Flyaway

CHAPTER THIRTY

An army rifle, even one of First World War vintage, is intended to kill men at ranges of up to a thousand yards or more, and an averagely good marksman finds it a comfortably good tool at four hundred yards. Paul Billson was not an averagely good marksman; in fact, he was not a marksman at all and later confessed that it was the first shot he had ever fired, whether in anger or otherwise. But even Paul Billson could not miss killing Kissack at a range of fifteen feet.

By his account he had gone to the grave and taken his photographs, then spent some minutes in contemplation. He had then gone back, picked up his two donkeys and followed the line Byrne had given him. He had spotted us surrounded by Lash's men on camels and tactfully drew aside. Luckily for him — and us — he had gone over rock, otherwise Zayid might have seen his tracks. He watched us led into captivity and wondered what to do about it.

He didn't say so but I think his first instinct was to make a run for it, yet I might be maligning him. Anyway, where was he to run? It was three days on foot back to Tamrit and he must have known that he could never find his way there by himself. But whatever his thoughts were he decided to stick around. And he discovered that Byrne's Lee-Enfield was packed on one of his donkeys.

He went away and found a hole among the rocks and tethered the donkeys. One of them was inclined to bray, which frightened him because he thought it might be heard and they'd come looking for him. But he did the right thing. He unloaded the donkeys, hobbled them as he had seen Byrne do, and turned them loose. Then he looked at the rifle.

He had seen guns at a distance but had never handled one, nothing unusual in an Englishman of his age who had missed war service because of physical unfitness. There are not that many guns floating loose about Luton. He fiddled about with it, being careful not to touch the trigger, and worked the bolt action, trying to find the principle by which it worked. Eventually, more or less by accident, he pressed a catch and the magazine fell into the palm of his hand. It was empty, which was why no bullets were being inserted into the breech.

He thought about that for a moment and soon came to the conclusion that the ammunition would not be kept far from the weapon. He knew that Byrne was in the habit of keeping a full magazine in the pouch slung around his neck but surely there must be more bullets somewhere. He began to search through the loads he had taken from the donkeys and eventually found an opened packet containing eleven rounds.

When he tried to put bullets into the magazine they wouldn't fit so he tried them the other way around and they went in sweetly, compressing the leaf spring in the magazine. He found that it held five bullets. He pushed the magazine into the rifle and worked the action slowly and was rewarded by the sight of a cartridge being pushed firmly and smoothly into the breech. He now had the rifle loaded.

He knew there was such a thing as a safety-catch and soon found the small switch-like lever on the side of the rifle which would cover or uncover a red spot. His problem was that he didn't know when it was on and when it was off. It never occurred to him to take out the magazine, eject the round from the breech and then test the trigger with an empty gun. At last he reasoned that red would mean danger, so that when the red spot showed the safety-catch was off. He covered the red spot and stood up, holding the rifle.

Paul was not a man of action, rather a man of reaction. He could be pushed — by men, by circumstances, or as English, the journalist, had pushed — but it was not his habit to initiate action. So he stood there, irresolute, wondering what was the best thing to do. He then decided that it would not be a good idea to walk in on Lash and company by way of the cleft in the rocks which was now the common highway to Flyaway; instead, he would try to approach from the other direction. That was a good idea.

He found a canteen and filled it with water, put the remaining six bullets into his pocket, and then set off to explore, carrying the rifle somewhat gingerly as though it might explode of its own volition. He knew his direction to the cleft so he set off at right-angles to that, skirting the base of a rock pillar. To anyone knowing Paul Billson it must have been an unlikely sight.

He kept track of his progress by counting his paces, and when he had counted two hundred double strides he veered to the left and carried on. After five minutes he stopped in his tracks because he heard voices. Cautiously he peered round a rock and saw Kissack and Zayid passing by within spitting distance. They were carrying a propeller.

That gave him his location; he was somewhere near his father's grave. He waited a while and then stepped out to where they had walked and immediately knew where he was, so he walked a little way until he came to the cave where his father was buried. The rocks of the cairn had been rudely tumbled aside and he saw the white bone of his father's skull. That angered him very much and he trembled with rage.

His impulse was to walk down to Flyaway and shoot Kissack but he reined himself in. He had no illusions about his prowess with a rifle and seriously doubted if, when it came to the push, he could kill Kissack — not in a straight shooting match. And then there were the others. I rather doubt if the plight of Byrne and myself crossed his mind at that time.

He stopped over the grave and picked up a rock, intending to rebuild the cairn. Then he paused with the rock still held in his hand and thought about it. Logical thought did not come naturally to Paul Billson; as I have said, he was a man who reacted to stimuli. But he thought now and carefully replaced the rock where he had found it, then went away and sat behind a rock out of sight of the cave to work things out.

Presently he saw smoke drifting overhead, and then came the dull, echoing thud as the auxiliary fuel tank of Flyaway exploded. He assumed, correctly, that Flyaway was being destroyed. He didn't know why, but then, very few people did. He stood up and looked towards the source of the smoke, again irresolute.

Then he turned and looked through a gap in the rocks towards the grave. Paul didn't know it but he was standing by what a rifleman would consider a perfect loophole. Two rocks standing on a third, the gap between them about six inches. The depth of the gap was nearly three feet, and from where he was standing he could see the grave, about twenty feet away. There were even two flat ledges on which he could plant his elbows to give aiming support.

Chance, circumstance, and the odd workings of Paul's mind had put him in exactly the right place at the right time. Soon he heard voices.

A little later he fired the rifle.

The muzzle blast of an army rifle fired at close range can be quite frightening. I suspect that, given the standard army firing squad of eight men, even if they all missed the victim would probably die of shock. That single shot, coming unexpectedly, froze everybody into a tableau as Kissack fell bonelessly to the ground.

The bullet that smashed into the back of Kissack's head passed through him as though he wasn't there. It entered the cave, ricocheted around the walls and came out spaang, giving Zayid a fright. But it wasn't that which broke the tableau; it was the dry metallic clatter, coining from nowhere in particular, as Paul worked the action to put another round up the spout.

Lash pulled a pistol from no where at exactly the same time as Byrne dived for the gun Kissack had dropped. It's difficult to do a rugby tackle when your hands are tied behind your back but I did my best and went for Lash's legs. His pistol exploded and I felt a smashing blow in my left arm and tumbled to one side. But I had brought him down.

Then bullets were buzzing over me like bees as Byrne shot over and past me, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Zayid go down in a tumbled heap. Paul added to the row with another blast just as Lash recovered enough to raise his gun intending to shoot at Byrne. I swung my legs around and booted at his wrist just before Byrne got him. Byrne was shooting police-fashion; square on to the target and in a crouch, with arms extended and both hands on the butt of the pistol. He pumped three shots into Lash who jerked convulsively, then flopped about on the ground and began to scream.

Paul fired again and the bullet ricocheted from rock to rock. Byrne yelled above Lash's screams, 'Paul, stop shooting, for Christ's sake! You'll kill us all.'

I tried to lever myself up, but I used the wrong arm and got a jolt of pain. When I finally sat up and looked around I saw the bodies of Zayid and Kissack and Lash, who was screaming just as Bailly had screamed in the Tenere. The other two had vanished. It had all happened within, perhaps, twenty seconds.

Byrne yelled again. 'Come out, Paul. Show yourself.'

Paul came from behind a rock. His face was white as paper and his hands shook uncontrollably. Byrne stepped forward and caught the rifle as it fell. 'Did you fill the magazine?'

Paul nodded wordlessly..

'Any more ammunition?'

Paul dug his hand into his pockets and passed the cart-ridges over. He stared at Lash and then clapped his hands over his ears to shut out the endless screaming. I wanted to do the same but I couldn't lift my left arm. When a man is killed in the films he folds up decorously and has the decency to die quietly; in real life it's different.

Byrne pulled back the bolt of the rifle and an empty brass case flew out. He slammed the bolt forward and locked it and then, without warning, stepped over to Lash, put the muzzle of the rifle to his temple, and pulled the trigger.

The shot crashed out and after the echoes had died away the silence was shocking. Byrne looked at me and his face was drawn and haggard. 'My responsibility,' he said harshly. 'Three bullets — one in the belly. He wouldn't have lived. Best this way.'

'Okay, Luke,' I said quietly. So died a man who said he detested gratuitous violence but who would kill coldly to a plan. In my book Lash had been worse than Kissack.

Byrne was reloading the rifle. 'You hurt?'

'I caught one in the arm — I'm flying on one wing.'

He grunted. 'You two wait here,' he said, and went off without another word.

Paul walked over and looked down at Lash. 'So quick,' he whispered. Whether he was referring to what Byrne had done or to the entire action I didn't know. He turned his head. 'You all right?'

'Help me up.' My left arm was beginning to really hurt; it felt as though an electric shock: was being applied at irregular intervals. As he hoisted me to my feet I said, 'You did well, Paul; very well.'

'Did I?' he said colourlessly.

'These bastards were seriously considering burning me in the plane,' I said. 'And if I know Kissack he'd have liked to burn me alive — and so would Lash if he thought it would contribute to realism.' I paused; I was waiting for the sound of shots but all was silent.

Paul turned a puzzled face towards me. 'What was it all about, Max?'

'I don't know,' I said. 'But I'm going to find out. And now, for God's sake, will you cut me loose? But be careful with my arm.'

Byrne came back half an hour later. The rifle was slung over his shoulder and he was leading two pack camels. He leaned the rifle against a rock and said, 'No problem,' then held out his wrists. 'I don't remember breaking free,' he said. 'I just did it. You did well with that stone chopper.'

'The other two men?'

He indicated Lash. The paymaster is dead, so no pay — no fight. Trash from the Maghreb. I gave them three camels and water and told them to get to hell out of it. They won't bother us none.' He tossed the leading rein to Paul and un-slung a box from the pack saddle. 'Let's see your arm.'

He pronounced it to be broken, which I already knew, set it in a rough and ready way and put it in an improvised sling. 'We'd better get you back to civilization,' he said.

But there was much to do before that. Paul helped him load the three bodies on to the camels and they went away. Where they went I don't know but they came back two hours later without the bodies. In that time I had finished rebuilding the cairn over Billson's body. Byrne laid the aluminium plaque on top. 'No propeller,' he said wryly. 'Can't shift it again.'

We cleaned up around the cave, picking up spent cartridge cases and other evidence, then went back to Flyaway, and Paul looked at the blackened wreckage and shook his head. 'Why?' he asked again.

No one answered him.

'We leave tomorrow at dawn,' said Byrne. 'But this time we ride.'

And so we did, with Byrne grumbling incessantly about the damnfool way the Chaambas rigged their camels for riding.