EAGLE IN THE SKY [047-066-4.9]
BY WILBUR SMITH
Synopsis:
With a dull but awful roar, the Mirage bloomed with dark crimson flame
and sooty black smoke, the wind ripped flames outwards in great
streamers and pennants that engulfed all around them, and David
staggered onwards in the midst of the roaring furnace that seemed to
consume the very air.
Drawn to the sky as though to his natural element, young David Morgan
spurns the boardroom future mapped out for him by his family for the
life of a jet pilot. Then he meets Debra the beautiful Israeli writer
for whom he will fight, in another country's war, at the controls of his
Mirage. Yet the breathless action which brings them together is also
the very tragedy that will threaten to tear them apart.
The novels of Wilbur Smith
The Courtney Novels:
When the Lion Feeds
The Sound of Thunder
A Sparrow Falls
The Burning Shore
Power of the Sword
Rage
A Time to Die
The Ballantyne novels:
A Falcon Flies
Men of Men
The Angels Weep
The Leopard Hunts in Darkness
Also:
The Dark of the Sun
Shout at the Devil
Gold Mine
The Diamond Hunters
The Sunbird
The Eye of the Tiger
Cry Wolf
Hungry as the Sea
Wild Justice
Golden Fox
Elephant Song
Wilbur Smith was born in Central Africa in 1933. He was educated at
Michael-house and Rhodes University.
He became a full-time writer in 1964 after the successful publication of
When the Lion Feeds, and has since written twenty-three novels,
meticulously researched on his numerous expeditions worldwide.
He normally travels from November to February, often spending a month
skiing in Switzerland, and visiting Australia and New Zealand for sea
fishing. During his summer break, he visits environments as diverse as
Alaska and the dwindling wilderness of the African interior. He has an
abiding concern for the peoples and wildlife of his native continent, an
interest strongly reflected in his novels.
He is married to Danielle, to whom his last nineteen books have been
dedicated.
WILBUR SMITH A Mandarin Paperback
First published in Great Britain x974 by William Heinemann Ltd
This edition published 11992 by Mandarin Paperbacks an imprint of Reed
International Books Limited Michelin House, 8i Fulham, Road, London SW3
6RB and Auckland, Melbourne, Singapore and Toronto Reprinted 1993
(twice), 1994 (twice), 1995 (three times), i996 (three times)
Copyright C Wilbur Smith 1974
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
Library
ISBN 0 7493 o622 X
Photo-type-set by Intype, London
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox &Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of
trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated
without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Acknowledgements
While writing this story I had valuable help from a number of people.
Major Dick Lord and Lieutenant Peter Cooke gave me advice on the
technique and technicalities of modern fighter combat. Dr. Robin
Sandell and Dr. David Davies provided me with the medical details. A
brother angler, the Rev. Bob Redrup, helped with the choice of the
title. To them all I am
sincerely grateful.
While in Israel many of the citizens of that state gave help and
hospitality in generous measure. It grieves me
that I may not mention their names.
As always my faithful research assistant gave comfort,
encouragement and criticism when it was most needed.
This book is dedicated to her son, my stepson, Dieter Schmidt.
Three things are too wonderful for me, four I do not understand, The way
of an eagle in the sky, The way of a serpent on a rock, The way of a
ship on the high seas,
And the way of a man with a maiden.
Proverbs, 30, -8-2o
There was snow on the mountains of the Hottentots, Holland and the wind
came off it, whimpering like a lost animal. The instructor stood in the
doorway of his tiny office and hunched down into his flight jacket,
thrusting his fists deeply into the fleece-lined pockets. He watched the
black chauffeur-driven Cadillac coming down between the cavernous
iron-clad hangars, and he frowned sourly. For the trappings of wealth.
Barney Venter had a deeply aching gut-envy.
The Cadillac swung in and parked in a visitors slot against the hangar
wall, and a boy sprang from the rear door with boyish enthusiasm, spoke
briefly with the coloured chauffeur, then hurried towards Barney.
He moved with a lightness that was strange for an adolescent. There was
no stumbling over feet too big for his body, and he carried himself
tall. Barney's envy curdled as he watched the young princeling
approach.
He hated these pampered darlings, and it was his particular fate that he
must spend so much of his working day in their company. Only the very
rich could afford to instruct their children in the mysteries of flight.
He was reduced to this by the gradual running down of his body, the
natural attrition of time. Two years previously, at the age of
forty-five, he had failed the strict medical on which his position of
senior airline captain depended, and now he was going down the other
side of the hill, probably to end as a typical fly-burn, steering tired
and beaten-up heaps on unscheduled and shady routes for unlicensed and
unprincipled charter companies.
The knowledge made him growl at the child who stood before him. Master
Morgan, I presume?
Yes, Sir, but you may call me David. The boy offered his hand and
instinctively Barney took it, immediately wishing he had not. The hand
was slim and dry, but with a hard grip of bone and sinew.
Thank you, David. Barney was heavy on irony. And you may continue to
call me "Sir".
He knew the boy was fourteen years old, but he stood almost level with
Barney's five-foot-seven. David smiled at him and Barney was struck
almost as by a physical force by the boy's beauty. It seemed as though
each detail of his features had been wrought with infinite care by a
supreme artist. The total effect was almost unreal, theatrical. It
seemed indecent that hair should curl and glow so darkly, that skin
should be so satiny and delicately tinted, or that eyes possess such
depth and fire.
Barney became aware that he was staring at the boy, that he was falling
under the spell that the child seemed so readily to weave, and he turned
away abruptly.
Come on. He led the way through his office with its fly-blown nude
calendars and handwritten notices carrying terse admonitions against
asking for credit, or making right-hand circuits.
What do you know about flying? he asked the boy as they passed through
the cool gloom of the hangar where gaudily coloured aircraft stood in
long rows, and out again through the wide doors into the bright mild
winter sunshine.
Nothing, Sir. The admission was refreshing, and Barney felt his mood
sweeten slightly.
But you want to learn?
Oh, yes Sir! The reply was emphatic and Barney glanced at him. The
boy's eyes were so dark as to be almost black, only in the sunlight did
they turn deep indigo blue.
All right then, let's begin. The aircraft was waiting on the concrete
apron.
This is a Cessna 150 high-wing monoplane. Barney began the walk-around
check with David following attentively, but when he started a brief
explanation of the control surfaces and the principle of lift and
wingloading, he became aware that the boy knew more than he had owned up
to. His replies to Barney's rhetorical questions were precise and
accurate.
You've been reading, Barney accused.
Yes, Sir, David admitted, grinning. His teeth were of peculiar
whiteness and symmetry and the smile was irresistible. Despite himself,
Barney realized he was beginning to like the boy.
Right, jump in. Strapped into the cramped cockpit shoulder to Shoulder,
Barney explained the controls and instruments, then led into the
starting procedure.Master switch on. He flipped the red button.
Right , turn that key, same as in a car.
David leaned forward and obeyed. The prop spun and the engine fired and
kicked, surged, then settled into a satisfying healthy growl. They
taxied down the apron with David quickly developing his touch on the
rudders, and paused for the final checks and radio procedure before
swinging wide on to the runway.
Right, pick an object at the end of the runway. Aim for it and open the
throttle gently.
Around them the machine became urgent, and it buzzed busily towards the
far-off fence markers.
Ease back on the wheel.
And they were airborne, climbing swiftly away from the earth.
Gently, said Barney. Don't freeze on to the controls.
Treat her like, he broke off. He had been about to liken the aircraft
to a woman, but realized the unsuitability of the simile. Treat her
like a horse. Ride her light Instantly he felt David's death-grip on
the wheel relax, the touch repeated through his own controls.
That's it, David. He glanced sideways at the boy, and felt a flare of
disappointment. He had felt deep down in his being that this one might
be bird, one of the very rare ones like himself whose natural element
was the blue. Yet here in the first few moments of flight the child was
wearing an expression of frozen terror. His lips and nostrils were
trimmed with marble white and there were shadows in the dark blue eyes
like the shape of sharks moving beneath the surface of a summer sea.
Left wing up, he snapped, disappointed, trying to shock him out of it.
The wing came up and held rock steady, with no trace of over-correction.
Level her out. His own hands were off the controls as the nose sank to
find the horizon.
Throttle back. The boy's right hand went unerringly to the throttle.
once more Barney glanced at him. His expression had not altered, and
then with a sudden revelation Barney recognized it not as fear, but as
ecstasy.
He is bird. The thought gave him a vast satisfaction, and while they
flew on through the basic instruction in trim and attitude, Barney's
mind went back thirty years to a battered old yellow Tiger Moth and
another child in his first raptures of flight.
They skirted the harsh blue mountains, wearing their mantles of
sun-blazing snow, and rode the tail of the wild winds that came down off
them.
Wind is like the sea, David. It breaks and swirls around high ground.
Watch for it. David nodded as he listened to his first fragments of
flying lore, but his eyes were fixed ahead savouring each instant of the
experience.
They turned north over the bleak bare land, the earth naked pink and
smoky brown, stripped by the harvest of its robes of golden wheat.
Wheel and rudder together, David, Barney told him.Let's try a steep turn
now. Down went the wing and boldly the nose swept around holding its
attitude to the horizon.
Ahead of them the sea broke in long lines of cream on the white beaches.
The Atlantic was cold green and ruffled by the wind, flecked with
dancing white.
South again, following the coastline where small figures on the white
sand paused to look up at them from under shading hands, south towards
the great flat mountain that marked the limit of the land, its shape
unfamiliar from this approach.
The shipping lay thick in the bay and the winter sunlight flashed from
the windows of the white buildings huddling below the steep wooded sides
of the mountain.
Another turn, confident and sure, Barney sitting with his hands in his
lap and his feet off the rudder bars, and they ran in over the Tygerberg
towards the airfield.
Okay, said Barney. I've got her. And he took them in for the
touch-down and taxied back to the concrete apron beside the hangars. He
pulled the mixture control fully lean and let the engine starve and die.
They sat silent for a moment, neither of them moving or speaking, both
of them unwinding but still aware that something important and
significant had happened and that they had shared it.
Okay? Barney asked at last.
Yes, sir, David nodded, and they unstrapped and climbed down on to the
concrete stiffly. Without speaking they walked side by side through the
hangar and office. At the door they paused.
Next Wednesday? Barney asked.
Yes, sir. David left him and started towards the waiting Cadillac, but
after a dozen steps he stopped, hesitated, then turned back.
That was the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to me, he said
shyly. Thank you, sir. And he hurried away leaving Barney staring
after him.
The Cadillac pulled off, gathering speed, and disappeared round a bend
amongst the trees beyond the last buildings. Barney chuckled, shook his
head ruefully and turned back into his office. He dropped into the
ancient swivel chair and crossed his ankles on the desk. He fished a
crumpled cigarette from the pack, straightened and lit it.
Beautiful? he grunted, grinning. Crap! He flicked the match at the
waste bin and missed it.
The telephone woke Mitzi Morgan and she crept out from under her pillows
groping blindly for it.
"Lo.
Mitzi?
Hi, Dad, are you coming up? She came half-awake at her father's voice,
remembering that this was the day he would fly up to join the family at
their holiday home.
Sorry, baby. Something has broken here. I won't be up until next week.
Oh, Dad! Mitzi expressed her disappointment.
Where's Davey? her father went on quickly to forestall any
recriminations.
You want him to call you back?
No, I'll hold on. Call him, please, baby.
Mitzi stumbled out of bed to the mirror, and with her fingers tried to
comb some order into her hair. It was off-blonde and wiry, and fuzzed
up tight at the first touch of sun or salt or wind. The freckles were
even more humiliating she decided, looking at herself disapprovingly.
You look like a Pekinese, she spoke aloud, a fat little Pekinese, with
freckles, and gave up the effort of trying to change it. David had seen
her like this a zillion times.
She pulled a silk gown over her nudity and went out into the passage,
past the door to her parents suite where her mother slept alone, and
into the living area of the house.
The house was stacked in a series of open planes and galleries, glass
and steel and white pine, climbing out of the dunes along the beach,
part of sea and sky, only glass separating it from the elements, and now
the dawn filled it with a strange glowing light and made a feature of