John Robb - Zone Zero

And he was going to lose her!

It was unthinkable.

He looked across the table at the sensuous suggestion of her shapely body, at the tempestuous beauty of her features, and he knew that he would not let her go away. He could not do so. She had taken possession of him. She had become the dominant part of him.

He lied. He had never before been a liar.

He told her: “It’s not as serious as all that. I have money saved. Why shouldn’t I spend it on you?”

Lucinne brightened immediately. Her old animation returned, as if at a flick of a switch.

She put out a hand and touched the tips of his fingers.

“I think I like you very much, Andre,” she said…

After leaving her that night, he went into the card room in the officers’ mess. He played until five in the morning.

And when he left the table he owed nearly forty thousand francs.

“I’ll settle later in the day,” he promised his creditors. And settle he must.

But how?

His total debts were now fifty thousand francs. His assets were nil. Even his entire month’s pay—when it arrived—would not be enough. It had all happened within twelve hours.

And what about Lucinne? He had promised to meet her again that night under the wild notion that he would be lucky at the table.

There was only one solution. Since his gambling debts must be paid immediately, and since he must see Lucinne, he would have to borrow again, on a long-term basis. The lieutenant who had advanced the original ten thousand would almost certainly help—for he was of a wealthy family.

But that lieutenant was not to be found. He had departed on a few days’ leave.

D’Aran felt dizzy when he established the appalling fact. He felt a great wave of panic seize his vitals. It would be bad enough to face the social disgrace of not meeting gambling dues. But to have to admit to Lucinne that he was a cheap liar, too…

That was impossible.

Then he remembered the mess funds.

Those funds, raised by voluntary subscription, were used to obtain occasional extra comforts for the mess. And he, D’Aran, as one of the most junior officers, had been placed in nominal charge of them. So far as D’Aran could remember, there was about seventy thousand francs in cash in the orderly room safe. If would be easy to take fifty thousand of it—then replace it when he had raised a loan. And he could foresee no possibility of detection, for the audit was not due for a fortnight and there was no likelihood of a call on the money.

He hated himself for the decision. He hated himself as he waited for the orderly room to be temporarily empty.

And he hated himself as he unlocked the safe and removed the notes.

But he was driven by a fathomless compulsion.

That afternoon he paid the card players. Then he went into town to pick up Lucinne at the small hotel where she stayed.

He was approaching the entrance when he saw her leaving. She was on the arm of a colonel of the Tringlots . They got into a Legion staff car and drove away.

He stood very still in that street, with the throng of Arabs and soldiers pressing about him.

Then he groped in his breast pocket for the photograph which Lucinne had given him of herself.

He tore it into precise fragments. He watched them fall to the ground.

And then, because an infatuated man knows no logic, he knelt down and retrieved the pieces.

He had just finished pasting the torn shreds together when the adjutant came into his room.

“I’m sorry about this,” the adjutant said, “but you’ve been posted to Fort Ney. I know it isn’t your turn, but there’s been some trouble with the rota. You’ll leave with your column in the morning.”

Several seconds passed before D’Aran could answer. Then he said: “Must it be me?”

The adjutant looked curiously at his white and working face.

“Of course it must be you. No other subaltern is available and we can’t very well post a captain to a miserable little place like Fort Ney, can we?’ But why are you so bothered about it? I know it is a wretched place, but it’s only for three months…”

D’Aran was wondering when his friend would return from leave. Wondering when he would be able to borrow money to replace that which he had taken from the safe. He was not likely to be back before the end of the week. By that time it would be too late. He, D’Aran, would be well on his way to that damnable outpost. And in a couple of weeks the theft would be discovered.

Then…

They would wait for his return under the normal trooping arrangements. And when he was back at Tala Baku he would be called before a General Officer’s Enquiry. After that he would be arrested.

A court martial after that. Then a ceremonial parade at which the badges of rank would be ripped off. After that, a prison sentence…

…As he mused, D’Aran was only vaguely aware of the morning light. Scarcely sensible of his shoulder wound. Nothing mattered now. Only the past was real—and it had the reality of a shadow.

There had been no substance in anything since that day he had marched out of Tala Baku, knowing he had left behind a crime which would surely be unearthed.

And now, as well as disgracing his name because of a woman, he had smeared it through military incompetence. D’Aran thought as he lay bound on the floor: “I’m inept. If it weren’t so serious I’d be a public joke. Secrets of the new bomb will be revealed to our enemies because I was duped. And our very corpses will help the enemy in their work…”

As if from far off, he heard the words being repeated from the bunk at his side:

“Are you all right, man officier ?”

It was a call to the present, to the immediate and ghastly chaos which was Fort Ney.

He eased from his side to his back and looked up at Legionnaire Keith Tragarth.

“ Merci , legionnaire . My wound is not serious. It is not that which is worrying me.”

Keith said: “Do you… do you think there is anything we can do?”

D’Aran considered before replying. “This is the last day of June,” he said. “We have eight days before the explosion.”

“A lot can happen in eight days.”

“ Oui , a lot can happen—or nothing at all.” As soon as he had uttered the words D’Aran regretted them. His was the duty of encouraging his men, not of damping down their hopes. So he added quickly: “But somehow we must get a message out. It is not just a matter of our own lives, nor even of preserving the secrets of the nuclear explosion.”

There was a sudden atmosphere of tenseness in the bunk room. All the other legionnaires were awake and listening to D’Aran now. Realising this, D’Aran raised his voice slightly.

“It is the Arabs who matter, too,” he said. “My orders were to evacuate all of them from this command area by midnight, July the fourth. If that is not done, they will die in hundreds when the bomb is detonated. It will be awful… and it will be a crime for which all humanity will hold France responsible.”

Keith said: “That means we really have only four days.”

D’Aran grunted.

Sergeant Vogel, who was still half-considering his reading on nuclear fission, said from the other end of the room: “There would be no survivors, mon officier . The heat alone would kill everyone within forty miles if they were not under cover.”

No one thought of questioning this statement. Vogel’s mental storehouse of miscellaneous knowledge was well known.

Keith said: “But the evacuation will go to plan in the other command areas of Zone Zero. Surely the Arabs in this area will hear of what’s going to happen and clear out?”