Uncommon Enemy (28 page)

With a thump an object with a small wooden handle landed on the ground.

“Grenade!” screamed Brendan.

“Jesus, what a mess! They’ve all copped it, sir. The whole bloody lot.”

By the flickering light of the kerosene lantern being held aloft by Wilson, Hamish Beavis, with two other soldiers, Clay and Turner, stood surveying the carnage in the tunnel. As the swirling smoke drifted upward through the hole in the floor the scene that it revealed was gruesome. Patches of blood and flesh were splattered at various sections of the wall and bodies lay in grotesque postures at the tunnel’s edges. The relentless downpour had paused and now the only sound was of water dripping steadily from various parts of the building.

Clay gazed at the nearest corpse.

“Christ,” he said softly, “that’s Brownie,”

“Who?” snapped Hamish.

“Alfred Brown, sir. He was in our regiment. He was a good mate.”

“Brown!” responded Hamish angrily. “He was a deserter, Clay. And don’t you forget it.”

Clay met his officer’s angry eyes, nodded brusquely and looked down again.

“Brown was a terrorist.” In a sweeping movement he indicated the bodies in the passage. “They were all terrorists!”

“They were all New Zealanders, sir,” said Wilson.

Hamish glared at him. “Saboteurs! Subversives! Traitors to their country!”

“Maybe, sir,” said Turner. “But, like us, they were all born here.”

There was a murmur of agreement from his comrades.

“That’s enough. You men still have a great deal to learn. Subversives are subversives, regardless of their nationality. That makes them our enemies.” He looked at each man in turn. “Is that clear?” he demanded.

The soldiers quickly exchanged glances. Their desultory “Yes, sir” peeved their officer who was about to demand a more enthusiastic response when there was a low moan from further down the passage.

“One of them’s still alive, sir,” said Wilson starting forward eagerly. “Let’s have a look.”

“Wait!” barked Hamish. “I’ll go. Cover me.”

The soldiers lifted their weapons as he picked his way carefully forward past two of the bodies.

The groan sounded again. He crouched down. The hair was matted and bloody but the face was that of Carol Peterson.

“Bring the lamp!”

The three soldiers hurried forward.

Snatching the lamp from Wilson’s hand Hamish shone it directly on to Carol’s face. Her bloodied hair seemed to have been caused by a cut across her left temple. The blast had torn away her tunic and part of the blouse underneath, revealing one of her breasts. Crouching motionless Hamish stared fixedly at her.

A cough from Wilson brought him hurriedly back to reality.

“Don’t just stand there, you men!” he barked.

The soldiers exchanged glances.

“What do you want us to do, sir?” asked Turner.

Hamish stood up and glanced quickly around. Nearby a door sagged on one hinge revealing a small cubicle with a bed frame and a straw mattress.

“Lift her up and put her over there on the bed. Wilson, you take her shoulders, Turner her feet.” He turned to the remaining soldier. “Clay, come over and support her back.”

The three soldiers moved into position and, on a nod from Wilson, slowly began to lift Carol upwards. She groaned aloud.

“Gently, you bloody morons!” barked Hamish. “I want her alive.”

Turner looked at the other two, raised his eyebrows and grunted.

“You say something, Turner?”

“Me sir? No, sir.”

“Just keep your mouth shut and get on with it, then.”

Picking their way gingerly through the debris the soldiers carried Carol into the cubicle and carefully laid her on the mattress.

“Good. Now step back!”

Turner had noticed a blanket lying in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed. He picked it up and began to spread it across her.

“What the hell are you doing, Turner?” demanded Hamish.

“First rule of first aid, sir. Keep the patient warm.”

Hamish glared at him.

“Permission to carry on, sir?” said Turner meeting his gaze.

Hamish grunted and nodded curtly.

Wilson, standing near the head of the bed, bent forward.

“This looks interesting, sir,”

Reaching across Carol he pulled out a drawing pin and removing a small black and white photograph from the wall near the bed, studied it carefully.

“It’s her. This girl.”

Turner peered over Wilson’s shoulder. “That bloke with his arms round her. That’s Johnson the terrorist. Maybe she was his girlfriend or something.”

“Give it here!” Reaching out Hamish snatched the photograph from Wilson’s hand. “It could be valuable evidence.”

He peered intently at the photograph. A street photographer had taken it outside the Chief Post Office in Queen Street. Stuart, in a university blazer and tie was standing with a smiling Carol who had her arm through his. She was wearing a frock that Hamish immediately recognized as one she had often worn to work. With a snarl he crumpled the photograph in his hand and let it fall to the floor. He stared at it for a moment and then looked at the three soldiers who were gazing at him in astonishment.

“What are you three staring at?” he demanded.

Clay looked down at the crushed photograph. “You said it was valuable evidence. And now you’ve thrown it away!”

Hamish took a step forward. “Are you questioning my actions, Clay?”

The soldier looked at his two companions and then back at Hamish. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

Hamish stared uncertainly at the trio and then barked, “You men, go back upstairs and undertake a thorough search of the building!”

“Another search of the building, sir?” asked Turner with a quizzical look. “They’re all dead up there.”

“Do as I say!” He jerked his head towards Carol. “I now need to interrogate this prisoner.”

Again the soldiers exchanged glances.

“Interrogate the prisoner, sir?” asked Turner making no attempt to hide his incredulity.

“Are you a bloody parrot, Turner?” shouted Hamish. “I will not stand for any more disobedience. You men are to leave here immediately and carry out my orders. Is that clear?”

“As a bell, sir,” replied Clay. Speaking slowly he continued. “We are to search the area upstairs that we’ve already searched while you’ll be interrogating the prisoner.”

“Got it in one, Clay,” replied Hamish sarcastically. “Now carry on!”

The men turned and began to walk towards the stairs. Wilson, the last to leave, stopped and turned back.

“Just one thing, sir.”

“Yes?” demanded Hamish.

The soldier’s tones were measured. “If you have any trouble, you will let us know. Won’t you, sir.”

Before Hamish could reply the men had gone but as they mounted the stairs he heard the echoes of their subdued laughter.

Clenching and unclenching his fists, he stood looking uncertainly in the direction the soldiers had taken. Then turning towards the girl on the bed he smiled. Slowly he bent down until his face was in front of hers. His voice was soft and triumphant.

“At last, sweetheart. At last we’re alone, and together.” Carol’s eyes were closed and she showed no reaction. Fearful that she might be dead he put his ear close to her mouth and sighed with relief when he heard her soft steady breathing.

“You’ve had a tough day,” he said aloud. “Never mind, your fiancé Hamish is here to look after you now.”

Carol still showed no response. Looking round he saw a battered but serviceable wooden chair lying against the wall outside the cubicle. He placed it by the bed, removed his long leather coat and peaked cap and sat down facing her. She appeared to be in a deep sleep. Tiredness came over him and leaning back in the chair he closed his eyes. He had all the time in the world, now. He was on the winning side, Johnson was dead and Carol was completely in his power.

It had been a long pursuit, requiring patience and thoroughness. The Albany bus driver had recalled four young adults among his passengers, two fitting the description of Stuart and Carol. When the searches of the farms in the Albany area proved fruitless he had suggested aerial photographic surveillance. A series of sweeps were made over all the farms in the district and any signs of human activity matched against the known number of each farm’s inhabitants - in particular the farms in the vicinity where the group of New Order soldiers had been ambushed in the afternoon after the Albany library attack. Several days later the soldiers’ bodies had been discovered by the side of a back road. The general consensus was that they had been dumped there and a third late afternoon sweep of the local farms had been ordered. A photograph taken at this particular farm had revealed a truck half-hidden by a tree. It had been a wet day and the tracks showed that the truck had veered off the road. A closer inspection showed several figures on the back of the truck, and two standing alongside it. The following afternoon a rhythmic flashing from a clump of bush near the farmhouse had caused the plane to circle overhead for a few minutes until the flashing abruptly ceased.

Certain that his quarry was near he ordered the farm to be put under 24-hour surveillance. He had chosen soldiers like Wilson, Clay and Turner who, having had deerstalking experience, were well versed in moving quietly through the bush, leaving little trace of their passing.

In spite of several narrow escapes the soldiers had managed to observe comings and goings that were clearly not part of a normal farm’s activity. Final conformation came when a truck, with six people on the back, was observed travelling away from the farmhouse in the morning and returning later in the afternoon. Two of the occupants had rifles across their knees.

On reading the reports Hamish had suggested to his superiors that the farmhouse be attacked on a day when bad weather would ensure that the inhabitants would more likely to be confined inside. The day chosen had been ideal, as the electrical storm had enabled them to approach the buildings without being observed. Luck was certainly on their side when the first people they saw were Johnson and Carol. Their initial escape into the woolshed had been followed by a fierce fire fight in which he’d lost several men. When they’d finally entered the woolshed the sight of Johnson’s lifeless body lying underneath the bodies of several others had given him little satisfaction. He had desperately wanted the man alive. Still, capturing Carol alive was more than adequate compensation. In the end he had got what he really craved - Carol-now his forever.

He smiled grimly, stretched and lifting up the lamp, let the light fall on Carol’s face. She moaned slightly and moved her head away from the light.

“You’ve had a good sleep, haven’t you sweetheart,” he said loudly over the noise of the rain that had recommenced its incessant roof rhythm.

His voice echoed around the tunnel and he felt a moment’s uneasiness. Then, smiling at his own nervousness, he moved the lamp away from her face and continued his one-sided conversation.

“I’ve been sleeping, too, Carol. You could say we’ve been sleeping together.” He sniggered. “I’m certainly looking forward to that, my girl.”

He looked nervously around again and then turning back towards her laughed hoarsely. “No-one here. Just you and me, sweetheart.”

Slowly he reached forward, put his hand on the top of her forehead and moved it lingeringly over her face to the top of the blanket. He paused, and taking the top edge in his hand began to slowly peel it back.

Suddenly Carol’s eyes snapped open. She let out a cry, sat bolt upright and stared straight at Hamish.

“No!” Her voice was a mixture of fear and horror.

“It’s OK, sweetheart. It’s me. It’s Hamish. Your fiancé. I’m looking after you.”

Clutching the blanket to her throat she looked wildly round the room.

“Stuart? Where’s Stuart?” she cried.

Seizing both her shoulders he thrust his face in front of hers. “Stuart is dead. Dead. Shot by my soldiers. There’s only you and me now.”

She stared at him and then began to tremble, slowly at first and then more violently.

“You’re lying! Stuart can’t be dead!”

“He is dead. My men killed him.”

Continuing to stare at him she slowly moved her head from side to side in denial.

Angrily he started to shake her. “Listen to me, Carol! Stuart Johnson is d-e-a-d, dead!”

Abruptly she stopped shaking. Her eyes gazed intently at him. Her mouth moved and she seemed about to speak. Then slowly she pulled her head back and in a swift forward movement spat straight into his face.

Outraged he brought his right arm back and swept his open palm across her face.

She screamed and attempted to spit at him again.

“You little bitch!” he shouted. “Johnson’s dead. Now you’re mine.”

Footsteps could be heard moving rapidly across the floor and down the ladder.

“Leave me alone, you murdering bastard!” she screamed.

The three soldiers appeared in the doorway and stood staring at Hamish who was still holding the near hysterical girl by the shoulders. His blow to her face had re-opened the cut in her forehead causing the blood to trickle slowly down towards her right eye.

“What’s going on?” demanded Turner.

“Get out!” snarled Beavis. “Get out and wait until I call you.”

“I don’t think so,” said Wilson slowly. “The girl’s already been wounded. You said you only wanted to question her.”

“I don’t hold with beating up women,” added Clay.

“You don’t do you?” Hamish’s voice was high pitched. “Nobody asked your opinions. You’re not here to think, just to obey orders! And my orders are to get out until I call for you. Is that understood?”

The men exchanged glances and Clay spoke again.

“It’s understood. But we’re not leaving unless the young lady comes with us. She needs proper medical treatment.”

Taking a step forward, Clay stood directly in front of Hamish.

“Back out there in the rain you said something about a fiancée. Was this girl your fiancée?”

Still holding the trembling girl by the shoulders Hamish stared fixedly at him. He opened his mouth to reply but Clay was already continuing.

“That’s why you crumpled the photograph up isn’t it? That’s why you wanted to question her all by yourself. She jilted you for that chap Johnson, didn’t she?”