High Citadel / Landslide (13 page)

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.

‘You’re our most serious casualty—no one else got a scratch.’

‘I must bandage your head, Tim,’ said Benedetta.

‘We’ll go up to the pond,’ said O’Hara.

As he got to his feet Aguillar approached. ‘You did well, Señor O’Hara,’ he said.

O’Hara swayed and leaned on Forester for support. ‘Well enough, but they won’t fall for that trick again. All we’ve bought is time.’ His voice was sober.

‘Time is what we need,’ said Forester. ‘Earlier this morning I wouldn’t have given two cents for our scheme to cross the mountains. But now Rohde and I can leave with an easy conscience.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’d better get on the road.’

Miss Ponsky came up. ‘Are you all right, Mr O’Hara—Tim?’

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘You did all right, Jenny.’

She blushed. ‘Why—thank you, Tim. But I had a dreadful moment. I really thought I’d have to shoot that man by the truck.’

O’Hara looked at Forester and grinned weakly and Forester suppressed a macabre laugh. ‘You did just what you were supposed to do,’ said O’Hara, ‘and you did it very well.’ He looked around. ‘Willis, you stay down here—get the gun from Rohde and if anything happens fire the last bullet. But I don’t think anything will happen—not yet a while. The rest of us will have a war council up by the pond. I’d like to do that before Ray goes off.’

‘Okay,’ said Forester.

They went up to the pond and O’Hara walked over to the water’s edge. Before he took a cupped handful of water he caught sight of his own reflection and grimaced distastefully.
He was unshaven and very dirty, his face blackened by smoke and dried blood and his eyes red-rimmed and sore from the heat of the fire-bolts. My God, I look like a tramp, he thought.

He dashed cold water at his face and shivered violently, then turned to find Benedetta behind him, a strip of cloth in her hands. ‘Your head,’ she said. ‘The skin was broken.’

He put a hand to the back of his head and felt the stickiness of drying blood. ‘Hell, I must have hit hard,’ he said.

‘You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Let me see to it.’

Her fingers were cool on his temples as she washed the wound and bandaged his head. He rubbed his hand raspingly over his cheek; Armstrong is always clean-shaven, he thought; I must find out how he does it.

Benedetta tied a neat little knot and said, ‘You must take it easy today, Tim. I think you are concussed a little.’

He nodded, then winced as a sharp pain stabbed through his head. ‘I think you’re right. But as for taking it easy—that isn’t up to me; that’s up to the boys on the other side of the river. Let’s get back to the others.’

Forester rose up as they approached. ‘Miguel thinks we should get going,’ he said.

‘In a moment,’ said O’Hara. ‘There are a few things I want to find out.’ He turned to Rohde. ‘You’ll be spending a day at the camp and a day at the mine. That’s two days used up. Is this lost time necessary?’

‘It is necessary and barely enough,’ said Rohde. ‘It should be longer.’

‘You’re the expert on mountains,’ said O’Hara. ‘I’ll take your word for it. How long to get across?’

‘Two days,’ said Rohde positively. ‘If we have to take longer we will not do it at all.’

‘That’s four days,’ said O’Hara. ‘Add another day to convince someone that we’re in trouble and another for that
someone to do something about it. We’ve got to hold out for six days at least—maybe longer.’

Forester looked grave. ‘Can you do it?’

‘We’ve got to do it,’ said O’Hara. ‘I think we’ve gained one day. They’ve got to find some timber from somewhere, and that means going back at least fifty miles to a town. They might have to get another truck as well—and it all takes time. I don’t think we’ll be troubled until tomorrow—maybe not until the next day. But I’m thinking about your troubles—how are you going to handle things on the other side of the mountain?’

Miss Ponsky said, ‘I’ve been wondering about that, too. You can’t go to the government of this man Lopez. He would not help Señor Aguillar, would he?’

Forester smiled mirthlessly. ‘He wouldn’t lift a finger. Are there any of your people in Altemiros, Señor Aguillar?’

‘I will give you an address,’ said Aguillar. ‘And Miguel will know. But you may not have to go as far as Altemiros.’

Forester looked interested and Aguillar said to Rohde, ‘The airfield.’

‘Ah,’ said Rohde. ‘But we must be careful.’

‘What’s this about an airfield?’ Forester asked.

‘There is a high-level airfield in the mountains this side of Altemiros,’ said Aguillar. ‘It is a military installation which the fighter squadrons use in rotation. Cordillera has four squadrons of fighter aircraft—the eighth, the tenth, the fourteenth and the twenty-first squadrons. We—like the communists—have been infiltrating the armed forces. The fourteenth squadron is ours; the eighth is communist; and the other two still belong to Lopez.’

‘So the odds are three to one that any squadron at the airfield will be a rotten egg,’ commented Forester.

‘That is right,’ said Aguillar. ‘But the airfield is directly on your way to Altemiros. You must tread carefully and act discreetly, and perhaps you can save much time. The
commandant of the fourteenth squadron, Colonel Rodriguez, is an old friend of mine—he is safe.’

‘If he’s there,’ said Forester. ‘But it’s worth the chance. We’ll make for this airfield as soon as we’ve crossed the mountains.’

‘That’s settled,’ said O’Hara with finality. ‘Doctor Armstrong, have you any more tricks up your medieval sleeve?’

Armstrong removed his pipe from his mouth. ‘I think I have. I had an idea and I’ve been talking to Willis about it and he thinks he can make it work.’ He nodded towards the gorge. ‘Those people are going to be more prepared when they come back with their timber. They’re not going to stand up and be shot at like tin ducks in a shooting gallery—they’re going to have their defences against our crossbows. So what we need now is a trench mortar.’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ exploded O’Hara. ‘Where the devil are we going to get a trench mortar?’

‘Willis is going to make it,’ Armstrong said equably. ‘With the help of Señor Rohde, Mr Forester and myself—and Mr Peabody, of course, although he isn’t much help, really.’

‘So I’m going to make a trench mortar,’ said Forester helplessly. He looked baffled. ‘What do we use for explosives? Something cleverly cooked up out of match-heads?’

‘Oh, you misunderstand me,’ said Armstrong. ‘I mean the medieval equivalent of a trench mortar. We need a machine that will throw a missile in a high trajectory to lob
behind
the defences which our enemies will undoubtedly have when they make their next move. There are no really new principles in modern warfare, you know; merely new methods of applying the old principles. Medieval man knew all the principles.’

He looked glumly at his empty pipe. ‘They had a variety of weapons. The onager is no use for our purpose, of course. I did think of the mangonel and the ballista, but I discarded
those too, and finally settled on the trebuchet. Powered by gravity, you know, and very effective.’

If the crossbows had not been such a great success O’Hara would have jeered at Armstrong, but now he held his peace, contenting himself with looking across at Forester ironically. Forester still looked baffled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘What sort of missile would the thing throw?’ he asked.

‘I was thinking of rocks,’ said Armstrong. ‘I explained the principle of the trebuchet to Willis and he has worked it all out. It’s merely the application of simple mechanics, you know, and Willis has got all that at his fingertips. We’ll probably make a better trebuchet than they could in the Middle Ages—we can apply the scientific principles with more understanding. Willis thinks we can throw a twenty-pound rock over a couple of hundred yards with no trouble at all.’

‘Wow!’ said O’Hara. He visualized a twenty-pound boulder arching in a high trajectory—it would come out of the sky almost vertically at that range. ‘We can do the bridge a bit of no good with a thing like that.’

‘How long will it take to make?’ asked Forester.

‘Not long,’ said Armstrong. ‘Not more than twelve hours, Willis thinks. It’s a very simple machine, really.’

O’Hara felt in his pocket and found his cigarette packet. He took one of his last cigarettes and gave it to Armstrong. ‘Put that in your pipe and smoke it. You deserve it.’

Armstrong smiled delightedly and began to shred the cigarette. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I can think much better when I smoke.’

O’Hara grinned. ‘I’ll give you all my cigarettes if you can come up with the medieval version of the atom bomb.’

‘That was gunpowder,’ said Armstrong seriously. ‘I think that’s beyond us at the moment.’

‘There’s just one thing wrong with your idea,’ O’Hara commented. ‘We can’t have too many people up at the
camp. We must have somebody down at the bridge in case the enemy does anything unexpected. We’ve got to keep a fighting force down here.’

‘I’ll stay,’ said Armstrong, puffing at his pipe contentedly. ‘I’m not very good with my hands—my fingers are all thumbs. Willis knows what to do; he doesn’t need me.’