John Robb - Zone Zero

There had been rumours of the explosion. He recalled hearing them when in Tala Baku. But he had not been much interested. They had been fragmentary and, he thought, unconvincing. In any case, he had had other matters on his mind. Lucinne, for instance, Lucinne and the fifty thousand francs he had stolen for her…

For the second time within an hour he had to force her from his mind. Her memory was like the remembered fragrance of last summer’s flower—still there, yet gone beyond recall.

He said: “Let hell take all women!” But there was no conviction in his tones and he concentrated again on his immediate problems.

This nuclear explosion near the Sanna Oasis…

Sanna Oasis !

He jerked upright in his chair and stared fixedly at the bare wall. Dieu ! Why hadn’t he thought of it immediately? That was where Gallast and his archaeological party were going!

What a coincidence! But was it a coincidence? Could it be that they…

He recoiled from the unfinished thought. He did not want to indulge in melodramatics. But… but even if their papers were in order, they would have to be turned back without delay. In fact, he would probably have to detail half a dozen men to escort them out of Zone Zero. And he must inform the High Command of their presence. Obviously they ought not to have been allowed to proceed beyond Baku. There had been an administrative hitch somewhere.

There was a sharp double knock on the door. D’Aran mopped his greasy brow and muttered “ Entre .”

Gallast came in.

He said: “I have come to clear up any doubts you may have about us, lieutenant.” But he was not holding the passports. He was holding a Luger automatic pistol.

D’Aran opened his mouth to speak. But his vocal chords were temporarily paralysed and his mind had become a swirling haze of incredulous confusion. He gazed stupidly at the weapon which was levelled at the middle of his stomach. He continued to gaze at it as Gallast pulled over the chair from the radio table and sat opposite him.

Gallast said easily: “Is this your administrative office?”

Still D’Aran did not answer. Gallast smiled.

“But obviously it is,” he added. “It seems to be your living quarters, too. It is all somewhat cramped but we scarcely expected anything else. After all, it was the smallness of this place, as well as its geographical situation, which brought us here.”

D’Aran felt a clear click in his brain. It was as if a brake had been released from his mental motor. He jumped to his feet.

“What are you gibbering about? Have you gone mad? Put that gun away!”

Gallast thumbed free the safety catch and his forefinger took first pressure on the trigger. Both movements were clearly visible.

“Sit down, lieutenant. I don’t want to kill you, but I shall if you do not do as I say.”

For perhaps five seconds D’Aran remained standing, his prematurely lined face twitching his eyes wild. Then he sat heavily, like a man under a hypnotic compulsion. He knew that Gallast was not exaggerating.

He said slowly: “I don’t know what this is all about. But I warn you that it’s both a military and civil offence to threaten me with a firearm. You will be arrested and handed to the commandant at Tala Baku.”

Gallast nodded. His free hand rubbed the thick black bristles on his chin.

“It’s an academic warning, lieutenant.”

“ Tiens ! It’s nothing of the sort. It’s completely practicable. I only hope for your own sake that you’re suffering some mental disability. If you are not responsible for your actions, then the commandant may take a lenient view.”

“You are being insulting, lieutenant. I do not care to be insulted. I am trying to break it to you gently that the fort is no longer under your command and your garrison has been made helpless…”

He broke off to glance at a heavy strap watch. Then he added: “If you’ll listen, you’ll hear something rather dramatic within half a minute…”

D’Aran listened, his mind abducted by the intensity of the man’s words. The seconds passed slowly, heavily, like the footfalls of a man nearing the gallows.

Then he heard them.

He heard two almost simultaneous reverberations. Strong and cruel explosions which echoed weirdly against the fort walls. And he identified them immediately.

They were pistol shots. And from the east ramparts a man screamed.

Legionnaires Toto and Vakasky were on duty on the east ramparts.

It was an unfortunate combination, for the two men shared a smouldering distrust of each other. The cause, of course, was a . woman. She was a massively stout lady of varied antecedents and flexible morals who lived in the native quarter of Baku. She was known as Anna.

Toto, who was impelled by the hot passions of his native Spain, had a deep affection for Anna. He regarded her as his exclusive property. It was unfortunate that Vakasky, a Russian from Georgia, regarded Anna in the same light. And each strongly resented the fact that he was compelled to share Anna’s charms with the other. Each was determined to settle the intolerable situation before the garrison returned to Baku.

So it was that each time they passed each other on the ramparts a minor but significant crisis arose.

Vakasky—who was much the larger—contrived to get on the wall side as they approached. Then, when they were level, he attempted to nudge an indignant Toto off the ledge and on to the compound. The fact that he had not so far succeeded was probably due to the sparseness of opportunity. It was less than ten minutes since they had taken over the guard with the general relief and in the period the Russian had not been able to get his timing right. But there could be no doubt that ultimately he would have pushed Toto into eight feet of space.

Would have…

If they had not heard a sudden quiet but incisively spoken order from just below them.

It said: “Drop your rifles, legionnaires!”

They looked down, forgetting their animosity. And they saw one of the archaeological party. He was aiming a heavy Luger gas-ejection pistol at them.

They stopped uncertainly, blinking at the weapon. Like children, who were seeing, yet not believing.

The man with the Luger gestured impatiently. He repeated the order, but this time with more volume, with additional emphasis.

The Russian and the Spaniard were immobile. They stood side by side on the ledge.

It was Vakasky who ultimately acted. He was a courageous man, was Legionnaire Vakasky. He was also a foolish one.

He tried to use his Lebel.

The rifle was in the orthodox repos position—suspended by the sling from the left shoulder. He attempted to free it as a necessary preliminary to squeezing the trigger.

Vakasky was still in the initial stages of sliding the weapon down his arm when the Luger was fired—twice.

The first bullet entered Vakasky’s body at a point exactly one inch above his navel. His rifle clattered on to the stonework as he clutched at his belly. His face had suddenly become grey-blue, as though tinted by a colour filter. He opened his quivering lips. And he gave forth a scream which blended fury and agony. The sound faded into a choking sob as more blood rushed from a torn lung into his throat.

He toppled slowly and heavily forward, like a venerable tree in a gale. He crashed on to the compound’s boot-hardened sand. And he lay there, face down, feebly kicking up the fine dust.

In a sense, Toto was more fortunate.

The bullet which killed him was almost simultaneous with that which hit Vakasky. It lodged in the top right side of his sleek head. The Spaniard was dead even as he revolved round, prior to slumping over the ramparts.