Десмонд Бэгли - High Citadel

‘What use would a broken-down pilot be to you? Men like me come ten a penny.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Aguillar seriously. ‘You have shown much initiative in this engagement and that is a commodity which is scarce. As you know, the military forces of Cordillera are rotten with politics and I need men to lift them out of the political arena — especially the fighter squadrons. If you wish to stay in Cordillera, I think I can promise you a position in the Air Force.’

For a moment O’Hara forgot that the hours — and perhaps minutes — of his life were measured. He said simply, ‘I’d like that.’

‘I’m glad,’ said Aguillar. ‘Your first task would be to straighten out Eighth Squadron. But you must not think that because you are marrying into the President’s family that the way will be made easy for you.’ He chuckled as he felt O’Hara start. ‘I know my niece very well, Tim. Never has she felt about a man as she feels about you. I hope you will be very happy together.’

‘We will be,’ said O’Hara, then fell silent as reality flooded upon him once more — the realization that all this talk of marriage and future plans was futile. After a while, he said wistfully, ‘These are pipe dreams, Señor Aguillar; reality is much more frightening. But I do wish...’

‘We are still alive,’ said Aguillar. ‘And while the blood runs in a man nothing is impossible for him.’

He said nothing more and O’Hara heard only the rasping of his breath in the darkness.

When Armstrong joined Benedetta he looked towards the entrance of the tunnel and saw that night had fallen and there was a bright glare of headlamps flooding the opening. He strained his eyes and said, ‘The mist seems to be thickening, don’t you think?’

‘I think so,’ said Benedetta listlessly.

‘Now’s the time to scout around,’ he said.

‘Don’t,’ Benedetta implored him. ‘They’ll see you.’

‘I don’t think they can; the mist is throwing the light back at them. They’d see me if I went outside, but I don’t intend to do that. I don’t think they can see a damned thing in the tunnel.’

‘All right, then. But be careful.’

He smiled as he crawled forward. In their circumstances the word ‘careful’ seemed ridiculous. It was like telling a man who had jumped from an aeroplane without a parachute to be careful. All the same, he was most careful to make no noise as he inched his way towards the entrance, hampered by the shattered remnants of the rock wall.

He stopped some ten yards short of the opening, knowing that to go farther would be too risky, and peered into the misty brightness. At first he could see nothing, but by shielding his eyes from the worst of the glare he managed to pick out some details. Two trucks were parked at an angle to the cliff, one on each side of the tunnel, and when the light from the left truck flickered he knew someone had walked in front of it.

He stayed there for some time and twice he made deliberate movements, but it was as he thought — he could not be seen. After a while he began to crawl about gathering rocks, which he built up into a low wall, barely eighteen inches high. It was not much but it would give solid protection against rifle fire to anyone lying behind it. This took him a long time and there was no action from outside; occasionally he heard a man coughing, and sometimes the sound of voices, but apart from that there was nothing.

Eventually he picked up the sub-machine-gun and went back to the truck. Benedetta whispered from the darkness, ‘What are they doing?’

‘Damned if I know,’ he said, and looked back. ‘It’s too quiet out there. Keep a good watch; I’m going to have a look at the truck.’

He squeezed her hand and then groped his way to the cab of the truck and climbed inside. Everything seemed to be all right, as far as he could judge, barring the windscreen which could not be seen through. He sat in the driving-seat and thought about what would happen if they had to make a break for it.

To begin with, he would be driving — there was no one else who could handle the truck — and he would have to reverse out of the tunnel. There would be one man in the passenger seat beside him and the others in the back.

He examined the rest of the truck, more by feel than sight. Two of the tyres had been badly scored by bullets but miraculously the inner tubes had not been penetrated. The petrol tanks, too, were intact, protected by the deep skirts of mild steel, added to guard against crossbow bolts.

He had fears about the radiator, but a groping journey under the truck revealed no fatal drip of water and he was reassured about that. His only worries were that the final crash might have damaged the steering or the engine, but those could not be tested until the time came to go. He did not want to start the engine now — let sleeping dogs lie, he thought.

He rejoined Benedetta. ‘That’s that,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘She seems to be in good fettle. I’ll take over here. You’d better see how the others are.’

She turned immediately, and he knew she was eager to get back to O’Hara.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘You’d better know the drill if we have to make a sudden move.’ He lifted the gun. ‘Can you use this?’

‘I don’t know.’

Armstrong chuckled. ‘I don’t know if I can, either — it’s too modern for me. But O’Hara reckons it’s easy enough; you just pull the trigger and let her go. He says it takes a bit of holding down and you must be careful to slip off the safety-catch. Now, I’ll be driving, with your uncle sitting next to me on the floor of the cab. Tim and Jenny will be in the back, flat on the floor. And there’ll be you in the back, too — with this gun. It’ll be a bit dangerous — you’ll have to show yourself if you shoot.’

Her voice was stony. ‘I’ll shoot.’

‘Good girl,’ he said, and patted her on the shoulder. ‘Give Tim my love when you give him yours.’ He heard her go, then moved up the tunnel to the wall he had built and lay behind it, the sub-machine-gun ready to hand. He put his hand in his pocket and felt for his pipe, then uttered a muffled ‘Damn!’ It was broken, the two pieces separate in his hand. He put the stem in his mouth and chewed on the mouthpiece, never taking his eyes from the entrance.

The day dawned mistily, a dazzling whiteness at the mouth of the tunnel, and Armstrong shifted his position for the hundredth time, trying to find a place to ease his aching bones. He glanced across at O’Hara on the other side of the tunnel and thought, it’s worse for him than for me.

When O’Hara had heard of the rebuilt wall he had insisted on moving there. ‘I haven’t a hope of sleep,’ he said. ‘Not with this shoulder. And I’ve got a fully loaded pistol. I might as well stand — or lie — sentry out there as just lie here. I should be of some use, even if only to allow everyone else to get some sleep.’

But in spite of that Armstrong had not slept. He ached too much to sleep, even though he felt more exhausted than ever before in his life, but he smiled cheerily at O’Hara in the growing light and lifted his head above the low barricade.

There was nothing to be seen except the white swirling mist, an impenetrable curtain. He said softly, ‘Tim, why didn’t they jump us in the night?’

‘They know we have this gun,’ said O’Hara. ‘I wouldn’t like to come running into this tunnel knowing that — especially at night.’

‘Um,’ said Armstrong in an unconvinced tone. ‘But why haven’t they tried to soften us up with rifle fire? They must know that any fire directed into this tunnel will ricochet from the walls — they don’t have to be too accurate.’