Bagley, Desmond - High Citadel

by High Citadel

  But the enemy were making too much noise themselves as they tried to clear the road and O'Hara heard the jeep start up and drive a little way forward. Slowly the pain ebbed away and cautiously he tried to get up, but to his horror he found that his arm seemed to be trapped in a crevice between the rocks. Carefully he pulled and heard the clink as the sub-machine-gun he was holding came up against stone, and he stopped. Then he pushed his arm down and felt nothing.

  At any other time he would have found it funny. He was like a monkey that had put its hand in the narrow neck of a bottle to grasp an apple and could not withdraw it without releasing the apple. He could not withdraw his arm without letting go of the gun, and he dared not let it go in case it made a noise. He wriggled cautiously, then stopped as he heard voices from close by.

  "I say my way was best." It was the Cuban.

  The other voice was flat and hard, speaking in badly-accented Spanish. "What did it get you? Two sprained ankles and a broken leg. You were losing men faster than Aguillar could possibly kill them for you. It was futile to think of searching the mountain in this weather. You've bungled this right from the start."

  "Was your way any better?" demanded Santos in an aggrieved voice. "Look at what has happened here -- a jeep and a truck destroyed, two m en killed and the road blocked. I still say that men on foot are better."

  The other man -- the Russian -- said coldly. "It happened because you are stupid -- you came up here as though you were driving through Havana. Aguillar is making you look like a fool, and I think he is right. Look, Santos, here is a pack of defenceless airline passengers and they have held you up four days; they have killed six of your men and you have a lot more wounded and out of action because of your own stupidity. Right from the start you should have made certain of the bridge -- you should have been at the mine when Grivas landed the plane -- but you bungled even there. Well, I am taking over from now, and when I come to write my report you are not going to look very good in Havana -- not to mention Moscow."

  O'Hara heard him walk away and sweated as he tried to free his arm. Here he had the two of them together and he could not do a damn' thing about it. With one burst he could have killed them both and chanced getting away afterwards, but he was trapped. He heard Santos shuffle his feet indecisively and then walk quickly after the Russian, mumbling as he went.

  O'Hara lay there while they hooked up the Russian's jeep to the burned-out truck and withdrew it, to push it off the road and send it plunging down the mountain. Then they dragged out the jeep and did the same with it, and finally got to work on the cable drum. It took them two hours and, to O'Hara, sweating it out not more than six yards from where they were working, it seemed like two days.

  v

  Willis struggled to get back his breath as he looked down at the burning camp, thankful for the long hours he had put in at that high altitude previously. He had left Benedetta and Armstrong, glad to get away from the certainty of a hand-to-hand fight, defenceless against the ruthless armed men who were corning to butcher them. He could see no prospect of any success; they had fought for days against tremendous odds and the outlook seemed blacker than ever. He did not relish the fact of his imminent death.

  With difficulty he had rolled out the drum of paraffin and went from hut to hut, soaking the interior woodwork as thoroughly as possible. While in the last hut he thought he heard an engine and stepped outside to listen, catching the sound of the grinding of gears.

  He struck a match, then paused. Benedetta had told him to wait for the shooting or noise and that had not come yet. But it might take some time for the huts to catch alight properly and, from the expression he had seen on Benedetta's face, the shooting was bound to come.

  He tossed the match near a pool of paraffin and it caught fire in a flare of creeping flame which ran quickly up the woodwork. Hastily he lit the bundle of paraffin-soaked rags he held and ran along the line of huts, tossing them inside. As he reached the end of the first line he heard a distant crash from the road and a couple of shots. Better make this quick, he thought; how's the time to get out of here.

  By the time he left the first line of huts was well aflame, great gouts of fire leaping from the windows. He scrambled up among the rocks above the camp and headed for the road, and when he reached it looked back to see the volcano of the burning camp erupting below. He felt satisfaction at that -- he always liked to see a job well done. The mist was too thick to see more than the violent red and yellow glow, but he could make out enough to know that all the huts were well alight and there were no significant gaps. They won't sleep in there tonight, he thought, and turned to run up the road.

  He went on for a long time, stopping occasionally to catch his labouring breath and to listen. He heard nothing once he was out of earshot of the camp. At first he had heard a faint shouting, but now everything was silent on the mountainside apart from the eerie keening of the wind. He did not know whether Armstrong and Benedetta were ahead of him or behind, but he listened carefully for any sound coming from the road below. Hearing nothing, he turned and pushed on again, feeling the first faint intimation of lack of oxygen as he went higher.

  He was nearing the mine when he caught up with the others, Armstrong turning on his heels with alarm as he heard Willises footsteps. Aguillar end Miss Ponsky were there also, having made very slow progress up the road. Armstrong said, falsely cheerful. "Bloody spectacular, wasn't it?"

  Willis stopped, his chest heaving. "They'll be cold tonight -- maybe they'll call off the final attack until tommorow."

  Armstrong shook his head in the gathering darkness. "I doubt it. Their blood is up -- they're close to the kill." He looked at Willis, who was panting like a dog. "You'd better take it easy and help Jenny here -- she's pretty bad. Benedetta and I can push up to the mine and see what we can do up there."

  Willis stared back. "Do you think they're far behind?"

  "Does it matter?" asked Benedetta. "We fight here or we fight at the mine." She absently kissed Aguillar and said something to him in Spanish, then gestured to Armstrong and they went off fairly quickly.

  It did not take them long to get to the mine, and as Armstrong surveyed the three huts he said bleakly. "These are as indefensible as the camp. However, let's see what we can do."

  He entered one of the huts and looked about in the gloom despairingly. He touched the wooden wall and thought, bullets will go through these like paper -- we'd be better off scattered on the hillside facing death by exposure. He was roused by a cry from Benedetta, so he went outside.

  She was holding a piece of paper in her hand and peering at it in the light of a burning wooden torch. She said excitedly, "From Forester -- they prepared one of the mine tunnels for us."

  Armstrong jerked up his head. "Where?" He took the piece of paper and examined the sketch on it, then looked about. "Over there," he said, pointing.

  He found the tunnel and the low wall of rocks which Forester and Rohde had built. "Not much, but it's home," he said, looking into the blackness. "You'd better go back and bring the others, and I'll see what it's like inside."

  By the time they all assembled in the tunnel mouth he had explored it pretty thoroughly with the aid of a smoky torch. "A dead end," he said. "This is where we make our last stand." He pulled a pistol from his belt. "I've still got Rohde's gun -- with one bullet; can anyone shoot better than me?" He offered the gun to Willis. "What about you, General Custer?"

  Willis looked at the pistol. "I've never fired a gun in my life."

  Armstrong sighed. "Neither have I, but it looks as though this is my chance." He thrust the pistol back in his belt and said to Benedetta, "What's that you've got?"

  "Miguel left us some food," she said. "Enough for a cold meal."

  "Well, we won't die hungry," said Armstrong sardonically.

  Willis made a sudden movement. "For God's sake, don't talk that way."

  "I'm sorry," said Armstrong. "How are Miss Ponsky and Senor Agullar?"

  "As well
as might be expected," said Benedetta bitterly. "For a man with a heart condition and an elderly lady with a hole in her shoulder, trying to breathe air that is not there." She looked up at Armstrong. "You think there is any chance for Tim?"

  He averted his head. "No," he said shortly, and went to the mouth of the tunnel, where he lay down behind the low breastwork of rocks and put the gun beside him. If I wait I might kill someone, he thought; but I must wait until they're very close.

  It was beginning to snow.

  vi

  It was very quiet by the cutting, although O'Hara could hear voices from farther up the road by the burning camp. There was not much of a glow through the mist now, and he judged that the huts must just about have burned down to their foundations. Slowly he relaxed his hand and let the submachine-gun fall. It clattered to the rocks and he pulled up his arm and massaged it.

  He felt very damp and cold and wished he had been able to strip the llama-skin coat from the sentry by the trebuchet -- young Juan would not have needed it. But it would have taken too long, apart from being a gruesome job, and he had not wanted to waste the time. Now he wished he had taken the chance.

  He stayed there, sitting quietly for some time, wondering if anyone had noticed the noise of metal on stone. Then he set himself to retrieve the gun. It took him ten minutes to fish it from the crevice with the aid of the crossbow, and then he set off up the mountain again, steering clear of the road. At least the enforced halt had rested him.

  Three more trucks had come up. They had not gone straight up to the mine -- not yet; the enemy had indulged in a futile attempt to quench the fires of the flaming camp and that had taken some time. Knowing that the trucks were parked above the camp, he circled so as to come out upon them. His ankle was bad, the flesh soft and puffy, and he knew he could not walk very much farther -- certainly not up to the mine. It was in his mind to get himself a truck the same way he got himself a gun -- by killing for it.

  A crowd of men were climbing into the trucks when he got back to the road and he felt depressed but brightened a little when he saw that only two trucks were being used. The jeep was drawn up alongside and O'Hara heard the Russian giving orders in his pedantic Spanish and fretted because he was not within range. Then the jeep set off up the road and the trucks rolled after it with a crashing of gears, leaving the third parked.

  He could not see whether a guard had been left so he began to prowl forward very cautiously. He did not think that there was a guard -- the enemy would not think of taking such a precaution, as everyone was supposed to have been driven up to the mine. So he was very shocked when he literally fell over a sentry, who had l eft his post by the truck and was relieving himself among the rocks by the roadside.

  The man grunted in surprise as O'Hara cannoned into him. "Cuidado!" he said, and then looked up. O'Hara dropped both his weapons as the man opened his mouth and clamped the palm of his hand over the other's jaw before he could shout. They strained against each other silently, O'Hara forcing back the man's head, his fingers clawing for the vulnerable eyes. His other arm was wrapped around the man's chest, clutching him tight.

  His opponent flailed frantically with both arms and O'Hara knew that he was in no condition for a real knock-down-drag-out fight with this man. He remembered the knife in his belt and decided to take a chance, depending on swiftness of action to kill the man before he made a noise. He released him suddenly, pushing him away, and his hand went swiftly to his waist. The man staggered and opened his mouth again and O'Hara stepped forward and drove the knife in a straight .stab into his chest just below the breastbone, giving it an upward turn as it went in.

  The man coughed in a surprised hiccuping fashion and leaned forward, toppling straight into O'Hara's arms. As O'Hara lowered him to the ground he gave a deep sigh and died. Breathing heavily, O'Hara plucked out the knife and a gush of hot blood spurted over his hand. He stood for a moment, listening, and then picked up the sub-rnachine-gun from where he had dropped it. He felt a sudden shock as his finger brushed the safety-catch -- it was in the off position; the sudden jar could well have fired a warning shot.

  But that was past and he was beyond caring. He knew he was living from minute to minute and past possibilities and actions meant nothing to him. All that mattered was to get up to the mine as quickly as possible -- to nail the Cuban and the Russian -- and to find Benedetta.

  He looked into the cab of the truck and opened the door. It was a big truck and from where he sat when he pulled himself into the cab he could see the dying embers of the camp. He did not see any movement there, apart from a few low flames and a curl of black smoke which was lost immediately in the mist. He turned back, looked ahead and pressed the starter.

  The engine fired and he put it into gear and drove up the road, feeling a little light-headed. In a very short space of time he had killed three men, the first he had ever killed face to face, and he was preparing to go on killing for as long as was necessary. His mind had returned to the tautness he remembered from Korea before he had been shot down; all his senses were razor-sharp and his mind emptied of everything but the task ahead.

  After a while he switched off the lights. It was risky, but he had to take the chance. There was the possibility that in the mist he could lose the road on one of the bends and go down the mountain out of control; but far worse was the risk' that the enemy in the trucks ahead would see him and lay an ambush.

  The truck ground on and on and the wheel bucked against his hand as the jolts were transmitted from the road surface. He went as fast as he thought safe, which was really not fast at all, but at last, rounding a particularly hair-raising corner, he saw a red tail-light disappearing round the next bend. At once he slowed down, content to follow at a discreet distance. There was nothing he could do on the road -- his time would come at the mine.

  He put out his hand to the sub-machine-gun resting on the seat next to him and drew it closer. It felt very comforting.

  He reached a bend he remembered, the final corner before the level ground at the mine. He drew into the side of the road .and put on the brake, but left the engine running. Taking the gun, he dropped to the ground, wincing as he felt the weight on his bad ankle, and hobbled up the road. From ahead he could hear the roar of engines stopping one by one, and when he found a place from where he could see, he discovered the other trucks parked by the huts and in the glare of headlights he saw the movement of men.

  The jeep revved up and started to move, the beams of its lights stabbing through the mist and searching along the base of the cliff where the mine tunnels had been driven. First one black cavern was illuminated and then another, and then there was a raised shout of triumph, a howl of fierce joy, as the beams swept past the third tunnel and returned almost immediately to show a low rock wall at the entrance and the white face of a man who quickly dodged back out of sight.

  O'Hara wasted no time in wondering who it was. He nobbled back to his truck and put it in gear. Now was the time to enter that bleak arena.

  Chapter IX

  Forester felt warm and at ease, and to him the two were synonymous. Strange that the snow is so warm and soft, he thought; and opened his eyes to see a glare of white before him. He sighed and closed his eyes again, feeling a sense of disappointment. It was snow, after all. He supposed he should make an effort to move and get out of this deliciously warm snow or he would die, but he decided it was not worth the effort. He just let the warmth lap him in comfort and for a second before he relapsed into unconsciousness he wondered vaguely where Rohde had got to.

  The next time he opened his eyes the glare of white was still there but now he had recovered enough to see it for what it was -- the brilliance of sunlight falling on the crisply laundered white counterpane that covered him. He blinked and looked again, but the glare hurt his eyes, so he closed them. He knew he should do something but what it was he could not remember, and he passed out again while struggling to keep awake long enough to remember what it was.

&
nbsp; Vaguely, in his sleep, he was aware of the passage of time and he knew he must fight against this, that he must stop the clock, hold the moving fingers, because he had something to do that was of prime urgency. He stirred and moaned, and a nurse in a trim white uniform gently sponged the sweat from his brow.

  But she did not wake him.

  At last he woke fully .and stared at the ceiling. That .was also white, plainly white-washed with thick wooden beams. He turned his head and found himself looking into kindly eyes. He licked dry lips and whispered. "What happened?"

  "No comprendo," .said the nurse. "No talk -- I bring doctor."

  She got up and his eyes moved as she went out of* the room. He desperately wanted her to come back, to tell him where he was and what had happened and where to find Rohde. As he thought of Rohde it all came back to him -- the night on the mountain and the frustrating attempts to find a way over the pass. Most of it he remembered, although the end bits were hazy -- and he also remembered why that impossible thing had been attempted.

  He tried to sit up but his muscles had no strength in them and he just lay there, breathing hard. He felt as though his body weighed a thousand pounds and as though he had been beaten all over with a rubber hose. Every muscle was loose and flabby, even the muscles of his neck, as he found when he tried to raise his head. And he felt very, very tired.

  It was a long time before anyone came into the room, and then it was the nurse bearing a bowl of hot soup. She would not let him talk and he was too weak to insist, and every time he opened his mouth she ladled a spoonful of soup into it. The broth gave him new strength and he felt better, and when he had finished the bowl he said, "Where is the other man -- el otro hombre?"

  "Your friend will be all right," she said in Spanish, and whisked out of the room before he could ask anything else. Again it was a long time before anyone came to see him. He had no watch, but by the position of the sun he judged it was about midday. But which day? How long had he been there? He put up his hand to scratch an intolerable itching in his chest and discovered why he felt so heavy and uncomfortable; he seemed to be wrapped in a couple of miles of adhesive tape.