Shooting Script

'You've got a car downstairs; we could be airborne in half an hour. I'll give you a free ride to Kingston or PR – whichever you like. What d'you say?'

There was a crackle of gunfire from the old town, a couple of miles away. The snap of a grenade, the buzz of a machine gun. It lifted quickly to a crescendo, then died away.

Ned was still staring, now incredulously. Then he said slowly: 'You really think because we was once Dear Old Pals, that-'

'You need a pal right now, Ned.'

'I need one? What about yourself?'

'Oh, I've got friends in this town.' I waved at the window. 'They're not too close just yet, but they're there. What about you?'

'What about me?'

'Suppose Castillo and the Army come back in: they'll cut your throat because you're Bosco's right-hand man. Right? Or suppose Jiminez takes over: he'll cut your throat, too, except with the personal touch because you've actually been shooting at his people. Right? So that leaves Bosco.'

Tvegot news for you, Keith: I'm already on Bosco's side.'

'That might be news to Bosco, too. He had just one weapon, Ned, one: the Vamps. Andyou lost them for him, every damn one. You've probably lost him the revolt. I wonder if Boscoisyour pal any more.'

Luiz had turned away from the window. Now he nodded with grave approval.

Ned said softly: 'I wish I'd killed you, Keith. I wish I'd got her up.'

'It wouldn't have made any odds by then. You weren't hired as just a pilot, Ned: you were thecoronel, the boss, the thou-sand-a-week man. You were incommand-and by then you'd lost nine-tenths of your command. Because you left 'em neatly lined up for me to hit them on one run.'

'Hell, I didn't think you'd be comingtoday: we didn't think Jiminez was ready. And we'd sent a couple of-' Then he stopped.

I nodded. 'I know: I met them. I was sleeping in the plane that night. But don't make your excuses to me, chum, make ' em to Bosco. He'd hiredyou to do the thinking about those Vamps.'

After a while he said again: 'I still wish I'd killed you, Keith. Just personal reasons.'

One of the phones buzzed.

Ned walked across, studied them, and said: 'That's Bosco. Here we go.' He picked up the green one, listened, said: 'Yes,' several times, put it down and turned round. 'On your feet, boys. Sorry there hasn't been time for a hearty breakfast.'

We filed out, Ned leading, the airman with the sub-machine gun bringing up the rear. We went along the soft-lit, thick-carpeted corridor, up a wide staircase, and out in front of the double doors of the pent-house suite – with a double armed guard outside.

Ned knocked on the door, opened it, and we marched in.

It was a wide room – and dark, except for pools of light-around a jumble of radio and telephone equipment in one corner and a big desk in the centre. Then I saw the steel shutters over the windows on two sides; the General wasn't taking any chances with stray snipers.

There were two men at the radio, three at the desk. Boscowas behind it, an officer with a telephone at each end. One of them was Capitán Miranda.

Boscosaid: 'Make your report, Coronel.'

Ned took a breath and started. All aircraft had been serviceable, fuelled, and armed, by four o'clock. At five he'd got a call to clear an ambush on the road, started taxiing a couple of minutes later. He hadn't seen me make my scouting pass, hadn't heard me because of his own engine noise. The tower had warned him by radio in time to watch my bomb run…

Boscolistened silently, his meaty near-handsome face expressionless. He was dressed very simply: khaki drill trousers and a shaped shirt of the sort American sergeants go for, fitting as tight as a tee-shirt; black tie tucked in below the second shirt button, webbing belt and holster. But all very clean and crisp; knifeedged creases on the shirt arms, medal ribbons in exact parade rows. The perfect soldier: tough but tidy, efficient but elegant. Just what you'd want your new dictator to be.

I almost felt sorry I'd wrecked the background to the picture.

Ned wound up: he'd spent an hour examining the Vamps, giving orders about repair. They were working flat out on the two least damaged, cannibalising parts from the total wrecks -but both had brick holes in fuselage and wings, which had to be patched, not replaced. One might fly tomorrow evening. Might.

Boscoswivelled his eyes at me. 'Nowyour report, Señor Carr.'

I shrugged, but there didn't seem to be any secrets to be kept. I'd dropped around 360 bricks from four fishing nets, attached to shackles…

When I'd finished, he said: 'It was Señor Whitmore'sairplane?'

I shook my head. 'Mine. I'd taken it as payment for the film work, and because he felt a little guilty about my losing the Dove. You remember that?'

Just a quick flick of a smile under the neat moustache. 'I remember. Also I remember telling you to stay away from the República.'Then he shrugged…'I am sorry you did not accept our offer to work for us: you were clearly not overrated. Now-'

He looked back at Ned. 'Coronel, you are reduced toteniente. Capitán Miranda will take command of what you have left of the squadron. You will go back and work on the aeroplanes and if the Capitánneeds you, you will fly one of them when it is ready.'

Even in the dim edge of the desk pool of light, Ned seemed pale. 'I was hired at a rate and a rank. I quit.'

'You are in a military service, Teniente,'Boscosaid calmly. 'One does not resign in a war. When it is over, we will consider.'

I glanced at Miranda. He was leaning back in his chair, looking at Ned with a satisfied, thoughtful smile.

Boscohad been studying Luiz and me carefully. Finally he said: 'I think you forgot something in your report, Señor. Clearly, you had decided when your mission was finished that you would land and enter the city to discover its results. Therefore, you are spies. You will be shot.'

I hadn't exactly expectednot to be shot, but I didn't understand this 'spy' business. 'If you think Iintended to hang around here afterwards-'

'Señor?'He smiled. 'So why are you wearing those clothes? I believe one flies a military operation in military uniform -no? You make things easier for me.' He turned to the officer. 'Make sure photographs are taken – to prove they were in civilian clothes.'

'Presidente,' Luizsaid quietly, 'may I be permitted to point out your mistake?'

That you are Luiz Monterrey, the great famous film star, the American citizen? No-' he tossed the thought aside with an elegant flick of his hand. 'Since we met last time, I havehad you investigated. I know now why you are so interested in Señor Jiminez – I know you were born here. That is not something you have much publicised; your American newspapermen will be as much interested in that as that you are dead. And thenorteamericanosall know we… dagoes are fanatics about our homelands. They will understand.' And when he smiled this time, it was like the slow opening of a knife cut.

'No,Presidente'- Luiz waved a hand just as elegant -1 just wish to point out that publicising our fate – and there are those in Jamaica who will know we have not returned, so the publicity is not entirely in your hands – will mean publicising our success. Did youplan to announce that General Bosco's teeth have all been pulled?'

There was a long time with just the hum and distant gabble from the bank of radio equipment in the corner. A phone buzzed; Miranda picked it up, listened, put it down again.

Then the General said: 'Jiminez must know already.'

Luiz made the slightest of slight bows. 'I think so. He knew we were coming, he knows there have been no jets overhead today, and it has been light enough for' – he consulted his watch – 'for two hours now.'

'So?'Boscosnapped.