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A.R.Yngve
PARRY'S PROTOCOL
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Chapter 56
They squeezed in on both sides of Joyce's seat and gazed out through the windshield plates. The bullet-hole in the glass had been patched up with some Plastic Padding, but the cracks partly obscured the view ahead.
Parry put on his sunglasses again, asking: "Speed and altitude?"
"200 kilometers per hour, about 300 feet up," Joyce replied.
Parry suddenly stiffened, seeking with his eyes for something above the helicopter.
He pointed up above the sun: "There! See those vapor trails?"
Abram felt in his coverall pockets; Parry handed him his own shades and Abram put them on top his eyeglasses. High up in the sky, four white trails shone from a barely discernible aircraft with long V-shaped wings.
Abram said: "Could it be a B-52..? There's an airforce base further south. You think they'll bomb the radio station?"
"Or worse. We gotta go higher up, fast!"
The twitches under Parry's eyes had returned. Joyce jerked her head his way; the sunglasses hid her eyes, but the corners of her lips were drawn down.
"I could try going up to a thousand feet or more, but we'll lose speed."
She slowly pulled the helm closer to her. The helicopter's engines whined as they strained under the abrupt rise into thinner air. They waited; the minutes crawled by. Parry watched the altitude meter until it showed 2300 feet; he put a hand on Joyce's shoulder.
"Joyce," he said, "keep the shades on. Be prepared for a powerful flash of light: whatever you do, cover your eyes when it comes. Then be ready for heavy turbulence. We'll go astern and strap in."
He gave her shoulder a pat and the two men left the cockpit. They placed themselves into the seats and put on the safety belts. Parry got his sunglasses back; Abram shadowed his eyes with his hands. Abram grabbed his mobile phone, mumbling a curse.
"What is it?" Parry asked.
"There was this woman... I met her in Westmoreham before I finished the report... we spent the night together... she might be in danger too, since she talked to me. She gave me her number..."
"If you call her, they'll trace the call to her for sure."
"I know! Or she might already be..."
He grasped the phone so hard his knuckles went white. Then he dialed Annie's number. There came two signals. Three.
Then: "Hi! You've come to Annie Collett. I'm not at home right now, but if you leave your number and a message after the signal, I'll call you back. Bye!"
"Perhaps she heard our warning on the radio," Abram said to himself. "Perhaps she made it out of town." Then, folding his hands and looking down: "Patrick, perhaps we're as good as dead. If... if you die and I live, is there anyone you'd want me to inform afterwards?"
Parry looked -- not stared -- at the tired, filthy, long-haired old man in coveralls next to him.
He gazed into thin air, and said: "No. My parents died years ago -- their estate financed much of my time at the Institute. And I lost touch with my relatives long before that."
Abram's forehead wrinkled; he looked in sad amazement at Parry.
"No loved ones? No friends? Not even a teaching colleague or student you once knew?"
Parry shook his head, still gazing at nothing. Abram's head sank down again.
Parry lowered his gaze, and asked calmly: "Is there anyone who should be informed if you die?"
"Yes..." He shook his head quickly. "No. The CIA? Intelligence people never become real friends. I can't trust any of them now. My wife died seven years ago. No children. And I can't risk letting my dear relatives in Canada get involved, so they mustn't know anything. There was that woman in Westmoreham... but I never got the time to really know her. Maybe they killed her too."
They said nothing for a little while, only the rotorblades and their breath sounding. Parry, still wearing his sunglasses, turned to Abram.
"Abram?"
The psychologist grunted.
"Abram, you're the only person I ever dared to trust during all those five years."
The old man's head shot up: Parry's eyes were hidden to him, but his face appeared solemn, almost softer. Without his usual nervous jerkiness of movement, Parry offered him his right hand. Abram shook it with a slight smile on his face.
"Thanks for your help, Patrick. I don't blame you for anything."
"Thanks yourself, Doc."
They let go of each others' hands and crouched down, Abram shielding his eyes.
One second passed.
Two seconds.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
And the next second, one might have believed the sun was crashing down upon the earth behind them.