Excerpt

With the tarpaulin removed, Istvan Pinter stood looking at a nineteen-forty-one Nagler-Rolz 54V-2 one-man helicopter. Draped over the open levers was a beige canvas windbreaker, leather cap and goggles, a watch and a wrist compass. Pinter put them on, stretching the goggle strap and mounting the lenses above his forehead. He tugged the eighty-pound craft forward along the same tire tracks to the spot where it was obvious from the wheel marks that it had landed. Now the machine was completely clear of overhanging branches and surrounding bushes but he checked the propellers carefully to be sure no brush had tangled in the mechanism. He was satisfied that the little ship was airworthy.

The copter was antiquated and primitive, three beams with a low pressure wheel at the end of each and a thin metal seat that remained open to the elements. There were two blades, each powered by an eight horsepower Argus motor. Pinter straddled the seat and lowered his goggles. As he settled in place, he figured that Bruno Nagler, the inventor, must have been shorter than six feet. Pinter had to bend his knees at a sharp angle. With the thick leather safety belt fastened, he turned the ignition. Both engines kicked in immediately and the blades rotated, slowly at first, then faster. He tested the two levers, the first to control engine speed, and the second to regulate blade pitch. Despite the cold, he continued to sweat under the leather cap. He crooked his arm, glanced at the compass and lowered his goggles. Finally, he revved the engines and tensed as the craft rose, again slowly at first, then steadily higher until he was well above the tree line.

He felt a surge of sheer joy. He could see the road along which he had driven and he shifted to lateral flight. Although the copter's maximum speed was only eighty kilometers an hour, at sixty-five meters with a December wind in his face and no covering to protect him that seemed considerable. But he paid little heed to discomfort. Rather it was the giddiness of flight and the ecstasy of freedom that now swept over and through him.

Pinter twisted his right wrist and looked once again at the compass and headed west-northwest. He continued to climb, and in less than five minutes spotted the water. Much of the lake was shallow, reedy, and brackish, home to herons, spoonbills, storks and egrets. Cruising down one bank was a patrol car.

When the border guards spotted him, the car stopped and both occupants got out. He made out one man pointing at him and a second who raised a pistol. Though he couldn't hear the shots over the din of the engines, he knew they had been fired as he saw the man's hand recoil several times. Pinter canted twenty degrees to starboard and could feel the pressure on his right buttock. Like all good pilots, he really did fly by the seat of his pants. Now he increased his speed to the maximum. Someone had miscalculated. He had been assured that those guards would be at the far northern end of the lake. He glanced at the watch. No wonder. He was almost ninety minutes behind schedule. Still, the shots were not even close and he righted the little machine and sped toward the far bank. As he passed over the barbed wire electrified fence just east of the border he experienced an elation that came to him only with flying and sex. The feeling stayed with him up to the instant he saw the Soviet MI-4 helicopter with the Hungarian border guard insignia. The gun ship swung lazily from side to side like a venomous spider dangling from an invisible strand.