ADAM HALL - The Kobra Manifesto

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 fell: 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.

'What do you intend doing?' Ferris asked me.

I suppose it was a compliment, really, for him to assume I had any kind of answer to this one. There was of course an answer but it wasn't very subtle, and I didn't feel like spelling it out for him because he might order me not to do it, 'I think I'll have to go aboard,' I said.

From this distance I could see three people standing at the top of the flight steps but couldn't identify them for certain: the two outer figures were holding what looked like submachine-guns and the one in the middle would be Patricia Burdick. I didn't think they could have got any weapons that size through Manaus Airport: they must have a contact in Belem and they'd phoned him before they left. These people were internationals and if they'd decided to move to the United States they wouldn't have left anything to chance.

Ferris had been thinking it over. Now he said:.

'All right. I'll keep track of the plane.'

'Do that.'

He asked if there were anything else and I said no and we hung up and I stood there for a minute wiping die sweat off my face and feeling a bit queasy because this could get me killed.

Then I took off the overalls and put them on a bench with the ear-mufflers and walked across the tarmac till I reached the police cordon. I now recognized Satynovich Zade and Carlos Ramirez at the top of the steps with the girl between them. Ramirez was shouting to the group of police negotiators in Portuguese, asking again for a doctor to go aboard and look after the hostage. He promised repeatedly that the doctor would be regarded as a "brave humanitarian" and would come to no harm whatever happened.

I saw a small man pushing his way through the crowd with a bag on his hand, and decided I ought to start parleying.

I cupped my hands.

' Satynovich!'

I didn't want to talk to Ramirez because he might be limited to Spanish and Portuguese and if the police understood what I was saying they might take me for a friend of the terrorists and arrest me and that'd be strictly no go.

'Voce e medico?'

He was a captain of police and his hand had gone to his gun.

That's right, I told him, I was a doctor.

I cupped my hands again.