The Cry of the Halidon (50 page)

Hammond could not remain silent. “I submit—whoever you are—that we are the logical … executors.”

“The term ‘logic’ being interchangeable with ‘deserving.’ I will say this for your cause. God, Queen, and Empire have paid heavily in recent decades. Somewhat out of proportion to their relative sins, but that is not our concern, Commander. As I said, your instructions were clear at the outset: Get the Dunstone list at all costs. The cost is now clear. We will give you the list. You will get out of Jamaica. That is the price.”

Again, the silence; once more, the exchange of analyzing stares. A cloud passed over the Montego moon, causing a dark shadow to fall over the faces. Hammond spoke.

“How can be we be sure of its authenticity?”

“Can you doubt us after the events of the day? Remember, it is in our mutual interest that Dunstone be eliminated.”

“What guarantees do you expect from us?”

Daniel laughed. A laugh formed in humor. “We do not
need
guarantees
, Commander. We will
know
. Can you not understand that? Our island is not a continent; we know every liaison, conduit, and contact with whom you function.” The smile from the laugh formed in humor disappeared. “These operations will stop. Make whatever settlements you must, but then no more. Give—really give—Jamaica to its rightful owners. Struggles, chaos, and all.”

“And”—the Englishman spoke softly—“if these decisions are outside my control—”

“Make no mistake, Commander Hammond!” Daniel’s voice rose, cutting off the agent. “The executions that took place today began at noon London time. And each day, the chimes in Parliament’s clocktower ring out another noon. When you hear them, remember. What we were capable of today, we are capable of tomorrow. And we will add the truth of our motives. England will be a pariah in the community of nations. You cannot afford that.”

“Your threat is ludicrous!” countered Hammond, with equal fever. “As you said, this island is not a continent. We’d go in and destroy you.”

Daniel nodded and replied quietly. “Quite possible. And you should know that we are prepared for that eventuality. We
have
been for over two hundred years. Remarkable, isn’t it?… By all you believe holy, pay the price, Hammond; take the list and salvage what you can from Dunstone. You
do
deserve that. Not that you’ll salvage much; the vultures will fly in from their various geographies and dive for the carrion. We offer you time, perhaps only a few days. Make the best of it!”

A red light on the panel beneath the dashboard lit up, throwing a glow over the front seat. There were the sharp, staccato repeats of a high-pitched buzzer. The driver reached for the telephone and pulled it to his ear, held it there for several seconds, and then handed the instrument to Daniel.

The Minister of the Halidon listened. Alexander saw his face in the rearview mirror. Daniel could not conceal his alarm.

And then his anger.

“Do what you can but risk
no lives
. Our men are to pull out.
No one
is to leave the community. That is final.
Irreversible
!” He replaced the telephone in its upright recess firmly and turned his eyes on the Englishman as he spoke sarcastically. “British
expertise
, Commander. John Bull
know-how
. The West Indian specialists, M.I. Six, Caribbean, have just received their orders from Dunstone. They are to go into the Cock Pit and intercept the survey. They are to make sure it does not come out.”

“Oh, my God!” McAuliff pitched forward on the seat. “Can they reach them?”

“Ask the eminent authority,” said Daniel bitingly, his eyes wide on Hammond. “They are his men.”

The agent was rigid, as though he had stopped breathing. Yet it was obvious his mind was operating swiftly, silently. “They are in contact with the radio receivers … the signals transmitted from the campsite. The location can be pinpointed—”

“Within a thousand yards,” cut in Alexander, completing Hammond’s statement.

“Yes.”

“You’ve got to stop them!”

“I’m not sure there’s a way—”

“
Find
one. For Christ’s sake, Hammond, they’re going to be killed!” McAuliff grabbed Hammond by the lapels of his jacket, yanking him forward viciously. “You
move
, mister. Or I’ll kill you!”

“Take your hands—”

Before the agent could finish the obvious, Alexander whipped his right hand across Hammond’s face, breaking the skin on the Englishman’s lips. “There isn’t anything more,
Commander
! I want those guarantees!
Now!”

The agent spoke through rivulets of blood. “I’ll do my best. All I’ve ever given you was … our best efforts.”

“You son of a bitch!” McAuliff brought his hand back once again. The driver and Daniel grabbed his arm.

“McAuliff! You’ll accomplish
nothing
!” roared the minister.

“You tell
him
to start accomplishing!” Then Alexander stopped and turned to Daniel, releasing the Englishman. “You’ve got people there.” And then McAuliff remembered the terrible words Daniel had spoken into the telephone:
Risk no lives. Our men … pull back. No one is to leave the community
. “You’ve got to get on that phone. Take back what you said.
Protect them!”

The minister spoke quietly. “You must try to understand. There were traditions, revelations … a way of life extending over two hundred years. We cannot jeopardize these things.”

Alexander stared at the black man. “You’d watch them
die
? My
God
, you
can’t
!”

“I am afraid we could. And would. And we would then be faced with the taking of your life. It would be taken as swiftly …” Daniel turned up the collar of his shirt, revealing a tiny bulge in the cloth.
Tablets, sewn into the fabric
. “… as I would bite into these, should I ever find myself in a position where it was necessary. I would not think twice about it.”

“For God’s sake, that’s
you
! They’re not you; they’re no part of you. They don’t
know
you. Why should they pay with their lives?”

Hammond’s voice was startling in its quiet incisiveness. “Priorities, McAuliff. I told you. For them … for us.”

“The accidents of war, Doctor. Combat’s slaughter of innocents, perhaps.” Daniel spoke simply, denying the implication of his words. “Things written and unwritten—”

“
Bullshit!”
screamed McAuliff. The driver removed a pistol from his belt; his action was obvious. Alexander looked rapidly back and forth between the Minister of the Halidon and the British Intelligence officer. “Listen to me. You said on that phone for them to do what they can. You. Hammond. You offered your … goddamned ‘best efforts.’ All right. Give
me
a chance!”

“How?” asked Daniel. “There can be no Jamaican police, no Kingston troops.”

The words came back to Alexander. Words spoken by Sam Tucker in the glow of the campsite fire. A quiet statement
made as Sam watched the figure of Charles Whitehall and the black giant, Lawrence, talking in the compound.
They’re our protection. They may hate each other
 …

They’re our protection
.

McAuliff whirled on Hammond. “How many defectors have you got here?”

“I brought six specialists from London—”

“All but one has sold out to Dunstone,” interrupted Daniel.

“That’s five. How many others could they pick up?” McAuliff addressed the Halidonite.

“On such short notice, perhaps three or four; probably mercenaries. That is only a guess.… They would be more concerned with speed than numbers. One automatic rifle in the hands of a single soldier—”

“When did they get the Dunstone orders?” asked Alex swiftly, breaking off Daniel’s unnecessary observations.

“Within the hour is our estimate. Certainly no more than an hour.”

“Could they get a plane?”

“Yes. Ganja aircraft are always for hire. It would take a little time; ganja pilots are a suspicious breed, but it could be done.”

Alex turned to Hammond. The agent was wiping his lips with his fingers … his goddamn fingers, as if dusting the pastry crumbs off his mouth during tea at the Savoy! “Can you raise the people monitoring the signals from the campsite? With that radio?” McAuliff pointed to the panel under the dashboard.

“I have the frequency—”

“Does that mean
yes
?”

“Yes.”

“What is the point?” asked Daniel.

“To see if his goddamn specialists have reached them. To get the position—”

“You want our plane?” interrupted the Minister of the Halidon, knowing the answer to his question.

“
Yes!”

Daniel signaled to the driver to start the car. “You don’t
need the position. There is only one place to land: the grassland two miles southwest of the campsite. We have the coordinates.”

The automobile lurched out of the parking area, careened off the primitive border, and sped into the darkness toward the highway.

Hammond gave the frequency-band decimals to Daniel; the minister transmitted them, handing the microphone to the British agent.

There was no pickup.

No answer over the airways.

“It will take time to get the plane.” Daniel spoke quietly as the car roared over the wide roadway.

Alex suddenly put his hand on the minister’s shoulder. “Your runner, the one who used the name Marcus. Tell him to get word to Sam Tucker.”

“I have instructed our men to pull out,” answered Daniel icily. “Please remember what I told you.”

“For Christ’s sake, send him back. Give them a chance!”

“Don’t you mean give
her
a chance?”

McAuliff wanted—as he had never wanted anything before—to kill the man. “You had to say it, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Daniel, turning in his seat to look Alexander in the eye. “Because it is related to the condition on which you have use of the plane. If you fail, if the woman is killed, your life is taken also. You will be executed. Quite simply, with her death you could never be trusted.”

Alexander acknowledged the penetrating stare of Daniel the Halidonite. “Quite simply,” he said, “my answer is easy. I’ll give the firing order myself.”

R. C. Hammond leaned forward. His speech was measured, precise as ever. “I am going in with you, McAuliff.”

Both Daniel and Alex looked at the Englishman. Hammond, in a few words, had quietly moved into a strange defenseless position. It astonished both men.

“Thank you.” It was all McAuliff could say, but he meant it profoundly.

“I’m afraid that is not possible, Commander,” said
Daniel. “You and I … we have matters between us. If McAuliff goes, he goes alone.”

“You’re a barbarian.” Hammond spoke sharply.

“I am the Halidon. And we
do
have priorities. Both of us.”

M
cAuliff nosed the small plane above cloud cover. He loosened the field jacket provided him by the driver of the car. It was warm in the tiny cabin. The Halidon aircraft was different from the plane he and Malcolm had flown from the field west of Accompong. It was similar to the two-seater Comanche in size and appearance, but its weight and maneuverability were heavier and greater.

McAuliff was not a good pilot. Flying was a skill he had half mastered through necessity, not from any devotion. Ten years ago, when he had made the decision to go field-commercial, he had felt the ability to fly would come in handy, and so he had taken the prescribed lessons that eventually led to a very limited license.

It had proved worthwhile. On dozens of trips over most continents. In small, limited aircraft.

He hoped to Christ it would prove worthwhile now. If it did not, nothing mattered anymore.

On the seat beside him was a small blackboard, a slate common to grammar school, bordered by wood. On it was chalked his primitive flight plan in white lettering that stood out in the dim light of the instrument panel.

Desired air speed, compass points, altitude requirements, and sightings that, with luck and decent moonlight, he could distinguish.

From the strip outside Drax Hall he was to reach a height of one thousand feet, circling the field until he had done so. Leaving the strip perimeter, he was to head southeast at 115 degrees, air speed 90. In a few minutes he would be over
Mount Carey—two brush fires would be burning in a field; he would spot them.

He did.

From Mount Carey, maintaining air speed and dropping to 700 feet, he was to swing east-northeast at 84 degrees and proceed to Kempshot Hill. An automobile with a spotlight would be on a road below; the spotlight would flicker its beam into the sky.

He saw it and followed the next line on the chalkboard. His course change was minor—8 degrees to 92 on the compass, maintaining air speed and altitude. Three minutes and thirty seconds later, he was over Amity Hall. Again brush fires, again a fresh instruction; this, to, was minimal.

East at 87 degrees into Weston Favel.

Drop altitude to 500 feet, maintain air speed, look for two automobiles facing each other with blinking headlights at the south section of the town. Correct course to exactly 90 degrees and reduce air speed to 75.

The instant he reached Martha Brae River, he was to alter course 35 degrees southeast, to precisely 122 on the compass.

At this point he was on his own. There would be no more signals from the ground, and, of course, no radio contact whatsoever.

The coordination of air speed, direction, and timing was all he had … everything he had. Altitude was by pilotage—as low as possible, cognizant of the gradual ascent of the jungle hills. He might spot campfires, but he was not to assume any to be necessarily those of the survey. There were roving hill people, often on all-night hunts. He was to proceed on course for exactly four minutes and fifteen seconds.

If he had followed everything precisely and if there were no variants of magnitude such as sudden wind currents or rainfall, he would be in the vicinity of the grasslands. Again, if the night was clear and if the light of the noon was sufficient, he would see them.