by High Citadel
"Who knows what lies inside a man?" said Benedetta softly, and Armstrong knew she was thinking of O'Hara.
He stayed with her a while and talked the tension out of her, then went back and lit the lamp. O'Hara looked across at him with pain-filled eyes. "Has the truck had it?"
"I don't know," said Armstrong. "I haven't looked yet."
"I thought we might make a getaway in it," said O'Hara.
"I'll have a look at it. I don't think it took much damage from the knocks it had -- those chaps had it pretty well armoured against our crossbow bolts. But I don't think the bullets did it any good; the armour wouldn't be proof against those."
Aguillar came closer. "Perhaps we might try in the darkness -- to get away, I mean."
"Where to?" asked Armstrong practically. "They'll have the bridge covered -- and I wouldn't like to take a truck across that at night -- it would be suicidal. And they'll have plenty of light up here, too; they'll keep the entrance to the tunnel well covered." He rubbed the top of his head. "I don't know why they don't just come in and take us right now."
"I think I killed the top man," said O'Hara. "I hope I did. And I don't think Santos has the stomach to push in here -- he's scared of what he might meet."
"Who is Santos?" asked Aguillar.
"The Cuban." O'Hara smiled weakly. "I got pretty close to him down below."
"You did a lot of damage when you came up in the truck," observed Armstrong. "I don't wonder they're scared. Maybe they'll give up."
"Not now," said O'Hara with conviction. "They're too close to success to give up now. Anyway, all they have to do now is to camp outside and starve us out."
They were silent for a long time thinking about that, then Armstrong said. "I'd rather go down in glory." He pulled forward the sub-machine-gun. "Do you know how this thing works?"
O'Hara showed him how to work the simple mechanism, and when he had gone back to his post Aguillar said. "I am sorry about your shoulder, senor."
O'Hara bared his teeth in a brief grin. "Not as sorry as I am -- it hurts like the devil. But it doesn't matter, you know; I'm not likely to feel pain for long."
Aguillar's asthmatical wheezing stopped momentarily as he caught his breath. "Then you think this is the end?"
"I do."
"A pity, senor. I could have made much use of you in the new Cordillera. A man in my position needs good men -- they are as hard to find as the teeth of a hen."
"What use would a broken-down pilot be to you? Men like me come ten a penny."
"I do not think so," said Aguillar seriously. "You have shown much initiative in this engagement and that is a commodity which is scarce. As you know, the military forces of Cordillera are rotten with politics and I need men to lift them out of the political arena -- especially the fighter squadrons. If you wish to stay in Cordillera, I think I can promise you a position in the Air Force."
For a moment O'Hara forgot that the hours -- and perhaps minutes -- of his life were measured. He said simply. "I'd like that."
"I'm glad," said Aguillar. "Your first task would be to straighten out Eighth Squadron. But you must not think that because you are marrying into the President's family that the way will be made easy for you." He chuckled as he felt O'Hara start. "I know my niece very well, Tim. Never has she felt about a man as she feels about you. I hope you will be very happy together."
"We will be," said O'Hara, then fell silent as reality flooded upon him once more -- the realisation that all this talk of marriage and future plans was futile. After a while, he said wistfully. "These are pipe dreams, Senor Aguillar; reality is much more frightening. But I do wish ..."
"We are still alive," said Aguillar. "And while the blood runs in a man nothing is impossible for him."
He said nothing more and O'Hara heard only the rasping of his breath in the darkness.
iii
When Armstrong joined Benedetta he looked towards the entrance of the tunnel and saw that night had fallen and there was a bright glare of headlamps flooding the opening. He strained his eyes and said. "The mist seems to be thickening, don't you think?"
"I think so," said Benedetta listlessly.
"Now's the time to scout around," he said.
"Don't," Benedetta implored him. "They'll see you."
"I don't think they can; the mist is throwing the light back at them. They'd see me if I went outside, but I don't intend to do that. I don't think they can see a damned thing in the tunnel."
"All right, then. But be careful."
He smiled as he crawled forward. In their circumstances the word. "careful" seemed ridiculous. It was like telling a man who had jumped from an aeroplane without a parachute to be careful. All the same, he was most careful to make no noise as he inched his way towards the entrance, hampered by the shattered remnants of the rock wall.
He stopped some ten yards short of the opening, knowing that to go farther would be too risky, and peered into the misty brightness. At first he could see nothing, but by shielding his eyes from the worst of the glare he managed to pick out some details. Two trucks were parked at an angle to the cliff, one on each side of the tunnel, and when the light from the left truck flickered he knew someone had walked in front of it. He stayed there for some time and twice he made deliberate movements, but it was as he thought -- he could not be seen. After a while he began to crawl about gathering rocks, which he built up into a low wall, barely eighteen inches high. It was not much but it would give solid protection against rifle fire to anyone lying behind it. This took him a long time and there was no action from outside; occasionally he heard a man coughing, and sometimes the sound of voices, but apart from that there was nothing.
Eventually he picked up the sub-machine-gun and went back to the truck. Benedetta whispered from the darkness. " What are they doing?"
"Damned if I know," he said, and looked back. "It's too quiet out there. Keep a good watch; I'm going to have a look at the truck."
He squeezed her hand and then groped his way to the cab of the truck and climbed inside. Everything seemed to be all right, as far as he could judge, barring the windscreen which could not be seen through. He sat in the driving-seat and thought about what would happen if they had to make a break for it.
To begin with, he would be driving -- there was no one else who could handle the truck -- and ha would have to reverse out of the tunnel. There would be one man in the passenger seat beside him and the others in the back.
He examined the rest of the truck, more by feel than sight. Two of the tyres had been badly scored by bullets but miraculously the inner tubes had not been penetrated. The petrol tanks, too, were intact, protected by the deep skirts of mild steel, added to guard against crossbow bolts.
He had fears about the radiator, but a groping journey under the truck revealed no fatal drip of water and he was reassured about that. His only worries were that the final crash might have damaged the steering or the engine, but those could not be tested until the time came to go. He did not want to start the engine now -- let sleeping dogs lie, he thought.
He rejoined Benedetta. "That's that," he said with satisfaction. "She seems to be in good fettle. I'll take over here. You'd better see how the others are."
She turned immediately, and he knew she was eager to get back to O'Hara.
"Wait a minute," he said. "You'd better know the drill if we have to make a sudden move." He lifted the gun. "Can you use this?"
"I don't know."
Armstrong chuckled. "I don't know if I can, either -- it's too modern for me. But O'Hara reckons it's easy enough; you just pull the trigger and let her go. He says it takes a bit of holding down and you must be careful to slip off the safety-catch. Now, I'll be driving, with your uncle sitting next to me on the floor of the cab. Tim and Jenny will be in the back, flat on the floor. And there'll be you in the back, too -- with this gun. It'll be a bit dangerous -- you'll have to show yourself if you shoot."
Her voice was stony. "I'll shoot."
"Good girl," he said, and patted her on the shoulder. "Give Tim my love when you, give him yours." He heard her go, then moved up the tunnel to the wall he had built and lay behind it, the sub-machine-gun ready to hand. He put his hand in his pocket and felt for his pipe, then uttered a muffled "Damn!" It was broken, the two pieces separate in his hand. He put the stem in his mouth and chewed on the mouthpiece, never taking his eyes from the entrance.
iv
The day dawned mistily, a dazzling whiteness at the mouth of the tunnel, and Armstrong shifted his position for the hundredth time, trying to find a place to ease his aching bones. He glanced across at O'Hara on the other side of the tunnel and thought, it's worse for him than for me.
When O'Hara had heard of the rebuilt wall he had insisted on moving there. "I haven't a hope of sleep," he said. "Not with this shoulder. And I've got a fully loaded pistol. I might as well stand -- or lie -- sentry out there as just lie here. I should be of some use, even if only to allow everyone else to get some sleep."
But in spite of that Armstrong had not slept. He ached too much to sleep, even though he felt more exhausted than ever before in his life, but he smiled cheerily at O'Hara in the growing light and lifted his head above the low barricade.
There was nothing to be seen except the white swirling mist, an impenetrable curtain. He said softly. "Tim, why didn't they jump us in the night?"
"They know we have this gun," said O'Hara. "I wouldn't like to come running into this tunnel knowing that -- especially at night."
"Um," said Armstrong in an unconvinced tone. "But why haven't they tried to soften us up with rifle fire? They must know that any fire directed into this tunnel will ricochet from the walls -- they don't have to be too accurate."
O'Hara was silent, and Armstrong continued reflectively. "I wonder if there is anyone out there?"
"Don't be a damn' fool," said O'Hara. "That's something we can't take a chance on -- not yet. Besides, there was someone to turn the lights off not very long ago."
"True," said Armstrong, and turned as he heard a movement in the tunnel, and Benedetta crawled up holding a bundle in her arms.
"The last of the food," she said. "There's not much -- and we have no water at all."
Armstrong's mouth turned down. "That's bad."
As he and O'Hara shared the food they heard a stirring outside and the murmur of voices. "Changing the guard," said O'Hara. "I heard it before about four hours ago when you were asleep. They're still there, all right."
*Me! Asleep!" said Armstrong in an aggrieved voice. "I didn't sleep a wink all night."
O'Hara smiled. "You got three or four winks out of the forty." He became serious. "If we really need water we can drain some from the truck radiator, but 1 wouldn't do that unless absolutely necessary."
Benedetta regarded O'Hara with worry in her eyes. He had a hectic flush and looked too animated for a man who had nearly been shot to death. Miss Ponsky had had the same reaction, and now she was off her head with delirium, unable to eat and crying for water. She said. "I think we ought to have water now; Jenny needs it."
"In that case we'll tap the radiator," said Armstrong. "I hope the anti-freeze compound isn't poisonous; I think it's just alcohol, so it should be all right."
He crawled back with Benedetta and squeezed underneath the truck to unscrew the drain-cock. He tapped out half a can of rusty-looking water and passed it to her. "That will have to do," he said. "We can't take too much -- we might need the truck."
The day wore on and nothing happened. Gradually the mist cleared under the strengthening sun and then they could see out of the tunnel, and Armstrong's hopes were shattered as he saw a group of men standing by the huts. Even from their restricted view they could see that the enemy was in full strength.
"But can they see us?" mused O'Hara. "I don't think they can. This cavern must look as dark as the Black Hole of Calcutta from outside."
"What the devil are they doing?" asked Armstrong, his eyes level with the top of a rock.
O'Hara watched for a long time, then he said in wonder. "They're piling rocks on the ground -- apart from that they're doing nothing."
They watched for a long time and all the enemy did was to pile stones in a long line stretching away from the tunnel. After a while they appeared to tire of that and congregated into small groups, chatting and smoking. They seemed to have the appearance of men waiting for something, but why they were waiting or what the rocks were for neither O'Hara nor Armstrong could imagine.
It was midday when Armstrong, his nerves cracking under the strain, said. "For God's sake, let's do something -- something constructive."
O'Hara's voice was flat and tired. "What?"
"If we're going to make a break in the truck we might have to do it quickly. I suggest we put Jenny in the back of the truck right away, and get the old man settled in the front seat. Come to think of it, he'll be a damn sight more comfortable on a soft seat."
O'Hara nodded. "All right. Leave that sub-machine-gun with me. I might need it."
Armstrong went back to the truck, walking upright. To hell with crawling on my belly like a snake, he thought; let me walk like a man for once. The enemy either did not see or saw and did not care. No shots were fired.
He saw Miss Ponsky safely into the back of the truck and then he escorted Aguillar to the cab. Aguillar was in a bad way, much worse than he had been. His speech was incoherent and his breathing was bad; he was in a daze and did not appear to know where he was. Benedetta was pale and worried and stayed to look after him.
When Armstrong dropped behind the rock wall, he said. "If we don't get out of here soon that bloody crowd will have won."
O'Hara jerked his head in surprise. "Why?"
"Aguillar -- he looks on the verge of a heart attack; if he doesn't get down to where he can breathe more easily he'll peg out."
O'Hara looked outside and gestured with his good aim. "There are nearly two dozen men within sight; they'd shoot hell out of us if we tried to break out now. Look at what happened to me yesterday when they were hampered by mist -- there's no mist now and we wouldn't stand a chance. We'll have to wait."
So they waited -- and so did the enemy. And the day went on, the sun sloping back overhead into mid-afternoon, ft was three o'clock when O'Hara stirred and then relaxed and shook his head. "I thought . . . but no."
He settled himself down, but a moment later his head jerked up again. "It is -- can't you hear it?"
"Hear what?" asked Armstrong.
"A plane -- or planes," said O'Hara excitedly.
Armstrong listened and caught the shrill whine of a jet plane passing overhead, the noise muffled and distorted. "By God, you're right," he said. He looked at O'Hara in sudden consternation. "Ours or theirs?"
But O'Hara had already seen their doom. He leaned up and looked, horrified, to the mouth of the tunnel. Framed in the opening against the sky was a diving plane coming head on and, as he watched, he saw something drop from each wing, and a spurt of vapour.
"Rockets !" he screamed. "For Christ's sake, get down!"
v
Forester had climbed to meet the three Sabres and as he approached they saw him and fell into a loose formation and awaited him. He came in from behind and increased speed, getting the leader in his sights. He flicked off the safety switches and his thumb caressed the firing-button. This boy would never know what hit h im.
All the time there was a continual jabber in his ear-phones as the leader called Coello. At last, assuming that Coello's radio was at fault, he said. "Since you are silent, mio Colonel, I will lead the attack." It was then that Forester knew that these men had been briefed on the ground -- and he pressed the firing-button.
Once again he felt the familiar jolt in the air, almost a halt, and saw the tracer shells streaking and corkscrewing towards their target. The leading Sabre was a-dance with coruscations of light as the shells burst, and suddenly it blew up in a gout of black smoke with a red heart at the centre.
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br /> Forester weaved to avoid wreckage and then went into a sharp turn and climbed rapidly, listening to the horrified exclamations from the other pilots. They babbled for a few moments then one of them said. "Silence. I will take him."
Forester searched the skies and thought -- he's quick off the mark. He felt chilled; these boys would be young and have fast reflexes and they would be trained to a hair. He had not flown for nearly ten years, beyond the few annual hours necessary to keep up his rating, and he wondered grimly ( how long he would last.
He found his enemies. One was swooping in a graceful dive towards the ground and the other was climbing in a wide circle to get behind him. As he watched, the pilot fired his rockets aimlessly. "Oh, no, you don't, you bastard," said Forester. "You don't catch me like that." He knew his opponent had jettisoned his rockets in order to reduce weight and drag and to gain speed. For a moment he was tempted to do the same and to fight it out up there in the clean sky, but he knew he could not take the chance. Besides he had a better use for his rockets.
Instead, he pushed the control column forward and went into a screaming dive. This was dangerous -- his opponent would be faster in the dive and it had been drilled into Forester never, never to lose height while in combat. He kept his eyes on the mirror and soon the Sabre came into view behind, catching up fast. He waited until the very last moment, until he was sure he was about to be fired on, then pushed the stick forward again and went into a suicidal vertical dive.
His opponent overshot him, taken unaware by the craziness of this manoeuvre performed so near the ground. Forester ignored him, confident that he had lost him for the time being; he was more concerned with preventing his plane from splattering itself all over the mountainside. He felt juddering begin as the Sabre approached the sound barrier; the whole fabric of the plane groaned as he dragged it out of the dive and he hoped the wings would not come off.
By the time he was flying level the ground was a scant two hundred feet below, snow and rock merging together in a grey blur. He lifted the Sabre up a few hundred feet and circled widely away from the mountains, looking for the gorge and the bridge. He spotted the gorge immediately -- it was too unmistakable to be missed, and a minute later he saw the bridge. He turned over it, scanning the ground, but saw no one, and then it was gone behind and he lifted up to the slope of the mountain, flying over the winding road he had laboriously tramped so often.