'I am the Halidon. And we do have priorities. Both of us.
Chapter Thirty-Three
THIRTY THREE
McAuliff nosed the small plane above cloud cover. He loosened the field jacket provided him by the driver of the car. It was warm in the tiny cabin. The Halidon aircraft was different from the plane he and Malcolm had flown from the field west of Accompong. It was similar to the two-seater Comanche in size and appearance, but its weight and manoeuvrability were heavier and greater.
McAuliff was not a good pilot. Flying was a skill he had half mastered through necessity, not from any devotion. Ten years ago, when he had made the decision to go field-commercial, he had felt the ability to fly would come in handy, and so he had taken the prescribed lessons that eventually led to a very limited license.
It had proved worthwhile. On dozens of trips over most continents. In small, limited aircraft.
He hoped to Christ it would prove worthwhile now. If it did not, nothing mattered anymore.
On the seat beside him was a small blackboard, a slate common to grammar school, bordered by wood. On it was chalked his primitive flight plan in white lettering that stood out in the dim light of the instrument panel.
Desired air speed, compass points, altitude requirements, and sightings that, with luck and decent moonlight, he could distinguish.
From the strip outside Unity Hall he was to reach a height of one thousand feet, circling the field until he had done so. Leaving the strip perimeter, he was to head southeast at 115 degrees, air speed 90. In a few minutes he would be over Mount Carey - two brush fires would be burning in a field; he would spot them.
He did.
From Mount Carey, maintaining air speed and dropping to 700 feet, he was to swing east-northeast at 84 degrees and proceed to Kempshot Hill. An automobile with a spotlight would be on a road below; the spotlight would flicker its beam into the sky.
He saw it and followed the next line on the chalkboard.
His course change was minor - 8 degrees to 92 on the compass, maintaining air speed and altitude. Three minutes and thirty seconds later, he was over Amity Hall. Again brush fires, again a fresh instruction; this too, was minimal.
East-northeast at 87 degrees into Weston Favel.
Drop altitude to 500 feet, maintain airspeed, look for two automobiles facing each other with blinking headlights at the south section of the town. Correct course to exactly degrees and reduce air speed to 75.
The instant he reached the Martha Brae River, he was to alter course 35 degrees southeast, to precisely 122 on the compass.
At this point he was on his own. There would be no more signals from the ground, and, of course, no radio contact whatsoever.
The coordination of air speed, direction, and timing was all he had... everything he had. Altitude was by pilotage - as low as possible, cognizant of the gradual ascent of the jungle hills. He might spot campfires, but he was not to assume any to be necessarily those of the survey. There were roving hill people, often on all-night hunts. He was to proceed on course for exactly four minutes and fifteen seconds.
If he had followed everything precisely and if there were no variants of magnitude such as sudden wind currents or rainfall, he would be in the vicinity of the grasslands. Again, if the night was clear and if the light of the moon was sufficient, he would see them.
And - most important - if he spotted other aircraft, he was to dip his right wing twice. This would indicate to any other plane that he was a ganga runner. It was the current courtesy-of-recognition between such gentlemen of the air. The hills rose suddenly, far more rapidly than McAuliff had expected. He pulled back the half wheel and felt the updraughts carry him into a one-o'clock soar. He reduced the throttle and countered the high bank with pressure on the left pedal; the turbulence continued, the winds grew.
Then he realized the cause of the sudden shifts and cross currents. He had entered a corridor of harsh jungle showers. Rain splattered against the glass and pelted the fuselage; wipers were inadequate. In front of him was a mass of streaked, opaque grey. He slammed down the left window panel, pulled out the throttle, went into a swift ten-o'clock bank, and peered down. His altimeter inched towards 650; the ground