Desmond Bagley - The Tightrope Men

He went to McCready and Denison bent to examine the gun. It was suddenly much more real, no longer looking like an old piece of iron piping but a weapon deadly of purpose. He straightened to find Lyn at his side. ‘An extra sweater,’ she said, holding it out. ‘It’s always cold on the water.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, and took it from her. ‘It’ll be even colder in it. You shouldn’t have come, Lyn; this is no place for you. Will you promise me something?’

‘That depends.’

‘If we get into trouble out there — shooting, perhaps — promise to duck out of it. Get down among the reeds and out of sight. Don’t take any chances you don’t have to.’

She nodded towards Harding. ‘And what about him?’

‘Leave him to the professionals. They’ll look after him.’

‘If it weren’t for me he wouldn’t be here,’ she said sombrely. ‘And you’re a fine one to talk about not taking chances.’

He shrugged. ‘All right — but there is something you can do for me. Find a ball of string. Harding might know where there is some.’

McCready came over. ‘We’re ready to move. Help me with the gun.’ As they lifted it they heard several single shots. ‘What the hell’s going on out there?’ said McCready. ‘We’re not being shot at — so who is?’

Denison took the strain at the butt end of the gun. ‘Who cares? Let’s take advantage.’

It was better this second time despite the hampering weight of the gun; they had a better sense of direction and knew where to go. Within five minutes they were lowering the gun on to the foredeck of the punt; it slotted neatly into place and Harding, hovering over it, wordlessly indicated how to fit the breech ropes.

Denison uncoiled the thirty-foot length of string that Lyn had found. He gave one end to McCready. ‘Keep at the end of that,’ he whispered. ‘If you get into trouble tug and I’ll stop. Two tugs and I’ll back water.’

‘Bloody good idea.’

Denison tapped Harding on the shoulder. ‘Get in before we launch her.’ Harding obeyed and Denison and McCready pushed the punt forward until it was afloat. Again there was the crunch of shingle and they waited with held breath to see if they had attracted attention. Denison climbed aboard over the stern and settled behind the gun. He gave the other end of the string to Harding. ‘If you feel a tug let me know. Where are the paddles?’

‘On the bottom boards next to the gun butt.’

He scrabbled and found them, short-handled and broad-bladed. Before he put them into the water he stared ahead. He was lying prone with his eyes not more than a foot above the level of the water. Ahead of him, on the foredeck, stretched nine feet of gun. It looked less clumsy on the punt, more as if it belonged. The weapons system was complete.

‘Wait!’ whispered Harding. ‘Take this needle and push it down the touch-hole.’

Denison stretched out his hand and drew back the hammer. It clicked into place at full cock and he jabbed the needle into the hole in the nipple and felt it pierce the paper cartridge. He waggled it about to enlarge the hole which would allow the flame to reach the powder, and then passed it back to Harding who gave him a detonator cap. Harding whispered, ‘I’d keep that in your hand until you’re ready to shoot. It’s safer.’

He nodded and picked up the paddles and took a short, easy stroke as quickly as he could. The punt moved forward, more quickly than he had expected. Ripples ran backwards vee-shaped from the bow as the punt glided into the mist.

Denison had already determined to stay close to the banks of reeds. From the point of view of paddling the punt he would have been better in mid-channel but there he would be more exposed. Besides, he had the others to think of; they were wading and the water was more likely to be shallow by the reeds.

Harding whispered, ‘McCready gave me his compass. What’s the course?’

‘North-west,’ said Denison. ‘If we have to make any course changes try to make them north rather than west.’

‘Then steady as you go.’

It was an awkward position in which to paddle and he quickly developed aches, particularly at the back of his shoulders. And his breastbone ground against the bottom boards until he thought he was rubbing the skin off his chest. Whoever used the punt must have had a cushion there.

When he estimated they had travelled about two hundred yards he stopped and rested. From behind he could hear faint splashes and, when he looked back, he saw the faint figures of the other three. Beyond there was nothing but greyness. McCready came alongside, water up to his waist. ‘What have you stopped for?’

‘It’s bloody hard work. Unnatural position. I’ll be all right.’

From the land came a series of rapid shots, the stammer of an automatic rifle. McCready breathed, ‘They’re still at it. I’d like to know what...’

There was another shot, so shockingly close that McCready instinctively ducked and Denison flattened himself even closer to the bottom of the punt. There was a splashing noise to the left as though someone was running in shallow water; the sound receded and everything was quiet again.

McCready eased himself up. ‘That was right here in the marsh. Let’s move.’

Denison pushed off again quietly and the punt ghosted into the mist. He was aware that Harding had not said anything, so he turned his head. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Carry on,’ said Harding. ‘A bit more to the left.’

As they penetrated the marsh there were flaws in the mist — sudden thinnings and thickenings of the vapour apparently caused by a light air which stroked Denison’s cheek with a delicate touch. Visibility would be no more than five yards and then, ten seconds later, the mist would swirl aside so that he could see, perhaps, forty yards. He did not like it; it was unpredictable and could not be relied on.

Behind, McCready plodded thigh-deep in the water. The footing was treacherous — mostly rotting vegetation but with the occasional ankle-twisting stone or, sometimes, an unexpected hole. He cast a glance over his shoulder and saw that Lyn, much shorter than he, had the water to her waist. He grinned at her and she smiled back at him weakly. Diana brought up the rear, turning her head constantly to look back.

They went on for fifteen minutes and then there was a choked cry from behind McCready. He looked back and saw that Lyn was neck-deep and already beginning to swim. Since he himself was in the water to his armpits this was not surprising so he gave two sharp tugs on the string. The punt ahead drifted back silently as Denison back-paddled gently, and came to a halt alongside McCready.

‘You’ll have to change course. We’re getting out of our depth.’

Denison nodded and silently pointed the way he intended to go, keeping close to the reeds and heading towards what seemed to be a promontory about fifty yards away. As the mist closed in again to blot it out he commenced paddling again.

Once more the gentle, vagrant wind parted the mist and Denison, peering forward along the barrel of the gun, saw a movement and dug both paddles into the water as quietly as he could. The punt slowed to a halt. Again the mist closed in but he waited, hoping that McCready would have the sense not to come forward again to find out what was wrong.

When he felt the slight air pressure on his cheek increase he was ready for the diminution of the mist and the suddenly increased visibility. There was a man standing on the promontory which was just a shingle bank outthrust into the channel. Another man was walking towards him, splashing through water, and they waved to each other.

Denison put forth his hand and slipped the detonator cap on the nipple below the hammer, and with his other hand wielded a paddle gently. The punt came around slowly and with it the gun barrel. As the primitive foresight drifted across the target he back-paddled one stroke to arrest the movement.