Cry Wolf

by Wilbur Smith

  reluctant feet sliding in the loose earth.

  "Jake, what are you doing?" she protested, but he ignored her.

  "We'll mount the guns. It won't take long." He was planning through

  his rage, as he dragged them back along the wadi to where the cars were

  parked beyond the caves.

  Vicky and Gregoflus were helpless in the ferocity of his grip, swept

  along by his strength and his anger.

  "Vicky, you will drive for me. I'll serve the gun," he told her.

  "Greg, you drive for Gareth." Jake's breathing was shallow and fast

  with his rage. "We can only man two cars, one we will use as a

  diversion you and Gareth swing south along the back of the ridge and

  that will keep them busy while Vicky and I pick up Sara and as many of

  the others as we can find alive." The two of them listened to him, and

  were swept forward with a fresh urgency. As they ran back along the

  wadi, a final brief storm of machine-gun fire and exploding mortar bomb

  preceded the deep aching silence which now fell over the desert.

  The three of them turned the final bend in the course of the wadi and

  came upon a scene of utter pandemonium.

  The ravine was filled solidly with those who had escaped the Italian

  fire struggling to load their possessions, their tents and bedding,

  their chickens and children, on to the panicky bellowing camels and the

  skittering braying mules and donkeys.

  Already hundreds of riders were galloping away, climbing the sides of

  the wadi or disappearing into the labyrinth of broken ground. New

  widows wailed in the uproar and their grief was catching, the children

  shrieked, and whimpered in sympathy, and over it all hung a blue miasma

  of smoke from the cooking fires and dust from the trampling hooves and

  milling feet.

  The four cars stood in their solid orderly rank, aloof from the masses

  of humanity, gleaming in their coats of white paint with the vivid red

  crosses emblazoned upon their sides.

  Jake pushed a way through for them, towering head and shoulders above

  the throng, and when they reached the nearest car Jake grasped Vicky

  about the waist and swung her easily up into the sponson. For a moment

  his expression softened.

  "You don't have to come," he said. "I guess I went a little mad then,

  you don't have to drive Gareth and I will take one car." Her face was

  deathly pale also, and there were deep bruised smears under her eyes

  from a night without sleep and the horrors of the slaughter. Her tears

  had dried, leaving dirty smears down her cheeks, but she shook her head

  fiercely.

  "I'm coming," she said. "I'll drive for you."

  "Good girl," said Jake. "Help Gregorius top up. We will need full

  fuel tanks. I'll get the Vickers." He turned away, shouting to

  Gregorius. "We'll use Miss Wobbly and Tenastelin Vicky will help you

  refuel." A detail from the Ras's personal bodyguard were already

  bringing the wooden cases of weapons and munitions out of the storage

  cave as Jake arrived. Each case was carried between four straining

  troopers to where the camels knelt.

  It was then lifted into the pannier on each side of the hump and

  hastily lashed down.

  "Hey, you lot." Jake came up with a group carrying a crated Vickers.

  "Bring that along this way." They paused in understanding until Jake

  made unmistakable signs, but at that moment a captain of the guard

  hurried up to intervene. After one shouted exchange Jake realized that

  the language barrier was insurmountable. The man was obstinate and

  time was wasting.

  "Sorry, friend," he apologized. "But I am in a bit of a hurry," and he

  hit him a roundhouse clout that ended the argument conclusively and

  sent the man flying backwards into the outstretched arms of two of his

  men.

  "Come along." Jake pushed the guards with the crate towards where the

  cars stood. The thought of Sara lying out there in the valley was

  driving him frantic. He imagined her bleeding slowly to death, her

  bright young blood draining away into the sandy soil and he hustled the

  two men forward through the press of animals and human beings.

  As he came up, Gregorius was swinging the crank handle on Miss Wobbly

  and the engine caught and ran smoothly as Vicky eased back the

  ignition.

  "Where is Gareth? "Jake shouted.

  "Can't find him," answered Gregorius. "We'll have to go in one car,"

  and then both of them swung round at the familiar bantering laugh.

  Gareth Swales was leaning nonchalantly against the side of the car,

  looking as unruffled and calm as ever, his hair neatly combed and the

  tweed suit as immaculate as if it had just come from his tailor.

  "say," smiled Gareth, crinkling his eyes against the drift of blue

  smoke from the cheroot between his lips. "Big Jake Barton and his two

  eager ducklings about to take on the entire Italian army." Vicky's

  head appeared in the driver's hatch.

  "We've been looking for you," she shouted furiously.

  "Ah," quoth Gareth lightly. "We will now hear from the Girl Guides

  Association."

  "Sara is out there." Gregorius ran to Gareth. "We are going to fetch

  her. You and I will take the one car, Vicky and Jake the other."

  "Nobody is going anywhere." Gareth shook his head, and Gregorius

  seized the lapels of his suit and shook them urgently. "Sara. You

  don't understand she's out there! We have to fetch her." say, old

  lad, would you mind unhanding me, "murmured Gareth and removed

  Gregorius" hands from his lapel. "Yes.

  We know about Sara, but--2 Vicky yelled from the driver's hatch.

  "Leave, him, Gregorius. We don't need anyone who is afraid-" and

  Gareth straightened up abruptly, his expression grim and his eyes

  snapping.

  "I have been called many things in my life, my dear young lady. Some

  of them justified, but nobody has ever called me a coward."

  "Well, there is always a first time, buster," shouted Vicky, her face

  crimson with anger and streaked with dirt, her blonde hair ruffled and

  hanging into her eyes and she pointed one quivering finger at Gareth,

  "and for you this is that first time!" They stared at each other for a

  moment longer before Lij Mikhael strode between them, his dark face set

  but commanding.

  "Major Swales is acting on my express orders, Miss Camberwell. I have

  ordered that the cars and all my father's troops will fall back

  immediately."

  "Good God, man." Vicky transferred her anger from Gareth to the

  Prince. "That's your daughter lying out there."

  "Yes," said the Prince softly. "My daughter on the one hand my country

  on the other.

  There is no doubt which I must choose."

  "You're not making sense, "Jake interposed roughly.

  "I think I am." The Prince turned to him and Jake saw the dark torment

  in the man's eyes. "I cannot make a hostile move, it's what the

  Italians are seeking. An excuse to attack in full strength. We must

  turn the other cheek now, and use this atrocity to win world

  support."

  "But Sara," Vicky interrupted. "We could pick her up in a minute."

  "N
o." The Prince lifted his chin. "I cannot show the , enemy these

  new weapons of ours. They must remain hidden until the time is right

  to strike."

  "Sara, cried Gregorius. "What of Sara?" "When these machines and the

  new guns are safely on their way back to the Sardi Gorge, I shall ride

  out myself to fetch her body," said the Prince with a simple dignity.

  "But until then my duty must come first."

  "One car," pleaded Gregorius. "For Sara's sake."

  "No, I cannot use even one car," said the Prince.

  "Well, I can," snapped Vicky and her tousled golden head disappeared

  into the driver's hatch, the engine roared and Miss Wobbly shot forward

  scattering men and animals before her, and swung in a tight sliding

  right-hand turn towards the course of the wadi.

  Unarmed and alone, Vicky Camberwell was going out to face the machine

  guns and the mortars, and only one man amongst them acted swiftly

  enough.

  Jake shouldered the Prince aside and sprinted across the circle of the

  car's turn, coming alongside a moment before it plunged into the narrow

  ravine. He got a grip on one of the welded brackets abaft the engine

  cowling, and although his shoulder joint was almost wrenched from its

  socket, he swung himself up and fell belly down across the sponson.

  Clinging grimly on to the leaping, jouncing vehicle, he dragged himself

  forward until he could peer down the driver's hatch.

  "Are you crazy?" he bellowed, and Vicky looked up and gave him a

  fleeting but angelic grin.

  "Yes. How about you?"A heavier impact came up through the chassis of

  the car and momentarily drove Jake's breath from him so he could not

  answer. Instead, he clawed his way up the side of the turret, almost

  losing four fingers as the loose hatch cover slammed closed at another

  leap of the car.

  Using all his strength, Jake lifted it again, and secured the retaining

  catch before he scrambled down into the cab.

  He was only just in time, for at that moment Vicky drove the car at

  full throttle out into the valley.

  The sun was clear of the horizon now, smearing long dark shadows across

  the golden sands. Dust and smoke from the mortar barrage still drifted

  in a stately brown cloud over the ridge, and the bodies of the dead

  were thrown at random across the bare plain. The women's dresses made

  bright splashes of colour against the monochrome of the desert.

  Jake swept a swift glance around the ridge that commanded the plain,

  and saw that many of the Italian troopers had left their trenches. They

  wandered in small groups around the edges of the slaughter ground, and

  their movements were awed and timid green troops still not hardened to

  the reality of open wounds and twisted corpses.

  They froze in attitudes of surprise as the car burst out of the wadi,

  and flew on usty wings towards the nearest waterhole. It took many

  seconds for them to move, and then they turned and pelted for their

  earthworks, tiny figures in dark uniforms with legs and arms pumping in

  frantic haste.

  "Turn broadside," yelled Jake. "Show them the crosses!" and Vicky

  reacted swiftly, swinging the car into a tight lefthander that had her

  up on two wheels, sliding broadside in the sand, displaying to the

  Italians the huge scarlet crosses on the hull.

  "Let me have your shirt," Jake yelled again. It was the only white

  cloth they had with them. "I need a flag of truce!"

  "It's all I have on," Vicky shrieked back. "I'm bare underneath."

  "You want to be modest and dead?" howled Jake. "They'll start

  shooting any moment now." And she steered with one hand as she

  unbuttoned her shirt front and leaned forward in the seat to yank the

  tails out of her skirt. She shrugged out of it and reached up into the

  turret to hand him the bundled shirt. Each time they hit another bump,

  Vicky's breasts bounced like rubber balls, a sight that distracted Jake

  for a hundredth part of a second before chivalry and duty recalled him

  and he stood high in the turret, arms stretched above his head,

  streaming the white shirt like a flag, balancing with a sailor's legs

  against the wild antics of the car.

  To the hundreds of men who lined the parapet of the Italian trenches

  Jake displayed two emotive symbols, the red cross and the white flag,

  symbols so powerful that even men in the white-hot must of the blood

  lust hesitated with their fingers still curled about the triggers of

  the machine guns.

  "It's working," shrieked Vicky, and swung the car on to its original

  heading, almost throwing Jake from his precarious roost in the turret.

  He dropped the shirt and clutched wildly at the coamings of the turret,

  the shirt floating away like a white egret on the wing.

  "There she is," Vicky cried again. The carcass of the white stallion

  lay dead ahead, as she braked hard and then pulled the car to a

  standstill beside it, interposing the armoured body of the car between

  the pile of bodies and the watching Italians on the ridge.

  Jake dropped down into the cab and crawled back to open the rear double

  doors of the car, knocking open the locking handles as he called over

  his shoulder.

  "Keep your hatch battened and don't, for chrissakes, show your head."

  "I'll help you," Vicky stated boldly.

  "The hell you will," snapped Jake, tearing his eyes off her magnificent

  chest. "You'll stay where you are and keep the engine running." The

  doors flew open and Jake tumbled headfirst out on to the sandy earth.

  Spitting grit from his mouth, he crawled swiftly to the carcass of the

  white horse. Close up, the hide was shaggy and flea-bitten, dappled

  with faint patches of chestnut. On this pale background the bullet

  holes were like dark red mouths where already the metallic blue flies

  clustered delightedly.

  The stallion lay heavily across Sara's lower body, pinning her face

  down to the earth.

  The naked boy child had been hit by one of the hooves as the horse

  fell. The side of the tiny bald skull had been crushed, a deep

  indentation above the temple into which a baseball would have fitted

  neatly. There was no chance that he still lived and Jake transferred

  his attention to the girl.

  "Sara," he called, and she lifted herself on her elbows, looking back

  at him from huge terrified dark eyes. Her face was smeared with dust,

  the skin shaved from one cheek where she had slid against the ground,

  exposing the pale pink meat from which lymph leaked in clear liquid

  beads.

  "Are you hit? "Jake reached her.

  "I don't know," she whispered huskily, and he saw that the satin of her

  breeches was soaked with dark blood. He placed both feet against the

  carcass of the horse and tried to roll it off her legs, but the dead

  weight of the animal was enormous. He would have to stand, taking his

  chances with the guns.

  Jake came to his feet and felt the cold fingers of fear brush lightly

  along his spine as he turned his back to the nearest Italian trenches

  and stooped to the horse.

  Crouching with his weight balanced evenly on the ba
lls of both feet, he

  took the tail and the lower hind leg of the animal; lifting and turning

  with all his strength, he began to roll the carcass off Sara's legs and

  pelvis. She cried out in pain, such a sharp high-pitched shriek that

  he had to stop.

  She was praying incoherently in Amharic, weeping slow fat tears of

  agony that cut tunnels through the pale dust on her cheeks.

  Jake panted, "Once more I'm sorry," and he braced himself. At that

  moment Vicky yelled from the car.

  "Jake, they are coming! Hurry, oh God, please hurry!" Jake swung

  around and ran to the car, peering over the high engine compartment.

  With a long plume of pale dust boiling out from behind it, a large open

  vehicle crowded with armed men was dropping swiftly down towards them

  from the ridge.

  "My God," grunted Jake, screwing up his eyes against the low blinding

  rays of the morning sun. "It can't be!" But even at that range in the

  dust and bad light, there was no mistaking the gracious and dignified

  lines of a Rolls-Royce.

  Jake was seized by a feeling of unreality that amid all this horror

  appear something of such beauty.

  "Hurry, Jake." Vicky's voice spurred him on, and he ran back to the

  dead horse, seized its hind legs and began wrestling it on to its back

  with the girl's agonized cries as an accompaniment.

  Grunting and straining, Jake lifted the horse by main strength until it

  was balanced critically along its spine with the legs pointed loosely

  at the morning sky, and now he could hear the approaching engine-beat

  of the Rolls and the faint but excited voices of its occupants. He

  denied the temptation to look around again and, instead, let the

  carcass flop heavily over on to its other flank, freeing the frail body

  of the child-woman beneath it.

  Still panting with his efforts, Jake dropped on one knee beside her.

  She was hit in the upper leg, he saw at once, the entry wound was six

  inches above the knee, and when he felt swiftly for a bone-break, there

  was another quick flood of dark crimson blood that poured warmly over

  his fingers and drenched the slick satin of her breeches afresh. Jake

  found the exit wound in the inside of her thigh, but knew by feel and

  instinct that it had missed the bone. Still, she was losing blood

  heavily and he inserted a forefinger into the tear in her breeches and

  ripped the cloth cleanly to the ankle; he pulled it up exposing her