Текст книги "Eagle in the Sky"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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back to him and kissed her, their lips melded in a lingering embrace

before she sighed happily and laid her head back upon his shoulder. They

were silent for a while before Debra spoke again.

These wild animals, that mean so much to you Yes?"  he encouraged her.

I am beginning to understand.  Although I have never seen them, they are

becoming important to me also I'm glad.  David, this place of ours, it's

so peaceful, so perfect.

It's a little Eden before the fall.  We will make it so, he promised,

but in the night the gunfire woke him.  He rose quickly, leaving her

lying warm and quietly sleeping, and he went out on the stoop.

It came again, faintly on the still night, distance muting it to a small

unwarlike popping.  He felt his anger stirring again, as he imagined the

long white shaft of the killing lamp, questing relentlessly through the

forest until it settled suddenly upon the puzzled animal, holding it

mesmerized in the beam, the blinded eyes glowing like jewels, making a

perfect aiming point in the field of the telescopic rifle sight.

Then suddenly the rifle blast, shocking in the silence, and the long

licking flame of the muzzle flash.  The beautiful head snapping back at

the punch of the bullet and the soft thump of the falling body on the

hard earth, the last spasmodic kicking of hooves and again the silence.

He knew it was useless to attempt pursuit now, the gunman would have an

accomplice in the hills above them ready to flash a warning if any of

the homestead lights came on, or if an auto engine whirred into life.

Then the killing lamp would be doused and the poacher would creep away.

David would search the midnight T expanse of Jabulani in vain.  His

quarry was cunning and experienced in his craft of killing, and would

only be taken by greater cunning.

David could not sleep again.  He lay awake beside Debra, and listened to

her soft breathing, and at intervals to the distant rifle fire.  The

game was tame and easily approached, innocent after the safety of the

Park.

It would run only a short distance after each shot, and then it would

stand again staring without comprehension at the mysterious and dazzling

light that floated towards it out of the darkness.

David's anger burned on through the night, and in the dawn the vultures

were up.  Black specks against the pink dawn sky, they appeared in

ever-increasing numbers, sailing high on wide pinions, tracing wide

swinging circles before beginning to drop towards the earth.

David telephoned Conrad Berg at Skukuza Camp, then he and Debra and the

dog climbed into the Land Rover, warmly dressed against the dawn chill.

They followed the descent of the birds to where the poacher had come on

the buffalo herd.

As they approached the first carcass, the animal scavengers scattered,

slope-backed hyena cantering away into the trees, hideous and cowardly,

looking back over their misshapen shoulders, grinning apologetically

little red jackal with silvery backs and alert ears, trotting to a

respectful distance before standing and staring back anxiously.

The vultures were less timid, seething like fat brown maggots over the

carcass as they squawled and squabbled, fouling everything with their

stinking droppings and loose feathers, leaving the kill only when the

Land Rover was very close and then flapping heavily up into the trees to

crouch there grotesquely with their bald scaly heads out-thrust.

There were sixteen dead buffalo, lying strung out along the line of the

herd's flight.  On each carcass the belly had been split open to let the

vultures in, and the sirloin and fillet had been expertly removed.

He killed them just for a few pounds of meat?  Debra asked

incredulously.

That's all, David confirmed grimly.  But that's not bad, sometimes

they'll kill a wildebeest simply to make a fly whisk of its tail, or

they'll shoot a giraffe for the marrow in its bones.  I don't

understand, Debra's voice was hopeless.  What makes a man do it?  He

can't need the meat that badly.  No, David agreed.  It's deeper than

that.  This type of killing is a gut thing.  This man kills for the

thrill of it, he kills to see an animal fall, to hear the death cry, to

smell the reek of fresh blood, his voice choked off, this is one time

you can be thankful you cannot see he said softly.

Conrad Berg found them waiting beside the corpses, and he set his

rangers to work butchering the carcasses.

No point in wasting all that meat.  Food there for a lot of people. Then

he put Sam to the spoor.  There had been four men in the poaching party,

one wearing light rubbersoled shoes and the others bare-footed.

One white man, big man, long legs.  Three black men, carry meat, blood

drip here and here.  They followed Sam slowly through the open forest as

he patted the grass with his long thin tracking staff, and moved towards

the unsurfaced public road.

Here they walk backwards, Sam observed, and Conrad explained grimly.

Old poacher's trick.  They walk backwards when they cross a boundary. If

you cut the soar while patrolling the fence you think they have gone the

other way leaving instead of entering, and you don't bother following

them.  The spoor went through a gap in the fence, crossed the road and

entered the tribal land beyond.  It ended where a motor vehicle had been

parked amongst a screening thicket of wild ebony.  The tracks bumped

away across the sandy earth and rejoined the public road.

Plaster casts of the tyre tracks?  David asked.

Waste of time.  Conrad shook his head.  You can be sure they are changed

before each expedition, he keeps this set especially and hides it when

it's not in use.  'What about spent cartridge shells?  David persisted.

Conrad laughed briefly.  They are in his pocket, this is a fly bird.

He's not going to scatter evidence all over the country.  He picks up as

he goes along.  No, we'll have to sucker him into it.  And his manner

became businesslike.  Right, have you selected a place to stake old Sam

out?  I thought we would put him up on one of the kopies, near the

String of Pearls.  He'll be abe to cover the whole estate from there,

spot any dust on the road, and the height will give the two-way radio

sufficient range.  After lunch David loaded their bags into the luggage

compartment of the Navajo.  He paid the servants two weeks wages in

advance.

Take good care.  He told them.  I shall return before the end of the

month.

He parked the Land-Rover in the open hangar with the key in the ignition

facing the open doorway, ready for a quick start.  He took off and kept

on a westerly -heading, passing directly over Bandolier Hill and the

buildings amongst the mango trees.  They saw no sign of life, but David

held his course until the hill sank from view below the horizon, then he

came around on a wide circle to the south and lined up for Skukuza, the

main camp of the Kruger National park.

Conrad Berg was at the airstrip in his truck to meet the Cessna, and

Jane had placed fresh flowers in the guest room.  Jabulani lay fifty

miles away to the northwest.

It was like squadron Red standby again, with the Navajo parked under one

of the big shade trees at the end of the Skukuza airstrip, and the radio

set switched on, crackling faintly on the frequency tuned to that of

Sam's transmitter, as he waited patiently on the hill-top above the

pools.

The day was oppressively hot, with the threat of a rainstorm looming up

out of the east, great cumulus thunderheads striding like giants across

the busliveld.

Debra and David and Conrad Berg sat in the shade of the aircraft's wing,

for it was too hot in the cockpit.

They chatted in desultory fashion, but always listening to the radio

crackle, and they were tense and distracted.

He is not going to come, said Debra a little before noon.

He'll come, Conrad contradicted her.  Those buffalo are too much

temptation.  Perhaps not today, but tomorrow or the next day he'll come.

David stood up and climbed in through the open door of the cabin.  He

went forward to the cockpit.

T, Sam, he spoke into the microphone.  Can you hear me?

There was a long pause, presumably while Sam struggled with radio

procedure, then his voice, faint but clear:I hear you, Nkosi.

Have you seen anything?  'There is nothing. Keep good watch.  'Yebho,

Nkosi.

Jane brought a cold picnic lunch down to the airstrip, they ate heartily

despite the tension, and they were about to start on the milk tart, when

suddenly the radio set throbbed and hummed.  Sam's voice carried clearly

to where they sat.

He has come!

Red standby, Go!  Go!  shouted David, and they rushed for the cabin

door, Debra treading squarely in the centre of Jane's milk tart before

David grabbed her arm and guided her to her seat.

Bright Lance, airborne and climbing, David laughed with excitement and

then memory stabbed him with a sharp blade.  He remembered Joe hanging

out there at six o'clock but he shut his mind to it and he banked

steeply on to his headin& not wasting time in grabbing for altitude but

staying right down at tree-top level.

Conrad Berg was bunched in the seat behind them, and his face was redder

than usual, seeming about to burst like an over-ripe tomato.

Where is the Land-Rover key?  he demanded anxiously.  It's in the

ignition, and the tank is full Can't you go faster?  Conrad growled.

Have you got your walkie talkie?  David checked him.

Here!  It was gripped in one of his huge paws, and his double-barrelled

.  450 magnum was in the other.

David was hopping the taller trees, and sliding over the crests of

higher ground with feet to spare.  They flashed over the boundary fence

and ahead of them lay the hills of Jabulani.

Get ready, he told Conrad, and flew the Navajo into the airstrip,

taxiing up to the hangar where the Land Rover waited.

Conrad jumped down at the instant that David braked to a halt, then he

slammed the cabin door behind him and raced to the Land-Rover.

Immediately David opened the throttle and swung the aircraft around,

lining up for his take-off before the Navajo had gathered full momentum.

As he climbed, he saw the Land-Rover racing across the airstrip,

dragging a cloak of dust behind it.

Do you read me, Conrad?

Loud an clear, Conra s voice boomed out of the speaker, and David turned

for the grey ribbon of the public road that showed through the trees,

beyond the hills.

He followed it, flying five hundred feet above it, and he searched the

open parkland.

The green Ford truck had been concealed from observation at ground

level, again in a thicket of wild ebony, but it was open from the sky.

For Akkers had never thought of discovery coming from there.

Connie, I've got the truck.  He's stashed it in a clump of ebony about

half a mile down the bank of the Luzane stream.  Your best route is to

follow the road to the bridge, then go down into the dry river bed and

try and cut him off before he gets to the truck.  'Okay, David.  'Move

it, man.

I'm moving.  David saw the Land-Rover's dust above the trees, Conrad

must have his foot down hard.

I'm going to try and spot the man himself, chase him into your arms.

You do that? David started a long climbing turn towards the hills,

sweeping and searching, up and around.  Below him the pools granted and

he opened the throttles slightly, seeking altitude to clear the crests.

From the highest peak, a tiny figure waved frantically.

Sam, he grunted.  Doing a war dance.  He altered course slightly to

pass him closely, and Sam stopped his imitation of a windmill and

stabbed with an extended arm towards the west.  David acknowledged with

a wave, and turned again, dropping down the western slopes.

Ahead of him the plain spread, dappled like a leopard's back with dark

bush and golden glades of grass.  He flew for a minute before he saw a

black mass, moving slowly ahead of him, dark and amorphous against the

pale grass.

The remains of the buffalo herd had bunched up and were running without

direction, desperate from the harrying they had received.

Buffalo, he told Debra.  On the ran.  Something has alarmed them.  She

sat still and intent beside him, hands in her lap, staring unseeingly

ahead.

All!  David shouted.  Got him, with blood on his hands!  In the Centre

of one of the larger clearings lay the black beetle-like body of a dead

buffalo, its belly swollen and its legs sticking out stiffly as it lay

on its side.

Four men stood around it in a circle, obviously just about to begin

butchering the carcass.  Three of them were Africans, one with a knife

in his hand.

The fourth man was Johan Akkers.  There was no mistaking the tall gaunt

frame.  He wore an old black Fedora hat on his head, strangely formal

attire for the work in which he was engaged, and his braces crisscrossed

his tan-Coloured shirt.  He carried a rifle at the trail in his right

hand, and at the sound of the aircraft engines he swung round and stared

into the sky, frozen with the shock of discovery.

You swine.  Oh, you bloody swine, whispered David, and his anger was

strong and bright against the despoilers.

Hold on!  he warned Debra, and flew straight at the man, dropping

steeply on to him.

The group around the dead buffalo scattered, as the aircraft bore down

on them, each man picking his own course and racing away on it, but

David selected the lanky galloping frame with the black hat jammed down

over the ears and sank down behind him.  The tips.  of the propellers

clipped the dry grass, as he swiftly overtook the running Akkers.

He was set to fly into him, driven by the unreasoning anger of the male

animal protecting his own, and he lined up to cut him down with the

spinning propeller blades.

As David braced himself for the impact Akkers glanced back over his

shoulder, and his face was muddy grey with fright, the skull eyes dark

and deeply set.  He saw the murderous blades merely feet from him, and

he threw himself flat into the grass.

The Navajo roared inches over his prone body, and David pulled it round

in a steep turn, with the wing-tip brushing the grass.  As he came round

he saw that Akkers was up and running, and that he was only fifty paces

from the edge of the trees.

David levelled out, aimed for the fugitive again but realized that he

could not reach him before he was into the trees.  Swiftly he sped

across the clearing, but the lumbering figure drew slowly closer to the

timber line and as he reached the sanctuary of a big leadwood trunk,

Akkers whirled and raised the rifle to his shoulder.  He aimed at the

approaching aircraft; although the rifle was unsteady in his hands the

range was short.

Down, shouted David, pushing Debra's head below the level of the

windshield, and he pulled open the throttles and climbed steeply away.

Even above the bellow of the engines David heard the heavy bullet clang

into the fuselage of the aircraft.

What's happening, David?  Debra pleaded.

He fired at us, but we've got him on the run.  He'll head back for his

truck now, and Conrad should be there waiting for him.  Akkers kept

under cover of the trees, and circling above him David caught glimpses

of the tall figure trotting purposefully along his escape route.

David, -can you hear me?  Conrad's voice boomed suddenly in the tense

cockpit.  What is it, Connie?  We've got trouble.

I've hit a rock in your Land– Rover and knocked out the sump.  She's had

it, pouring oil all over the place.

How the hell did you do that?  David demanded.

I was trying a short cut.  Conrad's chagrin carried clearly over the

ether.

How far are you from the Luzane stream?  About three miles.  God, he'll

beat you to it, David swore.  He's two miles from the truck and going

like he's got a tax collector after him.

You have not seen old Connie move yet.  I'll be there waiting for him,

Berg promised.

Good luck, David called, and the transmission went dead.

Below them Akkers was skirting the base of the hills, his black hat

bobbing along steadily amongst the trees.

David kept his starboard wing pointed at him and the Navajo turned

steadily, holding station above him.

Other movement caught David's eye on the open slope of the hill above

Akkers.  For a moment he thought it was an animal, then with an intake

of breath he realized that he was mistaken.

What is it?  Debra demanded, sensing his concern.

It's Sam, the damned fool.  Connie told him not to leave his post, he's

unarmed, but he's baring down the slope to try and cut Akkers off. Can't

you stop him?  Debra asked anxiously, and David didn't bother to answer.

He called Conrad four times before there was a reply.

Conrad's voice was thick and wheezing with the effort of running.

Sam is on to Akkers.  I think he's going to confront him.  Oh God damn

him, groaned Conrad.  I'll kick his black ass for him.

Hold on, David told him, I'm going around for a closer look.  David saw

it all quite plainly, he was only three hundred feet above them when

Akkers became aware of the running figure on the slope above him.  He

stopped dead, and half-lifted the rifle; perhaps he shouted a warning

but Sam kept -on down, bounding over the rocky ground towards the man

who had burned his children to death.

Akkers lifted the rifle to his shoulder and aimed deliberately, the

rifle jumped sharply, the barrel kicking upwards at the recoil and Sam's

legs kept on running while his upper torso was flung violently backwards

by the strike of the heavy soft-nosed bullet.

The tiny brown-clad body bounced and rolled down the slope, before

coming to a sprawling halt in a clump of scrub.

David watched Akkers reload the rifle, stooping to pick up the empty

cartridge shell.  Then he looked up at the circling aircraft above him,

David may have been mistaken but it seemed the man was laughing, that

obscene tooth-clucking giggle of his, then he started off again at a

trot towards the truck.

Connie, David spoke hoarsely into his handset, he just killed Sam.

Conrad Berg ran heavily over the broken sandy ground.

He had lost his hat and sweat poured down his big red face, stinging his

eyes and plastering the lank grey hair down his forehead.  The

walkie-talkie set bounced on his back, and the butt of the rifle thumped

rhythmically against his hip.

He ran with grim concentration, trying to ignore the swollen pounding of

his heart and the torture of breath that scalded his lungs.  A thorn

branch clawed at his upper arms, raking thin bloody lines through his

skin, but he did not break the pattern of his run.

He turned his red and streaming face to the sky and saw David's

aircraft, circling ahead of him and slightly to his left.  That marked

for him Akkers position and it was clear that Conrad was losing ground

in his desperate race to head off the escape.

The radio set on his back buzzed, but he ignored the call, he could not

halt now.  To break his run would mean he would only slump down

exhausted.  He was a big heavy man, the air was hot and enervating, and

he had run three miles through loose and difficult going he was almost

finished.  He was burning the last of his reserves now.

Suddenly the earth seemed to fall away under him, and he pitched forward

and half-slid, half-rolled, down the steep bank of the Luzane stream, to

finish lying on his back in the white river sand, clean and grainy as

sugar.  The radio was digging painfully into his flesh and he dragged it

out from under him.

Still lying in the sand he panted like a dog, blinded by sweat and he

fumbled the transmit button of the set.

David – he croaked thickly, I am in the bed of the stream, can you see

me?  The aircraft was arcing directly overhead now, and David's answer

came back immediately.

I see you, Connie, you are a hundred yards downstream from the truck.

Akkers is there, Connie, he has just reached the truck, he'll be coming

back down the river bed at any moment.  Painfully, gaspin& choking for

breath, Conrad Berg dragged himself to his knees, and at that moment he

heard the whirr and catch and purr of an engine.  He unstrapped the

heavy radio and laid it aside, then he unslung his rifle, snapped open

the breech to check the load, and pulled himself to his feet.

Surprised at the weakness of his own massive body, he staggered into the

centre of the river bed.

The dry river bed was eight feet deep with banks cut sheer by flood

water, and it was fifteen feet wide at this point, and the floor was of

smooth white sand, scattered with small water-rounded stones no bigger

than a baseball.  It made a good illegal access road into Jabulani, and

the tracks of Alkkers truck were clearly etched in the sol t sand.

Around a bed in the stream Conrad heard the truck revving and roaring as

it came down a low place in the bank into the smooth bed.

Conrad stood squarely in the middle of the river bed with the rifle held

across his hip, and he fought to control his breathing.  The approaching

roar of the truck reached a crescendo as it came skidding wildly around

the bend in the stream, and raced down towards him.

Showers of loose sand were thrown out from under the spinning rear

wheels.

Johan Akkers crouched over the steering wheel, with the black hat pulled

down to his eyebrows, and his face was grey and glistening with sweat,

and he saw Conrad blocking the river bed.

Stop!  Conrad shouted, hefting the rifle.  Stop or I shoot!

The truck was swaying and sliding, the engine screamed in tortured

protest. Akkers began to laugh, Conrad could see the open mouth and the

shaking shoulders.  There was no slackening in the truck's roaring

rocking charge.

Conrad lifted the rifle and sighted down the stubby double barrels, At

that range he could have put a bullet through each of Johan Akkers

deep-set eyes, and the man made no effort to duck or otherwise avoid the

men ace of the levelled rifle.  He was still laughing, and Conrad could

clearly see the teeth lying loosely on his s.  He steeled himself with

the truck fifty feet away, gum and racing down upon him.

it takes a peculiar state of mind before one man deliberately and

cold-bloodedly shoot down another.  It must either be the conditioned

reflex of the soldier or lawenforcement officer, or it must be the

terror of the hunted, or again it must be the unbalanced frenzy of the

criminal lunatic.

None of these was Conrad Berg.  Like most big strong men, he was

essentially a gentle person.  His whole thinking was centred on

protecting and cherishing life, he could not pull the trigger.

With the truck fifteen feet away, he threw himself aside, and Johan

Akkers swung the wheel wildly, deliberately driving for him.

He caught Berg a glancing blow with the side of the truck, hurling him

into the earthen bank of the stream.

The truck went past him, slewing out of control.  It hit the bank

farther down the stream in a burst of earth and loose pebbles, swaying

wildly as Akkers fought the bucking wheel.  He got it under control

again, jammed his foot down on the accelerator and went roaring on down

the river bed, leaving Conrad lying in the soft sand below the bank.

As the truck hit him, Conrad felt the bone in his hip shatter like

glass, and the breath driven from his lungs by the heavy blow of metal

against his rib cage.

He lay in the sand on his side and felt the blood well slowly into his

mouth.  It had a bitter salt taste, and he knew that one of the broken

ribs had pierced his lung like a lance and that the blood sprang from

deep within his body.

He turned his head and saw the radio set lying ten paces away across the

river bed.  He began to drag himself towards it and his shattered leg

slithered after him, twisted at a grotesque angle.

David, he whispered into the microphone.  I couldn't stop him.  He got

away, and he spat a mouthful of blood into the white sand.

David picked the truck up as it came charging up the river bank below

the concrete bridge of the Luzane, bounced and bumped over the drainage

ditch and swung on to the road.  It gathered speed swiftly and raced

westwards towards Bandolier Hill and the highway.  Dust boiled out from

behind the green chassis, marking its position clearly for David as he

turned two miles ahead of it.

After crossing the Luzane the road turned sharply to avoid a rocky

outcrop, and then ran arrow-straight for two miles, hedged in with thick

timber and undulating like a switchback, striking across the water shed

and the grain of the land.

As David completed his turn he lowered his landing gear, and throttled

back.  The Navajo sank down, lined up on the dusty road as though it was

a landing-strip.

Directly ahead was the dust column of the speeding truck.  They were on

a head-on course, but David concentrated coldly on bringing the Navajo

down into the narrow lane between the high walls of timber.  He was

speaking quietly to Debra, reassuring her and explaining what he was

going to attempt.

He touched down lightly on the narrow road, letting her float in easily,

and when she was down he opened the throttles again, taking her along

the centre of the road under power but holding her down.  He had speed

enough to lift the Navajo off, if Akkers chose a collision rather than

surrender.

Ahead of them was another hump in the road, and as they rolled swiftly

towards it the green truck suddenly burst over the crest, not more than

a hundred yards ahead: Both vehicles were moving fast, coming together

at a combined speed of almost two hundred miles an hour, and the shock

of it was too much for Johan Akkers.

The appearance of the aircraft dead in the centre of the road, bearing

down on him with the terrible spinning discs of the propellers was too

much for nerves already run raw and ragged.

He wrenched the wheel hard over, and the truck went into a broadside dry

skid.  It missed the port wing-tip of the Navajo as it went rocketing

off the narrow road.  The front wheels caught the drainage ditch and the

truck went over, cartwheeling twice in vicious slamming revolutions that

smashed the glass from her windows and burst the doors open.  The truck

ended on its side against one of the trees.

David shut the throttles and thrust his feet hard down on the wheel

brakes, bringing the Navajo up short.  .

Wait here, he shouted at Debra, and jumped down into the road.  His face

was a frozen mask of scar tissue, but His eyes were ablaze as he

sprinted back along the road towards the wreckage of the green truck.

Akkers saw him coming, and he dragged himself shakily to his feet.  He

had been thrown clear and now he staggered to the truck.  He could see

his rifle lying in the cab, and he tried to scramble up on to the body

to reach down through the open door.  Blood from a deep scratch in his

forehead was running into his eyes blinding him, he wiped it away with

the back of his hand and glanced around.

David was close, hurdling the irrigation ditch and running towards him.

Akkers scrambled down from the battered green body, and groped for the

hunting knife on his belt.  It was eight inches of Sheffield steel with

a bone handle, and it had been honed to a razor edge.

He hefted it under-handed, in the classical grip of the knife-fighter

and wiped the blood from his face with the palm of his free hand.

He was crouching slightly, facing David, and the haft of the knife was

completely covered by the huge bony fist.

David stopped short of him, his eyes fastened on the knife, and Akkers

began to laugh again.  It was a cracked falsetto giggle, the hysterical

laughter of a man driven to the very frontiers of sanity.

The point of the knife weaved in the slow mesmeric movement of an erect

cobra, and it caught the sunlight in bright points of light.  David

watched it, circling and crouching, steeling himself, summoning all the

training of paratrooper school, screwing up his nerve to go in against

the naked steel.

Akkers feinted swiftly, leaping in, and when David broke away, he let

out a fresh burst of high laughter.

Ago in they circled, Akkers mouthing his teeth loosely, sucking at them,

gigglin& watching with those muddy green eyes from their deep, close-set

sockets.

David moved back slowly ahead of him, and Akkers drove him back against

the body of the truck, cornering him there.

He came then, flashing like the charge of a wounded leopard.  His speed

and strength were shockin& and the knife hissed upwards for David's

belly.

David caught the knife hand at the wrist, blocking the thrust and

trapping the knife low down.  They were chest to chest now, face to

face, like lovers, and Akkersbreath stank of unwashed teeth.

They strained silently, shifting like dancers to balance each other's

heaves and thrusts.

David felt the knife hand twisting in his grip.  The man had hands and

arms like steel, he could not hold him much longer.  In seconds it would

be free, and the steel would be probing into his belly.

David braced his legs and twisted sideways.  The move caught Akkers

off-balance and he could not resist it.

David was able to get his other hand on to the knife arm, but even with

both hands he was hard put to hold on.

They swayed and shuffled together, panting, grunting, straining, until

they fell, still locked together, against the bonnet of the truck.  The

metal was hot and smelled of oil.

David was concentrating all his strength on the knife, but he felt

Akkers free hand groping for his throat.  He ducked his head down on his

shoulders, pressing his chin against his chest but the fingers were

steel hard and powerful as machinery.  They probed mercilessly into his

flesh, forcing his chin up, and settling on his throat, beginning to

squeeze the life out of him.

Desperately David hauled at the knife arm, and found it more manageable

now that Akkers was concentrating his strength on strangling him.

The open windscreen of the truck was beside David's shoulder, the glass

had been smashed out of it, but jagged shards of it still stood in the

metal rim, forming a crude but ferocious line of saw-teeth.

David felt the fingers digging deep into his throat, crushing the

gristle of his larynx and blocking off the arteries that fed his brain.

His vision starred and then began to fade darkly, as though he were

pulling eight G's in a dogfight.

With one last explosive effort David pulled the knife arm around on to