Shooting Script

The Aero Commander was still there, gleaming faintly on a faraway tarmac. But now a little farther, a little fainter.

'Thanks for the thought, Ned. But no.'

'You take it, matey.'

I just shook my head.

His hand slammed down on the bar. 'I'm telling you totake it! That's good advice! '

I looked up, surprised at the violent reaction. After a while I said: 'You mean so that I can finally become an "ace" – after all these years? Suppose there aren't any enemy aircraft, though: can I count the peasants I shoot up? And the goats and donkeys as well?'

He stared, then his face crumpled up in disgust. 'Ah, don't bleed so easy. Poor peasants, hell. We knocked over a three-inch mortar last week that was lobbing stuff on to the runway as we took off. Peasants! These boys mean business.'

'Notmy business. I'm not getting mixed up hi Repúblicapolitics.'

'Who the hell's talking about politics? You wasn't in Korea because you didn't agree with Karl Marx's theories. You was there because you're a fighter pilot, and a bloody good one. So don't get fancy ideas about books you haven't read.'

I smiled; I couldn't help it. But then I shook my head again. 'Korea was our war, Ned. And I'm still pretty sure we were on the right side. In the Repúblicathere isn't a right side; there won't even be a winning side, whatever happens. There shouldn't even be a war. Whatever's wrong there, Vampires and three-inch mortars aren't the cure.'

'You're still talking politics. You sound like a cow playing the violin.'

'I'mtalking politics? You think you can join in somebody else's war andyou're not playing politics?'

Ned had his mouth open to answer when somebody did an emergency landing on his right shoulder. He spun round with his hands up, and for a moment it looked like being an exciting evening after all. But then he saw who it was, said, 'Hell, you,' and turned back to the bar.

The new recruit was a tall, dark character, very handsome in a Latin-American cigarette advertisement sort of way, andvery conscious of it, in the same way. But it was his suit that you met first. It was a carefully cut item of pale turquoise Madras silk, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, and memorable all the way. You knew you were going to remember that suit, although perhaps not on purpose.

He went on leaning on Ned's shoulder, giving a big tooth-packed grin at nothing in particular. 'A little drink, mi Coronel?'he suggested.

Ned said: 'You smell like you had enough already.' Then he remembered his social obligations. He jerked his head left and right:'Capitán Miranda. Keith Carr.'

The Capitánswung round on me, with an expression of slow, pleasurable surprise.'Señor Carr? I so much hope we did not frighten you too much this afternoon.' And I got the big virile grin, straight between the eyes.

I just shrugged.

He wagged a finger. 'So now you know not to come near the República, yes? Next time we shoot you down.'

Ned jerked around once more, his face and voice hard. 'Justlisten, sonny. Don't you ever tangle with Keith Carr unless you've got me there to hold your hand. He knows more about this game than you'll ever learn in five lifetimes.' He waved a hand. 'Now go away and chase indoor birds. Though you don't look like you could knock over a rag doll right now.'

Miranda instinctively straightened up and said, with slightly alcoholic dignity: 'We are on a mission of good-will, mi Coronel. I have been drinking with the American officers – not with therebeldes!' And I got a hot, hard look.

Ned said: 'Get lost, you boozy twerp.'

The captain snapped to attention, said'Si Coronel,'and strode off, stiff with outraged manhood and militarism.

There was a long silence, with just Ned clinking the ice in his glass and frowning down at it. I took a pipe out of my inside pocket, filled it from a crumpled one-ounce packet, and started the lighting-up ceremony. Ned watched, still frowning, and asked: 'What's the chimney for?'

'Trying to give up cigarettes.' Smoke seemed to be comingout of every corner of the pipe and me simultaneously. I worked on.

Ned snapped his fingers, ordered two more Bacardis. By the time they came I had the pipe, and my thoughts, fairly well under control.

'Well,' I said, 'let's have the whole story.'

'You don't want to take any notice of that playboy. We have to have him because his old man's a big landowner. You should see him on-'

'The story, Ned. The story.'

He frowned at his drink.

I said: 'I didn't ask how you knew I was in the Dove this afternoon, Ned. I just assumed you'd know all the charter pilots. But I thought the bouncing was just a private joke. Now that boy calls mearebelde. The story.'

'There isn't any story. Just take the job I'm giving you.'

'I told you: I'm not getting mixed up in-'

'You're mixed up already! They think you're flying for Jiminez, for the rebels. I wastold to bounce you this afternoon, just a kind of warning.'

I felt very cold. The FBI thought it, the Repúblicathought it. Maybe everybody in the Caribbean thought it. Except me.

Ned said: 'Take the job: you'll prove 'em wrongand make a bundle.'

'Is that why you offered it, Ned?'

'Just take it. You'd be good at it.'

'Doyou think I'm flying for Jiminez?'

He shook his head impatiently. 'I don't know. You're a tricky bastard, Keith. You wouldn't be a good fighter pilot if you weren't.'

'I'm not a fighter pilot any more, Ned.'

He threw the rest of his drink down his throat, stood up, and stared down at me. After a while he said carefully:'I'vedone everything except paint recruiting pictures for you. But I'll do that if you like. Because next time I could get told to shoot.'

'So? Who told you that was a guarantee you'd hit anything?'

He smiled slowly. 'Who told you you weren't still a fighter pilot?' and he walked back into the hotel.

By now my pipe had gone out. I was still trying to work out if it was suffering from water in the fuel or just a blocked carburettor when somebody slipped into the empty seat beside me.

I looked and said sourly: 'I might have guessed you wouldn't miss the big picture. Sorry it had a happy ending.'

Agent Ellis smiled and said: 'Naturally. You seem to know Colonel Rafter pretty well. Guess you must have known him a long time.'

I put the pipe down on the counter. 'Give me a cigarette and I'll tell you.' He produced a Chesterfield and lit it for me.

'Thanks. It was in Korea. He was in 77 squadron, Royal Australian. They came out in Meteor 8s, to try and take on Migs. Turned out the Mig could out-climb them, out-dive them, out-turn them, and was faster on the level. I won't say they took a hammering, but they damn sure didn't take a holiday. After that they were pulled back to ground-attack work. I was attached to a squadron of Sabres that used to fly high cover for them; I went to them as liaison officer for a time, me being British and all that. After that, I met Ned a couple of years later in London, just after he'd left the RAAF.'

'And now he's a colonel in the Fuerza Aerea Republicana. What's he been doing between then and now?'

I gave him a look which I hoped he interpreted as chilly. 'Probably knitting bedsocks for an Old Folks' Home.'

Ellis looked pained. 'Just a friendly question.'

'And a friendly answer. If you want to put him on one of your little lists, do the hard work yourself. One cigarette doesn't make me an FBI informer – not after being offered a job at $750 a week.'

There was a silence while he looked thoughtful and I tried to work out why the hell I'd said that. The Sheraton must have been giving me bigger measures of Bacardi than I'd credited them for.

Then he said quietly: 'Seven hundred and fifty, heh? Did you take it?'