“Shard. You wanted me, sir.”
“What about Hedge?” No preliminaries: the Head sounded rattled. “That message he broadcast. Any information on that, Shard?”
“Only that it’s all for real, sir, full confirmation.” Quickly Shard passed the available knowledge adding that he expected Hedge to turn up in Ingleborough. “I don’t believe they’ll kill him at this stage, sir. It may get tricky towards the end, but —”
“All right, I’m not especially concerned about Hedge per se. It’s still Mackintosh we have to extract and that becomes more vital every minute. Hold onto your hat, Shard.” The voice, cold as ice now, almost empty of emotion, went on: “Urgent messages received from our men in Libya indicate that the Murzuq boys have the word that Uthman’s playing a double game. They’ve updated the deadline and we’re informed that we have until noon.”
“Christ! And our reaction?”
“We’re hitting back as planned. RAF Strike Command is ordering take-off for one hour’s time. They’ll be three hours in the air. That gives you a maximum of four hours to produce Mackintosh, as of now.”
“And Mackintosh —”
The line jangled in Shard’s ear: no-one wanted to commit themselves as to the fate of Mackenzie Edinburgh Castle Mackintosh, patriotic Scot of unlikely colour. But that fate was so blindingly obvious that it really didn’t need putting into words.
One man couldn’t be allowed to stand against world peace, and that was what it amounted to. In four hours the world could be plunged into misery. Peeling as though Armageddon stood poised at his elbow, Shard went back to the helicopter for Ingleborough.
*
“There was no choice, Harry. No choice at all. The RAF has to hit first and that’s all about it.”
“The Murzuq mob might have backed down, sir.”
Shard laughed, a harsh and bitter sound lost in the engine noises. “No way! They’re fanatics, and they have us on the run.” He looked down on Ingleborough: with Kenwood, he was directing operations from his command helicopter as the final surface-net was drawn around the perimeter of the cave system with not much time now left to go. Below and a little to the north-west of his hovering position loomed the great hole of Gaping Ghyll, half protected on one side by a derelict-looking fence. Sheep strayed and munched, their feet sogging into wet ground, some of them perilously close to the long, long drop. Shard stared down: would Uthman, perhaps, wait for dark and then attempt his break via Gaping Ghyll? When Shard had rejoined from Catterick, Harry Kenwood had reported having made contact with a local man, noted for his cave knowledge; that man had said there was no chance of anyone climbing up from below to exit via Gaping Ghyll … maybe he was right, but Uthman could have some surprises up his Libyan sleeve for all that! Meanwhile, down below, that potholer of Kenwood’s, a brave man by Shard’s reckoning, was right inside the system, acting as guide to a body of soldiers in plain clothes, men pretending the role of gawpers like the ordinary guided parties, though the route they would follow would not be the one made available to the public. The helicopter moved on, crossing the summit, giving a view of the farther side of Ingleborough, and of the great mass of Whernside across the B6255 from Hawes. South-east from Whernside Shard picked out the viaduct carrying the Settle to Carlisle railway line: a diesel was crossing it southwards, pulling a long tail of goods wagons. There was a fair amount of traffic on the Hawes road, much of it military, and there were other helicopters airborne distantly, still continuing the general search and watch on the dales outside the Ingleborough perimeter. They moved on again, circling the summit and moving farther out from the centre in widening circles until Shard touched the pilot on the shoulder and shouted, “Okay. Down. From now, we lie low.”
The pilot brought the machine down behind Ingleborough, onto a pre-arranged landing place where the lie of the land screened it nicely from view from most angles. Shard sat with his headphones clamped over his ears, waiting for the reports. All was peace: Ingleborough was, ostensibly, clear of troops and armour and air cover; Shard wondered cynically just how far that would go towards fooling Uthman. In any case, it was all they could do. Feeling his frustrations mount, he sat and watched the clock on the pilot’s instrument panel, watched the hands move on towards catastrophe.
*
The guided party of tourists, some forty strong, gaped in wonder at subterranean weirdness, listened to the guide demonstrating a curious echo by jumping up and down alarmingly to shake the floor and produce a terrible drumming sound that seemed as though it must fracture at last what had stood for many millions of years. When the echoes of this awful alarum died away, the explorers were led through a long tunnel so low overhead that, like Hedge in The Hangman earlier, they had to bend double and proceed in an uncomfortable crouching motion, knees as well as backs bent. As they went through the various sectors of the system, the guide had flicked on electric lights, had flicked them economically off again as they had passed onward, so that all behind was black gloom; at the far end of the tunnel, the party emerged into an oblong chamber of greater height, expressing relief at being able to stand straight; and the blackness behind them was filled by the cautious assembly of other men at the end of a side passage not available to the public. These men lay low, safe behind the cover of a natural rock screen across the entry to the passage — waited for the electric light to come on overhead to herald the return through the tunnel of the properly authorised party with its guide. Of the concealed group, fourteen strong, eight were of swarthy complexion, five were white, and one was, if not quite black, dark and semi-negroid. One of the whites was fat and puffy and had a knife nudging the small of his back and a currently invisible look of desperation in his eyes, a look that said he had no doubt at all that death would follow immediately upon indiscretion; when these eyes, after the electric had been turned on again, met those of one of the swarthy men, they showed propitiation, a look that promised there would be no indiscretion and please would the swarthy man bear this very much in mind … Hedge was, in fact, almost out on his feet: the underground walk had been long and he was sadly out of condition in any case; he had stumbled and shambled and had been kept going only by threat, fist and boot and the knowledge that if he fell he would be dragged the rest of the way. In terror he heard the guided party pass on towards the glorious freedom and safety of the exit: the urge to call out was strong, but not strong enough to overcome the fear of sudden death. Besides, Uthman had said that if the alarm was given by Hedge, it would avail him nothing, for the tourist party would be gunned down and it would be a long time before the world beyond the locked exit door ticked over-quite long enough, anyway, for Uthman and the rest to get clear away to their own escape hole from which all onward arrangements had been made in advance.
A few minutes after the party had disappeared again into the long dark distances and the light had been switched off, Uthman’s torch came on and the knife pressed even harder into Hedge. The order to move on was given. Hedge obeyed, picking his way behind the leader, crossing the track taken by the guided party, turning right for a little way along another passage and then, after another seemingly interminable walk, entering a tunnel that once again sent Hedge down on his knees to sweat and suffer. After a short while the tunnel took a decided upward slant: this added to Hedge’s torment, for as the angle of slope increased, he tended to slither back, thus bringing his buttocks into sharp contact with the knife. This torture went on and on and something curious began to happen to Hedge’s eardrums: they clicked and crackled. Obviously, the tunnel was lifting high: perhaps it would bring them right to the surface! Hedge licked at his lips, and panted: he pressed on, as eager now as a gun-dog. The surface might hold fresh dangers, but anything was better than remaining in his current hell.
*
Reports had continued to reach Shard in his helicopter: all of them had been nil reports. Nothing seen, nothing heard, no contact with the plain-clothes soldiers under the lead of the local potholer. So far as anyo
ne knew, they were drawing a blank. Anxiety and frustration gnawed at Shard’s mind as time passed. The clock was the visible enemy upon which to focus: since his Catterick contact with London nearly three hours had gone by. The aircraft of Strike Command would be well south on their high flight-path. If only the simple act of smashing that infernal clock would halt time itself!
Another hour gloomed its way past, closing the gap to the noon deadline. Shard eased the headphones from his ears, feeling them as a useless constriction that held him aloof from the normal world, he put a hand on Kenwood’s shoulder. “Take over, Harry.”
“Sir?”
“Take over, will you? I’m going to ease the cramps, and have a look-see.”
“Right, sir.” Harry Kenwood reached out and took the headset. His eyes were pools in a white face: like Shard, he was suffering from lack of sleep and food, part of a copper’s lot but one that took its toll. Dropping down from the helicopter, Shard thought of Beth in London. The average lot of a copper took its toll of the copper’s family as well; Beth always worried, even now after so many years, when he was away and didn’t contact, though she realised the frequent impossibility of contact. She wouldn’t be worrying any more than usual now, and that was some comfort — maybe. The security had been good, at any rate until the massive troop movement during the night; when the press didn’t stir things up, people found no cause to worry and they slept soundly in their beds, not knowing what was going on behind the scenes. But when things went wrong and the action had to shift on-stage, the awakening was always tough … with an effort Shard put thoughts of home and family behind him and trod the turf whose spring had now been lost in the wet sog from the tremendous barrage of recent rain. Above him Ingleborough’s summit loomed, blocking off the distant view in that sector. Blue sky was coming as the clouds drifted away on an increasing wind: the day was very fresh, very lovely, and the air was good, sharper than one ever found in the south. A day for beginning things, not for ending them. A rabbit started up suddenly, running away, bounding white-tailed from his approach, a small bundle of fluff and ears that vanished as suddenly as it had emerged, finding safe shelter in a clump of bushes. Shard strode on, welcoming movement, shoes growing wet even on the closely-cropped grass, the remnant, tight to the ground, left by the drought-hungry sheep. He stared into the distance: the combined police and military, there in strength, were better than moles: no visible signs at all.
After a while, feeling fresher physically, Shard turned and walked back towards the helicopter. When he approached, Kenwood called down to him.
“Routine report from The Hangman entrance, sir. Nothing moving.”
“How about the surface party at the top entry?”
“I’ll call them, sir.”
“No, don’t bother. They know their job. Go and stretch your legs, Harry. I’ll take over again.”
“I’m all right, sir. I’ll —” Kenwood broke off, eyes narrowing, hands clamping the earpierces firmly against his skull. Shard waited, fists clenched, feeling instinctively that something important was coming through, that this could be the crunch. It seemed he wasn’t wrong: Kenwood said with urgency vibrating in his voice, “A contact, sir —”
“Where, Harry?”
“Far side of the summit from here. Fourteen men, sir, appeared as if from nowhere —”
“A pothole!”
“It looks that way, yes. They’re in cover in the lee of rock, sir.” Kenwood’s eyes were gleaming. “Do we go in now, sir?”
“Not yet. Hold it, Harry. This may not be Uthman, I’m not jumping the gun at this stage. Wait and see.”
“But if we —”
Shard’s voice cut in sharply. “I said, wait and see. When they make a move, we watch for a while. They can’t get far. But we have to be sure, we have to have a positive sighting.”
“Very good, sir.” Kenwood’s tone was non-committal, but Shard knew he considered the order wrong. Waiting and seeing was always harder on the nerves than action, and you could indeed wait too long, but premature action now could smash the whole careful build-up. A moment later Kenwood, still listening to his headphones, made a further report: “Aircraft coming in, sir, a single helicopter.”
Shard snapped, “My orders were —”
“No, sir.” Kenwood’s voice was a return snap. “This is out of schedule. It could be an arranged pick-up.”
Shard said, “We still wait. Report back, no interference until my say-so.” He glanced at his watch: they had forty minutes to go and after that the point of no return would be reached, the RAF aircraft would be going in on their bombing runs over Murzuq. With touch-and-go battering at his mind, Shard said. “I’m going up to the summit, Harry. From there I’ll see it all better than the reports. I’ll keep in contact and pass the word to go the moment I get identification. When I do, you’ll order in the counter-attack. All right?”
“All right, sir.”
Shard swung round and ran fast, beginning the short climb to the summit. As he went with lungs pumping he could hear the engine sounds in the sky. Reaching Ingleborough’s high top he saw the helicopter, coming in from the direction of Skipton, bearing British markings and with the words ROYAL NAVY painted along its fuselage, clearly visible. Shard cursed into a blustery wind: this could, just could, be the result of some inter-Service cock-up. The Navy, independent of military orders and control, could be the fool venturing in where the angels were prudently and with discretion forbearing to tread. Shard felt his nails dig into his palms: but his doubts held for no more than a moment. As the intruding helicopter circled for touchdown, seeking a landing on the far side of the great hole of Gaping Ghyll where there was plenty of flat ground, a bunch of men broke out from cover far below Shard’s vantage point, men who ran fast across open ground towards the helicopter, whose RN masquerade now stood revealed: a tin of paint, no more, had come some way to throwing off the ground defence. One of the men was being half carried by two others, feet dragging and bumping across the rocky ground. The man was too far off to identify with precision but there was something about him that was Hedge-like.
Shard flicked on his two-way radio. “This is it, Harry. You have a go.”
He flicked off again, thrust the radio into a pocket and brought out his revolver. Dangerously, stumbling over rock, he went down at speed to come up behind the running men. As he did so the general activity started. From points around the perimeter troops came out from cover. As it happened the emergence of Uthman’s mob, presumably from the bowels of the earth, had taken place at a point farthest from any troop concentrations. Currently the running men were out of range: Gaping Ghyll, according to the local man, had been the least likely place and Shard had planned accordingly. Prognostications raced through his mind: if Uthman reached his machine and embarked he would be shot down, but the very act of bringing him down could finish off Mackintosh, who, for that matter, could catch a stray bullet any moment now. This latter consideration had of course been taken into account: the troops would have a care. But once airborne … Shard pounded on, starting to close the distance as the fourteen fled close to Gaping Ghyll. By now the nearer of the infantrymen had come just about within range and the firing had started, a pumping of lead from the NATO FN general-purpose combined machine-guns and rifles. Uthman’s mob had, Shard fancied, been surprised at the emergence of opposition: there had been over-confidence around that the Ingleborough destination and breakout was a close and happy secret. One of the fourteen went down, rolled over and over, and was followed quickly by two more. But on the heels of this, heavy automatic covering fire came from the helicopter, and the soldiers, with lead sweeping like bees across their front, dropped to the ground. Shard was still well out of revolver range when something unexpected happened. As the fleeing mob came past the unfenced side of Gaping Ghyll the man suspected of being Hedge appeared to mutiny: he stopped making an effort and became a sack of potatoes, a dead weight sagging to the ground. His bearers checked their way, staggerin
g: one let go. From the lead Uthman turned back, his face furious, and ran down towards Hedge: Hedge, no doubt, was now part of the safe-conduct out. As Uthman came abreast and bent, Hedge reacted. A foot came up and kicked out savagely, right into the testicles of the man still clutching his arm. The man let go and Hedge seemed to lift the top part of his body like a corpse in a crematorium incinerator. He got a frenzied grip on Uthman’s loins and clung like a leech. Uthman, lashing out with the butt of his revolver, tried to pull away, and in so doing slipped on the mud right at the brink of the drop down to Gaping Ghyll. He went over, arms and legs flying. Hedge had maintained his grip a shade too long: screaming in terror he went over the edge with Uthman. They both disappeared from sight; there was a piercing cry of despair … another, and another. Then silence. Shard, running like the wind, reached the edge and looked down a long slope ending in the great black hole of Gaping Ghyll, entry to the earth’s stomach. The whole thing had taken no more than seconds; there was nothing left to see. As the remaining men, demoralised and leaderless, tried to resume their dash for the helicopter, the infantry closed. A section under a sergeant surrounded Mackenzie Edinburgh Castle Mackintosh. Shard brought out his pocket transmitter, feeling sick, turning his back on horror.
“Harry.”
“Sir?”
“Call the brigadier. It’s over. We have Mackintosh. Immediate signal to Defence Ministry. Recall the strike force. Over and out.”
Shard looked at his watch: it had been ten minutes close.
*
As though from the dead, they got Hedge back: Hedge, though currently in a shambles of shock and sheep droppings, was basically indestructible. During the agonising progress down the slope on the unfenced side, Hedge and Uthman had parted company. Hedge, at first invisible behind a bush, had fetched up against hard rock and was covered with blood and had a broken leg, a broken arm, and some nasty gashes in his bottom. Uthman had bounced straight into the hole, which was very many feet across. In due time his remains would be found, hundreds of feet down in the vast chamber that lay below the surface drop. Hedge, gabbling incoherently in between bouts of unconsciousness, was helicoptered on a stretcher to an army hospital at Catterick. With him went Shard and Mackintosh. Mackintosh sat slumped in his seat in the helicopter, not speaking; on arrival he was put to bed in a private room under strong guard. Shard, after a long wait, was admitted to audience of Hedge. Hedge, patched up and washed and with practically everything in plaster, lay like death with a white face, motionless apart from eyes and tongue. He had, however, made a remarkable recovery from misadventure.
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