Алистер Маклин - Night Without End

The second flare, considerably higher, burst into life just as the first went sputtering into extinction and the further thought struck me that if there were any ships patrolling out in the sea beyond, it would give them a bearing the significance of which none of them could surely overlook. And then I saw Jackstraw and Zagero looking at me and though I couldn’t read their expressions in the darkness I knew from their stillness what they were both thinking and suddenly I didn’t feel so happy any more. The odds were high that Corazzini and Smallwood – they could be no more than a few miles distant – had seen the flares also. They would know what it signified, they would know it was the first tug on the drawstring of the net that might even then be starting to close round them. In addition to being dangerous, ruthless killers, they would become frightened killers; and they had Margaret and Johnny Zagero’s father with them. But I knew I’d had no option, tried to thrust all thought of the hostages from my mind, turned to look at the third balloon that we had just released, then winced and closed my eyes involuntarily as the third flare, through some flaw or misjudgment in the length of the fuse, ignited not more than five hundred feet above us, the blue-white intensity mingling almost immediately with a bright orange flame as the balloon also caught fire and both started drifting slowly earthwards.

And so intently was I watching this through narrowed eyes that I all but missed something vastly more important, but Jackstraw didn’t. He never missed anything. I felt his hand on my arm, turned to see the strong white teeth gleaming in the widest grin I had seen for weeks, then half-turned again to follow the direction of his pointing arm just in time to see low on the horizon in the south-east and not more than five miles away the earthward curving red and white flare of a signal rocket.

Our feelings were impossible to describe – I know, at least, that mine were. I had never seen anything half so wonderful in all my life, not even the sight, twenty minutes later, of the powerful wavering headlight beams of the Sno-Cat as it appeared over a rise in the plateau and headed towards the spot – we had scrambled up from the glacier to the flat land above – where we had just ignited the last of our flares and were waving it round and round our heads on the end of a long metal pole, like men demented. It seemed an age, although I don’t suppose it was much more than ten minutes, before the great red and yellow Sno-Cat ground to a halt beside us and willing arms reached down to help us into the incredible warmth and comfort of that superbly equipped and insulated cabin.

Hillcrest was a great bull of a man, red-faced, black-bearded, jovial, confident, with a tremendous zest for living, a deceptive external appearance that concealed a first-class brain and a competence of a very high order indeed. It did me good just to sit there, glass of brandy in hand, relaxed – if only for a moment – for the first time in five days and just to look at him. I could tell that it hadn’t done him the same good to look at us – in the bright overhead light I could clearly see our yellowed, blistered, emaciated faces, the bleeding, black-nailed, suppurating all but useless hands, and I was shocked myself – but he concealed it well, and busied himself with handing out restoratives, tucking away Mahler and Marie LeGarde in two deep, heat-pad-filled bunks, and supervising the efforts of the cook who had a steaming hot meal ready prepared. All this he had done before he had as much as asked us a question.

‘Right,’ he said briskly. ‘First things first. Where’s the Citroën? I presume the missile mechanism is still aboard it. Brother, you just don’t begin to have any idea how many heart attacks this thing is causing.’

‘That’s not the first thing,’ I said quietly. I nodded to Theodore Mahler, whose hoarse gasping breath filled the room. ‘This man is dying.’

‘All under control,’ he boomed. He jerked a thumb at Joss who, after the first delighted greeting, had returned to his radio set in the corner. ‘The boy here hasn’t left his set for over twenty-four hours – ever since we got your “Mayday” call.’ He looked at me speculatively. ‘You took a chance there. I wonder you didn’t stop a bullet for your pains.’

‘I just about did … We were talking about Mahler.’

‘Yes. We’ve been in constant contact, same wave-length, with two ships in that time – the destroyer Wykenham and the carrier Triton. I had a fair idea your friends must be heading in this direction, so the Wykenham has been moving up overnight and is lying off the coast. But the leads and patches in the ice aren’t big enough for the Triton to manoeuvre to fly off planes. She’s about eighty miles south, in clear water.’

‘Eighty miles!’ I didn’t bother to conceal my shock and my disappointment, I’d begun to have a faint irrational hope that we might yet save the dying man. ‘Eighty miles!’

‘I have news for you, Doctor,’ Hillcrest announced jovially. ‘We have moved into the air age.’ He turned towards Joss and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

‘A Scimitar jet fighter is just taking off.’ Joss tried to speak unemotionally, but failed. ‘It’s airborne – now. Time-check 0933. We’re to fire our first rocket at 0946 – thirteen minutes from now. Then two more at intervals of thirty seconds. At 0948 we’re to set off a slow-burning magnesium flare where we want the stuff dropped, at least two hundred yards from the tractor.’ Joss listened for another few moments and grinned. ‘He says we’re to get the hell out of it after we’ve lit the flare or we’re liable to collect a headache or worse.’

I didn’t know what to say, where to look, moments like this came all too seldom. Not until that moment did I realise how much of a symbol Theodore Mahler had become, how much his survival had meant for me. Hillcrest must have had some intuitive understanding of how I felt, for he spoke at once, his voice normal, matter of fact.

‘Service, old boy. Sorry we couldn’t have laid it on earlier, but the Triton refused to risk an expensive plane and an even more expensive pilot flying low over virtually uncharted territory unless they definitely knew that Mahler was alive.’

‘They’ve done all anyone could ask.’ A sudden thought struck me. ‘These planes don’t usually carry ammunition in peace-time, do they?’

‘Don’t worry’ Hillcrest said grimly. He ladled some steaming stew on to our plates. ‘Nobody’s playing any more. There’s been a flight of Scimitars standing by since midnight, and every cannon’s loaded … Right, Doctor. Give with the story.’

I gave, as briefly and concisely as possible. At the end, he clapped his hands together.

‘Maybe five miles ahead, eh? Then it’s tallyho down the old glacier and after ‘em.’ He rubbed his hands in anticipation. ‘We’re three times as fast and we’ve three times as many rifles. This is the way any decent IGY expedition should be run!’

I smiled faintly, a token response to his bubbling enthusiasm. I never felt less like smiling: now that the worry of Mahler – and in that warmth and with hot food, almost certainly also the worry of Marie LeGarde – was off my hands, my anxiety about Margaret had returned with redoubled force.

‘We’re not tallyhoing down any old glacier, Captain Hillcrest. Apart from the fact that it’s a rotten surface, which would bring your speed down to about the same as the Citroën’s, open pursuit is a pretty sure way of guaranteeing that Margaret Ross and Mr Levin get a bullet through their heads. Incidentally, Mr Levin is the father of Mr Zagero.’

‘What?’ Both Hillcrest and Joss had spoken at the same time.