'That is perfectly correct.' Gabriel nodded slowly. 'All I can say is, trust us: we'll keep you safely out of harm's way once we're in New York.'
'That's not going to be easy.'
'There's another fundamental reason to trust us, isn't there? We need you to fly us back out of there once we've gotten hold of Christina.'
'You've brought false moustaches and dark glasses for everyone, then… I know, that sounds flippant, but I'm still wondering how we're going to melt into the brickwork.'
Gabriel rubbed his jaw. 'Maybe we shouldn't have been so mean with the information.' He poured more coffee into his cup. 'You know we're going to put these people in the northernmost part of Manhattan Island. And you know that's in an area north of what is known as the 102nd Parallel?'
'Yes, I know that. But I don't know what that place actually is.
'Oh, that's simple. That whole northern tip of the island is one godalmighty prison.'
'Then it's going to be full of prison guards.'
'Not entirely.'
'Sounds a pretty relaxed prison.'
Gabriel glared at me. 'If you knew what it was like there you wouldn't say that.' Now he sounded angry. 'You wouldn't say that at all.'
'OK. Then tell me what it
is
like. If there are no guards why don't the inmates escape?'
'Because Torrence is clever. All he needs is a good high wall running from one side of the island to the other like the Berlin Wall, cutting Manhattan in two. One half is the city, all bright lights, cafes, movie houses, luxury apartments. Everything above what was 102nd Street is a slum: a ghetto for people who are the wrong colour, or who cannot see, or who didn't care for Torrence's so-called glorious administration. They can't climb over the wall, which does have guard towers and dogs and landmines, by the way. And they can't swim across the river to the mainland because there are a million triffids waiting there.' He pressed on, thoroughly in gear now. 'In those rotting tenements families live on just enough food to keep body and soul together. It only looks like they work willingly in the sweatshops and the factories. The truth is that they
have
to work or they don't get their daily food ration. Without that they and their children would starve. And what makes the whole thing tick along just like clockwork for Torrence and his cronies is that ten years ago they hit on the idea of injecting some of those people with heroin. Now that was a stroke of genius.' Gabriel's eyes blazed with anger. 'You see, heroin dulls awareness. So the slave workers no longer appreciated the sharper edges of their miserable reality. In turn, that meant Torrence could force them to work longer hours. But it doesn't stop there. Heroin
is
addictive. So after a few shots the slave workers became addicts. Then Torrence ordered that the injections should be stopped. Of course, all these new addicts were crawling up the walls, craving a fix. So what does Torrence do?' Gabriel didn't wait for my reply but steamed on. 'He offers his slaves another shot if they meet their productivity targets. And hey presto! Manufacturing output goes up because his slaves work their hearts out for another fix. And, yes, that eases the craving for a few hours. But then it comes back, so they have to work all the harder for their next shot. Simple, huh?'
For a full minute Gabriel sat, fists clenched, his jaw working as he struggled to contain his fury. Then at last: 'So you see, David, the neighbourhood above the 102nd Street Parallel isn't a nice place to be.' He took a deep swallow of coffee. 'It's a prison that's run by its inmates. It's brutally efficient. And it works night and day to keep Torrence and his favourites in a style to which they have become accustomed. What it means for us, however, is that there are few guards to worry about. Also, we have allies there. While our teams do what needs to be done they will provide us with safe houses until it's time to fly home… God willing. See, David?' He gave me a grim look. 'I promised you'd be safe, didn't I?'
After that we travelled without talking for a while. A good long while at that. A little more reflective now, I ran checks on the instruments while making sure that I still had the tail lights of our two sister planes in sight. When I glanced at my watch I saw that we were a mere hour from landing. This time my mouth really did go dry. In a few moments we would adopt a radio blackout, otherwise we'd be in danger of being picked up by New York's powerful detector antennae even though the power of the aircraft's radios had been deliberately reduced. Before radio silence was imposed I asked the pilots of the other planes to check the lights that would measure their height above the water. A pair of beams suddenly shone down from each plane. Placed towards the end of the wings, the lights blazed downward at a precise angle to cross at exactly a hundred feet below the plane. For a moment it looked as if the hundred-ton aircraft were actually supported on twin beams of light that formed an elongated 'X' design beneath them.
Within a second of confirming that the lights were in working order and requesting that they be shut down again, Sam Dymes came on the radio, speaking from the lead aircraft. First of all he asked that his transmission should be switched through to the passenger cabins, too.
'Just a couple of minutes to radio silence,' came Sam's characteristic voice, still shy-sounding as if the microphone awed him. 'I just wanted to wish everyone good luck and good landings. I know that with our pilots we are in good hands. And… and you know this mission scares me… truly, it scares me a lot. And I'd be a darned liar if I didn't tell you all that I wish I were at home with my wife and children. Because I know there's a chance that not all of us will be coming back. Those that do will be acclaimed as heroes. But those that don't make it will be more than that. The gift of their lives will become a bridge to a better future for their friends, families, children, grandchildren… we won't forget you. And I wish there was more I could say about that, and about the importance of this mission, but the truth is that I don't have words that are clear enough or powerful enough to do you justice. But I can certainly tell you that there are going to be thousands of people praying for you tonight. Good luck.'
Static hissed from the speaker. After that, a click. Then silence.
Flying according to plan we followed a curving route that took us close on a hundred miles north of New York, thus making sure that we were well out of radar range. Then, our way lit by that dull moonlight, we turned south. In Indian file the planes headed towards the Hudson River: the great shining road that would lead us down from the Catskills to New York itself.
For a while, anyway, we could afford to fly at an altitude of three thousand feet. Soon, however, if we were to avoid radar detection, we'd have to drop until we were skimming just a hundred feet above the surface of the river. Those bluffs and hillsides looked all but black in the moonlight. I only hoped we could differentiate a black cliff face from a patch of harmless shadow.
Flying level, I checked the instruments. Gabriel watched me, then he cleared his throat. 'Now might not be the best time to tell you this, David.'
I looked at him.
'Your suspicious nature didn't steer you wrong,' he told me. 'If we should fail to rescue Christina - then we do have someone on the inside who will make sure she's no use to Torrence.'
'Oh?'
'If Christina isn't in our hands within seven days, Kerris Baedekker has orders to kill her.'
'Kerris Baedekker! Then she's-'
'One of us.' Gabriel nodded, then gave me sidelong smile. 'Only I never knew that until yesterday. And she never knew that I was a spy, either.' This time he shook his head. 'Espionage? It's a funny old game, isn't it?'
At that moment there were a hundred… no, a thousand questions I was burning to ask. Only there was no time.
Instead, I pushed forward the joystick. 'Hold on tight,' I told him. 'We're going in.'
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
'SOME OTHER HAND…'
AFTER rescuing survivors of the
Titanic
disaster, Captain Rostron of the
Carpathia
spoke of his ship's near-suicidal dash through the icebergs. Rostron said: '
When I saw the ice I had steamed through during the night I shuddered. And could only think that some other hand than mine was on that helm during the night
.'
That uncanny sensation came to me, too. Down, down, down through the dark I floated, following the coloured tail lights of our sister aircraft. At either side of me rose the cliff walls that hemmed in the Hudson River. Moonlight sent ghostly gleamings running across the water. Perhaps it was only the slipstream of the leading aircraft but the effect of those lights moving on the face of the water was decidedly uncanny. Distracting, too, as I found my eye following their darting movements. Nevertheless, I forced myself to concentrate on the tail lights of the planes in front. Too slow and I'd fall behind, lose them. Too fast and I'd be likely to ram them.
Nerves wound up as tight as a watch spring, I brought all my senses into play. Sensing the balance of my aircraft; hearing the note of the engines; watching dials, meters; the planes beyond the glass, the colossal walls of rock at either side of us becoming even narrower until the wing-tips seemed only a whisker away from oblivion.
Lower. Lower. Still lower.
Then I hit the switch that turned on the lights beneath the plane.
'OK,' I said to Gabriel, my voice so calm that it surprised me. 'Look into the mirror. See the lights hitting the water?'
'Got them.'
'Tell me when the two points of light begin to merge.'
'Yes. They're getting closer together… wait… they've stopped.'
'I'll bring her lower… keep watching.'
'OK.'
'Tell me the second they touch and begin to overlap.'
'Will do.'
I eased the throttle back a little. The hum of the engines dropped a note.
'That's it,' Gabriel said. 'The lights are touching. Yep. Starting to overlap now.'
'Right. I'll keep her at this height. Just tell me the moment the lights separate. OK?'
'Gotcha.'
And so the planes weaved on down the valley. With the flanking cliffs and hills higher than we were, as far as New York's radar operators were concerned we might as well have been underground. The next fifteen minutes were hair-raising stuff. Too low and we'd make a heck of a splash. Too much to port or too much to starboard and we'd vanish in a blaze of flame against the valley sides.
Just when I found myself slipping into an unreal state of mind, where I could almost believe we'd flown into the Earth and were soaring through some subterranean cavern, I saw a glow ahead of me. The lights of Manhattan were even brighter than I remembered.
'So far, so good,' I murmured. 'There's no blackout so they don't know we're coming.'
All of a sudden the city lights grew even brighter. Once more there were rivers of headlights as cars surged along roads in that metropolis that never slept. Skyscrapers showed as light-studded towers soaring up towards a blood-red moon.
Ahead of me the lead plane dropped quickly to land on the river, making only a small splash as it did. The second plane followed suit. I cut back the throttles to glide in for a surprisingly smooth landing.
'We're down,' I said, a trifle unnecessarily. 'I only hope no one saw us coming in.'
'New York is populated by people who look in - not out. They won't have heard us, either. All those cars make far too much of a racket for that.' Gabriel shot me a grin. 'Good flying, by the way, David.'
'It's not over yet. I'll be happier when we get this machine out of sight.'
I taxied the plane across the oily waters, keeping engine noise to a minimum. All I knew was that I'd been instructed to follow the lead plane.
I began to perspire. The big flying boat had become the proverbial sitting duck. At any moment I expected to see a searchlight beam spring suddenly out of the darkness to pin us down like a butterfly to paper. With that would come a hail of machine-gun fire to cut us to pieces.
But all I could do was tail the other two planes, my engines muttering so low that we approached the shore at a worryingly slow speed. Just when I'd begun to suspect a trap I saw the lead plane suddenly swing to starboard and accelerate through the water, sending a creamy wake washing out to either side.
The plane headed directly for a rounded, humped building that jutted out from the shore. Mercifully, two huge doors opened at the front of the building. In a moment the first plane was inside, followed by the second. I didn't hesitate and opened the throttle just enough to send the plane surging towards the doors. The moment we were through I cut the engines, leaving the plane to coast under its own momentum.
Inside, neon lights lit the place brilliantly. Men and women scrambled along jetties to haul the planes manually into purpose-built bays. This was no makeshift dock.
I scanned the walls. They were encrusted with years of dirt. Yet I soon made out a number of signs.
Aircrew Only. This Way To Immigration. Ocean Clipper Restaurant & Bar. Welcome To Riverside Park Sky Way.
There were other signs for Boeing, BOAC and American United Airlines. Clearly I was in a proper flying-boat port that had served New York before The Blinding. Transfixed in time like a fly in amber, it had now been quietly restored to life.
The Marines disembarked swiftly. People in civilian clothes whom I didn't recognize began unloading explosives and ammunition.
Sam appeared at the nose of the craft as I sat making my post-flight checks. He gestured to me to open the cockpit window.