Shooting Script

'Er- yes.' Well, that or 'Request take-off, anyway.

'Confusion to ¿he enemy.' She drank, watching me across the glass. I took a quick swallow.

* There was a short pause. Then I said: 'Well – it's nice of you to drop in and wish me luck.'

She straightened herself, put her head slightly back and slightly on one side and said simply: 'Capitán, I just wanted to be sure you had – everything you needed.'

My mouth may have been open; I know my eyes were. She might have made it more obvious by having herself brought in naked on a plate with water-cress round the edges, but only might.

But I just couldn't see why. I've got a fairly high opinion of myself – anyway, nobody has a higher one – but I didn't see how I'd suddenly jumped into the class, and bed, of a rich Venezuelan society girl who was well known to despise my strategic reading.

She said: 'Tomorrow you must be most brave, most noble, Capitán.'

Then it clicked. She was ready to lay down her… well, just lay down, for her father's cause. To ensure my devotion to duty.

Suddenly she was just a big, busty girl in a tarty dress. And I remembered a strong, small body against me in the silence of the Mitchell's cabin – and not bribing me to go out and drop bricks on anybody in the morning.

I finished my glass in a gulp and said deliberately: 'I think I've got everything I need – except sleep.'

A small frown rippled across her forehead. 'Tomorrow, Capitán, you could become a trueliberador.'

'Maybe. But I'm going anyway, you know.'

'A true hero of the República.'

'Sure. I know. They'll name an Avenida Keith Carr and have it end in the Plaza del Mitchell with the starboard induction manifold on a granite plinth and an Eternal Oil Leak dripping at the bottom. And it'll last all of five years. Until the next revolution.'

Her eyes blazed, shocked. 'There will be no more revolutions! When the generals are gone and there is a true democracy… You don't believe me?'

I dumped more champagne in my glass. I hadn't planned on any more drinking this evening, but it seemed my plans had stopped mattering anyway.

'My beliefs don't matter,' I said carefully, 'but just for the record, I believe democracy's simply a habit. Like smoking or drinking or driving safely. Not checks and balances, not one-man-one-vote. Just millions of people saying – instinctively -"Christ, they can't dothat! " But it takes time to build up that sort of instinct. And meanwhile, revolution's a habit, too. Your old man isn't exactly trying to breakthat habit tomorrow, is he?'

'He has no choice!'

I shrugged and said wearily: 'Well… maybe he hasn't, in a way. I don't know. I don't even care. Just take it that I'm going tomorrow, if the Mitchell holds up. And that's all you want, isn't it? My reasons don't matter.'

She glared, but a little uncertainly. 'Napoleon believed that morale was three times as important as physical power.'

I grinned. 'But not tonight, Josephine.'

She stared a split second longer, slammed the champagne glass on the floor, and stalked out. The slam of the door shivered the whole building.

After a while I just kicked the pieces of glass under the bed, stripped, and flopped into bed.

TWENTY-FIVE

A light, steady tapping woke me. I rolled out of bed, staggered across to the door, and jerked it open without remembering to ask who it was. Luiz slid quickly inside and shut the door.

I fumbled on the bedside light and stared at him with the deep hatred of a man still half asleep for another man who is spritely, shaven, and neatly dressed in a medium-brown lightweight suit.

'Why that rig?' I growled. 'The invitations didn't say fancy dress.'

'My friend, when you are going to behave illegally, I believe it¿s agood thing to dress respectably. It may possibly help.' He looked around, found a glass, and filled it with, hot black coffee from a flask I hadn't even noticed he was carrying.

I sipped, splashed water around, and scraped a razor over my face without quite mowing off my ears. By then he'd sorted through my clothes and come up with my light-grey washable suit.

'It will have to do,' he said graciously.

Outside, the night was dead still but not quite clear: a faint haze of high cloud washed out most of the stars. It meant a no-wind take-off; better than a crosswind, but not as good as I'd hoped for.

We drove my jeep to Boscobel, and the gate was still unlocked. So I went up to the Mitchell, left Luiz and collected the hurricane lamp, and then drove to the other end and put it back on its tree.

Then I did a careful pre-flight check of the plane with a torch and climbed aboard just after two o'clock.

Luiz was already in the right-hand seat, the Browning parked down beside him, and twiddling with a transistor radio in his lap.

'Music while we worjc?' I asked.

'Jiminez planned to take over the radio as the first thing.'

I sat down, remembering the pattern; obviously taking over the radio station – so that you can tell the citizenry that you've taken over everything else even if you haven't – would be top priority.

'Getting anything?'

He frowned. 'No…'

'Well, who else'd have a radio turned on at two in the morning?'

'I hope that is it.' But he went on tuning.

'See if you can get Miami for some weather.'

But Miami was off the air or out of range.

I turned on the master switch. 'Let's go, then.'

He watched the lights come on across the instrument panel as I began the starting sequence. 'So – it is really going to happen?'

I looked up, surprised. 'That's what we're here for, isn't it?'

'Yes, of course. One old worn-out American bomber, flown by – forgive me, my friend – by one old English pilot and a worn-out actor is going to drop a load of bricks on some aged jet fighters. Yes, that sounds very much likea Repúblicarevolution to me. Now, I believe it.'

His voice had a bitter edge on it.

I shrugged.'Dicho y hecho.'And pressed the energise switch. The lights dimmed; gradually a faint whine started in the port engine as the flywheel built up energy. When the whine had reached a steady note I flicked the switch across to 'Mesh'.

The propeller grunted, groaned, turned, staggered, coughed, spun. I stabbed the prime button and caught it with the throttle. Blue flames crackled outside the window; in the noise, I motioned Luiz to put on his headset. Now for the starboard engine.

It caught – but as I pushed up the throttle, the whole plane shuddered to a long grinding screech.

I jerked the switch back tooff, but the grind went on.

'What is it?' Luiz asked – a crackling voice in my headphones.

'Starter motor's jammed in mesh. Won't come declutched.'

I whanged the pitch to full revs to try and shake it out; all it did was double the racket.

'Shouldn't we start again?' Luiz called.

'That starter'll never start anything again. Just hope it chews itself to pieces soon.'

We waited. Then there was a tearingthump and just the engine noise. Something had bust – the flywheel probably. Spinning at a ratio of 100 to 1 with the engine itself, my burst of revs had probably thrown it to 200,000 rpm. Goodbye flywheel. I hope you didn't take anything with you when you went.

But the engines both ran up and settled down all right. After a few minutes testing the hydraulics and magnetos, I swung around on to the runway, pointed her just left of the distant spark of light that was the hurricane lamp, and put down full flap. Widi them and a bit of luck, I was going to make one of the shortest take-offs the old lady had ever lived through.