High Citadel / Landslide

by Desmond Bagley

  ‘Come on,’ I said, and began to run. It was a long way to the dam and it was uphill and we were pounding up that damned escarpment. I grabbed Novak’s arm. ‘Take it easy—we might start a slide ourselves.’ If the shear strength had fallen according to my estimates it wouldn’t take much disturbance to initiate the chain reaction. The shear strength was probably under five hundred pounds a square foot by now—less than the pressure exerted by Novak’s boot hitting the ground at a dead run.

  We moved gently and as fast as we could up the escarpment and it took us nearly fifteen minutes to do that quartermile. Novak lifted his voice in a shout. ‘Skinner! Burke!’ The echoes rebounded from the sheer concrete face of the dam which loomed over us.

  Someone quite close said, ‘Yeah, what do you want?’

  I turned. A man was squatting with his back to a boulder and looking up at us curiously. ‘Burke!’ said Novak explosively. ‘Where’s Skinner?’

  Burke waved. ‘Over behind those rocks.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘We’re getting ready to blow that stump—that one, there.’

  It was a big stump, the remnant of a tall tree, and I could see the thin detonating wire leading away from it. ‘There’s going to be no blasting,’ said Novak and walked quickly over to the stump.

  ‘Hey!’ said Burke in alarm. ‘Keep away from there. It’s going to blow any second.’

  It was one of the bravest things I have seen. Novak calmly leaned over the stump and jerked the wire away, bringing the electrical detonator with it. He tossed it to the ground casually and walked back. ‘I said there’ll be no blasting,’ he said. ‘Now, get the hell out of here, Burke.’ He pointed up to the road that clung to the hillside above the dam. ‘Go that way—not down to the powerhouse.’

  Burke shrugged. ‘Okay, you’re the boss.’ He turned and walked off, then paused. ‘If you want the blasting stopped you’ll have to hurry. Skinner’s blowing three stumps all at once. That was only one of them.’

  ‘My God!’ I said, and both Novak and I turned towards the jumble of rocks where Skinner was. But it was too late. There was a sharp popping sound in the distance, not very loud, and a nearer crack as the detonator Novak had pulled out exploded harmlessly. Two plumes of dust and smoke shot into the air about fifty yards away and hung for a moment before being dissipated by the breeze.

  I held my breath and then slowly released it in a sigh. Novak grinned. ‘Looks like we got away with it that time,’ he said. He put his hand to his forehead then looked at the dampness on his fingers. ‘Sure makes a man sweat.’

  ‘We’d better get Skinner off here,’ I said. As I said it I heard a faint faraway sound like distant thunder—something more felt inside the head than heard with the ears—and there was an almost imperceptible quiver beneath my feet.

  Novak stopped in mid-stride. ‘What’s that?’ He looked about him doubtfully.

  The sound—if it was a sound—came again and the quiver of the earth was stronger. ‘Look!’ I said, and pointed to a tall, spindly tree. The top was shivering like a grass stalk in a strong wind, and as we watched, the whole tree leaned sideways and fell to the earth. ‘The slide,’ I yelled. ‘It’s started.’

  A figure came into sight across the hillside. ‘Skinner!’ shouted Novak. ‘Get the hell out of there!’

  The ground thrummed under my boots and the landscape seemed to change before my eyes. It wasn’t anything one could pin down, there was no sudden alteration—just a brief, flickering change. Skinner came running across but he had not come half the distance when the change became catastrophic.

  He disappeared. Where he had been was a jumble of moving boulders tossed like corks in a stream as the whole hillside flowed. The entire landscape seemed to slip sideways smoothly and there was a deafening noise, the like of which I had never heard before. It was like thunder, it was like the sound of a jet bomber from very close quarters, it was like the drum-roll of tympani in an orchestra magnified a thousand times—and yet it was like none of these. And underneath the clamour was another sound, a glutinous, sucking noise as you might make when pulling a boot out of mud—but this was a giant’s boot.

  Novak and I stood rooted for a moment helplessly looking at the place where Skinner had vanished. But it was no longer correct to call it a place because a place by its nature is a definite locality, a fixed point. Nothing was fixed on this escarpment and the ‘place’ where Skinner had been ground between the boulders was already a hundred yards downhill and moving away rapidly.

  I don’t suppose we stood there for more than two or three seconds, although it seemed an eternity. I dragged myself out of this shocked trance and shouted above the racket, ‘Run for it, Novak. It’s spreading this way.’

  We turned and plunged across the hillside, heading for the road which represented safety and life. But the chain reaction under our feet, flashing through the unstable clay thirty feet underground, moved faster than we did, and the seemingly solid ground rocked and slid under us, dipping and moving like an ocean.

  We ran through a scattering of saplings which bent and swayed in all directions and one fell immediately in front of us, its roots tearing free from the moving ground. I vaulted it and ran on but was momentarily held by a half yell, half grunt from behind. I turned and saw Novak sprawled on the ground, held down by the branch of another toppled tree.

  When I bent to examine him he seemed dazed and only half-conscious and I struggled violently to release him. Luckily it was only a sapling but it took all my strength to shift it. The continuous movement of the ground made me feel queasy and all the strength seemed to be leeched from my muscles. It was very hard to think consecutively, too, because of the tremendous noise—it was like being inside a monstrous drum beaten on by a giant.

  But I got him free and only just in time. A big glacial boulder moved past, tossing like a cork on a stream, right over the place where he had been pinned. His eyes were open but glazed and he had a witless look about him. I slapped his face hard and a glimmer of intelligence came back. ‘Run,’ I shouted. ‘Run, goddam you!’

  So we ran again, with Novak leaning heavily on my arm, and I tried to steer a straight course to safety, something which was damn’ near impossible because this was like crossing a swiftly flowing river and we were being swept downstream. In front of us a fountain of muddy water suddenly jetted fifteen feet into the air and soaked us. I knew what that was—the water was being squeezed out of the quick clay, millions of gallons of it. Already the ground beneath my feet was slippery with mud and we slithered and slid about helplessly as this handicap was added to the violent movements of the earth itself.

  But we made it. As we came nearer the edge of the slide the movement became less and I finally let Novak slip to solid ground and sobbed for breath. Not very far away Burke was lying prone, his hands scrabbling into the soil as though to clutch the whole planet to himself. He was screaming at the top of his voice.

  From the time the first tree went down to the time I dropped Novak in safety couldn’t have been more than one minute—one long minute in which we had run a whole fifty yards. That was no record-breaking time but I don’t think a champion sprinter could have bettered it.

  I wanted to help Novak and Burke but something, call it professional interest, held my attention on this great catastrophe. The whole of the land was moving downhill at an ever-increasing speed. The front of the slide was just short of the powerhouse and whole trees were being tossed into the air like spillikins and boulders ground and clashed together with a noise like thunder. The front of the flow hit the powerhouse and the walls caved in, and the whole building seemed to fold and disappear under a river of moving earth.

  The topsoil flowed away to the south and I thought it was never going to stop. Water, squeezed from the clay, spurted in fountains everywhere, and through the soles of my boots I could feel the vibrations of millions of tons of earth on the move.

  But finally it did stop and everything lay quiet
except for the occasional rumble here and there as strains were eased and pressures equalized. Not more than two minutes had elapsed since the blasting of the stumps and the slide was fully two thousand feet long and extended five hundred feet from hillside to hillside. Ponds of muddy water lay everywhere. The clay had given up all its water in that awful cataclysm and there would be little danger of a further slide.

  I looked down to where the powerhouse had been and saw just a waste of torn earth. The slide had erased the powerhouse and had gone on to cut the Fort Farrell road. The little group of cars that had been parked on the road had vanished, and from the tip of the slide gushed a torrent of muddy water already carving a bed in the soft earth as it rushed to join the Kinoxi River. There was no other movement at all down there and I was painfully aware that Clare might be dead.

  Novak got to his feet groggily and jerked his head quickly as though to shake his brains back into position. When he spoke he shouted, ‘How the hell…?’ He looked at me in astonishment and began again more quietly. ‘How the hell did we get out of there?’ He waved his hand at the slide.

  ‘Sheer luck and strong legs,’ I replied.

  Burke was still clutching the ground and his screams had not diminished. Novak swung round. ‘For God’s sake, shut up!’ he yelled. ‘You’ve survived.’ But Burke took no notice.

  A car door slammed on the road above and I looked up to see a policeman staring at the scene as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘What happened?’ he called.

  ‘We used a mite too much gelignite,’ shouted Novak sardonically. He walked over to Burke, bent down and clouted him on the side of the head. Burke’s screams suddenly stopped but he continued to sob raspingly.

  The policeman scrambled down to us. ‘Where did you come from?’ I asked.

  ‘From up the Kinoxi Valley,’ he said. ‘I’m taking a prisoner into Fort Farrell.’ He clicked his tongue as he gazed down at the blocked road. ‘Looks as though I’ll have to find another way round.’

  ‘Is that Howard Matterson you have up there?’ When he nodded I said, ‘Keep tight hold of that bastard. But you’d better go on down there—you might find Captain Crupper, if he’s still alive.’ I saw another policeman on the road. ‘How many are there in your car?’

  ‘Four of us, plus Matterson.’

  ‘You’ll be needed in rescue work,’ I said. ‘You’d better get moving.’

  He looked to where Novak was cradling Burke in his arms. ‘Will you be all right here?’

  I was tempted to go with him to the bottom, but Burke was in no condition to move and Novak couldn’t carry him unaided. ‘We’ll be all right,’ I said.

  He turned to climb up to the road and at that moment there was a great groan as of intense pain. At first I thought it was Burke but when the sound came again it was much louder and boomed right down the valley.

  The dam was groaning under the pressure of water behind it and I knew what that meant. ‘Jesus!’ I said.

  Novak picked up Burke bodily and began to stumble up the hill. The policeman was climbing as if the devil was at his heels, and I ran across to help Novak. ‘Don’t be a damn’ fool,’ he panted. ‘You can’t help.’

  It was true; two men couldn’t lug Burke up that slope any faster than one, but I hung around Novak in case he slipped. More noises were coming from the great concrete wall of the dam, strange creakings and sudden explosions. I looked over my shoulder and saw something incredible—water under pressure fountaining from underneath the dam.

  It jetted a hundred feet high and spray blew in my face. ‘It’s going,’ I yelled, and looped my arm around a tree, grabbing Novak’s leather belt with the other hand.

  There was a loud crash and a fissure appeared, zigzagging down the concrete face from top to bottom. The quick clay had slipped from underneath the dam and the waters of Lake Matterson were blowing the foundations out, leaving nothing to bear the enormous weight.

  Another crack appeared on the face of the dam and then the water pressure from behind became too much and the whole massive structure was pushed aside impatiently by a solid wall of water. A great chunk of reinforced concrete was thrown out from the dam; it weighed every ounce of five hundred tons, but it was thrown into the air and toppled in twisting flight until it crashed into the sea of mud below. In the next second it was overwhelmed and covered by the rush of lake water.

  And so were we.

  We just hadn’t been able to go that extra few feet up the hill and the flood swirled in its first crest just above us. I had the sense to see what was coming and to fill my lungs with air before the water hit us so I didn’t think I’d drown, but I thought I’d be torn in two as the fast water hit Novak and swung him off his feet.

  With one hand grasping his belt I was holding the weight of two big men and I thought my arm would be sprung from its socket. The muscles in the other arm cracked as I desperately hung on to the tree and my lungs were bursting when I finally managed to gulp air.

  That first great crest could not last long but while it did it filled the valley from side to side and was a hundred feet deep in that first great lunge to the south. But it dropped rapidly and I was thankful to find the strain taken from me as a policeman grabbed Novak.

  He shook his head and gasped. ‘I couldn’t help it,’ he cried desolately. ‘I couldn’t hold him.’

  Burke was gone!

  There was a new, although impermanent, river below us which had calmed down to a steady and remorseless multi-million-gallon flow that would ebb, hour by hour, until there would be no more Matterson Lake—just the little stream called the Kinoxi River that had flowed from this valley for the last fifteen thousand years. But it was still a raging torrent, three hundred feet wide and fifty feet deep, when I staggered up and planted my boots firmly on that wonderful solid road.

  I leaned on the side of the police car and shuddered violently and then became aware that someone was watching me. In the back of the car, sandwiched between two policemen, was Howard Matterson, and his teeth were drawn back in a wolf-like grin. He looked totally mad.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Get into the car—we’ll take you to the bottom.’

  I shook my head. ‘If I travel with that man you couldn’t stop me killing him.’

  The policeman gave me an odd look and shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’

  I walked slowly down the road towards the bottom of the hill and desperately wondered if I would find Clare. I was glad to see some survivors; they picked their way slowly down the hillside and walked like somnambulists. I came across Donner; he was smeared with viscid mud from head to foot and was standing looking at the flood water as it streamed past. As I passed him I heard him muttering. Over and over again he was saying, ‘Millions of dollars; millions of dollars—all gone! Millions and millions.’

  ‘Bob! Oh, Bob!’

  I swung round and the next moment Clare was in my arms, sobbing and laughing at the same time. ‘I thought you were dead,’ she said. ‘Oh, darling, I thought you were dead.’

  I managed a grin. ‘The Mattersons had a last crack at me but I came through.’

  ‘Hey, Boyd!’ It was Crupper, no longer neat and trimly uniformed but looking like a tramp. Any one of his own men would have put him in jail just for looking like he did. He stuck his hand out. ‘I never expected to see you again.’

  ‘I thought the same about you,’ I said. ‘How many were lost?’

  ‘I know of five for certain,’ he said gravely. ‘We haven’t finished checking yet—and God knows what is happening downstream. They didn’t have much warning.’

  ‘You can make it seven for certain,’ I said. ‘Skinner and Burke both bought it. Novak came through.’

  ‘There’s a lot needs doing,’ said Crupper. ‘I’ll get on with it.’

  I didn’t volunteer for anything. I’d had a bellyful of trouble and all I wanted to do was to go away somewhere and be very quiet. Clare took my arm. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘We’ll go away from here
. If we climb the hill there we might be able to find a way round the flood.’

  So we made our way up the hill very slowly, and at the top we rested a while and looked north over the Kinoxi Valley. The waters of Matterson Lake would fall very quickly to reveal the jagged stumps of a raped land. But the trees still stood in the north—the forest in which I had been hunted like an animal. I didn’t hate the forest because I reckoned it had saved my life in a way.

  I thought I could see the green of the trees in the far distance. Clare and I had lost four million dollars between us because the Forestry Service would never allow a total cut now. Yet we were not displeased. The trees would stay and grow and be cut down in their season, and the deer would browse in their shade—and maybe I would have time to make friends with brother Bruin after having made amends for the scare I gave him.

  Clare took my hand and we walked slowly along the crest of the hill. It was a long way home, but we’d make it.

  About the Author

  HIGH CITADEL

  LANDSLIDE

  Desmond Bagley was born in 1923 in Kendal, Westmorland, and brought up in Blackpool. He began his working life, aged 14, in the printing industry and then did a variety of jobs until going into an aircraft factory at the start of the Second World War.

  When the war ended, he decided to travel to southern Africa, going overland through Europe and the Sahara. He worked en route, reaching South Africa in 1951.

  Bagley became a freelance journalist in Johannesburg and wrote his first published novel, The Golden Keel, in 1962. In 1964 he returned to England and lived in Totnes, Devon, for twelve years. He and his wife Joan then moved to Guernsey in the Channel Islands. Here he found the ideal place for combining his writing and his other interests, which included computers, mathematics, military history, and entertaining friends from all over the world.

  Desmond Bagley died in April 1983, having become one of the world’s top-selling authors, with his 16 books—two of them published after his death—translated into more than 30 languages.