Chapter 10

Written by: Griffin

There was no hope of radio contact now, the Hallicrafters had been sent to its maker by the jerk with the AK-47. Bishop wondered if they should take the easy way out and let the terrorists go home in their helicopter. Then they could have a nice ride in the cutter to a gin and tonic back at La Paella. Bishop then realised that the terrorists would have timed the bomb to go off just after they left. He and Rankin and the cutter would be making a final exit.

These thoughts were cut short by a shadow falling across the bulwark. Rankin! But the smashing of the plate glass of the window told him that the seventh man, the killer, was after him. A hand drew back — it was holding a grenade.  At that moment a figure hurled itself at the outstretched arm. The momentum propelled the two men towards the handrail and the terrorist tumbled over onto the deck below while the grenade rolled along the walkway in the other direction.

The blast shook the rig. One of the supports buckled, and the tower leaned precariously.

The terrorists were sprawled on the sloping deck below. Bishop rushed out and found Rankin bruised but in one piece, struggling to his feet.

Rankin said, “I found this in my travels.” He produced a loaded Smith and Wesson revolver.

“What sort of a shot are you?” asked Bishop.

“Normally shoot targets.”

“Well, just keep thinking targets. We’ll get off this thing one way or another.”

Bishop revealed a compact Browning handgun. “Not a great range, but it’ll do.”

They descended down a ladder to the next level.

Peering around a stanchion Bishop could see a man vainly pulling at the door of the room containing the bomb. Other men were yelling and waving frantically at the helicopter, which was hovering above the pad. 

Rankin had a good view of the pilot through the doorless cabin. He braced himself, aimed and hit the pilot. The craft crashed onto the helipad. 

In the commotion, Bishop shot the lock of the room and rushed to the bomb. He ripped away the leads and breathed with relief. In the background could be heard the commotion as the boarding party from the cutter exchanged fire with the terrorists.

Bishop took aim and found the kneecap of the terrorist leader. Rankin’s bullet made a hole in the hand of another. The Rosinian Coast Guard, in blue, rounded everybody up.

“Anybody here called Bishop?”

“That’s me,” answered Bishop, “and this is my comrade, Rankin. He’s a damn hero.”


“You like our national drink?” asked the President. Facing him on the other side of an enormous elaborately carved coffee table in an elegant chamber of the presidential palace were Bishop, Rankin and Landing.

“Sure do,” said Rankin, “it packs quite a punch.”

Bishop winced. He could feel a headache coming on.



Greg Rochlin (AUS)