Seven Steps to the Sun (19 page)

He woke with a start, and looked quickly round. The cockpit still encased him and he eased himself up to get a closer look at the control panel. Air speed was back to normal, and the compass needle pointed north-west. The fuel gauges now showed empty. Mike tapped the front of the air speed dial, and small pieces of glass fell out, revealing a stuck and bent needle. Above him the canopy was spattered with blood. He looked at his hands to see deep scratches which he must have made trying to stay awake. The situation was now clear, either the plane had malfunction or he'd gone through another time change.

Phlegmatically he plumped for the time change. He took hold of the joy stick and, easing it forward, was relieved to find the plane was still functional and that he wouldn't have to bail out at altitude. He cut back the air speed and watched the needle on the altimeter drop until it reached its lowest point then he levelled the plane out. With a hand on the ejector, he pressed the 'slow engines' button. The plane slowed down until he felt he was hanging in mid air. Pulling the ejector handle he was shot skywards, and when the upwards motion stopped he felt for the rip cord. To his horror and final despair he couldn't find one. His falling speed increased, and his mind was dizzy with the somersaulting and turning as he plunged to his death. Then his whole body was violently jerked as the parachute opened. He wondered what would happen to the seat when he hit the ground. With his present luck it would probably break his legs, just for fun.

He found he was worrying for nothing for, as he looked down from his swinging position, he saw a great expanse of blue water. He wondered where the devil he was, and whether the water would be shark infested as, ten feet above it, he banged his harness release button.

Mike sank holding on grimly to the seat and returned to the surface underneath the parachute. He couldn't find any way of disconnecting the parachute from the chair, but turning the seat upside down, discovered a false bottom containing a raft. Pulling out the life raft he swam to the edge of the parachute and cautiously peered beyond. He couldn't see anything alien so he swam into the open pushing the bundle.

As he pulled the inflation cord there was a hissing sound and the raft went woosh, and blew itself up. Mike grabbed hold of the side and, carefully pulling himself aboard, dropped exhausted into the bottom of the boat. On each side of the raft were large pockets containing emergency rations, a solid fuel burner with cooking container, a box of pills for purifying water, distress rockets, a small radio, a compass, an instruction book on how to use the radio, and a small box marked lethal. Inside the box he found a suicide pill. He pit ked up the radio, along with the instruction book, and settled back to find out what he could do with it Mike read the booklet from cover to cover. At the end of the book he found a map of the world with quaint characters dotted all over it. He dug back into the text to verify what the characters meant. They were beacons, homing beacons, for aircraft that had to put down in an emergency. Picking up the radio, he started to rotate the dial but not a squeak came and nothing in the book told him about operating the radio. Perhaps the plunge in the water had put it out of action. Then he cursed himself for being a gormless idiot as he realized the radio would need an aerial. Up in the roof he found an aerial lead and plugged it in, but turning the dial again produced nothing but static. Shivering with cold after his enforced swim, he helped himself to some of the food rations before tackling the long job of establishing his position.

It was very disappointing when, after covering a line that went round the world, he'd not had a peep from the radio. He positioned the compass at approximately the point of departure and re-checked that he'd covered all the stations along the line. Nothing. He put the radio down and sat thinking. His clothes seemed to be drying out quite fast and it was becoming hot and stuffy in the raft. He stood up, waited for the rocking to stop and opened up one of the flaps in the roof. The sea glistened in the sunshine and the air smelt fresh and good. From a cord trailing in the water Mike could see that he was travelling quite fast. He picked up the compass and found that he was drifting west, with the sun to the south of him. This information should narrow down his search, so he tried dialling the stations on the east and west coasts of Africa. Nothing, so he tried the Gulf of Mexico. Finding no response there either, he picked up the map to see what other areas he might be in. He looked at the European side of the map, and then banged his finger down hard on the Black Sea. Moving the dial on he suddenly heard a signal. He could hardly believe it at first, but as he listened the same dot dash notation came over the wave length. He cursed the fact that he couldn't understand Morse code, but after a quick look at the map at least he knew where the beacon was, at the mouth of the Bosphorus. He hurriedly thumbed through the book and found the page relating to the exact location of beacons. The next thing to do was to find more beacons and then draw lines from each signal until they coincided. Mike turned the radio dial to other stations along the coast near the Bosphorus beacon, but none responded so he referred back to the book and' discovered that his beacon, and all the other beacons in the Black Sea area, had a range of a hundred miles. He took a rough measurement with his thumb nail against the scale of the map and then drew a circle round the beacon.

The day was so superb, he undid the roof and lay soaking up the sun. An hour or two of this made him realize that survival wasn't as simple as he'd expected. A parching thirst overtook his sun-drenched body, and he started to make himself a drink. A search of the raft produced no means of creating a fire. He knew his luck had been too good, and sat back with a sick feeling in his stomach. If only he hadn't given up smoking. Mike stood up and fixed the roof back on, but it didn't cool the dryness of his mouth. Without any form of light, the distress rockets were useless. All he could do now was to wait for the raft to make land. He picked up a box of food, swallowed some of the ridiculous looking pills and settled back reflectively. The first question that came into his mind, was did the wind blow off the land at night or from the sea. He went over the problems of whether land retained heat longer than the sea or vice versa, until no solution came, just sleep.

It was dark when he woke and for a moment or two he couldn't remember where the hell he was but standing up quickly reminded him that he was in a rocky raft. He located an opening and stuck his head out. Up above he could see the wonders of the heavens, but no moon. He squinted hard into the semi-darkness to see if he could see the cord at the end of the boat. To his great dismay it was dangling motionless in the water. He looked round the skyline but there wasn't a sign of land anywhere. He knelt down and fished around for the compass. His eyes were now growing accustomed to the dark and, with the help of the luminous dial, he could just make out the needle pointing north. He sat watching it for a while then moved his position until he sat facing west. He tried to get his boots off but he rocked the boat so much he left them on.

He carefully climbed over the side into the water checking with the compass that he was still pointing in a westerly direction and started to swim towards the land, wherever that might be. Lying half in the raft and half in the water didn't seem conducive to progress, so he slid all the way into the water. Suddenly his feet touched something, and he drew them up quickly. It took a little time before he'd plucked up enough courage to lower his legs again. The water slid up over his waist, up his stomach and chest, until it was near his shoulders, then his feet touched something. This time he steeled his nerves and lowered himself further, making sure he had a good grip on the raft in case he had to pull himself up quickly. Whatever it was beneath his feet, it was firm and held his weight. He quickly turned the raft round until he found the cord and holding onto it dived down to see what he was touching. It was sand.

Within minutes he was standing in a few inches of water. Looking round him he understood why he hadn't been able to see land. There were no cliffs or high ground in silhouette against the skyline.

Mike pulled the raft up onto the beach. He took the rations, compass, radio and map, and put them into his pockets. The raft presented a bit of a problem, as he had no sharp instrument with which to puncture it. Finding nothing on the beach with which to let the air out, he shoved it back into the water. Further up the beach, he stopped and looked back. At first he couldn't believe his eyes, the raft was lit up like Blackpool Tower. Mike decided to leave it and move on to find a drink of water and somewhere to hide, until he found out where he was and whether the people were friendly. He felt he'd rather spend a little time evaluating his situation, than walk gaily into the arms of the authorities.

He set off into the scrub. The heat of the night didn't improve his dry mouth. After half an hour of stumbling through the darkness, the moon started to rise above the sky line. Mike sat down and rested until it was high enough for him to see where he was going. He suddenly swore when he remembered he'd forgotten the radio aerial. The moon was now beginning to light up the countryside. To the west it looked flat, almost like the countryside of Holland. Over to the north he could make out a bank of clouds, or what might be a range of mountains. He checked his way with the compass and set off to the west. The scrubland now vanished and he found himself walking on very heavy loam soil which impeded his progress as the dirt built up on his boots. The warm night hummed with the sound of crickets and at length he arrived at a large ditch filled with evil smelling water. Mike looked up and down the canal, but there was no man-made crossing, so he started into the water. He had to hold his breath as the smell was vile where he'd stirred up the mud. He moved up a bank and climbed across a low fence to get on to what looked like a road, running north and south. Mike felt that this might be a good time to check his position with the radio. He walked along the fence until he found a broken piece of wire and bent the end of it until it was big enough to fit into the radio socket, then tuned into the Bosphorus beacon. There was a lot of static, but no signal. He tried several other stations that seemed to be nearby, with the same results.

Suddenly he stopped and listened. Somewhere he could hear the sound of footsteps. Disconnecting the wire from the radio, he climbed back over the fence, and lay in the long reeds. The footsteps came near and he heard low voices. Mike listened carefully to see if he could recognize the language. The footsteps and voices seemed to be right on top of him but they didn't stop, they just started to retreat into the distance. Why should those men be talking Italian? he thought to himself, as he climbed out of the reeds. They appeared to be soldiers, and heavily armed, from the glint of metal in the moonlight. He was still very puzzled by the men speaking Italian, it didn't make any sense, maybe Turkish or Russian, but not Italian. Perhaps the Italians had invaded Turkey? Mike opened the map just in case he'd made a stupid mistake, but the map showed the pencil ring he'd drawn round the Bosphorus beacon. There was only one thing he could do and that was to check the beacons on the east coast of Italy. He found the end of the wire and plugged it in. He tuned the radio into a beacon at Venice and south down the coast until the machine bleeped like mad. From the position of the beacon on the map, he was somewhere near Ravenna. If it was Ravenna in Italy, then how had he managed to pick up signals from the Black Sea coast?

Suddenly from the direction that the troops had gone, came the sounds of small arms fire. Mike hurriedly unplugged the radio and set off at a fast walking pace in the opposite direction. He walked briskly along until lights up in front of him made him stop. They seemed to be waving around and, at first, he thought they were very powerful torches but the sound of engines soon dispelled that idea. He dived over the fence as the first vehicle came thundering down the road. It was large with what looked like an array of tubes sticking out of it. Once out of sight Mike stood up, only to throw himself back on the ground again as he saw several other sets of lights approaching.

It seemed ah age before the air was still again. Mike lay for several minutes with his face in the dirt until he was sure there were no more vehicles. The night was now uncannily quiet, the gun fire, and even the crickets, had stopped. He stood up, listened and, detecting no more unusual sounds, started off. Somewhere behind him the silence of the night was again shattered by the sounds of more gunfire. This time it was a very heavy calibre and occasionally the sky would light with an explosion. It was very mystifying, and he was stuck in the difficult position of not knowing who was fighting whom, or even in which direction he should go.

The night sky was beginning to lighten, heralding a hot day. He wondered how long it would be before he found some sort of civilization. Rounding a bend in the road he saw ahead of him buildings, blackened by the heat of some ferocious fire. Mike hesitated on reaching the first building, as the full pungent smell of burning hit his nostrils. It was a repulsive smell. Lying at the corner of one of the houses was a cow, from its dead body rose plumes of smoke. He felt sick and walked on. High above the countryside towered more buildings and he quickened his weary pace. On the outskirts of the dusty town, lay a broken sign. Mike turned it over. Ravenna.

He walked cautiously along what appeared to be the main street. Homes that had once held happy smiling people now stood sad dusty and deserted. The wind had blown piles of rubble into the entrances of the buildings. He moved carefully through the deserted town in search of a cold drink of water.

Returning down the main street he saw a battered bar sign. The door was open so he went in. A thorough search of the room revealed nothing, not a glass, empty bottle, or even a tap of water. A sharp command from behind sent him spinning round. Standing there in the door was a dusty young man in army combat clothes. A great deluge of Italian burst from the man's lips. Mike looked and shrugged his shoulders. The young man went on with his discourse and then, waving a gun, indicated to Mike that he should leave the bar. The soldier backed off a little as he drew alongside and followed him into the street. Wondering where the fellow sprang from Mike was marched to a small alleyway. Half-way along he was poked in the back by the gun indicating he should stop while the soldier called out. A shutter above them creaked open and a deep voice called in reply. Mike was poked in the back again, and they entered the building. Inside he was greeted by four pairs of stony eyes. A thickset man in his fifties stood by the window, while two other soldiers sat on the floor with the fourth member, who was badly injured. The young soldier closed the door and moved over towards the man at the window. They exchanged staccato remarks in explosive Italian before the older man directed a question at Mike, who just replied, 'Sorry, I don't understand Italian.'