The Spoilers / Juggernaut

by Desmond Bagley

  Follet smote him on the shoulder. ‘Go, man—go! Lights!’

  The Land-Rover bucked ahead under fierce acceleration, its headlamps glaring at the settlement, and the engine roared and roared again as he slammed through the gears. He felt the wheels spin as he accelerated too fast and then they were off in a jolting ride he would never forget.

  All was speed and motion and suddenly-seen vignettes caught in the brightness of the lights—a flutter of hens in the road rudely awakened and alarmed by the explosion, a brown face at a window, eyes squinting as they were dazzled, a man flattened against a wall with arms outspread where he sheltered from their mad rush.

  Suddenly Follet yelled, ‘Watch it !’ and Warren slammed on the brakes. Ahead of them a crack in a wall widened slowly and the wall toppled into the road in what appeared to Warren’s heightened senses to be slow motion. There was a crash and a billowing cloud of dust into which the Land—Rover lurched and crunched to a halt. The dust swirled into the cab and Warren coughed convulsively as his mouth was filled.

  ‘Goddam jerry-built houses,’ grumbled Follet.

  Warren rammed the gear lever into reverse and backed out fast. As the dust settled he saw that the road ahead was completely blocked. Somewhere there was the flat report of a gun being fired. ‘Better get out of here,’ said Follet. ‘See if we can find a way around.’

  Warren kept going in reverse because there was no room to turn. At the first clear space he swung around and looked for an exit roughly in the direction he wanted to go. More shots were fired but no bullets seemed to come close. Follet pointed. ‘Try down there. Move it, for Christ’s sake!’

  As Warren headed the Land-Rover at the narrow street something thumped against the side. Follet swung his machine-pistol out of the side window and pressed the trigger. There was a sound as of cloth ripping as he emptied half a magazine. ‘Just to keep their heads down,’ he shouted.

  The Land-Rover plunged down the street which seemed to become even narrower and there was a clang as it scraped a wall. Ahead a man ran out and stood pointing a gun at them. Warren ducked involuntarily and stamped harder with his foot. The Land-Rover bucked and drove ahead; there was a soft thump and a last vision of two hands thrown up despairingly and a rifle thrown into the darkness.

  Then they were out of the street and on the other side of the settlement with blackness in front of them as far as they could see. Follet tugged at Warren’s arm. ‘Switch off the lights so they’ll lose us.’ He looked back. ‘I wonder how Andy’s doing?’

  Tozier was looking towards the settlement when the explosion happened. He saw the dust cloud climb into the air and presently the ground shivered beneath his feet under the transmitted shock and he heard the sound. A sudden breeze drove upward from the mouth of the shaft against his face and then was gone and there was a noise which he could not interpret.

  He bent down and shouted, ‘Ben!’ There was no answer.

  He hesitated, biting his lip, and then seized the rope and lowered himself into the shaft. At the bottom he flashed his light around. Everything appeared to be normal so he shouted again. A piece of earth broke from the roof and splashed into the water.

  He pointed his lamp downwards and frowned as he estimated the depth of water. Surely it had not been as deep as that before. He pulled out his knife and stuck it into the qanat wall just above the water level and his frown deepened as he saw the water level slowly rise to cover the haft of the knife.

  His light, pointing down the qanat, showed nothing as he went forward. By the time he had gone a hundred yards and passed two shafts the water was swirling about his thighs, and then he saw the roof fall that blocked the qanat completely. This primitive tunnel with an unsupported roof had not been able to withstand the hammer blow of the explosion even at this distance, and he wondered how much of the qanat had collapsed.

  There was nothing he could do, so he turned away and by the time he reached the rope the water was chest high, fed from the underground spring upstream in the mountains.

  When he reached the surface he was soaked and shivering in the cold night air, but he ran without a backward glance at the deadly trap that had entombed Bryan and Speering. In his profession death was a commonplace to be accepted. Nothing he could do would now help Bryan and he would be hard put to it to save his own skin.

  He drove to the edge of the settlement carefully and stopped, switching off the engine so he could hear better. There was much to hear—shouting and a babble of voices—and there were lights now as Ahmed and his men tried to find the extent of the damage. Tozier grinned coldly as he heard the centre of activity move over to the left towards the qanat.

  He removed the shoulder-rest from the machine-pistol, cocked it and laid it on the seat next to him, ready to hand. Then he restarted the engine and crept forward in the darkness without switching on his lights—this was a time for cunning, not bravado; Ahmed’s men were now roused and he could not tear through the settlement as he had advised Warren to do.

  He moved forward steadily past the first buildings, and as he came into an open space he was spotted. There was a shout and somebody fired a gun, and there was a faint response of other and fainter shouts from further away. Even as he manipulated the gear lever there was another shot; he saw the muzzle discharge as a flicker in the darkness ahead so he switched on his lights to see what he was up against.

  The Land-Rover gained momentum and he saw three men ahead of him, their hands upflung to shade their eyes against the sudden dazzle. He groped for the gun on the seat and was just in time to raise it as one of the men jumped on to the running-board, wrenching the door open and reaching for him. He lifted the gun and fired twice and there was a choked cry. When he had time to take his eyes from the road he risked a glance sideways and saw that the man was gone.

  He looked up to the rear view mirror and saw the flicker of rifle fire in the darkness behind him which disappeared with shocking suddenness as a bullet whipped past his head to shiver the mirror to fragments. He swung the wheel to turn a corner and pawed at his brow to wipe a sticky wetness from his eyes where the blood dripped from a deep cut.

  Then he skidded to a halt as he faced the same fallen wall that had confronted Follet and Warren. He cursed as he put the Land-Rover into reverse and ducked as a bullet hit the side of the body. The quick, sharp report of several rifles shooting simultaneously made him grab his machine-pistol, thumb it on to rapid fire and squirt a magazine full of bullets in a deadly spray towards the indistinct figures behind him.

  Follet had been listening intently to the rising crescendo of gunfire in the settlement. When he heard the rip of the machine-pistol he said, ‘They’ve cornered Andy. Let’s go get him out.’

  Warren, who had already turned the vehicle around in preparation for this moment, moved into action, and they started on their way back. Follet said, ‘I think they’ve trapped him in the same place where they nearly got us. You know where to go.’

  Warren drove down the narrow street and past the crumpled body of the man he had run down. At the corner, sheltering from the threat of Tozier’s gun, was a crowd of Kurds who were taken by surprise by this newlylaunched attack in their rear. Follet leaned from the window and pressed the trigger and they ran for cover. One did not make it—he lurched as though he had tripped over something invisible and went head over heels and lay still.

  ‘Straight on,’ yelled Follet. ‘Then turn round.’

  The tyres squealed as Warren pulled the Land-Rover in a too tight turn at too high a speed. His lights illuminated the other vehicle, and Follet leaned out and yelled, ‘Come on, Andy, what the hell are you waiting for?’

  Tozier’s Land-Rover jerked backwards into the clear space and shot up the narrow street with Warren close behind, while Follet squeezed off regular bursts to the rear to discourage pursuit. They broke from the settlement with Warren close on Tozier’s tail, and drove a full three miles before pulling to a halt at the top of the high ground above the valley.
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  Follet looked down at the lights in the valley, but none was moving. ‘They’re not following us,’ he said. ‘They wouldn’t chase us in the dark without lights.’

  Warren felt squeezed and empty. It was the first time anyone had shot at him with intent to kill. He lifted trembling hands, then looked towards the other vehicle. ‘I didn’t see Ben,’ he said.

  There was the crunch of boots on gravel and Tozier appeared at his side window, his face blood-smeared. ‘Ben won’t be coming,’ he said quietly. ‘He bought it.’

  ‘It was his own goddam fault,’ said Follet in a high voice.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Warren sadly. ‘It was his own fault. You’re sure, Andy?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Tozier with finality. He looked back at the valley. ‘We’d better go. I want to be over the Iraqi border before Ahmed wakes up to what’s really happened.’

  He walked away and Warren heard a door slam. The two vehicles moved off slowly.

  SEVEN

  Dan Parker ran his hand lovingly along the smooth flank of the torpedo. It came away sticky with thin oil. ‘The old Mark XI,’ he said. ‘I never really expected to see one o’ these again.’

  ‘You’d better make it work,’ said Eastman. ‘These things cost a lot of dough.’

  ‘It’ll cost a lot more before I’m finished,’ said Parker equably. ‘I’ll be needin’ some equipment.’ He looked around the bare shed. ‘There’s room enough here.’

  ‘What will you need?’ asked Jeanette Delorme,

  ‘Some machine tools to start with; a lathe, a small milling machine—universal type for preference—an’ a drill press. An’ a hell of a lot o’ small tools, spanners an’ suchlike—I’ll make a list o’ those.’

  ‘Get it from him now, Jack,’ she said. ‘Give him everything he wants. I’m going home.’

  ‘What about me?’ asked Eastman.

  ‘Take a taxi,’ she said, and walked out.

  Abbot smiled at Eastman. ‘She’s the boss all right. I can see that straight away.’

  ‘I can do without any cracks from you,’ said Eastman unsmilingly. He turned to Parker. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Parker, who was studying the business end of the torpedo. ‘This is a warhead; I hope there’s nothin’ in it.’

  ‘It was ordered empty.’

  ‘That’s a relief. Old TNT is bloody unreliable stuff. But this is no good anyway.’

  ‘What the hell…?’

  ‘Take it easy,’ said Parker. ‘No harm done. But if you want a practice run to prove the thing out I’ll need a practice head as well as this one. If you shot off this fish now it would sink at the end of the run, an’ you wouldn’t want that. A practice head has a flotation chamber to keep the torpedo from sinkin’ an’ a Holmes light so you can find it. You’ll be able to get a practice head from the same place you got this.’ He slapped the side of the torpedo. ‘Wherever that is.’

  ‘Okay, you’ll get your practice head. Anything else?’

  ‘The batteries, o’ course. They’re pretty important, aren’t they? I’ll put those on the list, too—types an’ quantities. They’ll set you back a packet.’ He studied the torpedo. ‘I’ll be wantin’ to run her in here, so we’d better have some way o’ clampin’ her down. Two concrete pillars wi’ proper clamps.’ He looked up. ‘These things develop a hell of a torque an’ we don’t want her jumpin’ all over the bloody shed.’ He slapped the side of his game leg. ‘That’s what busted me out o’ the Navy.’

  Abbot paced out the length of the torpedo. ‘It’s bigger than I thought. I didn’t realize they were as big as this.’

  ‘Twenty-one-inch-diameter,’ said Parker. ‘Twenty-twofeet, five-an’-four-fifths-inches long. Weight in war trim—thirty-six-hundred an’ thirty-one pounds.’ He slapped the warhead. ‘An’ she packs a hell of a punch—seven hundred an’ eighteen pounds o’ TNT in here.’

  ‘We can pack over seven hundred pounds in there?’ asked Eastman alertly.

  Parker shook his head. ‘Five hundred I said an’ five hundred I meant. I’m goin’ to put some batteries in the head. Have you thought how you’re goin’ to launch her?’

  ‘You’re the expert,’ said Eastman. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘There are three ways. From a tube underwater, like from a submarine; from a tube above water, like from a destroyer; from an aeroplane. I wouldn’t recommend the last—not if you’re carrying valuables. It’s apt to bugger the guidance system.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Eastman. ‘Airplanes are out. What about the other ways?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you can lay your hands on a destroyer,’ said Parker meditatively. ‘An’ torpedo tubes look a bit out o’ place anywhere else, if you get my meanin’. I think your best bet is underwater launchin’; it’s nice an’ inconspicuous. But that means a ship wi’ a bit o’ draught to it.’

  Eastman nodded. ‘I like your thinking—it makes sense.’

  ‘You should be able to get a submarine-type tube from the same place you got this fish. I can jury-rig air bottles for the launchin’.’

  ‘You’ll get your tube,’ promised Eastman.

  Parker yawned. ‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘I’ll make out your list tomorrow.’

  ‘The boss said now,’ Eastman pointed out.

  ‘She’ll have to bloody well wait,’ snapped Parker. ‘I’m too tired to think straight. This is not goin’ to be a quick job an’ another eight hours isn’t goin’ to make any difference.’

  ‘I’ll tell her that,’ said Eastman ironically.

  ‘You do that, mate,’ said Parker. ‘Let’s start as we mean to go on, shall we?’ He looked Eastman in the eye. ‘If you want a rush job you can have it—but I won’t guarantee the result. If I can do it my way you get my guarantee.’ He grinned. ‘You wouldn’t want to lose the fish when it’s carryin’ a full load of dope, would you?’

  ‘No, goddam it!’ Eastman flinched involuntarily at the thought.

  ‘There you are, then,’ said Parker with a wave of his hand. ‘You push off an’ come back in the morning at about ten o’clock an’ I’ll have your list all ready. We know where to bed down.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Eastman. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’ He walked away across the shed and up the wooden staircase. At the top he turned. ‘Just one thing: you don’t leave here—either of you. Ali is here to see you don’t. He’s a bad bastard when he’s aroused, so watch it.’

  Abbot said, ‘We’ll watch him.’

  Eastman grinned genially. ‘That’s not what I said, but you’ve got the idea.’ He opened the door and they heard him speak in a low voice. When he went out the Arab, Ali, came in. He did not descend the stairs but just stood leaning on the rail watching them.

  Abbot glanced at Parker. ‘You were pushing him a bit, weren’t you?’

  ‘Just gettin’ meself a bit of elbow room,’ said Parker. He grinned. ‘I was a petty officer an’ I’ve met that type before. You meet plenty o’ snotty officers in the service who try to run you ragged. But a good craftsman has always got ‘em by the balls an’ the trick is to squeeze just hard enough to let ‘em know it. They get the message in no time at all.’

  ‘I hope you can make it stick,’ said Abbot. He looked at the torpedo. ‘They got hold of this thing in jig time—I wonder how they were able to lay their hands on it so fast. It strikes me that this is an efficient mob. I think we’ll have to watch how we go very carefully.’ He looked up at the Arab speculatively.

  ‘I wasn’t kiddin’ when I said I was tired,’ said Parker. ‘An’

  I want to get out o’ this bloody monkey suit—it’s killin’ me. Let’s go to bed, for God’s sake!’

  II

  Once provided with his list Eastman moved fast. Within two days most of the equipment needed was installed, and while this was being done the torpedo was removed so that no workman would see it. All that was being done, as far as they were concerned, was the establishment of a small machine-shop.

  Then the work b
egan on the torpedo itself. Abbot was astonished at the complexity of it and his respect for Parker increased. Any man who could master such a complicated instrument and treat it with the casual insouciance that Parker did was worthy of a great deal of respect.

  They took out the lead-acid batteries—fifty-two of them—and piled them in a corner of the shed. ‘I’ll be needin’ those to test the motor later,’ said Parker. ‘There’s no point in usin’ the expensive ones. But then they’d better be taken out to sea an’ dumped. Any naval man who caught sight o’ those would know what they are, an’ that might give the game away.’

  Eastman made a note of it and Abbot privately thought that Parker was entering into the spirit of things a little too wholeheartedly. He said as much when they were alone and Parker grinned. ‘We have to make it look good, don’t we? Every little helps. Eastman is gettin’ quite matey an’ that could be useful.’ Abbot had to agree.

  Parker took out the motor for cleaning. ‘It’s in good nick,’ he said, and stroked it almost lovingly. ‘A beautiful job. Ninety-eight horsepower an’ only that big. A really lovely bit of work an’ designed to be blown to hell.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a bloody funny world we live in.’

  He stripped the torpedo meticulously while Abbot did the fetching and carrying and the cleaning of the less important pieces. He demanded—and got—special oils and greases to pack the glands, and expensive wiring for his redesigned circuits, while his new mercury batteries cost a small fortune in themselves. He preached like an evangelist, and the word he preached was ‘perfection.’ ‘Nothing is too good,’ he proclaimed flatly. ‘This is goin’ to be the best torpedo that ever took water.’

  And it was very likely so. No service torpedo ever had such undivided and loving attention, and Abbot came to the conelusion that only a prototype fussed over by nervous boffins prior to service tests could be compared with this lone torpedo.