Down among the low bush the truck stopped with a jerk and Bond leapt for the iron saddle of the Bofors.
‘Up, Corporal,’ he snapped to the man at the elevation lever. He bent his eyes to the grid-sight as the muzzle rose towards the moon. He reached to pull the firing selector lever off ‘Safe’ and put it on ‘Single Fire’. ‘And left ten.’
‘I’ll keep feeding you tracer.’ The officer beside Bond had two racks of five yellow-painted shells in his hands.
Bond’s feet settled into the trigger pedals and now he had the helicopter in the centre of the grid. ‘Steady,’ he said quietly.
‘Boompa’.
The spangled tracer swung lazily into the sky just below the speed of sound.
Low and left.
The Corporal delicately twisted the two levers.
‘Boompa’.
The tracer curved away high over the rising machine. Bond reached forward and pulled the selector lever to ‘Auto Fire’. The movement of his hand was reluctant. Now it would be certain death. He was going to have to do it again.
‘Boompa – boompa – boompa – boompa – boompa.’
The red fire sprayed across the sky. Still the helicopter went on rising towards the moon, and now it was turning away to the north.
‘Boompa – Boompa.’
There was a flash of yellow light near the tail rotor and the distant bang of an explosion.
‘Got him,’ said the officer. He picked up a pair of night-glasses. ‘Tail rotor’s gone,’ he said. And then, excitedly, ‘Gosh. It looks as if the whole cabin’s going round with the main rotor. Pilot must be getting hell.’
‘Any more?’ said Bond, holding the whirring machine in his sights.
‘No, Sir,’ said the officer. ‘Like to get him alive if we can. But it looks as if ... yes, he’s out of control now. Coming down in great swoops. Must be something wrong with the main rotor blades. There he goes.’
Bond raised his head from the grid sight and shaded his eyes against the blazing moon.
Yes. There he was. Only about a thousand feet up now, the engine roaring and the great blades whirring uselessly as the tangle of metal pitched and yawed down the sky in long drunken staggers.
Jack Spang. The man who had ordered Bond’s death. Who had ordered Tiffany’s death. The man Bond had only once seen for a few minutes in an overheated room in Hatton Garden. Mr Rufus B. Saye. Of The House of Diamonds. Vice-President for Europe. The man who played golf at Sunningdale and visited Paris once a month. ‘Model citizen,’ M. had called him. Mr Spang of the Spangled Mob, who had just killed a man – the final one of how many others?
Bond could imagine the scene in the narrow cockpit, the big man holding on with one hand and wrenching at the controls with the other as he watched the needle of the altimeter dip down through the hundreds. And there would be the red glare of terror in the eyes, and the hundred thousand pound pocketful of diamonds would be just so much deadweight, and the gun which had been a strong right arm since boyhood would be no comfort.
‘He’s coming right back to the bush,’ shouted the Corporal above the clatter in the sky.
‘He’s a goner now,’ said the Captain, half to himself.
They watched the last bucketing lurches and then they held their breath as the aircraft, see-sawing wildly, gave a final tip to its nose and, as if the bush had been its enemy, made an angry dive through a twenty-yard curve and hurled itself and the threshing rotors into the stack of thorns.
Before the echoes of the crash had died, there came a hollow boom out of the heart of the bush followed by a jagged ball of flame that grew and billowed up into the air so that the moon was dimmed and the whole plain was bathed in an orange glare.
The Captain was the first to speak.
‘Ouch!’ he said with feeling. He slowly lowered his night-glasses and turned to Bond. ‘Well, Sir,’ he said resignedly. ‘That’s just about that.’ Fraid it’s going to be morning before we can get anywhere near that lot. And then it’s going to be hours more before we can start raking about in it. And this is going to bring the French frontier guards along at the gallop. Luckily we’re on pretty good terms with them, but the Governor’s going to have a fine time arguing the toss with Dakar.’ The officer saw a vista of paper-work stretching ahead. The prospect made him tireder than he already was. He was matter-of-fact. He had had enough for one day. ‘Mind if we get a bit of shut-eye, Sir?’
‘Go ahead,’ said Bond. He looked at his watch. ‘Better get under the truck. Sun’ll be coming up in about four hours. Not feeling tired myself. I’ll keep an eye out in case the fire looks like spreading.’
The officer gave a curious glance at this quiet, enigmatic man who had suddenly arrived in the Protectorate amidst a flurry of ‘Absolute Priority’ signals. If ever a man needed sleep ... But all this was nothing to do with Freetown. London stuff. ‘Thanks, Sir,’ he said and jumped down from the truck.
