Flyaway

Paul was not a man of action, rather a man of reaction. He could be pushed – by men, by circumstances, or as English, the journalist, had pushed – but it was not his habit to initiate action. So he stood there, irresolute, wondering what was the best thing to do. He then decided that it would not be a good idea to walk in on Lash and company by way of the cleft in the rocks which was now the common highway to Flyaway; instead, he would try to approach from the other direction. That was a good idea.

He found a canteen and filled it with water, put the remaining six bullets into his pocket, and then set off to explore, carrying the rifle somewhat gingerly as though it might explode of its own volition. He knew his direction to the cleft so he set off at right-angles to that, skirting the base of a rock pillar. To anyone knowing Paul Billson it must have been an unlikely sight.

He kept track of his progress by counting his paces, and when he had counted two hundred double strides he veered to the left and carried on. After five minutes he stopped in his tracks because he heard voices. Cautiously he peered round a rock and saw Kissack and Zayid passing by within spitting distance. They were carrying a propeller.

That gave him his location; he was somewhere near his father's grave. He waited a while and then stepped out to where they had walked and immediately knew where he was, so he walked a little way until he came to the cave where his father was buried. The rocks of the cairn had been rudely tumbled aside and he saw the white bone of his father's skull. That angered him very much and he trembled with rage.

His impulse was to walk down to Flyaway and shoot Kissack but he reined himself in. He had no illusions about his prowess with a rifle and seriously doubted if, when it came to the push, he could kill Kissack – not in a straight shooting match. And then there were the others. I rather doubt if the plight of Byrne and myself crossed his mind at that time.

He stopped over the grave and picked up a rock, intending to rebuild the cairn. Then he paused with the rock still held in his hand and thought about it. Logical thought did not come naturally to Paul Billson; as I have said, he was a man who reacted to stimuli. But he thought now and carefully replaced the rock where he had found it, then went away and sat behind a rock out of sight of the cave to work things out.

Presently he saw smoke drifting overhead, and then came the dull, echoing thud as the auxiliary fuel tank of Flyaway exploded. He assumed, correctly, that Flyaway was being destroyed. He didn't know why, but then, very few people did. He stood up and looked towards the source of the smoke, again irresolute.

Then he turned and looked through a gap in the rocks towards the grave. Paul didn't know it but he was standing by what a rifleman would consider a perfect loophole. Two rocks standing on a third, the gap between them about six inches. The depth of the gap was nearly three feet, and from where he was standing he could see the grave, about twenty feet away. There were even two flat ledges on which he could plant his elbows to give aiming support.

Chance, circumstance, and the odd workings of Paul's mind had put him in exactly the right place at the right time. Soon he heard voices.

A little later he fired the rifle.

The muzzle blast of an army rifle fired at close range can be quite frightening. I suspect that, given the standard army firing squad of eight men, even if they all missed the victim would probably die of shock. That single shot, coming unexpectedly, froze everybody into a tableau as Kissack fell bonelessly to the ground.

The bullet that smashed into the back of Kissack's head passed through him as though he wasn't there. It entered the cave, ricocheted around the walls and came out spaang, giving Zayid a fright. But it wasn't that which broke the tableau; it was the dry metallic clatter, coining from nowhere in particular, as Paul worked the action to put another round up the spout.

Lash pulled a pistol from no where at exactly the same time as Byrne dived for the gun Kissack had dropped. It's difficult to do a rugby tackle when your hands are tied behind your back but I did my best and went for Lash's legs. His pistol exploded and I felt a smashing blow in my left arm and tumbled to one side. But I had brought him down.

Then bullets were buzzing over me like bees as Byrne shot over and past me, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Zayid go down in a tumbled heap. Paul added to the row with another blast just as Lash recovered enough to raise his gun intending to shoot at Byrne. I swung my legs around and booted at his wrist just before Byrne got him. Byrne was shooting police-fashion; square on to the target and in a crouch, with arms extended and both hands on the butt of the pistol. He pumped three shots into Lash who jerked convulsively, then flopped about on the ground and began to scream.