Десмонд Бэгли - High Citadel

O’Hara was silent, and Armstrong continued reflectively: ‘I wonder if there is anyone out there?’

‘Don’t be a damn’ fool,’ said O’Hara. ‘That’s something we can’t take a chance on — not yet. Besides, there was someone to turn the lights off not very long ago.’

‘True,’ said Armstrong, and turned as he heard a movement in the tunnel, and Benedetta crawled up holding a bundle in her arms.

‘The last of the food,’ she said. ‘There’s not much — and we have no water at all.’

Armstrong’s mouth turned down. ‘That’s bad.’

As he and O’Hara shared the food they heard a stirring outside and the murmur of voices. ‘Changing the guard,’ said O’Hara. ‘I heard it before about four hours ago when you were asleep. They’re still there, all right.’

‘Me! Asleep!’ said Armstrong in an aggrieved voice. ‘I didn’t sleep a wink all night.’

O’Hara smiled. ‘You got three or four winks out of the forty.’ He became serious. ‘If we really need water we can drain some from the truck radiator, but I wouldn’t do that unless absolutely necessary.’

Benedetta regarded O’Hara with worry in her eyes. He had a hectic flush and looked too animated for a man who had nearly been shot to death. Miss Ponsky had had the same reaction, and now she was off her head with delirium, unable to eat and crying for water. She said, ‘I think we ought to have water now; Jenny needs it.’

‘In that case we’ll tap the radiator,’ said Armstrong. ‘I hope the anti-freeze compound isn’t poisonous; I think it’s just alcohol, so it should be all right.’

He crawled back with Benedetta and squeezed underneath the truck to unscrew the drain-cock. He tapped out half a can of rusty-looking water and passed it to her. ‘That will have to do,’ he said. ‘We can’t take too much — we might need the truck.’

The day wore on and nothing happened. Gradually the mist cleared under the strengthening sun and then they could see out of the tunnel, and Armstrong’s hopes were shattered as he saw a group of men standing by the huts. Even from their restricted view they could see that the enemy was in full strength.

‘But can they see us?’ mused O’Hara. ‘I don’t think they can. This cavern must look as dark as the Black Hole of Calcutta from outside.’

‘What the devil are they doing?’ asked Armstrong, his eyes level with the top of a rock.

O’Hara watched for a long time, then he said in wonder, ‘They’re piling rocks on the ground — apart from that they’re doing nothing.’

They watched for a long time and all the enemy did was to pile stones in a long line stretching away from the tunnel. After a while they appeared to tire of that and congregated into small groups, chatting and smoking. They seemed to have the appearance of men waiting for something, but why they were waiting or what the rocks were for neither O’Hara nor Armstrong could imagine.

It was midday when Armstrong, his nerves cracking under the strain, said, ‘For God’s sake, let’s do something — something constructive.’

O’Hara’s voice was flat and tired. ‘What?’

‘If we’re going to make a break in the truck we might have to do it quickly. I suggest we put Jenny in the back of the truck right away, and get the old man settled in the front seat. Come to think of it, he’ll be a damn sight more comfortable on a soft seat.’

O’Hara nodded. ‘All right. Leave that sub-machine-gun with me. I might need it.’

Armstrong went back to the truck, walking upright. To hell with crawling on my belly like a snake, he thought; let me walk like a man for once. The enemy either did not see or saw and did not care. No shots were fired.

He saw Miss Ponsky safely into the back of the truck and then he escorted Aguillar to the cab. Aguillar was in a bad way, much worse than he had been. His speech was incoherent and his breathing was bad; he was in a daze and did not appear to know where he was. Benedetta was pale and worried and stayed to look after him.

When Armstrong dropped behind the rock wall, he said, ‘If we don’t get out of here soon that bloody crowd will have won.’

O’Hara jerked his head in surprise. ‘Why?’

‘Aguillar — he looks on the verge of a heart attack; if he doesn’t get down to where he can breathe more easily he’ll peg out.’

O’Hara looked outside and gestured with his good arm. ‘There are nearly two dozen men within sight; they’d shoot hell out of us if we tried to break out now. Look at what happened to me yesterday when they were hampered by mist — there’s no mist now and we wouldn’t stand a chance. We’ll have to wait.’

So they waited — and so did the enemy. And the day went on, the sun sloping back overhead into mid-afternoon. It was three o’clock when O’Hara stirred and then relaxed and shook his head. ‘I thought... but no.’

He settled himself down, but a moment later his head jerked up again. ‘It is — can’t you hear it?’

‘Hear what?’ asked Armstrong.

‘A plane — or planes,’ said O’Hara excitedly.

Armstrong listened and caught the shrill whine of a jet plane passing overhead, the noise muffled and distorted. ‘By God, you’re right,’ he said. He looked at O’Hara in sudden consternation. ‘Ours or theirs?’

But O’Hara had already seen their doom. He leaned up and looked, horrified, to the mouth of the tunnel. Framed in the opening against the sky was a diving plane coming head on and, as he watched, he saw something drop from each wing, and a spurt of vapour.

‘Rockets!’ he screamed. ‘For Christ’s sake, get down!’

Forester had climbed to meet the three Sabres and as he approached they saw him and fell into a loose formation and awaited him. He came in from behind and increased speed, getting the leader in his sights. He flicked off the safety switches and his thumb caressed the firing-button. This boy would never know what hit him.

All the time there was a continual jabber in his earphones as the leader called Coello. At last, assuming that Coello’s radio was at fault, he said, ‘Since you are silent, mio Colonel , I will lead the attack.’ It was then that Forester knew that these men had been briefed on the ground — and he pressed the firing-button.

Once again he felt the familiar jolt in the air, almost a halt, and saw the tracer shells streaking and corkscrewing towards their target. The leading Sabre was a-dance with coruscations of light as the shells burst, and suddenly it blew up in a gout of black smoke with a red heart at the centre.

Forester weaved to avoid wreckage and then went into a sharp turn and climbed rapidly, listening to the horrified exclamations from the other pilots. They babbled for a few moments then one of them said, ‘Silence. I will take him.’

Forester searched the skies and thought — he’s quick off the mark. He felt chilled; these boys would be young and have fast reflexes and they would be trained to a hair. He had not flown for nearly ten years, beyond the few annual hours necessary to keep up his rating, and he wondered grimly how long he would last.

He found his enemies. One was swooping in a graceful dive towards the ground and the other was climbing in a wide circle to get behind him. As he watched, the pilot fired his rockets aimlessly. ‘Oh, no, you don’t, you bastard,’ said Forester. ‘You don’t catch me like that.’ He knew his opponent had jettisoned his rockets in order to reduce weight and drag and to gain speed. For a moment he was tempted to do the same and to fight it out up there in the clean sky, but he knew he could not take the chance. Besides he had a better use for his rockets.