dropped the useless Colt, picked up the carbine the soldier had never had a chance to use and ran inside the hangar. A second Sikorsky was standing at the rear of the hangar under a hooded lamp. An electric cable plugged in to keep the motor from freezing ran from the machine to the wall. Beaumont unplugged the cable, climbed up to the machine, opened the door and went inside the cabin as Grayson came up behind him. 'He's gone,' the American warned. 'We'll never find him .. .'
'We'll find him ...' Beaumont was fixing on the pilot's helmet and headset which was always left in the pilot's seat. Stripping off his parka, he settled himself behind the controls. 'Shut the door, Sam - we're going up.' The instrument panel faced him - radar-altimeter, fuel gauge, rev counter, other instruments. The collective stick - controlling ascent - was on his left. The cyclic control stick - which changed flight direction - was on his right. A twist-grip throttle, rather like a motorcycle's throttle, was ringed round the collective stick. Beaumont started the motor.
The whole cabin shuddered. Sound blasted across the inside of the hangar. The rotor blades above swivelled slug gishly, start-stop-start. Then the machine burst into power. In the ghostly light from the instrument panel Beaumont's expression was grim as he built up more power. The heli copter edged forward, drummed across the concrete, emerged from the hangar. The radar mast which reached almost to the stars came into view and Beaumont used the throttle. The fifty-foot rotor blades tore through their ellipse, whipped through the Arctic air, sounded as though at any second they would rip loose from the machine. The rev counter climbed on the dial. The machine quivered like a great bird, tethered and desperate to leave the ground, then they were going up.
Beyond the perspex dome which vaulted above them they saw the hangar wall descending like a lift. The snow- covered roof appeared, disappeared as a glow-worm of vehicle lights drove close to the guard-post at the airfield entrance. 'They've tumbled to it!' Beaumont spoke the words into the mike hanging from the headset under his chin. Grayson heard him through the earphones of his own headset as he sat alongside Beaumont in the observer's seat. The helicopter gained altitude as the vehicles rushed across the snow below and Beaumont swore as he heard reports above the muffled roar of the motor. 'They're shooting at us,' he said.
Tor God's sake, why?'
'Because Vandenberg and Callard think Tillotson's aboard this machine . . .'
To escape the gunfire Beaumont was ascending vertically as the altimeter needle climbed. In the pale glowing night there was no sign of another helicopter: Tillotson had vanished again. Beaumont turned east, the direction he assumed Crocodile would take. 'And who is Callard?' Grayson asked.
'The FBI man who came up here to arrest Tillotson. Everything was beautifully laid on - the alert you men tioned put into operation just before the Boeing landed - which sealed off the base. Callard gets off the plane, drives to the camp with Col Vandenberg, then when Tillotson arrives they confront him.' Beaumont was maintaining an easterly course as he peered ahead: nothing but the flat tened-out icecap in view. 'Nice and neat, Mr Callard's plan,' Beaumont went on. 'It merely failed to take account of Crocodile.'
'What happened?'
'I imagine Tillotson had a vague notion they might be on to him - he was the security chief, remember. Then he'd wonder about the alert. Next thing he finds out from the pilot that Callard came aboard at Washington at the last minute - without anyone telling Tillotson. So he decides it's time to catch the first plane out - I don't think anyone else suspected he knew how to pilot a Sikorsky ...'
'Over there! To the north .. ,' Grayson pointed and Beaumont looked to his left. More icecap, desolate, cold, hideously barren. Then he saw it. Tillotson's machine was, at a guess, ten miles away. A
'We'll find him ...' Beaumont was fixing on the pilot's helmet and headset which was always left in the pilot's seat. Stripping off his parka, he settled himself behind the controls. 'Shut the door, Sam - we're going up.' The instrument panel faced him - radar-altimeter, fuel gauge, rev counter, other instruments. The collective stick - controlling ascent - was on his left. The cyclic control stick - which changed flight direction - was on his right. A twist-grip throttle, rather like a motorcycle's throttle, was ringed round the collective stick. Beaumont started the motor.
The whole cabin shuddered. Sound blasted across the inside of the hangar. The rotor blades above swivelled slug gishly, start-stop-start. Then the machine burst into power. In the ghostly light from the instrument panel Beaumont's expression was grim as he built up more power. The heli copter edged forward, drummed across the concrete, emerged from the hangar. The radar mast which reached almost to the stars came into view and Beaumont used the throttle. The fifty-foot rotor blades tore through their ellipse, whipped through the Arctic air, sounded as though at any second they would rip loose from the machine. The rev counter climbed on the dial. The machine quivered like a great bird, tethered and desperate to leave the ground, then they were going up.
Beyond the perspex dome which vaulted above them they saw the hangar wall descending like a lift. The snow- covered roof appeared, disappeared as a glow-worm of vehicle lights drove close to the guard-post at the airfield entrance. 'They've tumbled to it!' Beaumont spoke the words into the mike hanging from the headset under his chin. Grayson heard him through the earphones of his own headset as he sat alongside Beaumont in the observer's seat. The helicopter gained altitude as the vehicles rushed across the snow below and Beaumont swore as he heard reports above the muffled roar of the motor. 'They're shooting at us,' he said.
Tor God's sake, why?'
'Because Vandenberg and Callard think Tillotson's aboard this machine . . .'
To escape the gunfire Beaumont was ascending vertically as the altimeter needle climbed. In the pale glowing night there was no sign of another helicopter: Tillotson had vanished again. Beaumont turned east, the direction he assumed Crocodile would take. 'And who is Callard?' Grayson asked.
'The FBI man who came up here to arrest Tillotson. Everything was beautifully laid on - the alert you men tioned put into operation just before the Boeing landed - which sealed off the base. Callard gets off the plane, drives to the camp with Col Vandenberg, then when Tillotson arrives they confront him.' Beaumont was maintaining an easterly course as he peered ahead: nothing but the flat tened-out icecap in view. 'Nice and neat, Mr Callard's plan,' Beaumont went on. 'It merely failed to take account of Crocodile.'
'What happened?'
'I imagine Tillotson had a vague notion they might be on to him - he was the security chief, remember. Then he'd wonder about the alert. Next thing he finds out from the pilot that Callard came aboard at Washington at the last minute - without anyone telling Tillotson. So he decides it's time to catch the first plane out - I don't think anyone else suspected he knew how to pilot a Sikorsky ...'
'Over there! To the north .. ,' Grayson pointed and Beaumont looked to his left. More icecap, desolate, cold, hideously barren. Then he saw it. Tillotson's machine was, at a guess, ten miles away. A
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