once or twice they passed by a cluster of adobe houses, and once a couple of trucks roared past, going in the opposite direction. At this latitude, Webb reckoned, it would be light in another ten or fifteen minutes.
The engine faltered, picked up for a few hundred yards, and then died. The truck slowed down and bumped to a halt, its brakes squealing. The driver, his elderly face decorated with a grey moustache, tapped at the glass and shouted something derogatory about his son-in-law Julio. Judy struggled over melons and there was a noisy exchange of conversation in Spanish. She clambered back. “This happens after a lot of wet. The ignition goes. He says to wait until the engine heat dries out the electrics.”
Webb pulled the canvas aside and they jumped out. The driver stepped down from his cab and lit a cigarette, leaning against the door.
They were in rough, open terrain, strewn with boulders and cacti. There were no habitations.
“Oliver, there is no place to hide.”
Webb looked at his watch. He said, quietly, “The time for hiding is over, Judy. Either I make contact and expose Nemesis as a fraud, or the Americans start launching nuclear weapons.”
“God in Heaven. How much time have we left?”
“Twenty-four minutes.”
“I’ll say a little prayer. But Oliver…”
“Yes?”
“What if the pilot has found the jeep?”
“We did the best we could.”
Judy stepped smartly over to the driver and engaged in a short conversation. She came back and said, “There’s a little town ahead, about twenty minutes’ drive. The driver will finish his cigarette and try the engine.”
“Do you have any money?”
“I’ll speak nicely to him.” There was more animated chatter and Judy returned with a handful of coins. Webb waved his thanks to the driver, who nodded cheerfully, threw away his stub and pulled himself into his cab. Webb and Judy climbed back in. The driver left the cab again, stretched and lit another cigarette. Then he relieved himself noisily at the roadside, into a puddle. Then he climbed aboard once more. Then he tried to find a radio channel, muttering loudly as he scanned the airwaves. Then he gave up, and tried the ignition.
Luck was smiling on the pilot. As the rain eased, the range of his imager extended. He increased altitude. To the right, flecks of red were appearing on the horizon; in a few minutes it would be light. He sensed that the chase was nearing its climax. He kept up the full throttle, tilting the machine forwards for maximum speed.
“Can’t you get him to go any faster?”
“This is Mexico. If I ask him, he’ll stop to talk about it. We’re only minutes away.”
Webb scrabbled to the back of the truck and pulled the flapping tarpaulin aside. The sky was grey, with lurid red and black stripes to the east. Already the air was warm. He leaned out and looked in the direction of motion of the truck. They were passing between a few houses; and there was a town, about two miles ahead.
“There’s a town about four minutes ahead. We could just make it.” Webb paused, suddenly aware that the lady’s attention was elsewhere.
“Oliver, behind you.”
The pilot switched off the imager. The occasional house, large cacti, even brushwood could all be made out.
He saw the dust trail before he saw the truck itself. It was the same truck; the same grey, the same flapping tarpaulin cover. It was about two miles from a small town, dead ahead. He smiled primly, made a small course correction with the rudder, and pushed the stick forward in its collective mode. He began to lose altitude, moving directly towards the lumbering vehicle.
“When the driver slows, jump and run for cover.”
“He’ll kill you, Oliver. You will die.”
“The light’s not perfect. I’m hoping he’ll hit the truck,” Webb said. The helicopter was a mile away, cruising slowly in; the pilot, no longer in a hurry, was savouring the moment.
“But the old man…”
“… has had it. I need my phone call.”
The melon truck began to slow. Webb looked round. Narrow crossroads ahead. A row of adobe houses, brightly painted. A green-painted cantina, shuttered, at the corner. Thirty yards from it, the entrance to a street.
The truck slowed to thirty-five miles an hour… thirty… twenty-five…
“What are you doing?” Webb shouted. “You have to jump!” But she stood, legs askance, scowling.
“Judy, come on. I have to go!”
“Then go! I’ll distract the pilot and make him think we are still inside. Jump, Oliver, jump! You’ll remember me?”
Webb left her to die. He leapt out of the truck, fell with a thump and rolled breathlessly on compacted earth, clutching the money. He jumped up, his ribs in pain, and dashed for the street. He sprinted round the corner and along the road. It was lined with small shops, closed and shuttered. There was no telephone booth. He hurled himself along the street.
He felt the wind from the rotor before he heard its whispering chop-chop. He glanced behind and dived to the ground as the dark gunship swooped past. He got up and ran the way he had just come. The machine tilted and flew backwards. Its rear rotor scythed the ground to and fro, whipping up dust. Terrified, Webb weaved and dived flat. The whirling vertical blades passed inches from his skull. The force of the wind was like a blow on the face, and then there was unbelievable pain, a frightful slash in his thigh and blood spurting from a ripped trouser leg. He saw a narrow lane, crawled underneath the machine and staggered towards it, trying not to faint. There was a tremendous bang and a wave of heat, and he was floating through the air, and then a pile of polythene bags and boxes was rushing up from the ground and he was rolling and tumbling amongst kitchen rubbish. Dazed, he hauled himself up. The street he had just left was a mass of fierce yellow flame. He felt as if his face was in an oven. There was a fearful pain in the back of his head.
He ran limping along the lane and took off along another one, mercifully away from the heat, and then another: he was in a warren of narrow streets, cluttered with tables and chairs, with washing strung overhead. A thin mongrel barked excitedly at him as he passed. A pall of black smoke was drifting over the rooftops. His watch said three minutes to Nemesis and only will power lay between him and a faint. His leg was warm and sticky but he didn’t dare to look at it.