Десмонд Бэгли - High Citadel

At last he saw them orbiting the mountain by the side of the pass, but very high. He pulled gently on the control column and went to meet them. These were going to be three very surprised communists.

Armstrong heard trucks grinding up the mountain road. ‘They’re coming,’ he said, and looked out over the breastwork of rock, his fingers curling round the butt of the gun.

The mist seemed to be thinning and he could see as far as the huts quite clearly and to where the road debouched on to the level ground; but there was still enough mist to halo the headlights even before the trucks came into view.

Benedetta ran up the tunnel and lay beside him. He said, ‘You’d better get back; there’s nothing you can do here.’ He lifted the pistol. ‘One bullet. That’s all the fighting we can do.’

‘They don’t know that,’ she retorted.

‘How is your uncle?’ he asked.

‘Better, but the altitude is not good for him.’ She hesitated. ‘I am not happy about Jenny; she is in a fever.’

He said nothing; what was a fever or altitude sickness when the chances were that they would all be dead within the hour? Benedetta said, ‘We delayed them about three hours at the camp.’

She was not really speaking sense, just making inconsequential noises to drown her own thoughts — and all her thoughts were of O’Hara. Armstrong looked at her sideways. ‘I’m sorry to be pessimistic,’ he said. ‘But I think this is the last act. We’ve done very well considering what we had to fight with, but it couldn’t go on for ever. Napoleon was right — God is on the side of the big battalions.’

Her voice was savage. ‘We can still take some of them with us.’ She grasped his arm. ‘Look, they’re coming.’

The first vehicle was breasting the top of the rise. It was quite small and Armstrong judged it was a jeep. It came forward, its headlights probing the mist, and behind it came a big truck, and then another. He heard shouted commands and the trucks rolled as far as the huts and stopped, and he saw men climbing out and heard the clatter of boots on rock.

The jeep curved in a great arc, its lights cutting a swathe like a scythe, and Armstrong suddenly realized that it was searching the base of the cliffs where the tunnels were. Before he knew it he was fully illuminated, and as he dodged back into cover, he heard the animal roar of triumph from the enemy as he was seen.

‘Damn!’ he said. ‘I was stupid.’

‘It does not matter,’ Benedetta said. ‘They would have found us soon.’ She lay down and cautiously pulled a rock from the pile. ‘I think I can see through here,’ she whispered. ‘There is no need to put your head up.’

Armstrong heard steps from behind as Willis came up. ‘Keep down,’ he said quietly. ‘Flat on your stomach.’

Willis wriggled alongside him. ‘What’s going on?’

‘They’ve spotted us,’ said Armstrong. ‘They’re deploying out there; getting ready to attack.’ He laughed humourlessly. ‘If they knew what we had to defend ourselves with, they’d just walk in.’

‘There’s another truck coming,’ said Benedetta bitterly. ‘I suppose it’s bringing more men; they need an army to crush us.’

‘Let me see,’ said Armstrong. Benedetta rolled away from the spy-hole and Armstrong looked through. ‘It’s got no lights — that’s odd; and it’s moving fast. Now it’s changing direction and going towards the huts. It doesn’t seem to be slowing down.’

They could hear the roar of the engine, and Armstrong yelled, ‘It’s going faster — it’s going to smash into them.’ His voice cracked on a scream. ‘Do you think it could be O’Hara?’

O’Hara held tight to the jolting wheel and rammed the accelerator to the floorboards. He had been making for the jeep but then he had seen something much more important; in the light of the truck headlights a group of men were assembling a light machine-gun. He swung the wheel and the truck swerved, two wheels coming off the ground and then bouncing back with a spine-jolting crash. The truck swayed alarmingly, but he held it on its new course and switched on his lights and saw the white faces of men turn towards him and their hands go up to shield their eyes from the glare.

Then they were running aside but two of them were too late and he heard the squashy thumps as the front of the truck hit them. But he was not concerned with men — he wanted the gun — and the truck lifted a little as he drove the off-side wheels over the machine-gun, grinding it into the rock. Then he had gone past and there was a belated and thin scattering of shots from behind.

He looked for the jeep, hauled the wheel round again, and the careering truck swung and went forward like a projectile. The driver of the jeep saw him coming and tried to run for it; the jeep shot forward, but O’Hara swerved again and the jeep was fully illuminated as he made for a head-on crash. He saw the Russian point a pistol and there was a flash and the truck windscreen starred in front of his face. He ducked involuntarily.

The driver of the jeep swung his wheel desperately, but turned the wrong way and came up against the base of the cliff. The jeep spun again, but the mistake had given O’Hara his chance and he charged forward to ram the jeep broadside on. He saw the Russian throw up his arms and disappear from sight as the light vehicle was hurled on its side with a tearing and rending sound, and then O’Hara had slammed into reverse and was backing away.

He looked back towards the trucks and saw a mob of men running towards him, so he picked up the sub-machine-gun from the floor of the cab and he steadied it on the edge of the window. He squeezed the trigger three times, altering his aim slightly between bursts, and the mob broke up into fragments, individual men rolling on the open ground and desperately seeking cover.

As O’Hara engaged in bottom gear, a bullet tore through the body of the truck, and then another, but he took no notice. The front of the truck slammed into the overturned jeep again, catching it on the underside of the chassis. Remorselessly O’Hara pushed forward using the truck as a bulldozer and mashed the jeep against the cliff face with a dull crunching noise. When he had finished no human sounds came from the crushed vehicle.

But that act of anger and revenge was nearly the end of him. By the time he had reversed the truck and swung clear again he was under heavy fire. He rolled forward and tried to zigzag, but the truck was slow in picking up speed and a barrage of fire came from the semi-circle of men surrounding him. The windscreen shattered into opacity and he could not see where he was heading.

Benedetta, Armstrong and Willis were on their feet yelling, but no bullets came their way — they were not as dangerous as O’Hara. They watched the truck weaving drunkenly and saw sparks fly as steel-jacketed bullets ricocheted from the metal armour Santos had installed. Willis shouted, ‘He’s in trouble,’ and before they could stop him he had vaulted the rock wall and was running for the truck.

O’Hara was steering with one hand and using the butt of the sub-machine-gun as a hammer in an attempt to smash the useless windscreen before him. Willis leaped on the running-board and just as his fingers grasped the edge of the door O’Hara was hit. A rifle bullet flew the width of the cab and smashed his shoulder, slamming him into the door and nearly upsetting Willis’s balance. He gave a great cry and slumped down in his seat.

Willis grabbed the wheel with one hand, turned it awkwardly. He shouted, ‘Keep your foot on the accelerator,’ and O’Hara heard him through a dark mist of pain and pushed down with his foot. Willis turned the truck towards the cliff and tried to head for the tunnel. He saw the rear view mirror disintegrate and he knew that the bullet that had hit it had passed between his body and the truck. That did not seem to matter — all that mattered was to get the truck into cover.