Desmond Bagley - High Citadel / Landslide

‘Right,’ said O’Hara and went back to Benedetta. Armstrong was cocking the crossbow and Benedetta had arranged the fire-bolts in an arc, their points stuck in the earth. She lifted a can. ‘This is the last of the kerosene; we’ll need more for cooking.’

O’Hara smiled at this incongruous domestic note, and Willis said, ‘There’s plenty up at the camp; we found two forty-gallon drums.’

‘Did you, by God?’ said O’Hara. ‘That opens up possibilities.’ He climbed up among the rocks to the place he had chosen and tried to figure what could be done with a forty-gallon drum of paraffin. But then two men walked on to the bridge carrying a plank and he froze in concentration. One thing at a time, Tim, my boy, he thought.

He turned his head and said to Benedetta who was standing below, ‘Five minutes.’

He heard the click as she tested the cigarette lighter and turned his attention to the other side of the gorge. The minutes ticked by and he found the palms of his hands sweating. He wiped them on his shirt and cursed suddenly. A man had walked by the truck and was standing negligently in front of it – dead in front of the petrol tank.

‘For Christ’s sake, move on,’ muttered O’Hara. He knew that Miss Ponsky must have the man in her sights – but would she have the nerve to pull the trigger? He doubted it.

Hell’s teeth, I should have told Rohde what was going on, he thought. Rohde wouldn’t know about the crossbow and would fire his shot on time, regardless of the man covering the petrol tank. O’Hara ground his teeth as the man, a short, thick-set Indian type, produced a cigarette and carelessly struck a match on the side of the truck.

Rohde fired his shot and there was a yell from the bridge. The man by the truck stood frozen for a long moment and then started to run. O’Hara ignored him from then on – the man disappeared, that was all he knew – and his attention was riveted on the petrol tank. He heard a dull thunk even at that distance, and saw a dark shadow suddenly appear in the side of the tank, and saw the tank itself shiver abruptly.

Miss Ponsky had done it!

O’Hara wiped the sweat from his eyes and wished he had binoculars. Was that petrol dropping on to the road? Was that dark patch in the dust beneath the truck the spreading stain of leaking petrol, or was it just imagination? The trigger-happy bandits on the other side were letting go with all they had in their usual futile barrage, but he ignored the racket and strained his aching eyes.

The Indian came back and looked with an air of puzzlement at the truck. He sniffed the air suspiciously and then bent down to look underneath the vehicle. Then he let out a yell and waved violently.

By God, thought O’Hara exultantly, it is petrol!

He turned and snapped his fingers at Benedetta who immediately lit the fire-bolt waiting ready in the crossbow. O’Hara thumped the rock impatiently with his fist while she waited until it got well alight. But he knew this was the right way – if the rags were not burning well the flame would be extinguished in flight.

She thrust the bow at him suddenly and he twisted with it in his hands, the flame scorching his face. Another man had run up and was looking incredulously under the truck. O’Hara peered through the crude wire sight and through the flames of the burning bolt and willed himself to take his time. Gently he squeezed the trigger.

The butt lurched against his shoulder and he quickly twisted over to pass the bow back into Benedetta’s waiting hands, but he had time to see the flaming bolt arch well over the truck to bury itself in the earth on the other side of the road.

This new bow was shooting too high.

He grabbed the second bow and tried again, burning his fingers as he incautiously put his hand in the flame. He could feel his eyebrows shrivelling as he aimed and again the butt slammed his shoulder as he pulled the trigger. The shot went too far to the right and the bolt skidded on the road surface, sending up a shower of sparks.

The two men by the truck had looked up in alarm when the first bolt had gone over their heads. At the sight of the second bolt they both shouted and pointed across the gorge.

Let this one be it, prayed O’Hara, as he seized the bow from Benedetta. This is the one that shoots high, he thought, as he deliberately aimed for the lip of the gorge. As he squeezed the trigger a bullet clipped the rock by his head and a granite splinter scored a bloody line across his forehead. But the bolt went true, a flaming line drawn across the gorge which passed between the two men and beneath the truck.

With a soft thud the dripping petrol caught alight and the truck was suddenly enveloped in flames. The Indian staggered out of the inferno, his clothing on fire, and ran screaming down the road, his hands clawing at his eyes. O’Hara did not see the other man; he had turned and was grabbing for the second bow.

But he didn’t get off another shot. He had barely lined up the sights on one of the jeeps when the bow slammed into him before he touched the trigger. He was thrown back violently and the bow must have sprung of its own volition, for he saw a fire-bolt arch into the sky. Then his head struck a rock and he was knocked unconscious.

He came round to find Benedetta bathing his head, looking worried. Beyond, he saw Forester talking animatedly to Willis and beyond them the sky, disfigured by a coil of black, greasy smoke. He put his hand to his head and winced. ‘What the hell hit me?’

‘Hush,’ said Benedetta. ‘Don’t move.’

He grinned weakly and lifted himself up on his elbow. Forester saw that he was moving. ‘Are you all right, Tim?’

‘I don’t know,’ said O’Hara. ‘I don’t think so.’ His head ached abominably. ‘What happened?’

Willis lifted the crossbow. ‘A rifle bullet hit this,’ he said. ‘It smashed the stirrup – you were lucky it didn’t hit you. You batted your head against a rock and passed out.’

O’Hara smiled painfully at Benedetta. ‘I’m all right,’ he said and sat up. ‘Did we do the job?’

Forester laughed delightedly. ‘Did we do the job? Oh, boy!’ He knelt down next to O’Hara. ‘To begin with, Rohde actually hit his man on the bridge when he shot – plugged him neatly through the shoulder. That caused all the commotion we needed. Jenny Ponsky had a goddam tricky time with that guy in front of the gas tank, but she did her job in the end. She was shaking like a leaf when she gave me the bow.’

‘What about the truck?’ asked O’Hara. ‘I saw it catch fire – that’s about the last thing I did see.’

‘The truck’s gone,’ said Forester. ‘It’s still burning – and the jeep next to it caught fire when the second gas tank on the other side of the truck blew up. Hell, they were running about like ants across there.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Both the men who were by the truck were killed. The Indian ran plumb over the edge of the gorge – I reckon he was blinded – and the other guy was burned to a crisp. Jenny didn’t see it and I didn’t tell her.’

O’Hara nodded; it would be a nasty thing for her to live with.

‘That’s about it,’ said Forester. ‘They’ve lost all their timber – it burned with the truck. They’ve lost the truck and a jeep and they’ve abandoned the jeep by the bridge – they couldn’t get it back past the burning truck. All the other vehicles they’ve withdrawn a hell of a long way down the road where it turns away from the gorge. I’d say it’s a good half-mile. They were hopping mad, judging by the way they opened up on us. They set up the damnedest barrage of rifle fire – they must have all the ammunition in the world.’

‘Anybody hurt?’ demanded O’Hara.