Десмонд Бэгли - High Citadel

O’Hara heard Armstrong battering at the useless windscreen and prepared himself for a fusillade of rifle fire. Nothing came and he looked round and what he saw made him blink incredulously. It was a sight he had seen before but he had not expected to see it here. The huts and trucks were shattered and wrecked and bodies lay about them. From a wounded man there came a mournful keening and there were only two men left on their feet, staggering about blindly and in a daze. He looked the awful scene over with a professional eye and knew that an aircraft had fired a ripple of eight rockets at this target, blasting it thoroughly.

He yelled, ‘Armstrong — get the hell out of here while we can,’ then sagged back and grinned at Benedetta. ‘One of those fighter boys made a mistake and hammered the wrong target; he’s going to get a strip torn off him when he gets back to base.’

Armstrong smashed enough of the windscreen away so that he could see ahead, then put the truck into gear and went forward, turning to go past the huts and down the road. He looked in fascinated horror at the wreckage until it was past and then applied himself to the task of driving an unfamiliar and awkward vehicle down a rough mountain road with its multitude of hairpin bends. As he went, he heard a jet plane whine overhead very low and he tensed, waiting for the slam of more explosions, but nothing happened and the plane went out of hearing.

Above, Forester saw the truck move off. One of them still left, he thought; and dived, his thumb ready on the firing button. At the last moment he saw the streaming hair of a woman standing in the back and hastily removed his thumb as he screamed over the truck. My God, that was Benedetta — they’ve got themselves a truck.

He pulled the Sabre into a climb and looked about. He had not forgotten the third plane and hoped it had been scared off because a strange lassitude was creeping over him and he knew that the effects of McGruder’s stimulant were wearing off. He tried to ease the ache in his chest while circling to keep an eye on the truck as it bounced down the mountain road.

O’Hara looked up at the circling Sabre. ‘I don’t know what to make of that chap,’ he said. ‘He must know we’re here, but he’s doing nothing about it.’

‘He must think we’re on his side,’ said Benedetta. ‘He must think that of anyone in a truck.’

‘That sounds logical,’ O’Hara agreed. ‘But someone did a good job of working over our friends up on top and it wasn’t a mistake an experienced pilot would make.’ He winced as the truck jolted his shoulder. ‘We’d better prepare to pile out if he shows signs of coming in to strafe us. Can you arrange signals with Armstrong?’

Benedetta turned and hung over the side, craning her neck to see Armstrong at the wheel. ‘We might be attacked from the air,’ she shouted. ‘How can we stop you?’

Armstrong slowed for a nasty corner. ‘Thump like hell on top of the cab — I’ll stop quick enough. I’m going to stop before we get to the camp, anyway; there might be someone laying for us down there.’

Benedetta relayed this to O’Hara and he nodded. ‘A pity I can’t use that thing,’ he said, indicating the sub-machine gun. ‘If you have to shoot, hold it down; it kicks like the devil and you’ll find yourself spraying the sky if you aren’t careful.’

He looked up at her. The wind was streaming her black hair and moulding the tattered dress to her body. She was cradling the sub-machine-gun in her hands and looking up at the plane and he thought in sudden astonishment, My God, a bloody Amazon — she looks like a recruiting poster for partisans. He thought of Aguillar’s offer of an Air Force commission and had a sudden and irrational conviction that they would come through this nightmare safely.

Benedetta threw up her hand and cried in a voice of despair, ‘Another one — another plane.’

O’Hara jerked his head and saw another Sabre curving overhead much higher and the first Sabre going to join it. Benedetta said bitterly, ‘Always they must hunt in packs — even when they know we are defenceless.’

But O’Hara, studying the manoeuvring of the two aircraft with a war-experienced eye, was not sure about that. ‘They’re going to fight,’ he said with wonder. ‘They’re jockeying for position. By God, they’re going to fight each other.’ His raised and incredulous voice was sharply punctuated by the distant clatter of automatic cannon.

Forester had almost been caught napping. He had only seen the third enemy Sabre when it was much too close for comfort and he desperately climbed to get the advantage of height. As it was, the enemy fired first and there was a thump and a large, ragged hole magically appeared in his wing as a cannon shell exploded. He side-slipped evasively, then drove his plane into a sharp, climbing turn.

Below, O’Hara yelled excitedly and thumped with his free hand on the side of the cab. ‘Forester and Rohde — they’ve got across the mountain — they must have.’

The truck jolted to a sudden stop and Armstrong shot out of the cab like a startled jack-rabbit and dived into the side of the road. From the other side Aguillar stepped down painfully into the road and was walking away slowly when he heard the excited shouts from the truck. He turned and then looked upwards to the embattled Sabres.

The fight was drifting westward and presently the two aircraft disappeared from sight over the mountain, leaving only the white inscription of vapour trails in the blue sky. Armstrong came up to the side of the truck. ‘What the devil’s happening?’ he asked with annoyance. ‘I got the fright of my life when you thumped on the cab.’

‘I’m damned if I know,’ said O’Hara helplessly. ‘But some of these planes seem to be on our side; a couple are having a dogfight now.’ He threw out his arm. ‘Look, here they come again.’

The two Sabres were much lower as they came in sight round the mountain, one in hot pursuit of the other. There was a flickering on the wings of the rear plane as the cannon hammered and suddenly a stream of oily smoke burst from the leading craft. It dropped lower and a black speck shot upwards. ‘He’s bailed out,’ said O’Hara. ‘He’s had it.’

The pursuing Sabre pulled up in a climb, but the crippled plane settled into a steepening dive to crash on the mountainside. A pillar of black, greasy smoke marked the wreck and a parachute, suddenly opened, drifted across the sky like a blown dandelion seed.

Armstrong looked up and watched the departing victor which was easing into a long turn, obviously intent on coming back. ‘That’s all very well,’ he said worriedly. ‘But who won — us or them?’

‘Everyone out,’ said O’Hara decisively. ‘Armstrong, give Benedetta a hand with Jenny.’

But they had no time, for suddenly the Sabre was upon them, roaring overhead in a slow roll. O’Hara, who was cradling Miss Ponsky’s head with his free arm, blew out his breath expressively. ‘Our side seems to have won that one,’ he said. ‘But I’d like to know who the hell our side is.’ He watched the Sabre coming back, dipping its wings from side to side. ‘Of course, it couldn’t be Forester — that’s impossible. A pity. He always wanted to become an ace, to make his fifth kill.’

The plane dipped and turned as it came over again and headed down the mountain and presently they heard cannon-fire again. ‘Everyone in the truck,’ commanded O’Hara. ‘He’s shooting up the camp — we’ll have no trouble there. Armstrong, you get going and don’t stop for a damned thing until we’re on the other side of the bridge.’ He laughed delightedly. ‘We’ve got air cover now.’

They pressed on and passed the camp. There was a fiercely burning truck by the side of the road, but no sign of anyone living. Half an hour later they approached the bridge and Armstrong drew to a slow halt by the abutments, looking about him anxiously. He heard the Sabre going over again and was reassured, so he put the truck into gear and slowly inched his way on to the frail and unsubstantial structure.