The Spoilers / Juggernaut

by Desmond Bagley

  Dr Kat was strict about rations. ‘They can feed for a month on the other side,’ he said. ‘But too much too soon is dangerous. Nurse, tell them that the crossing will be less bumpy than the rig and not dangerous; some of them have never been on water before. And say there will be proper food and beds for them in Manzu. Sister Mary! What are you doing carrying that child! Put her down at once. Helen, take over there, please.’ His eyes were everywhere, considering a hundred details. The excitement in the air and the prospect of salvation so close made him more cheerful than I’d ever seen him.

  ‘How do you feel, leaving Nyala?’ I asked during a lull. He regarded me with astonishment.

  ‘How do you think I feel? Only relief, Mister Mannix. At last I see a hope of saving these poor people. I am tired, sad at our losses, infuriated by this senseless wasteful war and what is happening to my country. But I will come back soon enough. I intend to rebuild the hospital at Kodowa.’

  He was a man dedicated and inspired. I said, ‘You’ll get all the help I can muster, and that’s not peanuts.’

  He hesitated, then said, ‘Mister Lang is not going to live, I fear.’

  ‘But we’re so close to safety.’

  He shook his head.

  Impulsively I took his hand. ‘We’re all deeply in your debt, Doctor Katabisirua. I hope that will be recognized officially one day.’

  He seemed pleased by my words as he went off to supervise the rest of the changeover with vigour.

  Sister Ursula upbraided me for allowing Bing to go into battle, and for letting Bert Proctor so neglect his bulletgrazed leg as to risk a major infection. There was no pleasing that woman. She was efficient over Sperrini’s face but couldn’t get near enough to Bailey to administer to his arm. He was jovial but dismissive and I wondered why she let him get away with it.

  By now all the invalids and the Land Rover were on board. The last of the Nyalans who wanted to cross were hurrying on, full of excitement. Those who were familiar with the ferry were explaining it to others.

  Hammond, Thorpe and Kemp remained, as well as McGrath, Zimmerman, Kirilenko and Dufour. Bishop and Bing went with the first shipment. So did Pitman and Athebridge and Proctor, to act as crew and help unload at the far end. Only two need have stayed, to drive on the trucks, but there was some reluctance to leave the rig until necessary.

  The bow ramp of the Katie Lou lifted, and we watched as she backed off the causeway, her temporary crewmen warping her out to her stern anchor, aided by a gentle reverse thrust of engines. As the anchor came up the current swung her round and the engines carried on the momentum. She pirouetted lazily to face away from us. Bailey waved from the bridge and the Katie Lou moved steadily into midstream, bearing its cargo of refugees away from us and the danger zone to freedom, we hoped, on the other side.

  A burden lifted from us. Whatever happened to us now we were responsible for nobody but ourselves. We gave vent to our feelings with cheers of relief.

  And then the air exploded. There was a whistling roar and a missile plummeted into the water well astern of the Katie Lou. A fountain of water jetted high into the air, followed by a second which was no closer. A dull thump followed as another missile slammed into the earth just behind the causeway, flinging debris and dust into the air. There was the staccato rattle of machine-gun fire from behind us, and a scream from the roadway.

  ‘Oh Christ, the ferry!’ Thorpe gasped.

  ‘She’s clear—she’s out of range,’ I said sharply.

  Soldiers boiled out from behind the rig and ran down the spur road. Others erupted from the bush beyond the buildings much as we ourselves had done earlier. Sadiq’s men were fighting against huge odds.

  Zimmerman said, ‘The raft. It’s our only chance.’

  He and Kirilenko hurtled down the causeway. They plunged into the water and vanished under the churned-up wake from the ferry. Hammond dropped into the fringing bushes along the lakeside. McGrath, using the dust cloud from the third explosion to mask his disappearance, slipped behind the garage in which Auntie Bess was parked. Dufour, Kemp, Ritchie Thorpe and I stood our ground. The rebels came running towards us and it took a lot of discipline to stand and face them. In a moment we were surrounded.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  They were everywhere, poking into the warehouses and garages, examining the rig and the other vehicles of the convoy, beating the bushes for fugitives. On one side of the yard those of Sadiq’s men whom they’d rounded up stood under guard. There were more guards around the four of us. We’d seated ourselves on crates to appear as innocuous as possible. I was grateful that they didn’t bring Auntie Bess out of her garage, though there was some interest shown by those who went in to look at it. I guessed that Zimmerman had the keys.

  It was satisfying that the ferry had got clean away. Whatever weapons they had didn’t reach far over the water, and by now the Katie Lou was out of sight and very likely already at her destination. I hoped Bailey would not bring her back; we had discussed this eventuality and he had reluctantly agreed that if he got wind of trouble he was to stay away.

  I felt angry with myself. If I hadn’t insisted on a second cargo of trucks going across we’d all be safe by now.

  There was no sign of the raft team, nor of McGrath. His disappearance was entirely typical, and I could only wish him luck in whatever he might be planning. That he had deserted us I felt was unlikely, as long as we had the DUKW as a means of escape.

  After a nerve-racking wait we had more company. The inevitable staff car came down the spur road with two others trailing it, a motorcycle escort and a truckload of soldiers with a 76 mm gun mounted. We stood up slowly as the leading car stopped short of the causeway.

  The man who got out of it was a tall, well-turned out officer with the colonel’s insignia that I had come to recognize. Like Sadiq, he had an Arabic cast of feature but in his case it reminded me of the nomadic Tuareg I had seen in North Africa, fine-boned, carrying no spare flesh and insufferably haughty of expression. He wore a side arm and carried a swagger stick in gloved hands. He recalled irresistibly to mind my first senior officer in my army days; I’d hated that bastard too.

  ‘Who are you?’ he barked.

  I glanced at Kemp and then took the role of spokesman. ‘I’m Neil Mannix of British Electric,’ I said. I was relieved that he seemed not to have heard of us by name, even if the bush telegraph had passed the word about the rig.

  ‘The others?’ he snapped impatiently.

  ‘This is Mister Basil Kemp and this is Mister Thorpe, both of Wyvern Transport. And this is Monsieur Antoine Dufour, a friend. Who are you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now you tell us who you are.’

  He glowered at me but I was through with servility. I was going to stand by our rights as civilians, foreigners and employees of his country.

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘You are angry. Well, Mister…Mannix, in your place so perhaps would I be. But I have no quarrel with you personally. You have been ill-advised and manipulated by the corrupt forces of the recent government and its military tyranny, but being ignorant of the destiny of Nyala and of your moral responsibilities towards it, your folly will have to be overlooked. I will redirect you in a more useful and productive fashion. It will be in your best interests to cooperate with good will.’

  I suppose I looked as thunderstruck as I felt, and I could see from the faces of the others that they shared my amazement. This was less like Colonel Maksa’s approach than anything we could have imagined.

  I said, ‘That all sounds most interesting, Colonel. What does it mean?’

  ‘For you, very little. We wish you to undertake some work for us which is not beyond your scope or ability. Though I am afraid something more drastic may be called for in this case.’ He indicated one of the cars behind his own. I saw with dismay that it was Sadiq’s staff car, and that Sadiq was sitting in it. He was in the back seat between two guards, and he was handcuffed.

  ‘You can’t treat a priso
ner of war like that. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ I asked harshly. Sadiq was a good soldier and had stood by us; we had to stand up for him now.

  The officer ignored this and said, ‘I am Colonel Wadzi, of the army of the Peoples’ Liberated Republic of Nyala. I have certain instructions for you. Are these all of your men?’

  ‘Let Captain Sadiq go and then we’ll talk about us.’

  He spoke briefly, and the car in which Sadiq was being held pulled out of line and drove up the spur road and stopped at the top.

  ‘Captain Sadiq is not the issue here. He will be tried for his offences,’ Wadzi said. ‘Now—which of you is in charge of this transporter?’

  Kemp stepped forward, his face white.

  ‘Don’t you do anything to damage that rig,’ he said with the courage of his deepest belief.

  Wadzi smiled tautly. ‘I would not dream of harming it. My superiors are well aware of its value, I promise you. In fact we wish to offer you an equitable financial return for bringing it safely back to the capital, Mister Kemp, in order to renegotiate with your company for its hire in the immediate future. We intend to carry on with the project at Bir Oassa, and naturally you and your company’s expertise are vital.’

  As he said all this Kemp’s face changed. Incredibly enough he believed all this cant. The rig was to be miraculously saved, driven in triumph to Port Luard, refitted and taken once again upcountry to the oilfields, all in perfect safety and with the blessing of financial security, under the benevolent protection of whoever claimed to be the rightful government of Nyala. And he, Basil Kemp, was the man chosen for the task. It was a daydream coming true, and nothing would free him from his delusion.

  Goddamn, Wingstead ought to have been here! He was the only man who could have made Kemp see reason. Me he would ignore; the others he would override; and my disadvantage was that it was only a shadow of suspicion that made me distrust all this fine talk, these promises and inducements. What Wadzi said might be true. He too was only a pawn in a political game. But I believed that there wasn’t a word of validity in anything he said. We’d seen too much, been too involved. We were doomed men.

  Kemp was afire with anticipation.

  ‘Yes, I’m in charge of the rig,’ he said.

  ‘Can you drive it back to Port Luard for us?’

  Kemp looked round for Hammond and McGrath. I held my breath lest in his one-track minded folly he should betray them.

  ‘Yes, of course we can. We’ll have to get fuel. We need diesel and petrol, and water. I’d have to go ahead to check the road conditions. The starter engine needs servicing, perhaps a complete overhaul. I think we need—’

  His brain went into overdrive as he reviewed the most important of the many priorities facing him. Thorpe opened his mouth but caught my eye and subsided. As long as Kemp was in full spate he wouldn’t mention the vital fact of the missing drivers.

  Wadzi interrupted. ‘It can all be arranged. I am pleased that you are willing to help us. What about you, Mister Mannix? Not so well-disposed?’ The silky menace was overt and I felt a pulse thud in my neck.

  ‘I’m damned if I’m well-disposed. Do you know who was in that ferry, Wadzi?’

  He said, ‘I believe you liberated the ferryman and have been so misguided as to send a number of Nyalans, including medical people of the utmost value to the country, across to Manzu. We must take steps to extradite them; that will be a nuisance. I am not pleased about it.’

  ‘Then you know it was a hospital ship. You damned well fired on a boatload of invalids, women and kids. In my book that makes you a war criminal. You’re not fit to walk the earth, Wadzi. You’d disgrace any damned uniform you put on.’

  My companions stared at me in horror at this reckless baiting of our captor, but it seemed to be the only way to keep his attention. The ‘B’-gon team had to have a chance to get here with our only weapon, though I wasn’t clear what we could do with it. Wadzi was a vain man and rose readily to my lure to justify his cause. Under the same circumstances Colonel Maksa would simply have blown my head off.

  ‘You forget yourself! You are in no position to make such accusations, Mannix, nor question my authority. You do yourself a grave injury in this obstruction and you will pay for it!’

  ‘I’ve no doubt,’ I said grimly.

  ‘I would be within my rights if I were to exercise summary justice in your case, Mannix,’ Wadzi said. I wondered sickly if he was so very different to Maksa after all.

  Ritchie Thorpe protested bravely.

  ‘You can’t just shoot him, Colonel, for God’s sake!’

  Two soldiers stepped forward, their rifles raised to enforce the threat, and I thought numbly that I’d finally gone too far. But he held them back with a cut of his stick in the air, glowered at Thorpe and said to Kemp, ‘This man Mannix—is he necessary to your transport arrangements? Mister Kemp! I am speaking to you.’

  Kemp was miles away, planning the rig’s forthcoming journey. He was recalled with a start at hearing his own name, and looked with puzzlement from Wadzi to me. I wasn’t breathing too well.

  ‘What’s that? Oh, Neil? Yes, of course I need him,’ he said abstractedly. ‘Turned out to be very useful on this trip. Need everyone we’ve got,’ he went on, gazing around the yard, ‘Thorpe, where’s Ben Hammond? I need him right now.’

  In reprieving me he had raised another bogey.

  ‘Hammond? Who is this?’ Wadzi demanded, instantly on the alert.

  ‘Mister Kemp sent him on an errand,’ Thorpe said the first thing that came into his head.

  And at the same moment a babble of voices rose and we all turned to look at the lake. Coming downriver towards the ferry slip, moving extremely slowly, half awash with water and canted over at an acute angle, were the recoupled ‘B’-gons. On the front section Dufouf’s truck stood uneasily, its lashings removed but the chocks still in place under the wheels. Zimmerman and Kirilenko were each handling an outboard on the after section, with Hammond giving steering instructions.

  The soldier’s voices died down. Wadzi stared silently.

  Handled with great delicacy and precision the raft nuzzled its way onto the ferry slip and the two outboards pushed it inexorably forward until it could go no further. With a grating sound it grounded itself with the forward section half out of the lake, resting firmly on the causeway. Our floating bomb had arrived.

  Kemp looked as astonished as the Colonel.

  ‘Neil, what the devil is this?’ he asked testily. ‘You know we don’t need the raft any more—’

  ‘Ah, Hammond!’ I shouted to the new arrivals, drowning Kemp’s voice with my own. ‘Well done! That’s the last truck, is it? You’ll see that we have company. This is Colonel Wadzi, who’s going to take the rig back to Port Luard with our help. He’s asked Mister Kemp to take charge of the operation and Mister Kemp is very keen to do so.’

  I was trying to give Hammond as much information as possible while at the same time preventing Kemp from saying anything to further rouse Wadzi’s suspicions. The Colonel stepped forward and rapped me sharply on the arm. ‘Just what is all this about?’ he demanded.

  ‘Stores for the convoy, or some of them,’ I said rapidly. ‘The last of our transport vehicles. We’ve been waiting for it to arrive.’

  ‘Arrive? Like that?’

  ‘Well, yes, we bought some of them down by water…’

  Hammond had come ashore and was tying up the raft calmly as if the presence of armed soldiers were commonplace. Now he chipped in and said easily, ‘To save fuel, Colonel. Two seven horsepower outboard engines use a lot less than one truck over long distances, so we’ve ferried them down this way. I suppose you’ll want it added to the rest of the convoy, Mister Mannix?’

  The implication appalled me. He was prepared to drive the gelignite-filled truck up among the troops and, presumably, explode it where it would cause maximum alarm and destruction. Whether it would save our lives was doubtful, but it would certainly end his.
r />   And he was waiting for me to give him the go-ahead.

  ‘Not just for the moment, Ben,’ I said. ‘Have a word with Mister Kemp first about moving the rig. He…needs your advice.’

  Hammond looked at Kemp and at once took in his tense, barely controlled anxiety. He gave a reassuring nod.

  ‘We’ll want to plot the mileage charts afresh, Mister Kemp, won’t we?’ he asked calmly.

  Kemp said curtly, ‘I’ve been looking for you. Where are the maps?’

  They started talking, ignoring the armed men around them. I hoped that Hammond could keep Kemp occupied. He was in a state of dangerous hypertension, and if not controlled he could be as great a threat as the enemy.

  Zimmerman and Kirilenko came ashore cautiously, saying nothing. Zimmerman’s hands at his side made a curious twisting gesture reminiscent of turning a key, and then he brushed his wristwatch casually. I realized what this implied: he had set a timing mechanism on the lethal truck.

  ‘How long? Harry, how long did the trip take?’ I asked loudly.

  ‘Only fifteen minutes, Neil.’

  Christ. A quarter of an hour to get us all out of range before Dufour’s truck went sky-high; call it ten minutes because no hastily home-made timer could be all that accurate. Or it might never go off at all. Frantically I juggled possibilities while at the same time continuing to face up to Wadzi.

  He was disconcerted by my change in attitude. Before I had defied him; now I was cooperating. He said, ‘Mister Mannix, are these all your men now?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’ I mentally subtracted McGrath.

  ‘You will all accompany us with your transporter to Fort Pirie. There we will make further arrangements,’ he said briskly. ‘I understand that you are not one of the drivers. Is that correct?’

  I wondered just how much else he knew about us.