Thunder Point Read Free Page A

probably have to.”
    “Not kind,” Dillon called in excellent German. “Not kind at all,” and he stepped out of the darkness at the end of the hangar.
    The young man put a hand in his pocket and Dillon’s Walther appeared fast. “Plain view, son, plain view.”
    Dillon walked forward, swung the young man round and extracted a Mauser from his right-hand pocket. “Would you look at that now? You can’t trust a soul these days.”
    Wegner said in English, “Mr. Dillon? Mr. Sean Dillon?”
    “So they tell me.” Dillon slipped the Mauser into his hip pocket, took out his silver case one-handed, still holding the Walther, and managed to extract a cigarette. “And who might you be, me old son?” His speech had the hard, distinctive edge to it that was found only in Ulster and not in the Republic of Ireland.
    “I am Dr. Hans Wegner of International Drug Relief, and this is Klaus Schmidt from our office in Vienna. He arranged the plane for us.”
    “Did he now? That’s something to be said in his favor.” Dillon took the Mauser from his hip pocket and handed it back. “Doing good is all very fine, but playing with guns when you don’t know how is a mug’s game.”
    The young man flushed deeply, took the Mauser and put it in his pocket, and Wegner said mildly, “Herr Schmidt has made the run by road twice with medical supplies.”
    “Then why not this time?” Dillon asked, slipping the Walther back in his waistband.
    “Because that part of Croatia is disputed territory now,” Schmidt said. “There’s heavy fighting between Serbs and Moslems and Croats.”
    “I see,” Dillon said. “So I’m to manage by air what you can’t by road?”
    “Mr. Dillon, it’s a hundred and twenty miles to Sabac from here and the airstrip is still open. Believe it or not, but the phone system still works quite well over there. I’m given to understand that this plane is capable of more than three hundred miles an hour. That means you could be there in twenty minutes or so.”
    Dillon laughed out loud. “Would you listen to the man? It’s plain to see you don’t know the first thing about flying a plane.” He saw that the mechanic high on his ladder was smiling. “Ah, so you speak English, old son.”
    “A little.”
    “Tomic is a Croatian,” Dr. Wegner said.
    Dillon looked up. “What do you think?”
    Tomic said, “I was in the airforce for seven years. I know Sabac. It’s an emergency strip, but a sound asphalt runway.”
    “And the flight?”
    “Well, if you’re just some private pilot out here to do a bit of good in this wicked world you won’t last twenty miles.”
    Dillon said softly, “Let’s just say I’ve seldom done a good thing in my life and I’m not that kind of pilot. What’s the terrain like?”
    “Mountainous in parts, heavily forested, and the weather forecast stinks, I checked it myself earlier, but it’s not only that, it’s the airforce, they still patrol the area regularly.”
    “Mig fighters?” Dillon asked.
    “That’s right.” Tomic slapped the wing of the Conquest with one hand. “A nice airplane, but no match for a Mig.” He shook his head. “But maybe you’ve got a death wish.”
    “That’s enough, Tomic,” Wegner said angrily.
    “Oh, it’s been said before.” Dillon laughed. “But let’s get on. I’d better look at the charts.”
    As they moved toward the office Wegner said, “Our people in Vienna did make it plain. Your services are purely voluntary. We need all the money we can raise for the drugs and medical supplies.”
    “Understood,” Dillon said.
    They went into the office where a number of charts were spread across the desk. Dillon started to examine them.
    “When would you leave?” Wegner asked.
    “Just before dawn,” Dillon told him. “Best time of all and least active. I hope the rain keeps up.”
    Schmidt, genuinely curious, said, “Why would you do this? I don’t understand. A man like you.” He seemed suddenly awkward. “I mean, we