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so the chase planes rendezvoused there and waited for their quarry to emerge from the clouds. Coastal Command radar in Kent, Essex and Suffolk were also alerted and swung their great dishes around, eagerly awaiting the first tiny blip.
    They waited. Then they waited some more and began to grow uneasy. Someone did some quick and simple math and discovered that the big plane was already twenty minutes late. By the time a half an hour had passed without its appearance a great amount of excited communication was taking place.
    At the end of an hour it was admitted, albeit reluctantly, that the DC-10’s whereabouts was completely unknown.
    For all apparent purposes the great aircraft had completely vanished.

FOUR
    â€œHawkin,” Captain Haycroft said in a very quiet voice, “I think he has flipped. Talk to him quietly, see if you can get him off the flight deck.”
    â€œNot flipped, just very happy as you can see,” Ramon said cheerfully, rising from the ruin of the radio and spinning his pistol about his finger in Hollywood Western style.
    â€œYou speak English?” Tony said, memories of the last shouted simultaneous translation session still tingling in his ears.
    â€œHow bright of you to notice, Señor FBI Man.”
    There was a muffled curse from the large skyjacker who stood in the flight-deck entrance. He was attempting to pull his burnouse off over his head and had become entangled in the folds. Another Cuban went to his aid and freed him and helped him to remove the encumbering garment. When it was off he appeared far less Cuban than he had earlier—in fact he did not look Cuban at all. His face and hands had been stained brown, but his bare arms were pale, freckled and hairy, while his clothing was even more interesting. There were shoulder tabs and brass buttons on his military-type khaki shirt. He wore open sandals, knee-length socks—and a kilt with pendant sporran before. Ramon cackled with joy at this sight and slapped his leg with pleasure.
    â€œWe have done it, Angus, have we not?”
    â€œAye, so far. Now move out so we can see that it ends right.”
    The automatic pilot flew the great plane easily and alone, for all of the flight crew had their bulging eyes on the transformed skyjacker. Events were running far ahead of comprehension. First an English-speaking Cuban who spoke only Spanish. Now a nontalking Cuban who was really a Scot. Angus fractured the moment by shouldering Tony roughly aside and stalking forward to loom over the captain. He produced a map from his sporran and shoved it under Haycroft’s nose.
    â€œPoint out where we are,” he ordered.
    In silence, Haycroft consulted his course and the bearings on his own map that showed radio fixes, then compared both maps until he touched a spot lightly with his index finger.
    â€œWe’re just about here.”
    â€œYou’ll no be lying to me?” There was unconcealed violence in Angus’s voice and, to emphasize the question, he pulled a gleaming dirk from a sheath in his stocking and held it lightly to the captain’s throat.
    Haycroft was calm, ignoring both threat and knife, his voice unemotional and quiet. “I do not know who you are—nor do I care. But I am captain of this aircraft and responsible for its safety and the safety of my passengers. I do not lie about these matters.”
    Angus only grunted noncommittally in answer and frowned over his map. “Now then. Take this kite down under the clouds and turn to a course of a hundred and twelve degrees and follow it for a wee bit.”
    â€œI cannot do that. The clouds are at five thousand and there are hills here and…”
    This time the point of the dagger pressed hard into the flesh of his neck so that a bright drop of blood formed on the tip.
    â€œNow then,” Angus spoke in the quietest of whispers. “You will do as I say or I will drive this knife home and ask the copilot to fly the