I looked for new handholds in case the buckled conduit tore the clips out of the panels under my weight: the wheels wouldn't be coming up again into the bay and I didn't have to mould my body into its roof. As the DC lowered from the sky there would be no abrupt shifts of mass but when the wheels hit the runway my weight would increase critically for a few seconds and I felt for handholds strong enough to take the strain. Then I looked down at the network of city streets and the estuary's bright water, five or six hundred feet below.
Pain was beginning in the ears and I pinched my nose and blew back. The heat was increasing and the sweat started coming to the skin. Onset of thirst.
Final approach.
I couldn't see the runway because the forward bulkhead concealed it from sight; but the first of the approach lamps were sliding below, unlit but glinting in the morning sun. I was now straddled across the bay with one foot on each doorstay and my hands on the two lower conduits. The slip-stream spilled inwards, tugging at my overalls.
The dead weight of the aircraft lowered over the next thirty seconds and then the power came on for the touch-down and I saw concrete immediately below, its scarred sections becoming a blur as the distance closed. For a moment everything seemed held in suspension as the insubstantial air cradled the mass of the machine and supported it; then a shudder came as the main wheels hit the runway and the hydraulics took the shock. The conduit under my left hand buckled and tore away from the two nearest clips and I was swung sideways and hit the bulkhead with my shoulder as one foot lost its hold on the door-stay and I floundered, feeling the vibration as the main wheels bounced and touched down again and rolled, taking the weight of the machine as the nose-wheel made contact, forward of where I was clinging.
I was swung off-balance again and felt the conduit pulling away before I got a new purchase with my feet across the door-stays. The concrete was a blur of colour immediately below me and I could hear the 'heavy tramping of the tyres as their ribbed treads flexed under the weight of the aircraft. Dark ribbons began showing up in the blur as the speed came down, and the tarred expansion joints between the blocks sketched a slowing pattern of lines. Dust and stone fragments blew into the wheelbay, thrown up by the nose-wheel and caught by the turbulence of the propeller.
I heard the rough hiss of the brake-shoes as they clamped into the drums and brought the speed down, sending my weight forward until I hit the bulkhead, burning my arm against the oil-drain pipe before I could steady myself. Under the heavy deceleration I could see the streaks of burnt rubber showing clearly now on the concrete, until the last of the blur was gone. The power came on again and I felt the machine swinging to the left, its weight flexing the oleo struts as it turned and gunned up slightly towards the parking bay.
Ears very painful and I blew again with my nose blocked.
The faint cry of a sea bird.
Wheels rolling.
The sound of the engines dying.
Brakes again, pitching me forward.
Rolling.
Stop.
I leaned there for a minute with my eyes shut. The early sunlight threw the shadow of the propeller across the tarmac beneath my feet, and when I opened my eyes I saw the blades become still. A service vehicle was on the move somewhere, and I could hear voices. I stayed where I was, waiting. In three or four minutes the fuel bowser swung towards the mainplane on my side and I heard the clang of the doors as they were thrown back from the pump unit.
I dropped to the ground.
Nearly felclass="underline" question of sea legs.
There was a long screwdriver bolstered in the leg-pocket of the overalls and I pulled it out and checked a loose cowling button. If anyone had seen me drop from the wheelbay they would assume I had climbed into it a few minutes ago.
'Who are you?' Short fat mechanic, head on one side.
'Douglas Aircraft inspector,' I told him.
'Nobody told me.'
'Do they tell you everything?'
I checked the oil-cooler frame and told him there was a buckled electrical conduit inside the wheelbay that needed looking at.
'You'll have to tell Carlos,' he said, and began helping the refuelling crew at the bowser.
I walked away from the aircraft, leaving the sunglasses and the ear-mufflers on my head. The leg muscles had been under strain since I'd regained consciousness and I felt none too steady. On my left, fifty yards or so away from where I walked, the passengers were being led towards the building. I turned my head only once to make sure the Kobra cell was among them, then kept on towards the maintenance sheds.
'Where are you?'
'Belem Airport.'
There'd been a twenty-five-minute delay and it'd got me sweating badly because there wasn't a lot of time left to decide what I had to do.
'How did you get there?' Ferris asked me,
'Wheelbay.'
He paused again.
'What's your condition?'
'Operational.'
He didn't ask me to repeat that If I were half dead he'd expect me to say so.
The phone I was using was at the end of a maintenance hangar, and I was watching the TWA Boeing as, I talked. A few minutes ago another mobile television unit had gone across the tarmac from the main gates, with a cameraman already at work on the roof.
'What's your local time?' Ferris wanted to know.
'08:55.'
It was an hour later here than at Manaus.
'Are you still locked on?'
'Yes,' I said.
The sound of sirens was coming in again from the highway, and I could see the intermittent light of an emergency vehicle. Everyone seemed rather excited, but I would have thought the South American countries were pretty used to this sort of thing.
'All right,' Ferris said.
He meant he wasn't going to put any more specific questions because he'd got the basic data and now he wanted information.
'They've struck some kind of problem,' I told him. 'From what I could put together in Lagofondo, I think they're making for the States, but I shouldn't mink they've got visas and they'll need some pretty authentic medical certificates. The thing is they've seized a TWA Boeing and a couple of minutes ago they ordered two aircrew to go aboard: presumably pilot and navigator.'
I stopped to let Ferris think about it for a while. It would also give me time to work something out if I could. I didn't think there was anything I could work out The whole thing looked terribly shut-ended and I stood here baking in the direct heat of the sun with the sweat running down and a lot of slow-burn angst in my soul, because I'd followed those bastards all the way here and now they were taking off again and I couldn't hope to pull the same trick again because I wouldn't get through the police lines and even if they let me through I couldn't get into a wheelbay unseen and even if I could get into a wheelbay I'd freeze to death at thirty thousand feet.
Ferris was quiet.
The whole of the Kobra cell is now on board,' I said, 'and they've got Pat Burdick with them. The police have got the aircraft cordoned off but they can't actually do anything useful. That's all I've got for you. Sorry there's no jam on it,'
In a couple of seconds he asked:
'Do you think they're going to take off?'
'Yes.'
'When?'
'Soon.'
He paused again.
'All right. Details.'
'TWA Flight 378 normally scheduled Belem to Miami. Boeing 707. Normal departure was 08:45 and the ETA is 11:15 Belem time, 09:15 Miami time.'
Ferris answered a little more quickly now. 'The aircraft is fuelled up and ready to leave, then?'
'Oh yes.'
'They didn't flush you, of course.'
'No.'
He paused again.
The siren was loud now and I saw the patrol car swing across the tarmac and pull up near the television unit. The man with the camera swung the thing half-circle to cover the people getting out of the patrol car in case they were official negotiators.