Southtrap

I sprinted back to it, gathering more wood on my way. I deliberately chose some which was wet in order to make smoke.

I threw armfuls on to the embers and blew it up. The time was a little past seven o'clock. The sun was already showing in the east over the horizon — it looked like becoming that rarest of things, a fine day on Prince Edward.

The smoke started to swirl skywards. I hastily checked Linn. Her drawn face was dreadful in the new light but her pulse was still going. I could scarcely bear to hear her gasping for breath.

To signal the plane and make myself visible as well I would have to get myself on the plateau above the cave. I could hear the sound of its engines in the direction we had made our nightmare march. I guessed it was casing the coastline for survivors.

My eye fell on the smashed transmitter lying near the fire. The ruse had worked! I found myself taking the plane's arrival almost for granted. It had worked!

I blessed the bashed little box, snatched up a burning faggot and an armful of wood, and sprinted for the plateau.

The sky was empty,' there was no engine sound any more.

I tried to tell myself that the great central highland and its craters was enough to shut it off. I revolved a full circle, searching. I had no eyes for the noble sight of the Golden Gate, its twin bastions of yellow strata soaring from their base of grey lava, or for the palette of colours — greys, blacks, greens, yellows, blues, opals — which the sun had drawn from the grim little island.

Now the smoke from my new fire was also rising in the still air.

Then the plane came in unexpectedly from the south, from the Marion Island side.

The great heavy Shackleton maritime reconnaissance aircraft skimmed the seaward bluffs and came towards me, manoeuvring to pass at mast-level between two nearby craters. Slung under the plane's belly was a sea-rescue lifeboat; the nose bristled with radio and radar antennae.

It came so low over me that the thunder of the four big propellers and the blast from the open exhausts beat like a drum on my chest. Simultaneously, a small parachute exploded in the slipstream and came spiralling into the tussocky grass which fronted the Golden Gate's bastions.

The plane dodged between the craters and disappeared.

I sprinted to the parachute package. The canister was bigger than I had at first thought. It was marked, in bold letters on four sides, 'Emergency survival package. Open here'.

I tore it open. There were blankets, tins of soup and food, matches, a solid-fuel stove, and what looked like medical supplies.

There was also a small walkie-talkie. There was a tag attached to it which read. 'To operate…'

I didn't need to be told how. I got it going and clapped the receiver to my ear.

The voice, unnaturally loud, was chanting in the way radio operators have. 'Shackleton S for Skua, Shackleton S for Skua! Do you hear me? I repeat, do you hear me? Reply, reply…'

I had to steady my voice out of its first husky wobble.

'I hear you, S for Skua, I hear you.'

The operator's excited voice called out, presumably in the aircraft's cockpit, 'I got him, skipper! I got him!'

I heard the roar of the aircraft's engines relayed over the instrument and a chatter of talk. Then a different voice. It was formal, tentative. I realized why. He could have been talking to a hijacker.

'Captain, aircraft S for Skua speaking. Please identify yourself.'

'John Shotton, captain, cruise ship Quest.'

The voice said something aside and I heard the surge of other voices. Maybe the crew were all crowding round him.

The pilot's voice came back to me, relaxed, but filled with wonderment.

'Shotton! You must be indestructible, fellah!'

Then it hardened. 'Where are the hijackers?'

'Dead.'

There was a long whistle. 'All of them?'

'Yes.'

'The ringleader too?'

'I killed him myself.'

The pilot's voice sounded incredulous. 'How?'

'With my hands.'

The voice came back in rapid-fire. 'Listen, Shotton, they wanted me to load up the media boys in this crate when I took off but I wouldn't, because we're practically sitting up to the ears in fuel. If only those pen-pushing sons of bitches knew the story they're missing…'

'See here,' I interrupted. 'Forget the news story. I've got an emergency here. Life or death.'

The flier's voice levelled off. I'm making a circuit of the island. I'll be over you again shortly. Keep talking. What emergency?'

'I have a woman with a bullet in her. Linn Prestrud. She's dying. I've got to get her out. She's bad. A hospital case.'

There was silence. I broke it anxiously. 'Are you still with me, S for Skua? I repeat, I have an emergency case…'

None of the pilot's earlier excitement was audible in his reply. In its flatness I could detect the anxieties of that eight-hour maximum range flight from the Cape over the wildest ocean in the world, the skilled astro-navigation to pinpoint Prince Edward, the superb achievement of having found us.

'I hear you,' he said. 'You've got to realize, Shotton, that I can't land. I can't fly her out. There are medical supplies in the canister we dropped. I'll drop you more. Everything I have.'

The big machine lumbered into sight again. This time it turned and started to circle over the sea in range of Cave Bay. Dead despair closed over my heart. The Shackleton might have been a ship in outer space for all the good it could do Linn.

I said equally flatly, 'Medical supplies by themselves are no good. It's skilled attention she needs. A doctor. And a hospital. Immediately. She'll be dead by this evening.'

The pilot must have heard the desperation in my voice. 'See here, Shotton. I've also got a doctor on board and he can give you advice what to do. He's got his kit with him. I'll parachute that to you. There's also a destroyer on her way here from the Cape — I passed her five hundred kilometres out. She'll be here in a few days. She's carrying a helicopter. Don't despair. They'll get her out.', I nerved myself to repeat, 'I want you to understand. She's dying.'

The pilot cut in, more formally still, 'Captain Shot-ton, you understand the logistics of the situation I'm faced with. I'm flying on the limit of my fuel. I left the Cape in a storm and a gale has been chasing my tail for 2300 kilometres. I've got to fly into that headwind all the way home. I might even have to ditch this crate before I reach base if I go on circling and using fuel as I am. I appreciate your position. I'm handing you over to Doctor Lawson. We'll do everything to help, but you must understand there is a limit.'

'I understand.' My voice was stone dead.

A new voice came over the walkie-talkie. 'Doctor Lawson speaking.'

'Doctor,' I said, trying to control my words. 'She's dying. She's got a bullet in her chest…'

'Not so fast, Captain Shotton. I must have details, if I am to help.'

The bullet split in two…' I pulled my thoughts together and outlined how Linn was wounded.

When I had finished, he said, 'Hold on. I'll come back to you.'

The radio operator came through in his place. 'Captain Shotton? The doctor is consulting with the captain. The skipper asked me to tell you we rescued your ship.'

The Quest?'

'Sure. This is our second flight to the ice in four days. The ground crews have nicknamed the Shack Antarctic Archie. That cruise ship was quite a proposition. A destroyer went to tow her in after we'd located her. But the skipper — a young guy called Peterson — did a wonderful job. He'd rigged a kind of sail and was keeping her away from the icebergs…'

'Petersen wasn't the skipper,' I said. 'I left McKinley in command.'

'McKinley hit his bunk and a bottle, so they told us,' he replied. Then he added admiringly: That was quite a brainwave of yours about the transmitters, Captain.'