Canopy deployed.
Pendulous oscillation setting in and I tried to control it with the shroud lines but couldn't, hadn't the strength, because the opening shock had jerked me upright like a puppet and the harness webbing had bitten into old bruises and all I could do was hang in the air getting my breath, nausea threatening because of the oscillation, fight it.
Swing, swing, swing.
Cheer up, the worst is over, so forth.
Very queasy and I got hold of a line, two lines, pulled on them, an improvement, going almost straight down like a shuttle-cock. Don't think about the ground: it's not going to be comfortable so we'll just settle for that and shut up about it.
I caught sight of the supply 'chute three times during the drop, lower than I was because I'd shoved it overboard before I'd jumped, and not bad timing: it was nearer the rock outcrop, almost on top of it.
It would have been nice, yes, if Chirac could have landed me in his Alouette and waited for the estimated forty minutes while I fiddled with the thing and then taken me away before the bang went off, a civilized approach to the end-phase of a mission, a taxi for the executive in the field. But the listening-posts were going to pick us up on their scanners unless the rising ground to the north-east diffused our sound-wake enough to fox them, and there was a chance they'd take us for a prospecting crew or one of the Algerian desert-reconnaissance machines.
But if Chirac put her down they'd get an immediate fix on our position and I wouldn't have time to set up the bang before we got smothered in ticks. No go.
Sand coming up fast don't think about it.
The first light of the day was spilling across the horizon, touching the tips of the rocks with rose and colouring the crests of the dunes and leaving the last of the night pooled in the hollows. Chirac had done his homework and the timing had been precise. With the opposition cells alerted by the Marauder's switch to South 6 we couldn't hope to repeat a night approach by sailplane: this time we had to go right into the target area with a zero margin of error so that I could set up the device as soon as I landed, trigger it and leave an escape-delay on the detonator sufficient to get me clear.
Nor could we night-fly the mission all the way because dead-reckoning was out of the question: it would demanda margin of error and we couldn't afford one. Chirac had to see the rock outcrop, home in on it and overfly, and do itwithout altering speed so that the doppler factor would remainconstant on the scanners. Nor could we fly by daylight all theway without being seen, even if we flew at dune level the south.
So Chirac had flown through the last of the dark with an ETA of dawn plus one over the target area and he'd got it spot on.
I could still hear him, heading south-west for Ghadamis on a decoy run before he turned back to Kaifra.
Estimate five seconds to go, relax or you'll break a joint.
I tried to turn bodily but it set up the first swing of an oscillation and I didn't want to land at an angle so I stopped. In any case there was no problem: the supply 'chute had been close to the rocks when I'd last sighted it.
The decision had been made rather formally. He is like that, Loman. Even when the chances of a successful end-phase are almost nil and he's staring straight into the brick dust as the mission collapses he remains rather formal.
The situation, Quiller, is simply this. Even if we have only a one per cent chance of completing our mission, London would appreciate our making the attempt.
Then he'd got out of the observer's seat and dropped on to the sand and walked away in the direction opposite from Chirac's, to stand there with his back to me. His gesture was symbolic, accurate and characteristic: he couldn't go far from the helicopter because if I accepted the end-phase we'd have to take off in three minutes, so he went as far as he could and indicated by turning his back that he was to all intents and purposes out of sight. The final decision was to be my own and no pressure was to be put on me by my director in the field, even by his presence.
Ground close watch it.
The situation, Quiller, is simply this. Even if you have only a one per cent chance of surviving the end-phase, London would appreciate your making the attempt.
One always has to paraphrase just a little, with Loman.
Then I'd called to Chirac to start up and I was here because I was an old ferret sharp of tooth and I knew my warrens and I'd run them before and I'd run them again because the chance I believe in is the one-per-center and that is the way of things, as I see them. Pure logic, of course: the high risks of my trade drew me to it and that is why I ply it, and the greater the risk the more I am drawn and when the risk is expressed as a one per cent chance of survival then I'm hooked and damned and hell-bound and don't get in my way.
Their mall heads, I suppose, were raised there among the shadowed crevices of rock as I drifted down, a great circular petal reflected in their gold-rimmed eyes.
Side of a dune and I was badly placed and pitched flat and the sand burst and I blacked out.
The supply 'chute was draped across a spur of rock like a sheet hung out to dry. The shroud lines were badly twisted and I had to cut some of them before I could free the two containers, and with each jerk of the knife everything went red again and I had to rest, leaning on the hot surface of the rocks. When I could manage it I dragged the canopy down and folded it and stuffed it into a fissure: all they needed was a landmark but we were all right at the moment because there were some vultures coasting not far away and they'd have sheered off if there were any aircraft about.
When I'd looked at the containers I went across to the niche in the rocks where I'd left my camp. Chirac had found the transceiver when he'd come for me last evening, and stowed it here out of the sun's direct heat.
Tango.
Loman wasn't going to like it.
He would have been trying to call me up, I knew that, but I hadn't set to receive before I'd dragged the canopy out of sight. Chirac would have picked him up in thegassi an hour ago and dropped him somewhere near base and since then he'd been trying to call me and by this time he'd be certain we'd failed and he was right and he wasn't going to like it when I told him.
Tango receiving.
I could hear them scuttling, perhaps in fright at his voice, sharp and metallic and amplified. I said I was in the target area.
What was the delay?
Bad landing
Are you injured?
No.
Then I saw the vultures drifting away and knew that there wasn't any doubt left: we'd hit a dead end. We'd thought this mission had an all-or-nothing end-phase, either I'd blow Tango Victor off the face of the earth or the opposition would get her and kill me before I could do it. The idea of a compromise hadn't occurred to us: that I'd get here for nothing, and too late.
I would appreciate your situation report.
Talked like a bloody schoolteacher. I'd soon stop that.
We've had it, Loman. The timer's been smashed.
Five seconds.
Please repeat.
I suppose he had a point. When you're sending the last signal of a mission you might as well make it clear what you're saying, if only for the record.
The supply 'chute came down on the rock outcrop and the impact has smashed the timing mechanism.
A longer pause. I waited, listening to the sky.
My lips tasted salty, had blood on them. It had been dripping on to the shale and I'd only just noticed it and I wiped my hand across, well, what would you expect, I'd hit the side of the dune with my face and opened the stitches.