if.thunderball-第18部分
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t 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 with about 140 knots indicated。 Depth of water will be 40 feet。 You will have plenty of time to get out of the escape hatch。 You will be taken on board No。 1's yacht。 There is a Bahamas Airways flight to Miami at 8：30 on the next morning and then Braniff or Real Airlines for the rest of the way。 No。 1 will give you the money in 1000…dollar bills or in Travellers Cheques。 He will have both available； also the passport in the name of Enrico Valli； pany Director。〃
Petacchi checked his position； course； and speed。 Only one more hour to go。 It was three a。m。 G。M。T。； nine p。m。 Nassau time。 A full moon was ing up and the carpet of clouds 10；000 feet below was a snow…field。 Petacchi dowsed the collision lights on his wingtips and fuselage。 He checked the fuel： 2000 gallons including the reserve tanks。 He would need 500 for the last four hundred miles。 He pulled the release valve on the reserve tanks and lost 1000 gallons。 With the loss of weight the plane began to climb slowly and he corrected back to 32；000。 Now there was twenty minutes to go…time to begin the long descent。 。 。 。
***
Down through the cloud base； the moments of blindness and then； far below； the sparse lights of North and South Bimini winked palely against the silver sheen of the moon on the quiet sea。 There were no whitecaps。 The met。 report he had picked up from Vero Beach on the American mainland had been right： 〃Dead calm； light airs from the northeast； visibility good； no immediate likelihood of change；〃 and a check on the fainter Nassau Radio had confirmed。 The sea looked as smooth and as solid as steel。 This was going to be all right。 Petacchi dialed Channel 67 on the pilot's mand set to pick up No。 1's navigational aid。 He had a moment's panic when he didn't hit it at once； but then he got it； faint but clear…dot…dot…dash； dot…dot…dash。 It was time to get right down。 Petacchi began to kill his speed with the air brakes and cut down the four jets。 The great plane began a shallow dive。 The radio altimeter became vocal； threatenin
