Cuttlefish (23 page)

Back on the rocky beach, the lieutenant tugged his small beard. Sighed. “I'd have guessed it was about a hundred and fifty yards of steep jungle,” said Lieutenant Willis, “to where the mirror-flash came from. We have, by now, less than half an hour to find our way to it. It could take us hours to batter our way through this tangle, if we didn't get lost.”

“Werner must have a trail. We could find that,” said Tim anxiously.

“Exactly. We'll have to find a trail. And there's no time to waste,” said the lieutenant. “We'll just have to hope Werner has gone already.” So they moved along the spiky rocks, which were black and hot underfoot. Their wet clothes were no longer dripping, and Tim almost wished that his still were. It was tricky enough balancing on the rocks, and they moved in as much silence as they could.

The lieutenant, in the lead, motioned them all to go down.…They did, and he crawled back a little. “We'll have to do a little jungle bashing after all. There's Werner and another fellow walking along the beach. They came out of the trees just ahead. So a little way in and up and we should hit their path.”

“Should we not go after the traitorous scum and deal with him, sir?” asked Nicholl. His tone said “deal with” meant “shoot” if the mate was lucky.

The lieutenant shook his head. “I'd like nothing more, but that would probably be the end of the girl. We owe it to her mother to see if we can rescue her first. If it is before Dr. Calland gets off the boat, we'll signal the captain. Werner will probably do a runner, but at least we'll be rid of him.”

“Hard choices, Lieutenant,” said Nicholl, regretfully, as they used their cutlasses to slash their way in. Fortunately, as they got a bit farther away from the coast the trees grew taller and the vegetation less dense. Tim spotted the answer. “There's a crawlway, Lieutenant.”

“Animal track. Probably wild pig. Let's crawl, boys.”

It was easier going for Tim than for the two big divers, or anyone else, but it was hard on the knees. He was very glad when they cut across the trail of the ex-mate and his companion. Cautiously, they walked up the steep slope. There were occasional jungle sounds, strange birds, rattling leaves, and breaking branches, all of which made them freeze. They were all false alarms, and probably just natural sounds of the tropical forest too, but everyone was nervous. At length they came to where the track ran along the base of a cliff. Here the trees were vast and there was space to walk away from the trail, which they did, cautiously, because it seemed likely they were near the brow of the ridge where the flashes had come from.

As it turned out their caution here too was a waste of time. There was a lower cliff, almost entirely hidden in trees, which forced them back to the trail. And it didn't matter at all, because the trail led to a little bowl that had plainly been blasted out of the rock for a long-ago gun-emplacement. Big trees now shaded it, but there was a pillbox, an earthen berm, a concrete slab, and rusting rails for moving the gun. And, sitting against the pillbox's closed metal door, a guard slept with a rifle on his knees.

There was at least forty yards of open concrete covered in dry leaf litter between them and him. Impossible to cross quietly. The lieutenant motioned them back. “How's your tree-climbing, Barnabas?”

“Never climbed one, sir,” admitted Tim. “They don't grow underground. But I can climb pipes. Can climb anything you need me to.”

“Right,” said Lieutenant Willis. “It looks like the trees below the little cliff, that this nest of theirs is perched on, have grown up to just below that pillbox. There is nothing to walk along to it but the treetop branches. I think the rest of us are too heavy. Do you think you can get across there, peep in the gun slit, and see if Miss Calland is alone in there, or not? If she is, see if she can stop the door being opened. If you can, give us a signal. Thumbs up for alone. Fingers for the number of guards. And if they see you, we'll just go in shooting. Try not to fall out of the trees.”

Tim nodded and went along to the edge of the cliff. Sure enough, the big trees from below were crowding up and pressing against it. It wasn't that difficult to get into the nearest tree.

The hard part was that he had to get from one tree to the next. That meant climbing along a branch until it bent down and touched a branch from the next tree, and then transferring himself onto that. The new branch sagged and creaked suddenly, as it bent under his weight. Tim looked down and realised he was maybe seventy feet above the ground. He clung tightly, and then forced himself to move on.

Clara had watched in despair as the submarine—if that was her dark shadow—slipped out of sight. She still stared out of the slit-window, and eventually was rewarded by the sight of the submarine, a good half a mile to the west, coming up. It came up a long way from shore too. Three people came out, and a small life raft was taken from one of the deck hatches.

And one person began the long paddle into the shore.

It had to be her mother, Clara realised.

And then a tree branch swayed across her vision. She glared angrily at it. She felt, right now, as if she'd done just about everything wrong, and that anything she hadn't done wrong had gone wrong, and the stupid branch was just one final blow.

And then she realised that clinging to the branch, like a very clumsy monkey, was Tim Barnabas. It did look as if he might fall at any moment, but he got his balance again, and moved on. His eyes met hers, and his smile almost made up for her mother also being a captive now. He held a finger to his lips and climbed closer. But the last bit was not going to be possible. He couldn't quite get to her. “You alone?” he whispered.

She nodded.

“Can you bar the door from inside?” he whispered again.

That was a brilliant idea…now that she knew there was help outside. She peered into the dimness. It had a pair of very big bolts. “Yes.” She nodded eagerly.

He began climbing back, and she braved the stink of rotting, maggot-crawling pig to go and struggle with the rusty bolts with her tied-together hands.

Tim climbed back and gave the thumbs-up to the watching Nicholl…and spotted a branch that led up and onto the roof of the pillbox. He climbed it as the other five
Cuttlefish
men advanced in a spread-out line, weapons in hand. Tim dropped onto the roof, and slithered on his belly across to above the guard, over the slight curve on the roof, drawing the cutlass from his belt, sliding along with it in one hand.

He was close to the edge when a dry round berry from under his elbow started to roll down the curve. Tim reached frantically for it, nearly dropping his cutlass instead. He caught it, and the cutlass. But something—perhaps a sound he'd made—woke the sleeper. The man lifted his head, suddenly.

The
Cuttlefish
men were out in the open, all of them. And the guard had a rifle. One shot and Werner would know something was wrong.

“Freeze,” shouted the lieutenant. “Put the rifle down, and you'll stay alive.”

There was a moment's pause while the man took in the pistols pointing at him. Tim waited, heart in his mouth. But the man slowly lowered his rifle. “Now stand up,” said the lieutenant.

From above Tim could see the man trying to detach a hand grenade from his belt loops as he apparently was merely standing up. “Don't,” said Tim, poking the fellow's ear with the cutlass.

The guard dropped it with a clatter and raised his hands.

The lieutenant and the rest of the men came running up. Lieutenant Willis grabbed the prisoner and had him flat on his own grenade before Tim could have said “Jack Robinson.” “Tie his hands,” he snapped. “Barnabas…”

Tim expected congratulations for his quick thinking. “Yessir!”

“You idiot boy. How could we shoot him without a good chance of shooting you?” growled the lieutenant.

“Um. Didn't think of that, sir,” admitted Tim.

“Think next time.” The lieutenant rapped sharply on the steel door. “Miss Calland. You can come out now,” he said, lifting the bar as Tim scrambled off the roof.

With a clank of the door Clara came out, her hands still tied, smiling. Her face was dirty and tear-streaked, and there was what looked like vomit on her dress. Tim could still have hugged her. Would have, except there were four submariners in the way.

“Right,” said Lieutenant Willis with a smile. “Someone cut her loose.” He drew a Very pistol from his belt. “Now to let the captain know you are safe, so that your mother does not come ashore, miss.”

“It's too late. She's already ashore. I could see her row in from inside the stink hole,” said Clara.

“Oh.” The lieutenant tugged his moustache. “How many of them are there, miss?”

“Including him”—Clara prodded the tied-up man with her toe—“three. The mate, his friend with the pockmarks, and this one. They called him Disco. He's some kind of servant, I think.”

“A native of this place, I'd guess,” said the lieutenant. “Well, let's see if we can turn the tables on them. Quick, boys. Take this one to the far side of those trees, gag him. Tie him to the tree. Now, has anyone got any thin string?”

“Fishing line, sir?” offered Tim, digging the wash-leather bag out of his breeches pocket.

“Perfect, if it is strong enough. Tie it to the inner handle. Take it through the slit-window and pass it to Gordon. Up onto the roof, Gordon. They won't be human if at least one of them doesn't go in there. We can rig the bar to drop. Then we only have one to deal with.” The lieutenant picked up the grenade, attached it to his belt, and took the rifle. Worked the bolt. Examined the rifle. “It'll have to do.”

Tim went through the pillbox and its gagging stench, and held the spool out to the reaching hand. He was glad to leave the pillbox again.

“Right. You, Barnabas, you take Miss Calland into that jungle patch up above the site. You've both caused enough chaos for now. When we come up there we'll sing out. Otherwise, stay hidden!”

Tim saluted. “Yessir.”

Clara opened her mouth to protest. And then shut it again, partly because Tim kicked her shin. “Come on,” he said.

So she went along. The thicket was on the upper edge of the bowl, and they positioned themselves so that from behind several huge twisted tree roots they could peer out at the trail.

“What do you mean, kicking me?” she asked, eyes narrow. She was still full of adrenaline and ready, right now, to take on any ten of the mate and his cronies.

“I meant that I know the lieutenant,” said Tim. “I've worked with him in charge of me, remember. He was just that close to ordering Gordon or Nicholl to take you off to the coast, tied up and gagged if need be. This way, we get a small chance of actually doing something, and knowing what is going on.”

“I suppose so,” said Clara, reluctantly accepting this. “But it is my mother! Can I have a gun?”

“Hush. I heard something.” Tim showed no sign of giving her his weapon.

“Gun,” she said quietly, insistent.

“You don't know how to use it,” he whispered back. “And I've got orders and training. Mr. Amos says you don't touch one without that.”