Bagley, Desmond - High Citadel

by High Citadel

  They had their own plant; there's the remains of it out back. The generator has gone -- they must have salvaged it when the mine closed down. They scavenged most everything, I guess; there's precious little left."

  Armstrong drew the last of the smoke from his failing pipe with a disconsolate gurgle. "Well, that's the last of the tobacco until we get back to civilisation," he said as he knocked out the bottle. "Tell me, Captain; what are you doing in this part of the world?"

  "Oh, I fly aeroplanes from anywhere to anywhere," said O'Hara. Not any more I don't, he thought. As far as Filson was concerned, he was finished. Filson would never forgive a pilot who wrote off one of his aircraft, no matter what the reason. I've lost my job, he thought. It was a lousy job but it had kept him going, and now he'd lost it.

  The girl came back and he crossed over to her. "Anything doing down the road?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "Nothing. Miguel says everything a quiet."

  "He's quite a character," said O'Hara. "He certainly knows a lot about these mountains -- and he knows a bit about medicine too."

  "He was born near here," Benedetta said. "And he was a medical student until " She stopped.

  "Until what?" prompted O'Hara.

  "Until the revolution." She looked at her hands. "All his family were killed -- that is why he hates Lopez. That is why he works with my uncle -- he knows that my uncle will ruin Lopez."

  "I thought he had a chip on his shoulder," said O'Hara.

  She sighed. "It is a great pity about Miguel; he was going to dp so much. He was very interested in the soroche, you know; he intended to study it as soon as he had taken his degree. But when the revolution came he had to leave the country and he had no money so he could not continue his studies. He worked in the Argentine for a while, and then be met my uncle. He saved my uncle's life."

  "Oh?" O'Hara raised his eyebrows.

  "In the beginning Lopez knew that he was not safe while my uncle was alive. He knew that my uncle would organise an opposition -- underground, you know. So wherever my uncle went he was in danger from the murderers hired by Lopez -- even in the Argentine. There were several attempts to kill him, and it was one of these times that Miguel saved his life."

  O'Hara said. "Your uncle must have felt like another Trotsky. Joe Stalin had him bumped off in Mexico."

  "That is right," she said with a grimace of distaste. "But they were communists, both of them. Anyway, Miguel stayed with us after that. He said that all he wanted was food to eat and a bed to sleep in, and he would help my uncle come back to Cordillera. And here we are."

  Yes, thought O'Hara; marooned up a bloody mountain with God knows what waiting at the bottom.

  Presently, Armstrong went out to relieve Rohde. Miss Ponsky came across to talk to O'Hara. "I'm sorry I behaved so stupidly in the airplane," she said crossly. "I don't know what came over me."

  O'Hara thought there was no need to apologise for being half frightened to death; he had been bloody scared himself. But he couldn't say that -- he couldn't even mention the word fern- to her. That would be unforgivable; no one likes to be reminded of a lapse of that nature -- not even a maiden lady getting on in years. He smiled and said diplomatically. "Not everyone would have come through an experience like that as well as you have, Miss Ponsky."

  She was mollified and he knew that she had been in fear of a rebuff. She was the kind of person who would bite on a sore tooth, not letting it alone. She smiled and said. "Well now, Captain O'Hara -- what do you think of all this talk about communists?"

  "I think they're capable of anything," said O'Hara grimly.

  "I'm going to put in a report to the State Department when I get back," she said. "You ought to hear what Senor Aguillar has been telling me about General Lopez. I think the State Department should help Senor Aguillar against General Lopez and the communists."

  "I'm inclined to agree with you," said O'Hara. "But perhaps your Stale Department doesn't believe in interfering in Cordilleran affairs."

  "Stuff and nonsense," said Miss Ponsky with acerbity.

  * We're supposed to be fighting the communists, aren't we? Besides, Senor Aguillar assures me that he'll hold elections as soon as General Lopez is kicked out. He's a real democrat just eke you and me."

  O'Hara wondered what would happen if another South American state did go communist. Cuban agents were filtering all through Latin America like - woodworms in a piece of furniture. He tried to think of the strategic importance of Cordillera -- it was on the Pacific coast and it straddled the Andes, a gun pointing to the heart of the continent. He thought the Americans would be very upset if Cordillera went communist.

  Rohde came back and talked for a few minutes with Aguillar, then he crossed to O'Hara and said in a low voice. "Senor Aguillar would like to speak to you." He gestured to Forester and the three of them went to where Aguillar was resting in a bunk.

  He had brightened considerably and was looking quite spry. His eyes were lively and no longer filmed with weariness, and there was a strength and authority in his voice that O'Hara had not heard before. He realised that this was a strong man; maybe not too strong in the body because he was becoming old and his body was wearing out, but he had a strong mind. O'Hara suspected that if the old man had not had a strong will, the body would have crumpled under the strain it had undergone.

  Aguillar said. "First I must thank you gentlemen for all you have done, and I am truly sorry that I have brought this calamity upon you." He shook his head sadl y. "It is the innocent bystander who always suffers in the clash of our Latin politics. I am sorry that this should have happened and that you should see my country in this sad light."

  "What else could we do?" asked Forester. "We're all in the same boat."

  "I'm glad you see it that way," said Aguillar. "Because of what may come next. What happens if we meet up with the communists who should be here and are not?"

  "Before we come to that there's something I'd like to query," said O'Hara. Aguillar raised his eyebrows and motioned him to continue, so O'Hara said deliberately. "How do we know they are communists? Senorita Aguillar tells me that Lopez has tried to liquidate you several times. How do you know he hasn't got wind of your return and is having another crack at you?"

  Aguillar shook his head. "Lopez has -- in your English idiom -- shot his bolt. I know. Do not forget that I am a practical politician and give me credit for knowing my own work. Lopez forgot about me several years ago and is only interested in how he can safely relinquish the reins of power and retire. As for the communists -- for years I have watched them work in my country, undermining the government and wooing the people. They have not got far with the people, or they would have disposed of Lopez by now. I am their only danger and I am sure that our situation is their work."

  Forester said casually. "Grivas was trying to make a clenched fist salute when he died."

  "All right," said O'Hara. "But why all this rigmarole of Grivas in the first place? Why not just put a time bomb in the Dakota -- that would have done the job very easily."

  Aguillar smiled. "Senor O'Hara, in my life as a politician I have had four bombs thrown at me and every one was defective. Our politics out here are emotional and emotion does not make for careful workmanship, even of bombs. And I am sure that even communism cannot make any difference to the native characteristics of my people. They wanted to make very, sure of me and so they chose the unfortunate Grivas as their instrument. Would you have called Grivas an emotional man?"

  "I should think he was," said O'Hara, thinking of Grivas's exultation even in death. "And he was pretty slipshod too."

  Aguillar spread his hands, certain he had made his point. But he drove it home. "Grivas would be happy to be given such work; it would appeal to his sense of drama -- and my people have a great sense of drama. As for being -- er -- slipshod, Grivas bungled the first part of the operation by stupidly killing himself, and the others have bungled the rest of it by not being here to meet us."

  O'Hara
rubbed his chin. As Aguillar drew the picture it made a weird kind of sense.

  Aguillar said. "Now, my friends, we come to the next point. Supposing, on the way down this mountain, we meet these men -- these communists? What happens then?" He regarded O'Hara and Forester with bright eyes. "It is not your fight -- you are not Cordillerans -- and I am interested to know what you would do. Would you give this dago politician into the hands of his enemies or . . ."

  "Would we fight?" finished Forester.

  "It's my fight," said O'Hara bluntly. "I'm not a Cordillean, but Grivas pulled a gun on me and made me crash my plane. I didn't like that, and I didn't like the sight of the Coughlins. Anyway, I don't like the sight of communists, and I think that, all in all, this is my fight."

  "I concur," said Forester.

  Aguillar raised his hand. "But it is not as easy as that, is it? There are others to take into account. Would it be fair on Miss -- er -- Ponsky, for instance? Now what I propose is this. Miguel, my niece and I will withdraw into another cabin while you talk it over -- and I will abide by your joint decision."

  Forester looked speculatively at Peabody, who was just leaving the hut. He glanced at O'Hara, then said. "I think we should leave the question of fighting until there's something to fight. It's possible that we might just walk out of here."

  Aguillar had seen Forester's look at Peabody. He smiled sardonically. "I see that you are a politician yourself, Senor Forester." He made a gesture of resignation. "Very well, we will leave the problem for the moment -- but I think we will have to return to it."

  "It's a pity we had to come down the mountain," said Forester. "There's sure to be an air search, and it might have been better to stay by the Dakota."

  "We could not have lived up there," said Rohde.

  "I know, but it's a pity all the same."

  "I don't think it makes much difference," said O'Hara. "The wreck will be difficult to spot from the air -- it's right at the foot of a cliff." He hesitated. "And I don't know about an air search -- not yet, anyway."

  Forester jerked his head. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

  "Andes Airlift isn't noted for its efficiency and Filson, my boss, isn't good at paperwork. This flight didn't even have a number -- I remember wondering about it just before we took off. It's on the cards that San Croce control haven't bothered to notify Santillana to expect us." As he saw Forester's expression he added. "The whole set-up is shoestring and sealing-wax -- it's only a small field."

  "But surely your boss will get worried when he doesn't hear from you?"

  "He'll worry," agreed O'Hara. "He told me to phone him from Santillana -- but he won't worry too much at first. There have been times when I haven't phoned through on his say-so and had a rocket for losing cargo. But I don't think he'll worry about losing the plane for a couple of days at least."

  Forester blew out his cheeks. "Wow -- what a Rube Goldberg organisation. Now I really feel lost."

  Rohde said, "We must depend on our own efforts. I think we can be sure of that."

  "We flew off course too," said O'Hara. "They'll start the search north of here -- when they start."

  Rohde looked at Aguillar whose eyes were closed. "There is nothing we can do now," he said. "But we must sleep. It will be a hard day tommorow."

  iii

  Again, O'Hara did not sleep very well, but at least he was resting on a mattress instead of a hard floor with_a full belly. Peabody was on watch and O'Hara was due to relieve him at two o'clock; he was glad when the time came.

  He donned his leather jacket and took the vicuna coat that Forester had given him, He, suspected that he would be glad of it during the next two hours. Forester was awake and waved lazily as he went out, although he did not speak The night air was thin and cold and O'Hara shivered as he set off down the road. As Rohde had said, the conditions for survival were better here than up by the air-strip, but it was still pretty dicey. He was aware that his heart was thumping and that his respiration rate was up. It would be much better when they got down to the quebrada, as Rohde called the lateral valley to which they were heading.

  He reached the corner where he had to leave the road and headed towards the looming outcrop of rock which Rohde had picked as a vantage point. Peabody should have been perched on top of the rock and should have heard him coming, but there was no sign of his presence.

  O'Hara called softly, "Peabody!"

  There was silence.

  Cautiously he circled the outcrop to get it silhouetted against the night sky. There was a lump on top of the rock which he could not quite make out He began to climb the rock and as he reached the top he heard a muffled snore. He shook Peabody and his foot clinked on a bottle -- Peabody was drunk.

  "You bloody fool," he said and started to slap Peabody's race, but without appreciable result. Peabody muttered in his drunken stupor but did not recover consciousness. "I ought so let you die of exposure," whispered O'Hara viciously, but x knew he could not do that. He also knew that he could not hope to carry Peabody back to the camp by himself. He would have to get help.

  He stared down the mountainside but all was quiet, so he climbed down the rock and headed back up the road. Forester was still awake and looked up inquiringly as O'Hara entered the hut. "What's the matter?" he asked, suddenly alert.

  "Peabody's passed out," said O'Hara. "I'll need help to bring him up."

  "Damn this altitude," said Forester, putting on his shoes.

  "It wasn't the altitude," O'Hara said coldly. "The bastard's dead drunk."

  Forester muffled an imprecation. "Where did he get the stuff?"

  "I suppose he found it in one of the huts," said O'Hara. "I've still got my flask -- I was saving it for Aguillar."

  "All right," said Forester. "Let's lug the damn fool up here."

  It wasn't an easy thing to do. Peabody was a big, flabby man and his body lolled unco-operatively, but they managed it at last and dumped him unceremoniously in a bunk. Forester gasped and said. "This idiot will be the death of us all if we don't watch him." He paused. "I'll come down with you -- it might be better to have two pairs of eyes down there right now."

  They went back and climbed up on to the rock, lying side by side and scanning the dark mountainside. For fifteen minutes they were silent, but saw and heard nothing. "I think it's okay," said Forester at last. He shifted his position to ease his bones. "What do you think of the old man?"

  "He seems all right to me," said O'Hara.

  "He's a good joe -- a good liberal politician. If he lasts long enough he might end up by being a good liberal statesman -- but liberals don't last long in this part of the world, and I think he's a shade too soft." Forester chuckled. "Even when it's a matter of life and death -- his life and death, not to mention his niece's -- he still sticks to democratic procedure. He wants us to vote on whether we shall hand him over to the commies. Imagine that!"

  "I wouldn't hand anyone over to the communists," said O'Hara. He glanced sideways at the dark bulk of Forester.

  "You said you could fly a plane -- I suppose you do it as a matter of business; company plane and all that."

  "Hell, no," said Forester. "My outfit's not big enough or advanced enough for that. I was in the Air Force -- I flew in Korea."

  "So did I," said O'Hara. "I was in the R.A.F."

  "Well, what do you know." Forester was delighted. "Where were you based?"

  O'Hara told him and he said. "Then you were flying Sabres like I was. We went on joint operations -- hell, we must have flown together."

  "Probably."

  They lay in companionable silence for a while, then Forester said, "Did you knock down any of those Migs? I got four, then they pulled me out. I was mad about that -- I wanted to be a war hero; an ace, you know."

  "You've got to get five in the American Air Force, haven't you?"

  "That's right," said Forester. "Did you get any?"

  "A couple," said O'Hara. He had shot down eight Migs but it was a part of his life he pre
ferred to forget, so he didn't elaborate. Forester sensed his reserve and was quiet. After a few minutes he said. "I think I'll go back and get some sleep -- if I can. We'll be on our way early."

  When he had gone O'Hara stared into the darkness and thought about Korea. That had been the turning point of his life: before Korea he had been on his way up; after Korea there was just the endless slide, down to Filson and now beyond. He wondered where he would end up.

  Thinking of Korea brought back Margaret and the letter. He had read the letter while on ready call on a frozen airfield. The Americans had a name for that kind of letter -- they called the. "Dear Johns." She was quite matter-of-fact about it and said that they were adult and must be sensible about this thing -- all the usual rationalisations which covered plain infidelity. Looking back on it afterwards O'Hara could see a little humour in it -- not much, but some. He was one of the inglorious ten per cent of any army fighting away from home, and he had lost his wife to a civilian. But it wasn't funny at all reading that letter on the cold airfield in Korea.

  Five minutes later there was a scramble and he was in the air and thirty minutes later he was fighting. He went into battle with cold ferocity and a total lack of judgment. In three minutes he shot down two Migs, surprising them by sheer recklessness. Then a Chinese pilot with a cooler mind shot him down and he spent the rest of the war in a prison cage.

  He did not like to think of that period and what had happened to him. He had come out of it with honour, but the psychiatrists had a field day with him when he got back to England. They did what they could but they could not break down the shell he had built about himself -- and neither, by that time, could he break out.

  And so it went -- invalided out of the Air Force with a pension which he promptly commuted; the good jobs -- at first -- and then the poorer jobs, until he got down to Filson. And always the drink -- more and more booze which had less and less effect as he tried to fill and smother the aching emptiness inside him.

  He moved restlessly on the rock and heard the bottle clink, He put out his hand, picked it up and held it to the sky. It was a quarter full. He smiled. He could not get drunk on that but it would be very welcome. Yet as the fiery fluid spread and warmed his gut he felt guilty.