Duncan Kyle - Terror's Cradle

Slide the Jumar up, step after it, slide again. I was beginning to get the hang of it. But it remained difficult, each step upward an effort in concentration. Each movement of hand and leg must be co-ordinated, and it was impossible to achieve any kind of rhythm. So every step was a new operation, begun and considered and executed with desperate care. I fought my way slowly upward, nearing the overhang that seemed increasingly to press its weight down towards me. He shall not pass! I looked up at it, grimly. I bloody well had to pass.

, All the while the rope twirled slowly and I made myself concentrate on the rope itself, trying to ignore the cliffs as they swung past, first one way then the other. Up with Jumar and foot together. Check the clip. Transfer weight. Steady myself. Now the next clip, the next foot . . .

Then I was at the overhang. I slipped the top Jumar clip up until it actually scraped on rock, then raised myself and tried to work out how to get past. I could see only one way. I'd have to push myself and the rope clear of the rock by sheer strength, hand flat against the rock-face, then slip

the clip past. I brought up the under clip and secured it, balanced myself, and tried . . . A puff of wind ruined it. Just one puff that spun me out of control, trapped my fingers between rope and rock and cracked my head blindingly against the cliff face. For a moment I hung dazed, my weight on belt and stirrup, held upright only by my own trapped hand, now being ground agonizingly against the stone. I struggled frantically to release it, but only' succeeded in hurting myself more. With my teeth gritted against the pain I forced myself to think. But there was no other way. I'd have to repeat what I'd done before : push against the cliff to force the rope out a little, then pull my hand away. It meant I'd have no handgrip on the rope at all.

But there wasn't time to look for subtleties, even if they existed. The pressure of the rope on my trapped hand was crushing. I gave a sudden angry push, snatched my hand clear and, clouted my head again. I hung there dizzily, turning slowly in the air sixty feet above the swirling water. It was impossible. There must be another way. Elbows? What if I pushed with my elbows, still holding the rope? The first try failed, but the second worked and I slid the Jumar triumphantly over the rock edge. Now she other. Got it! I waited for a moment, nursing my hand, till the pain faded a little, before forcing myself up again. The going was, desperately difficult now, the rope taut against a long vertical section of the rock face. I had to strain my body away from it with the toe of one boot just to make space for the' Jumars to slide. But the system still worked. I fought for height and height was slowly being won. I was more than halfway, aching from the strain, but confident now in the equipment. And at least, pinned as I was to the face, that awful vertigo-inducing pivoting had stopped.

A few more feet and I gave myself a rest, equalizing the clips, letting my weight fall evenly on to the two stirrups. I counted slowly to sixty and started again. But by now it was grindingly hard going. My strength was diminishing; each upward thrust was a greater effort than the one

before. For a while I know I even ceased to think with any clarity; at any rate, I have no memory of the next part of the climb after that brief rest. I was within ten feet of the top when something thrust itself into my consciousness and for a moment I failed to recognize what it was. I think I must have been reliving what had happened here the night before, confusing one day with another, because at first the light meant nothing.

Suddenly, I was trembling awake again, staring in horror towards the entrance to the foaming channel beneath. A big fishing boat had appeared there. A boat with a searchlight. The nightmare was repeating itself! I was held in the bright beam like a fly on a wall!

Terrified now, I forced myself upward. Only half a dozen steps more. Only five. A bullet whanged off the rock close to ine and fizzed off into the darkness. I flattened myself as close as I could to the rock and managed another upward thrust. Then another. There was a shallow cleft in the rock to my left and I forced myself into its sparse shelter as below me somebody opened up with an automatic weapon and bullets smacked in dozens against the rock and sang away. Another step. Cautious as hell, trying to stay within the crack. The firing had stopped. Empty magazine? Pause to reload? I took a chance and made another two feet. The cliff edge was close above me now, less than three feet or so from my hands. Still no firing. I got foot and hand in position and thrust quickly and suddenly and was cowering in the cleft as the next bullets cracked against the rock. One more. Just one. One more thrust and a quick wriggle and I'd be in cover. The searchlight was unwavering, my shelter desperately inadequate. I waited . . . and realized they were waiting, too. When I moved they'd fire.

That was when the next act of the nightmare began. It was uncanny and for a moment I didn't believe it, but it was there, the sound was there: clear and unmistakable high above. A helicopter came clattering over the Noss cliffs!

I watched it in bewilderment. Elliot and Willingham? What were they . .? And then I knew suddenly, and realized

that the men on the fishing boat would be watching the helicopter, too. Briefly, perhaps but they'd watch it. With a last, long desperate thrust I reached the edge, gripped it, and hauled myself over. For a moment, breathless and exhausted, I lay flat on the top pf the Holm.

But that moment was all I could afford. I couldn't, daren't stay there. I stared up at the helicopter as it veered across the sky towards me. It had followed the boat ! That was how it had got there. Now the helicopter was going to land up here. I crawled away from the cliff edge, then tried to stand up and found I couldn't. I took a moment or two to untangle the reason from my own confusion. But it was simple enough. The Jumars and the belt still held me to the rope.

Desperately I fumbled with the belt buckle, released it and set off at a stumbling run across the surface. Above me the helicopter was slowing, beginning to hover in preparation for landing. What had Anderson said? Fifteen paces from his hide towards the point where he'd secured the rope. I got to the hide, turned back and started counting. Then a shot came from above, a single sharp crack amid the engine's roar. Christ, they were shooting at me, too ! Elliot and Willingham!

From nowhere a mammoth voice boomed, 'Stand still, Sellers.' But I didn't stand still. The helicopter must have some loudspeaker equipment. It boomed again. Twelve paces, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. I dropped to my knees, searching, and found it. A plastic bottle, just as Anderson had said. Tucked in a little depression. I shook it and heard the water gurgle. The transparency was in the water.

`Stand still or we fire!' the great voice boomed.

I ignored it, stood up and, clutching the bottle, sprinted for the cliff edge.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

There was about twenty yards to go. Twenty-one would be a disaster and my physical state didn't make for fine judgment. Ten feet short of the edge I flung myself flat and began to kitten-crawl forward. At the edge I stopped, put the water bottle down, and turned to watch the helicopter. The thing was huge, with long rows of passenger windows along its sides; one of the oil company machines I'd seen on the tarmac at Sumburgh and which were used to carry men out to the deep sea drilling rigs. The roaring monster came down slowly and carefully, bringing its own fierce gale that seemed to be buffeting me towards the edge. Its coloured lights turned and flashed eerily in the now deafening darkness. It looked like some vast insect predator, come to ingest me. The wheels touched and the massive rotors continued spinning, but the pitch diminished, then a door in the side opened and Elliot stepped down and waited for Willingham to join him. They were both armed.