Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [162]
Ellis hauled the pilot out of the seat and threw him to the floor, then reached over the controls and pushed the collective stick down.
The helicopter dropped like a stone.
Ellis turned around and braced himself for the impact.
The pilot was on the cabin floor at his feet, clutching his throat. Anatoly had fallen full-length in the middle of the cabin. Jane was crouched in a corner with her arms enclosing Chantal protectively. The trooper, too, had fallen, but he had regained his balance and was now on one knee and raising his Kalashnikov toward Ellis.
As he pulled the trigger, the helicopter’s wheels hit the ground.
The impact threw Ellis to his knees, but he was ready for it and he kept his balance. The trooper staggered sideways, his shots going through the fuselage a yard from Ellis’s head; then he fell forward, dropping the gun and throwing out his hands to break his fall.
Ellis leaned forward, snatched up the rifle and held it awkwardly in his manacled hands.
It was a moment of pure joy.
He was fighting back. He had run away, he had been captured and humiliated, he had suffered cold and hunger and fear, and he had stood helpless while Jane was slapped around; but now, at last, he had a chance to stand and fight.
He got his finger to the trigger. His hands were bound too close together for him to hold the Kalashnikov in the normal position, but he was able to support the barrel unconventionally by using his left hand to hold the curved magazine, which jutted down just in front of the trigger guard.
The helicopter’s engine stalled and the rotors began to slow. Ellis glanced onto the flight deck and saw the gunner jumping out through the pilot’s side door. He had to gain control of the situation quickly, before the Russians outside gathered their wits.
He moved so that Anatoly, who was stretched out on the floor, was between him and the door; then he rested the muzzle of the rifle on Anatoly’s cheek.
The trooper stared at him, looking frightened. “Get out,” Ellis said with a jerk of his head. The trooper understood and jumped out through the door.
The pilot was still lying down, apparently having trouble breathing. Ellis kicked him to get his attention, then told him to get out, too. The man struggled to his feet, still clutching his throat, and went out the same way.
Ellis said to Jane: “Tell this guy to get out of the helicopter and stand real close with his back to me. Quick, quick!”
Jane shouted a stream of Russian at Anatoly. The man got to his feet, shot a glance of pure hatred at Ellis and slowly climbed out of the helicopter.
Ellis rested the muzzle of the rifle on the back of Anatoly’s neck and said: “Tell him to have the others freeze.”
Jane spoke again and Anatoly shouted an order. Ellis looked around. The pilot, the gunner and the trooper who had been in the helicopter were nearby. Just beyond them was Jean-Pierre, sitting on the ground and clutching his ankle: he must have fallen well, thought Ellis; there’s nothing much wrong with him. Farther away were three more soldiers, the captain, the horse and Halam.
Ellis said: “Tell Anatoly to unbutton his coat, slowly take out his pistol, and hand it to you.”
Jane translated. Ellis pressed the rifle harder into Anatoly’s flesh as he drew the pistol from its holster and reached behind him with it in his hand.
Jane took it from him.
Ellis said: “Is it a Makarov? Yes. You’ll see a safety catch on the left-hand side. Move it until it covers the red dot. To fire the gun, first pull back the slide above the grip, then pull the trigger. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said. She was white and trembling, but her mouth was set in a determined line.
Ellis said: “Tell him to have the soldiers bring their weapons here, one by one, and throw them into the helicopter.”
Jane translated and Anatoly gave the order.
“Point that pistol at them as they get close,” Ellis added.
One by one, the soldiers came up and disarmed.
“Five young men,” said Jane.
“What