John Robb - Zone Zero

Sergeant Vogel’s body had been dragged under a wall. The guards were trussed with ropes which had bound the legionnaires. And four heavy iron cots had been piled against the door. A fifth cot was in the process of being upended into position.

They formed a formidable barricade.

And as yet there had been no counter-action from Gallast and his remaining men. There had hardly been time.

One of the legionnaires had retrieved Vogel’s pistol. D’Aran called him over.

“How many rounds have you?” he asked.

“Twenty-nine, man officier . Two spare clips were in the sergeant’s pocket and there are nine rounds in the magazine.”

D’Aran nodded. He examined his own gun. It was empty. Keith had one remaining cartridge in the breech. They crossed to the two guards—both still only semi-conscious and badly bruised. They opened their ammunition pouches. Each contained two clips of ten.

D’Aran was looking thoughtful as he moved to the door to make a close inspection. With its reinforcement of iron, a battering ram would be needed to break it in. Satisfied, D’Aran gestured to the legionnaires. They gathered round him in the centre of the room. He spoke in a low pitched voice and slowly, so that all would clearly understand.

“I don’t need to tell you how fortunate we’ve been, mes soldats . So far, audacity has succeeded, thanks particularly to two of you…”

He did not look at Keith, or towards the body of Vogel.

D’Aran continued: “I have to tell you that we now hold the advantage. This room is a fort within a fort. The enemy now numbers only eight men—I am not in-cluding Professor Daak. There are twenty-seven of us. We have water. They have not. They have yet to find out that the body of one of their men is in the storage tank, plus a quantity of salt…”

There was a strained titter at this which D’Aran subdued with a frown.

He went on: “The enemy has but one advantage—fire power. They possess our Lebels and practically limitless ammunition. We have only three Lugers and exactly seventy rounds. But it will be more than enough. For, mes soldats , we are no longer the prisoners. It is they who are captured…

“Think of their position. They cannot leave here because they have neither the water nor the transport. Unless they want to be destroyed with us, they will have to allow us to send a message through to the High Command.

“So I do not think there will be more bloodshed. All we can do now is wait until I can speak to Gallast—and I think we shall be hearing from him very soon.”

Gallast had experienced a disturbed night. Professor Daak had been the cause. Daak was as unhappy in the nocturnal cool as he was in the daytime heat. He tossed restlessly on his bunk, which was placed under D’Aran’s desk. Occasionally he dropped into an uneasy doze and then he rambled. He quoted problems in differential calculus in his high-pitched voice and provided the answers. He delivered disconnected extracts from a paper on nuclear physics. And when he awoke, he moaned about the condition of his heart and the agony in his head.

Gallast—only a few feet away on what had been D’Aran’s bed—found it maddening. It made sleep almost impossible.

Several times he was on the point of shouting abuse at the paunchy Daak. But he refrained. For by now it was clear that the professor was seriously ill. And the professor represented the entire basis of the operation.

The secret penetration into Algeria on horseback, the daring and magnificent capture of a small Legion outpost, the carefully organised plane lifts… they would all be nothing if Daak could not complete his work.

At home men were eagerly awaiting the results of Daak’s investigations into tomorrow’s explosion.

Daak, with his phenomenal scientific brain, would be almost certain to deduce many secrets of the bomb after consulting his recording instruments. And the bodies of the legionnaires would give him further valuable data.

No, Daak must not be worried. Somehow he must be kept fit enough to work.

So Gallast tolerated the disturbances.

And it was not until towards dawn that the professor allowed him to fall into a light sleep.

He awoke to the sound of gunfire.

Gallast reacted instinctively.

He was pulling on his clothes before his brain began to work. Then, for a few confused seconds, he tried to assess the possibilities.

Had a Legion patrol arrived, through some hideous mischance? No—all the shooting was coming from within the building.

Had a legionnaire escaped? That was highly unlikely.

The whinnying of the horses gave him a vague clue. Then, through the window, he caught a glimpse of two animals careering round the compound. He heard the shouts of his men and the hoofbeats slowed and ceased.

He emerged into the compound in time to see the mules die. And to see the already dead horses.

Gallast did not allow himself the weakness of emotion. Nor did he continue theorising. He turned to one of his men who came running out of the building.

The man was obviously bewildered and frightened. He spluttered and waved a wild hand. Gallast struck his cheek with an open palm. It was a hard blow and the man staggered. But he lost his hysteria. He provided what information he had.

“The legionnaires… they’ve seized the bunk room!”

“Seized it! With six guards there!”

“Only three… Sarle went to look for the pitchers then two of us left to find him because the pitchers were behind the stove…”

Gallast extended a hand and gripped the man’s jacket. He drew him towards him.

“Now,” he said, “tell me exactly what you know since you released the legionnaires.”

The second description was more detailed.

“We were looking for Sarle when we heard the shooting. We had a glimpse of the inside of the room just before the door was locked. The Dutchman—the sergeant—was wounded, but he had a gun. The others had gone mad! They were rushing at our men…”

Gallast put a couple of quick questions. The answers helped to complete an outline picture of what had occurred.

He stood completely still. Sweat dribbled down the sides of his powerful face. Fury and fear, the twin allies, struggled to gain possession of him.

He knew fury because of the seeming ineptitude of his men.

He knew fear because of what would almost certainly happen to him if he had to report failure of his critical operation. His own life, he knew, would have no more permanence than a naked flame in a storm.

For the second time that morning he conquered his emotions. But only after a mental battle which left him feeling weak, exhausted. Yet it also left his mind cold and clear.

What, he asked himself in the orthodox military manner, was the garrison’s ultimate reason for shooting the horses and mules?

That was easy to answer. They intended to destroy all means of escape to the Keeba Foothills.

Had they succeeded?

Only partly. Two horses had survived. So—one of them could carry the nearly helpless Daak. The other could be laden with supplies. And he and his men would march…

He glanced at his watch. Nearly eight o’clock. Thirty-one hours before the explosion. Plenty of time, even on foot, to reach Keeba. And to prepare the complex protective trenches. The garrison could remain as they were. Bottled up in the bunk room, they could not interfere with the departure.

But…

Gallast was uneasy. Surely it could not be as simple as that? Why, for instance, had D’Aran not delayed the rising until tomorrow, when it would have been impossible to reach safety before the explosion?

D’Aran was young. It was obvious that he’d had little practical experience as an officer. But he was no fool. There must be a reason for choosing today of all days.