below was dense black... nothing but jungle forest, no breaks in the darkness. He retraced the leg from the Martha Brae in his mind. Furiously, insecurely. His speed had been maintained, so too his compass. But there had been slippage; not much but recognizable. He was not that good a pilot - only twice before had he flown at night; his lapsed license forbade it - and slippage, or drift, was an instrument or pilotage problem corrected by dials, sightings, or radio.
But the slight drift had been there. And it had come from aft starboard. Jesus, he was better in a sailboat! He levelled the aircraft and gently banked to the right, back into the path of the rain squall. The windshield was useless now; he reached across the seat and pulled down the right window panel. The burst of noise from the cross-draughted openings crashed abruptly through the small cabin. The wind roared at high velocity; the rain swept in streaking sheets, covering the seats and the floor and the instrument panel. The blackboard was soaked, its surface glistening, the chalk marks seemingly magnified by the rushing water sloshing within the borders.
And then he saw it... them. The plateau of grassland. Through the starboard - goddamn it, right window. A stretch of less-black in the middle of the total blackness. A dull grey relief in the centre of the dark wood.
He had overshot the fields to the left, no more than a mile, perhaps two.
But he had reached them. Nothing else mattered at the moment. He descended rapidly, entering a left bank above the trees - the top of a figure eight for landing. He made a 280-degree approach and pushed the half wheel forward for touch down.
He was at the fifty-foot reading when behind him, in the west, was a flash of heat lightning. He was grateful for it; it was an additional, brief illumination in the night darkness. He trusted the instruments and could distinguish the approaching grass in the beam of the forelamps, but the dull, quick fullness of dim light gave him extra confidence.
And it gave him the visibility to detect the outlines of another plane. It was on the ground, stationary, parked on the north border of the field.
In the area of the slope that led to the campsite two miles away.
Oh, God! He had not made it at all. He was too late!
He touched earth, revved the engine, and taxied towards the immobile aircraft, removing his pistol from his belt as he manipulated the controls.
A man waved in the beam of the front lights. No weapon was drawn; there was no attempt to run or seek concealment. Alex was bewildered. It did not make sense; the Dunstone men were killers, he knew that. The man in the beam of light, however, gave no indication of hostility. Instead, he did a peculiar thing. He stretched out his arms at his sides, lowering the right and raising the left simultaneously. He repeated the gesture several times as McAuliffs craft approached.
Alex remembered the instructions at the field in Unity Hall. If you sight other planes, dip your right wing. Lower your right wing... arm.
The man in the beam of light was a ganga pilot!
McAuliff pulled to a stop and switched off the ignition, his hand gripped firmly around the handle of his weapon, his finger poised in the trigger frame.
The man came up behind the wing and shouted through the rain to Alex in the open window. He was a white man, his face framed in the canvas of a poncho hood. His speech was American... Deep South, Delta origins.
'Gawddamn! This is one busy fuckin' place! Good to see your white skin, man! I'll fly 'em an' I'll fuck 'em, but I don' lak 'em!' The pilot's voice was high-pitched and strident, easily carried over the sound of the rain. He was medium height, and, if his face was any indication, he was slender but flabby; a thin man unable to cope with the middle years. He was past forty.
'When did you get in?' asked Alex loudly, trying not to show his anxiety.
'Flew in these six niggers 'bout ten minutes ago. Mebbe a little more, not much. You with 'em, I sup'oze? You runnin' things?'
'Yes.'
'They don' get so uppity when there's trouble, huh? Nothin' but trouble in these mountain fields. They sure need whitey, then, you betcha balls!'
McAuliff put his pistol back in his belt beneath the panel. He had to move fast now. He