if.thunderball-第20章
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but this had all been worked out for him and every move he would have to make was written down in the notebook in his breast pocket。 The landing was going to need very steady nerves； but for 1；000；000 the steady nerves would be summoned。
For the tenth time Petacchi consulted the Rolex。 Now！ He verified and tested the oxygen mask in the bulkhead beside him and laid it down ready。 Next he took the little red…ringed cylinder out of his pocket and remembered exactly how many turns to give the release valve。 Then he put it back in his pocket and went through into the cockpit。
〃Hullo； Seppy。 Enjoying the flight？〃 The pilot liked the Italian。 They had gone out together on one or two majestic thrashes in Bournemouth。
〃Sure； sure。〃 Petacchi asked some questions； verified the course set on George； checked the air speed and altitude。 Now everyone in the cockpit was relaxed； almost drowsy。 Five more hours to go。 Rather a bind missing North by Northwest at the Odeon。 But one would catch up with it at Southampton。 Petacchi stood with his back to the metal map rack that held the log and the charts。 His right hand went to his pocket； felt for the release valve； and gave it three plete turns。 He eased the cylinder out of his pocket and slipped it behind him and down behind the books。
Petacchi stretched and yawned。 〃Is time for a zizz；〃 he said amiably。 He had got the slang phrase pat。 It rolled easily off the tongue。
The navigator laughed。 〃What do they call it in Italian…Zizzo？〃
Petacchi grinned cheerfully。 He went through the open hatch； got back to his chair； clamped on his oxygen mask； and turned the control regulator to 100 per cent oxygen to cut out the air bleed。 Then he made himself fortable and watched。
They had said it would take under five minutes。 Sure enough； in about two minutes； the man nearest to the map rack； the navigator； suddenly clutched his throat and fell forward； gargling horribly。 The radio operator dropped his earphones and started forward； but with his second step he was down on his knees。 He lurched sideways and collapsed。 Now the three other men began to fight for air； briefly； terribly。 The co…pilot and the flight engineer writhed off their stools together。 They clawed vaguely at each other and then fell back； spread…eagled。 The pilot groped up toward the microphone above his head； said something indistinctly； got half to his feet； turned slowly so that his bulging eyes； already dead； seemed to stare through the hatchway into Petacchi's； and then thudded down on top of the body of his co…pilot。
Petacchi glanced at his watch。 Four minutes flat。 Give them one more minute。 When the minute was up； he took rubber gloves out of his pocket； put them on； and； pressing the oxygen mask tight against his face and trailing the flexible tube behind him； went forward； reached down into the map rack； and closed the valve on the cylinder of cyanide。 He verified George and adjusted the cabin pressurization to help clear the poison gas。 He then went back to his seat to wait for fifteen minutes。
They had said fifteen would be enough； but at the last moment he gave it another ten and then； still with his oxygen mask on； he went forward again and began slowly； for the oxygen made him rather breathless； to pull the bodies back into the fuselage。 When the cockpit was clear； he took a small phial of crystals out of his trousers pocket； took out the cork； and sprinkled the cabin floor with them。 He went down on his knees and watched the crystals。 They kept their white color。 He eased his oxygen mask away and took a small cautious sniff。 There was no smell。 But still； when he took over the controls and began easing the plane down to 32；000 and then slightly northwest…by…west to get into the traffic lane； he kept the mask on。
The giant plane whispered on into the night。 The cockpit； bright with the yellow eyes of the dials； was quiet and warm。 In the deafening silence in the cockpit of a big jet in flight there was only the faint buzz of an invector。 As he verified the dials； the click of each switch seemed as loud as a small…caliber pistol shot。
Petacchi again checked George with the gyro and verified each fuel tank to see that they were all feeding evenly。 One tank pump needed adjustment。 The jet…pipe temperatures were not overheating。
Satisfied； Petacchi settled himself fortably in the pilot's seat and swallowed a benezedrine tablet and thought about the future。 One of the headphones scattered on the floor of the cockpit began to chirrup loudly。 Petacchi glanced at his watch。 Of course！ Bosbe Air Traffic Control was trying to raise the Vindicator。 He had missed the third of the half…hourly calls。 How long would Air Control wait before alerting Air Sea Rescue； Bomber mand； and the Air Ministry？ There Would first be checks and double…checks with the Southern Rescue Center。 They would probably take another half hour； and by that time he would be well out over the Atlantic。
The chirrup of the headphones went quiet。 Petacchi got up from his seat and took a look at the radar screen。 He watched it for some time； noting the occasional 〃blip〃 of planes being overhauled below him。 Would his own swift passage above the air corridor be noted by the planes as he passed above them？ Unlikely。 The radar on mercial planes has a limited field of vision in a forward cone。 He would almost certainly not be spotted until he crossed the Defense Early Warning line； and DEW would probably put him down as a mercial jet that had strayed above its normal channel。
Petacchi went back to the pilot's seat and again minutely checked the dials。 He weaved the plane gently to get the feel of the controls。 Behind him； the bodies on the floor of the fuselage stirred uneasily。 The plane answered perfectly。 It was like driving a beautiful quiet motor car。 Petacchi dreamed briefly of the Maserati。 What color？ Better not his usual white； or anything spectacular。 Dark blue with a thin red line along the coachwork。 Something quiet and respectable that would fit in with his new； quiet identity。 It would be fun to run her in some of the trials and road races…even the Mexican 〃2000。〃 But that would be too dangerous。 Supposing he won and his picture got into the papers！ No。 He would have to cut out anything like that。 He would only drive the car really fast when he wanted to get a girl。 They melted in a fast car。 Why was that？ The sense of surrender to the machine； to the man whose strong； sunburned hands were on the wheel？ But it was always so。 You turned the car into a wood after ten minutes at 150 and you would almost have to lift the girl out and lay her down on the moss； her limbs would be so trembling and soft。
Petacchi pulled himself out of the daydream。 He glanced at his watch。 The Vindicator was already four hours out。 At 600 m。p。h。 one certainly covered the miles。 The coastline of America should be on the screen by now。 He got up and had a look。 Yes； there； 500 miles away； was the coastline map already in high definition； the bulge that was Boston； and the silvery creek of the Hudson River。 No need to check his position with weather ships Delta or Echo that would be somewhere below him。 He was dead on course and it would soon be time to turn off the East…West channel。
Petacchi went back to his seat； munched another benezedrine tablet； and consulted his chart。 He got his hands to the controls and watched the eerie glow of the gyro pass。 Now！ He eased the controls gently round in a fairly tight curve； then he flattened out again； edged the plane exactly on to its new course； and reset George。 Now he was flying due south； now he was on the last lap； a bare three hours to go。 It was time to start worrying about the landing。
Petacchi took out his little notebook。 〃Watch for the lights of Grand Bahama to port； and Palm Beach to starboard。 Be ready to pick up the navigational aids from No。 1's yacht…dot…dot…dash； dot…dot…dash； jettison fuel； lose height to around 1000 feet for the last quarter of an hour； kill speed with the air brakes； and lose more height。 Watch out for the flashing red beacon and prepare for the final approach。 Flaps down only at the check altitude wi
