High Citadel

I

Armstrong heard trucks grinding up the mountain road. ‘They’re coming,’ he said, and looked out over the breastwork of rock, his fingers curling round the butt of the gun.

The mist seemed to be thinning and he could see as far as the huts quite clearly and to where the road debouched on to the level ground; but there was still enough mist to halo the headlights even before the trucks came into view.

Benedetta ran up the tunnel and lay beside him. He said, ‘You’d better get back; there’s nothing you can do here.’ He lifted the pistol. ‘One bullet. That’s all the fighting we can do.’

‘They don’t know that,’ she retorted.

‘How is your uncle?’ he asked.

‘Better, but the altitude is not good for him.’ She hesitated. ‘I am not happy about Jenny; she is in a fever.’

He said nothing; what was a fever or altitude sickness when the chances were that they would all be dead within the hour? Benedetta said, ‘We delayed them about three hours at the camp.’

She was not really speaking sense, just making inconsequential noises to drown her own thoughts — and all her thoughts were of O’Hara. Armstrong looked at her sideways. ‘I’m sorry to be pessimistic,’ he said. ‘But I think this is the last act. We’ve done very well considering what we had to fight with, but it couldn’t go on for ever. Napoleon was right — God is on the side of the big battalions.’

Her voice was savage. ‘We can still take some of them with us.’ She grasped his arm. ‘Look, they’re coming.’

The first vehicle was breasting the top of the rise. It was quite small and Armstrong judged it was a jeep. It came forward, its headlights probing the mist, and behind it came a big truck, and then another. He heard shouted commands and the trucks rolled as far as the huts and stopped, and he saw men climbing out and heard the clatter of boots on rock.

The jeep curved in a great arc, its lights cutting a swathe like a scythe, and Armstrong suddenly realized that it was searching the base of the cliffs where the tunnels were. Before he knew it he was fully illuminated, and as he dodged back into cover, he heard the animal roar of triumph from the enemy as he was seen.

‘Damn!’ he said. ‘I was stupid.’

‘It does not matter,’ Benedetta said. ‘They would have found us soon.’ She lay down and cautiously pulled a rock from the pile. ‘I think I can see through here,’ she whispered. ‘There is no need to put your head up.’

Armstrong heard steps from behind as Willis came up. ‘Keep down,’ he said quietly. ‘Flat on your stomach.’

Willis wriggled alongside him. ‘What’s going on?’

‘They’ve spotted us,’ said Armstrong. ‘They’re deploying out there; getting ready to attack.’ He laughed humourlessly. ‘If they knew what we had to defend ourselves with, they’d just walk in.’

‘There’s another truck coming,’ said Benedetta bitterly. ‘I suppose it’s bringing more men; they need an army to crush us.’

‘Let me see,’ said Armstrong. Benedetta rolled away from the spy-hole and Armstrong looked through. ‘It’s got no lights — that’s odd; and it’s moving fast. Now it’s changing direction and going towards the huts. It doesn’t seem to be slowing down.’

They could hear the roar of the engine, and Armstrong yelled, ‘It’s going faster — it’s going to smash into them.’ His voice cracked on a scream. ‘Do you think it could be O’Hara?’

O’Hara held tight to the jolting wheel and rammed the accelerator to the floorboards. He had been making for the jeep but then he had seen something much more important; in the light of the truck headlights a group of men were assembling a light machine-gun. He swung the wheel and the truck swerved, two wheels coming off the ground and then bouncing back with a spine-jolting crash. The truck swayed alarmingly, but he held it on its new course and switched on his lights and saw the white faces of men turn towards him and their hands go up to shield their eyes from the glare.

Then they were running aside but two of them were too late and he heard the squashy thumps as the front of the truck hit them. But he was not concerned with men — he wanted the gun — and the truck lifted a little as he drove the off-side wheels over the machine-gun, grinding it into the rock. Then he had gone past and there was a belated and thin scattering of shots from behind.

He looked for the jeep, hauled the wheel round again, and the careering truck swung and went forward like a projectile. The driver of the jeep saw him coming and tried to run for it; the jeep shot forward, but O’Hara swerved again and the jeep was fully illuminated as he made for a head-on crash. He saw the Russian point a pistol and there was a flash and the truck windscreen starred in front of his face. He ducked involuntarily.

The driver of the jeep swung his wheel desperately, but turned the wrong way and came up against the base of the cliff. The jeep spun again, but the mistake had given O’Hara his chance and he charged forward to ram the jeep broadside on. He saw the Russian throw up his arms and disappear from sight as the light vehicle was hurled on its side with a tearing and rending sound, and then O’Hara had slammed into reverse and was backing away.

He looked back towards the trucks and saw a mob of men running towards him, so he picked up the sub-machine-gun from the floor of the cab and he steadied it on the edge of the window. He squeezed the trigger three times, altering his aim slightly between bursts, and the mob broke up into fragments, individual men rolling on the open ground and desperately seeking cover.

As O’Hara engaged in bottom gear, a bullet tore through the body of the truck, and then another, but he took no notice. The front of the truck slammed into the overturned jeep again, catching it on the underside of the chassis. Remorselessly O’Hara pushed forward using the truck as a bulldozer and mashed the jeep against the cliff face with a dull crunching noise. When he had finished no human sounds came from the crushed vehicle.

But that act of anger and revenge was nearly the end of him. By the time he had reversed the truck and swung clear again he was under heavy fire. He rolled forward and tried to zigzag, but the truck was slow in picking up speed and a barrage of fire came from the semi-circle of men surrounding him. The windscreen shattered into opacity and he could not see where he was heading.

Benedetta, Armstrong and Willis were on their feet yelling, but no bullets came their way — they were not as dangerous as O’Hara. They watched the truck weaving drunkenly and saw sparks fly as steel-jacketed bullets ricocheted from the metal armour Santos had installed. Willis shouted, ‘He’s in trouble,’ and before they could stop him he had vaulted the rock wall and was running for the truck.

O’Hara was steering with one hand and using the butt of the sub-machine-gun as a hammer in an attempt to smash the useless windscreen before him. Willis leaped on the running-board and just as his fingers grasped the edge of the door O’Hara was hit. A rifle bullet flew the width of the cab and smashed his shoulder, slamming him into the door and nearly upsetting Willis’s balance. He gave a great cry and slumped down in his seat.

Willis grabbed the wheel with one hand, turned it awkwardly. He shouted, ‘Keep your foot on the accelerator,’ and O’Hara heard him through a dark mist of pain and pushed down with his foot. Willis turned the truck towards the cliff and tried to head for the tunnel. He saw the rear view mirror disintegrate and he knew that the bullet that had hit it had passed between his body and the truck. That did not seem to matter — all that mattered was to get the truck into cover.

Armstrong saw the truck turn and head towards him. ‘Run,’ he shouted to Benedetta, and took to his heels, dragging her by the hand and making down the tunnel.

Willis saw the mouth of the tunnel yawn darkly before him and pressed closer to the body of the truck. As the nose of the truck hit the low wall, rocks exploded into the interior, splintering against the tunnel sides.

Then Willis was hit. The bullet took him in the small of the back and he let go of the wheel and the edge of the door. In the next instant, as the truck roared into the tunnel to crash at the bend, Willis was wiped off the running-board by the rock face and was flung in a crumpled heap to the ground just by the entrance.

He stirred slightly as a bullet clipped the rock just above his head and his hands groped forward helplessly, the fingers scrabbling at the cold rock. Then two bullets hit him almost simultaneously and he jerked once and was still.

II

It seemed enormously quiet as Armstrong and Benedetta dragged O’Hara from the cab of the truck. The shooting had stopped and there was no sound at all apart from the creakings of the cooling engine and the clatter as Armstrong kicked something loose on the floor of the cab. They were working in darkness because a well-directed shot straight down the tunnel would be dangerous.

At last they got O’Hara into safety round the corner and Benedetta lit the wick of the last paraffin bottle. O’Hara was unconscious and badly injured; his right arm hung limp and his shoulder was a ghastly mess of torn flesh and splintered bone. His face was badly cut too, because he had been thrown forward when the truck had crashed at the bend of the tunnel and Benedetta looked at him with tears in her eyes and wondered where to start.

Aguillar tottered forward, the breath wheezing in his chest, and said with difficulty, ‘In the name of God, what has happened?’

‘You cannot help, tío,’ she said. ‘Lie down again.’ Aguillar looked down at O’Hara with shocked eyes — it was brought home to him that war is a bloody business. Then he said, ‘Where is Señor Willis?’

‘I think he’s dead,’ said Armstrong quietly. ‘He didn’t come back.’

Aguillar sank down silently next to O’Hara, his face grey. ‘Let me help,’ he said.

‘I’ll go back on watch,’ said Armstrong. ‘Though what use that will be I don’t know. It’ll be dark soon. I suppose that’s what they’re waiting for.’

He went away into the darkness towards the truck, and Benedetta examined O’Hara’s shattered shoulder. She looked up at Aguillar helplessly. ‘What can I do? This needs a doctor — a hospital; we cannot do anything here.’

‘We must do what we can,’ said Aguillar. ‘Before he recovers consciousness. Bring the light closer.’

He began to pick out fragments of bone from the bloody flesh and by the time he had finished and Benedetta had bandaged the wound and put the arm in a sling O’Hara was wide awake, suppressing his groans. He looked up at Benedetta and whispered, ‘Where’s Willis?’

She shook her head slowly and O’Hara turned his face away. He felt a growing rage within him at the unfairness of things; just when he had found life again he must leave it — and what a way to leave; cooped up in a cold, dank tunnel at the mercy of human wolves. From nearby he could hear a woman babbling incoherently. ‘Who is that?’

‘Jenny,’ said Benedetta. ‘She is delirious.’

They made O’Hara as comfortable as possible and then Benedetta stood up. ‘I must help Armstrong.’ Aguillar looked up and saw that her face was taut with anger and fatigue, the skin drawn tightly over her cheekbones and dark smudges below her eyes. He sighed softly and nipped the guttering wick into darkness.

Armstrong was crouched by the truck. ‘I was waiting for someone,’ he said.

‘Who were you expecting?’ she said sarcastically. ‘We two are the only able-bodied left.’ Then she said in a low voice, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Armstrong. ‘How’s Tim?’

Her voice was bitter. ‘He’ll live — if he’s allowed to.’

Armstrong said nothing for a long time, allowing the anger and frustration to seep from her, then he said, ‘Everything’s quiet; they haven’t made a move and I don’t understand it. I’d like to go up there and have a look when it gets really dark outside.’

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ said Benedetta in alarm. ‘What can a defenceless man do?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t start anything,’ said Armstrong. ‘And I wouldn’t be exactly defenceless. Tim had one of those little machine-guns with him, and I think there are some full magazines. I haven’t been able to find out how it works in the dark; I think I’ll go back and examine it in the light of our lamp. The crossbow is here, too; and a couple of bolts — I’ll leave those here with you.’

She took his arm. ‘Don’t leave yet.’

He caught the loneliness and desolation in her voice and subsided. Presently he said, ‘Who would have thought that Willis would do a thing like that? It was the act of a really brave man and I never thought he was that.’

‘Who knows what lies inside a man?’ said Benedetta softly, and Armstrong knew she was thinking of O’Hara.

He stayed with her a while and talked the tension out of her, then went back and lit the lamp. O’Hara looked across at him with pain-filled eyes. ‘Has the truck had it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Armstrong. ‘I haven’t looked yet.’

‘I thought we might make a getaway in it,’ said O’Hara.

‘I’ll have a look at it. I don’t think it took much damage from the knocks it had — those chaps had it pretty well armoured against our crossbow bolts. But I don’t think the bullets did it any good; the armour wouldn’t be proof against those.’

Aguillar came closer. ‘Perhaps we might try in the darkness — to get away, I mean.’

‘Where to?’ asked Armstrong practically. ‘They’ll have the bridge covered — and I wouldn’t like to take a truck across that at night — it would be suicidal. And they’ll have plenty of light up here, too; they’ll keep the entrance to the tunnel well covered.’ He rubbed the top of his head. ‘I don’t know why they don’t just come in and take us right now.’

‘I think I killed the top man,’ said O’Hara. ‘I hope I did. And I don’t think Santos has the stomach to push in here — he’s scared of what he might meet.’

‘Who is Santos?’ asked Aguillar.

‘The Cuban.’ O’Hara smiled weakly. ‘I got pretty close to him down below.’

‘You did a lot of damage when you came up in the truck,’ observed Armstrong. ‘I don’t wonder they’re scared. Maybe they’ll give up.’

‘Not now,’ said O’Hara with conviction. ‘They’re too close to success to give up now. Anyway, all they have to do now is to camp outside and starve us out.’

They were silent for a long time thinking about that, then Armstrong said, ‘I’d rather go down in glory.’ He pulled forward the sub-machine-gun. ‘Do you know how this thing works?’

O’Hara showed him how to work the simple mechanism, and when he had gone back to his post Aguillar said, ‘I am sorry about your shoulder, señor.’

O’Hara bared his teeth in a brief grin. ‘Not as sorry as I am — it hurts like the devil. But it doesn’t matter, you know; I’m not likely to feel pain for long.’

Aguillar’s asthmatical wheezing stopped momentarily as he caught his breath. ‘Then you think this is the end?’

‘I do.’

‘A pity, señor. I could have made much use of you in the new Cordillera. A man in my position needs good men — they are as hard to find as the teeth of a hen.’

‘What use would a broken-down pilot be to you? Men like me come ten a penny.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Aguillar seriously. ‘You have shown much initiative in this engagement and that is a commodity which is scarce. As you know, the military forces of Cordillera are rotten with politics and I need men to lift them out of the political arena — especially the fighter squadrons. If you wish to stay in Cordillera, I think I can promise you a position in the Air Force.’

For a moment O’Hara forgot that the hours — and perhaps minutes — of his life were measured. He said simply, ‘I’d like that.’

‘I’m glad,’ said Aguillar. ‘Your first task would be to straighten out Eighth Squadron. But you must not think that because you are marrying into the President’s family that the way will be made easy for you.’ He chuckled as he felt O’Hara start. ‘I know my niece very well, Tim. Never has she felt about a man as she feels about you. I hope you will be very happy together.’

‘We will be,’ said O’Hara, then fell silent as reality flooded upon him once more — the realization that all this talk of marriage and future plans was futile. After a while, he said wistfully, ‘These are pipe dreams, Señor Aguillar; reality is much more frightening. But I do wish...’

‘We are still alive,’ said Aguillar. ‘And while the blood runs in a man nothing is impossible for him.’

He said nothing more and O’Hara heard only the rasping of his breath in the darkness.

III

When Armstrong joined Benedetta he looked towards the entrance of the tunnel and saw that night had fallen and there was a bright glare of headlamps flooding the opening. He strained his eyes and said, ‘The mist seems to be thickening, don’t you think?’

‘I think so,’ said Benedetta listlessly.

‘Now’s the time to scout around,’ he said.

‘Don’t,’ Benedetta implored him. ‘They’ll see you.’

‘I don’t think they can; the mist is throwing the light back at them. They’d see me if I went outside, but I don’t intend to do that. I don’t think they can see a damned thing in the tunnel.’

‘All right, then. But be careful.’

He smiled as he crawled forward. In their circumstances the word ‘careful’ seemed ridiculous. It was like telling a man who had jumped from an aeroplane without a parachute to be careful. All the same, he was most careful to make no noise as he inched his way towards the entrance, hampered by the shattered remnants of the rock wall.

He stopped some ten yards short of the opening, knowing that to go farther would be too risky, and peered into the misty brightness. At first he could see nothing, but by shielding his eyes from the worst of the glare he managed to pick out some details. Two trucks were parked at an angle to the cliff, one on each side of the tunnel, and when the light from the left truck flickered he knew someone had walked in front of it.

He stayed there for some time and twice he made deliberate movements, but it was as he thought — he could not be seen. After a while he began to crawl about gathering rocks, which he built up into a low wall, barely eighteen inches high. It was not much but it would give solid protection against rifle fire to anyone lying behind it. This took him a long time and there was no action from outside; occasionally he heard a man coughing, and sometimes the sound of voices, but apart from that there was nothing.

Eventually he picked up the sub-machine-gun and went back to the truck. Benedetta whispered from the darkness, ‘What are they doing?’

‘Damned if I know,’ he said, and looked back. ‘It’s too quiet out there. Keep a good watch; I’m going to have a look at the truck.’

He squeezed her hand and then groped his way to the cab of the truck and climbed inside. Everything seemed to be all right, as far as he could judge, barring the windscreen which could not be seen through. He sat in the driving-seat and thought about what would happen if they had to make a break for it.

To begin with, he would be driving — there was no one else who could handle the truck — and he would have to reverse out of the tunnel. There would be one man in the passenger seat beside him and the others in the back.

He examined the rest of the truck, more by feel than sight. Two of the tyres had been badly scored by bullets but miraculously the inner tubes had not been penetrated. The petrol tanks, too, were intact, protected by the deep skirts of mild steel, added to guard against crossbow bolts.

He had fears about the radiator, but a groping journey under the truck revealed no fatal drip of water and he was reassured about that. His only worries were that the final crash might have damaged the steering or the engine, but those could not be tested until the time came to go. He did not want to start the engine now — let sleeping dogs lie, he thought.

He rejoined Benedetta. ‘That’s that,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘She seems to be in good fettle. I’ll take over here. You’d better see how the others are.’

She turned immediately, and he knew she was eager to get back to O’Hara.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘You’d better know the drill if we have to make a sudden move.’ He lifted the gun. ‘Can you use this?’

‘I don’t know.’

Armstrong chuckled. ‘I don’t know if I can, either — it’s too modern for me. But O’Hara reckons it’s easy enough; you just pull the trigger and let her go. He says it takes a bit of holding down and you must be careful to slip off the safety-catch. Now, I’ll be driving, with your uncle sitting next to me on the floor of the cab. Tim and Jenny will be in the back, flat on the floor. And there’ll be you in the back, too — with this gun. It’ll be a bit dangerous — you’ll have to show yourself if you shoot.’

Her voice was stony. ‘I’ll shoot.’

‘Good girl,’ he said, and patted her on the shoulder. ‘Give Tim my love when you give him yours.’ He heard her go, then moved up the tunnel to the wall he had built and lay behind it, the sub-machine-gun ready to hand. He put his hand in his pocket and felt for his pipe, then uttered a muffled ‘Damn!’ It was broken, the two pieces separate in his hand. He put the stem in his mouth and chewed on the mouthpiece, never taking his eyes from the entrance.

IV

The day dawned mistily, a dazzling whiteness at the mouth of the tunnel, and Armstrong shifted his position for the hundredth time, trying to find a place to ease his aching bones. He glanced across at O’Hara on the other side of the tunnel and thought, it’s worse for him than for me.

When O’Hara had heard of the rebuilt wall he had insisted on moving there. ‘I haven’t a hope of sleep,’ he said. ‘Not with this shoulder. And I’ve got a fully loaded pistol. I might as well stand — or lie — sentry out there as just lie here. I should be of some use, even if only to allow everyone else to get some sleep.’

But in spite of that Armstrong had not slept. He ached too much to sleep, even though he felt more exhausted than ever before in his life, but he smiled cheerily at O’Hara in the growing light and lifted his head above the low barricade.

There was nothing to be seen except the white swirling mist, an impenetrable curtain. He said softly, ‘Tim, why didn’t they jump us in the night?’

‘They know we have this gun,’ said O’Hara. ‘I wouldn’t like to come running into this tunnel knowing that — especially at night.’

‘Um,’ said Armstrong in an unconvinced tone. ‘But why haven’t they tried to soften us up with rifle fire? They must know that any fire directed into this tunnel will ricochet from the walls — they don’t have to be too accurate.’

O’Hara was silent, and Armstrong continued reflectively: ‘I wonder if there is anyone out there?’

‘Don’t be a damn’ fool,’ said O’Hara. ‘That’s something we can’t take a chance on — not yet. Besides, there was someone to turn the lights off not very long ago.’

‘True,’ said Armstrong, and turned as he heard a movement in the tunnel, and Benedetta crawled up holding a bundle in her arms.

‘The last of the food,’ she said. ‘There’s not much — and we have no water at all.’

Armstrong’s mouth turned down. ‘That’s bad.’

As he and O’Hara shared the food they heard a stirring outside and the murmur of voices. ‘Changing the guard,’ said O’Hara. ‘I heard it before about four hours ago when you were asleep. They’re still there, all right.’

‘Me! Asleep!’ said Armstrong in an aggrieved voice. ‘I didn’t sleep a wink all night.’

O’Hara smiled. ‘You got three or four winks out of the forty.’ He became serious. ‘If we really need water we can drain some from the truck radiator, but I wouldn’t do that unless absolutely necessary.’

Benedetta regarded O’Hara with worry in her eyes. He had a hectic flush and looked too animated for a man who had nearly been shot to death. Miss Ponsky had had the same reaction, and now she was off her head with delirium, unable to eat and crying for water. She said, ‘I think we ought to have water now; Jenny needs it.’

‘In that case we’ll tap the radiator,’ said Armstrong. ‘I hope the anti-freeze compound isn’t poisonous; I think it’s just alcohol, so it should be all right.’

He crawled back with Benedetta and squeezed underneath the truck to unscrew the drain-cock. He tapped out half a can of rusty-looking water and passed it to her. ‘That will have to do,’ he said. ‘We can’t take too much — we might need the truck.’

The day wore on and nothing happened. Gradually the mist cleared under the strengthening sun and then they could see out of the tunnel, and Armstrong’s hopes were shattered as he saw a group of men standing by the huts. Even from their restricted view they could see that the enemy was in full strength.

‘But can they see us?’ mused O’Hara. ‘I don’t think they can. This cavern must look as dark as the Black Hole of Calcutta from outside.’

‘What the devil are they doing?’ asked Armstrong, his eyes level with the top of a rock.

O’Hara watched for a long time, then he said in wonder, ‘They’re piling rocks on the ground — apart from that they’re doing nothing.’

They watched for a long time and all the enemy did was to pile stones in a long line stretching away from the tunnel. After a while they appeared to tire of that and congregated into small groups, chatting and smoking. They seemed to have the appearance of men waiting for something, but why they were waiting or what the rocks were for neither O’Hara nor Armstrong could imagine.

It was midday when Armstrong, his nerves cracking under the strain, said, ‘For God’s sake, let’s do something — something constructive.’

O’Hara’s voice was flat and tired. ‘What?’

‘If we’re going to make a break in the truck we might have to do it quickly. I suggest we put Jenny in the back of the truck right away, and get the old man settled in the front seat. Come to think of it, he’ll be a damn sight more comfortable on a soft seat.’

O’Hara nodded. ‘All right. Leave that sub-machine-gun with me. I might need it.’

Armstrong went back to the truck, walking upright. To hell with crawling on my belly like a snake, he thought; let me walk like a man for once. The enemy either did not see or saw and did not care. No shots were fired.

He saw Miss Ponsky safely into the back of the truck and then he escorted Aguillar to the cab. Aguillar was in a bad way, much worse than he had been. His speech was incoherent and his breathing was bad; he was in a daze and did not appear to know where he was. Benedetta was pale and worried and stayed to look after him.

When Armstrong dropped behind the rock wall, he said, ‘If we don’t get out of here soon that bloody crowd will have won.’

O’Hara jerked his head in surprise. ‘Why?’

‘Aguillar — he looks on the verge of a heart attack; if he doesn’t get down to where he can breathe more easily he’ll peg out.’

O’Hara looked outside and gestured with his good arm. ‘There are nearly two dozen men within sight; they’d shoot hell out of us if we tried to break out now. Look at what happened to me yesterday when they were hampered by mist — there’s no mist now and we wouldn’t stand a chance. We’ll have to wait.’

So they waited — and so did the enemy. And the day went on, the sun sloping back overhead into mid-afternoon. It was three o’clock when O’Hara stirred and then relaxed and shook his head. ‘I thought... but no.’

He settled himself down, but a moment later his head jerked up again. ‘It is — can’t you hear it?’

‘Hear what?’ asked Armstrong.

‘A plane — or planes,’ said O’Hara excitedly.

Armstrong listened and caught the shrill whine of a jet plane passing overhead, the noise muffled and distorted. ‘By God, you’re right,’ he said. He looked at O’Hara in sudden consternation. ‘Ours or theirs?’

But O’Hara had already seen their doom. He leaned up and looked, horrified, to the mouth of the tunnel. Framed in the opening against the sky was a diving plane coming head on and, as he watched, he saw something drop from each wing, and a spurt of vapour.

‘Rockets!’ he screamed. ‘For Christ’s sake, get down!’

V

Forester had climbed to meet the three Sabres and as he approached they saw him and fell into a loose formation and awaited him. He came in from behind and increased speed, getting the leader in his sights. He flicked off the safety switches and his thumb caressed the firing-button. This boy would never know what hit him.

All the time there was a continual jabber in his earphones as the leader called Coello. At last, assuming that Coello’s radio was at fault, he said, ‘Since you are silent, mio Colonel, I will lead the attack.’ It was then that Forester knew that these men had been briefed on the ground — and he pressed the firing-button.

Once again he felt the familiar jolt in the air, almost a halt, and saw the tracer shells streaking and corkscrewing towards their target. The leading Sabre was a-dance with coruscations of light as the shells burst, and suddenly it blew up in a gout of black smoke with a red heart at the centre.

Forester weaved to avoid wreckage and then went into a sharp turn and climbed rapidly, listening to the horrified exclamations from the other pilots. They babbled for a few moments then one of them said, ‘Silence. I will take him.’

Forester searched the skies and thought — he’s quick off the mark. He felt chilled; these boys would be young and have fast reflexes and they would be trained to a hair. He had not flown for nearly ten years, beyond the few annual hours necessary to keep up his rating, and he wondered grimly how long he would last.

He found his enemies. One was swooping in a graceful dive towards the ground and the other was climbing in a wide circle to get behind him. As he watched, the pilot fired his rockets aimlessly. ‘Oh, no, you don’t, you bastard,’ said Forester. ‘You don’t catch me like that.’ He knew his opponent had jettisoned his rockets in order to reduce weight and drag and to gain speed. For a moment he was tempted to do the same and to fight it out up there in the clean sky, but he knew he could not take the chance. Besides he had a better use for his rockets.

Instead, he pushed the control column forward and went into a screaming dive. This was dangerous — his opponent would be faster in the dive and it had been drilled into Forester never, never to lose height while in combat. He kept his eyes on the mirror and soon the Sabre came into view behind, catching up fast. He waited until the very last moment, until he was sure he was about to be fired on, then pushed the stick forward again and went into a suicidal vertical dive.

His opponent overshot him, taken unaware by the craziness of this manoeuvre performed so near the ground. Forester ignored him, confident that he had lost him for the time being; he was more concerned with preventing his plane from splattering itself all over the mountainside. He felt juddering begin as the Sabre approached the sound barrier; the whole fabric of the plane groaned as he dragged it out of the dive and he hoped the wings would not come off.

By the time he was flying level the ground was a scant two hundred feet below, snow and rock merging together in a grey blur. He lifted the Sabre up a few hundred feet and circled widely away from the mountains, looking for the gorge and the bridge. He spotted the gorge immediately — it was too unmistakable to be missed, and a minute later he saw the bridge. He turned over it, scanning the ground, but saw no one, and then it was gone behind and he lifted up to the slope of the mountain, flying over the winding road he had laboriously tramped so often.

Abruptly he changed course, wanting to approach the mine parallel to the mountainside, and as he did so he looked up and saw a Sabre a thousand feet higher, launching two rockets. That’s the second one, he thought. I was too late.

He turned again and screamed over the mine, the airstrip unwinding close below. Ahead were the huts and some trucks and a great arrow made of piled rocks pointing to the cliff face. And at the head of the arrow a boiling cloud of smoke and dust where the rockets had driven home into the cliff. ‘Jesus!’ he said involuntarily, ‘I hope they survived that.’

Then he had flashed over and went into a turn to come back. Come back he did with an enemy hammering on his heels. The Sabre he had eluded high in the sky had found him again and its guns were already crackling. But the range was too great and he knew that the other pilot, tricked before, was now waiting for him to play some other trick. This sign of inexperience gave him hope, but the other Sabre was faster and he must drop his rockets.

He had seen a good, unsuspecting target, yet to hit it he would have to come in on a smooth dive and stood a good chance of being hit by his pursuer. His lips curled back over his teeth and he held his course, sighting on the trucks and the huts and the group of men standing in their shelter. With one hand he flicked the rocket-arming switches and then fired, almost in the same instant.

The salvo of rockets streaked from under his wings, spearing down towards the trucks and the men who were looking up and waving. At the last moment, when they saw death coming from the sky, they broke and ran — but it was too late. Eight rockets exploded among them and as Forester roared overhead he saw a three-ton truck heave bodily into the air to fall on its side. He laughed out loud; a rocket that would stop a tank dead in its tracks would certainly shatter a truck.

The Sabre felt more handy immediately the rockets were gone and he felt the increase in speed. He put the nose down and screamed along the airstrip at zero feet, not looking back to see the damage he had done and striving to elude his pursuer by flying as low as he dared. At the end of the runway he dipped even lower over the wreckage of the Dakota and skidded in a frantic sideslip round the mountainside.

He looked in the mirror and saw his opponent take the corner more widely and much higher. Forester grinned; the bastard hadn’t dared to come down on the deck and so he couldn’t bring his guns to bear and he’d lost distance by his wide turn. Now to do him.

He fled up the mountainside parallel with the slope and barely twenty feet from the ground. It was risky, for there were jutting outcrops of rock which stretched out black fangs to tear out the belly of the Sabre if he made the slightest miscalculation. During the brief half-minute it took to reach clear sky, sweat formed on his forehead.

Then he was free of the mountain, and his enemy stooped to make his kill, but Forester was expecting it and went into a soaring vertical climb with a quick roll on top of the loop and was heading away in the opposite direction. He glanced back and grinned in satisfaction; he had tested the enemy and found him wanting — that young man would not take risks and Forester knew he could take him, so he went in for the kill.

It was brief and brutal. He turned to meet the oncoming plane and made as though to ram deliberately. At the closing speed of nearly fifteen hundred miles an hour the other pilot flinched as Forester knew he would, and swerved aside. By the time he had recovered Forester was on his tail and the end was mercifully quick — a sharp burst from the cannons at minimum range and the inevitable explosion in mid-air. Again Forester swerved to avoid wreckage. As he climbed to get his bearings, he reflected that battle experience still counted for a lot and the assessment of personality for still more.

VI

Armstrong was deaf; the echoes of that vast explosion still rumbled in the innermost recesses of the tunnel but he did not hear them. Nor could he see much because of the coils of dust which thickened the air. His hands were vainly clutching the hard rock of the tunnel floor as he pressed himself to the ground and his mind felt shattered.

It was O’Hara who recovered first. Finding himself still alive and able to move, he raised his head to look at the tunnel entrance. Light showed dimly through the dust. He missed, he thought vacantly; the rockets missed — but not by much. Then he shook his head to clear it and stumbled across to Armstrong who was still grovelling on the ground. He shook him by the shoulder. ‘Back to the truck,’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got to get out. He won’t miss the second time round.’

Armstrong lifted his head and gazed at O’Hara dumbly, and O’Hara pointed back to the truck and made a dumb show of driving. He got to his feet shakily and followed O’Hara, still feeling his head ringing from the violence of the explosion.

O’Hara yelled, ‘Benedetta — into the truck.’ He saw her in and handed her the sub-machine-gun, then climbed in himself with her aid and lay down next to Miss Ponsky. Outside he heard the scream of a jet going by and a series of explosions in the distance. He hoped that Armstrong was in a condition to drive.

Armstrong climbed into the cab and felt the presence of Aguillar in the next seat. ‘On the floor,’ he said, pushing him down, and then his attention was wholly absorbed by the task before him. He pressed the starter-button and the starter whined and groaned. He stabbed it again and again until, just as he was giving up hope, the engine fired with a coughing roar.

Putting the gears into reverse, he leaned out of the cab and gazed back towards the entrance and let out the clutch. The truck bumped backwards clumsily and scraped the side wall. He hauled on the wheel and tried to steer a straight course for the entrance — as far as he could tell the steering had not been damaged and it did not take long to do the fifty yards. Then he stopped just short of the mouth of the tunnel in preparation for the dash into the open.

Benedetta gripped the unfamiliar weapon in her hands and held it ready, crouching down in the back of the truck. O’Hara was sitting up, a pistol in his good hand; he knew that if he lay down he would have difficulty in getting up again — he could only use one arm for leverage. Miss Ponsky was mercifully unaware of what was going on; she babbled a little in her stupor and then fell silent as the truck backed jerkily into the open and turned.

O’Hara heard Armstrong battering at the useless windscreen and prepared himself for a fusillade of rifle fire. Nothing came and he looked round and what he saw made him blink incredulously. It was a sight he had seen before but he had not expected to see it here. The huts and trucks were shattered and wrecked and bodies lay about them. From a wounded man there came a mournful keening and there were only two men left on their feet, staggering about blindly and in a daze. He looked the awful scene over with a professional eye and knew that an aircraft had fired a ripple of eight rockets at this target, blasting it thoroughly.

He yelled, ‘Armstrong — get the hell out of here while we can,’ then sagged back and grinned at Benedetta. ‘One of those fighter boys made a mistake and hammered the wrong target; he’s going to get a strip torn off him when he gets back to base.’

Armstrong smashed enough of the windscreen away so that he could see ahead, then put the truck into gear and went forward, turning to go past the huts and down the road. He looked in fascinated horror at the wreckage until it was past and then applied himself to the task of driving an unfamiliar and awkward vehicle down a rough mountain road with its multitude of hairpin bends. As he went, he heard a jet plane whine overhead very low and he tensed, waiting for the slam of more explosions, but nothing happened and the plane went out of hearing.

Above, Forester saw the truck move off. One of them still left, he thought; and dived, his thumb ready on the firing button. At the last moment he saw the streaming hair of a woman standing in the back and hastily removed his thumb as he screamed over the truck. My God, that was Benedetta — they’ve got themselves a truck.

He pulled the Sabre into a climb and looked about. He had not forgotten the third plane and hoped it had been scared off because a strange lassitude was creeping over him and he knew that the effects of McGruder’s stimulant were wearing off. He tried to ease the ache in his chest while circling to keep an eye on the truck as it bounced down the mountain road.

O’Hara looked up at the circling Sabre. ‘I don’t know what to make of that chap,’ he said. ‘He must know we’re here, but he’s doing nothing about it.’

‘He must think we’re on his side,’ said Benedetta. ‘He must think that of anyone in a truck.’

‘That sounds logical,’ O’Hara agreed. ‘But someone did a good job of working over our friends up on top and it wasn’t a mistake an experienced pilot would make.’ He winced as the truck jolted his shoulder. ‘We’d better prepare to pile out if he shows signs of coming in to strafe us. Can you arrange signals with Armstrong?’

Benedetta turned and hung over the side, craning her neck to see Armstrong at the wheel. ‘We might be attacked from the air,’ she shouted. ‘How can we stop you?’

Armstrong slowed for a nasty corner. ‘Thump like hell on top of the cab — I’ll stop quick enough. I’m going to stop before we get to the camp, anyway; there might be someone laying for us down there.’

Benedetta relayed this to O’Hara and he nodded. ‘A pity I can’t use that thing,’ he said, indicating the sub-machine gun. ‘If you have to shoot, hold it down; it kicks like the devil and you’ll find yourself spraying the sky if you aren’t careful.’

He looked up at her. The wind was streaming her black hair and moulding the tattered dress to her body. She was cradling the sub-machine-gun in her hands and looking up at the plane and he thought in sudden astonishment, My God, a bloody Amazon — she looks like a recruiting poster for partisans. He thought of Aguillar’s offer of an Air Force commission and had a sudden and irrational conviction that they would come through this nightmare safely.

Benedetta threw up her hand and cried in a voice of despair, ‘Another one — another plane.’

O’Hara jerked his head and saw another Sabre curving overhead much higher and the first Sabre going to join it. Benedetta said bitterly, ‘Always they must hunt in packs — even when they know we are defenceless.’

But O’Hara, studying the manoeuvring of the two aircraft with a war-experienced eye, was not sure about that. ‘They’re going to fight,’ he said with wonder. ‘They’re jockeying for position. By God, they’re going to fight each other.’ His raised and incredulous voice was sharply punctuated by the distant clatter of automatic cannon.

Forester had almost been caught napping. He had only seen the third enemy Sabre when it was much too close for comfort and he desperately climbed to get the advantage of height. As it was, the enemy fired first and there was a thump and a large, ragged hole magically appeared in his wing as a cannon shell exploded. He side-slipped evasively, then drove his plane into a sharp, climbing turn.

Below, O’Hara yelled excitedly and thumped with his free hand on the side of the cab. ‘Forester and Rohde — they’ve got across the mountain — they must have.’

The truck jolted to a sudden stop and Armstrong shot out of the cab like a startled jack-rabbit and dived into the side of the road. From the other side Aguillar stepped down painfully into the road and was walking away slowly when he heard the excited shouts from the truck. He turned and then looked upwards to the embattled Sabres.

The fight was drifting westward and presently the two aircraft disappeared from sight over the mountain, leaving only the white inscription of vapour trails in the blue sky. Armstrong came up to the side of the truck. ‘What the devil’s happening?’ he asked with annoyance. ‘I got the fright of my life when you thumped on the cab.’

‘I’m damned if I know,’ said O’Hara helplessly. ‘But some of these planes seem to be on our side; a couple are having a dogfight now.’ He threw out his arm. ‘Look, here they come again.’

The two Sabres were much lower as they came in sight round the mountain, one in hot pursuit of the other. There was a flickering on the wings of the rear plane as the cannon hammered and suddenly a stream of oily smoke burst from the leading craft. It dropped lower and a black speck shot upwards. ‘He’s bailed out,’ said O’Hara. ‘He’s had it.’

The pursuing Sabre pulled up in a climb, but the crippled plane settled into a steepening dive to crash on the mountainside. A pillar of black, greasy smoke marked the wreck and a parachute, suddenly opened, drifted across the sky like a blown dandelion seed.

Armstrong looked up and watched the departing victor which was easing into a long turn, obviously intent on coming back. ‘That’s all very well,’ he said worriedly. ‘But who won — us or them?’

‘Everyone out,’ said O’Hara decisively. ‘Armstrong, give Benedetta a hand with Jenny.’

But they had no time, for suddenly the Sabre was upon them, roaring overhead in a slow roll. O’Hara, who was cradling Miss Ponsky’s head with his free arm, blew out his breath expressively. ‘Our side seems to have won that one,’ he said. ‘But I’d like to know who the hell our side is.’ He watched the Sabre coming back, dipping its wings from side to side. ‘Of course, it couldn’t be Forester — that’s impossible. A pity. He always wanted to become an ace, to make his fifth kill.’

The plane dipped and turned as it came over again and headed down the mountain and presently they heard cannon-fire again. ‘Everyone in the truck,’ commanded O’Hara. ‘He’s shooting up the camp — we’ll have no trouble there. Armstrong, you get going and don’t stop for a damned thing until we’re on the other side of the bridge.’ He laughed delightedly. ‘We’ve got air cover now.’

They pressed on and passed the camp. There was a fiercely burning truck by the side of the road, but no sign of anyone living. Half an hour later they approached the bridge and Armstrong drew to a slow halt by the abutments, looking about him anxiously. He heard the Sabre going over again and was reassured, so he put the truck into gear and slowly inched his way on to the frail and unsubstantial structure.

Overhead, Forester watched the slow progress of the truck as it crossed the bridge. He thought there was a wind blowing down there because the bridge seemed to sway and shiver, but perhaps it was only his tired eyes playing tricks. He cast an anxious eye on his fuel gauges and decided it was time to put the plane down — and he hoped he could put it down in one piece. He felt desperately tired and his whole body ached.

Making one last pass at the bridge to make sure that all was well, he headed away following the road, and had gone only a few miles when he saw a convoy of vehicles coming up, some of them conspicuously marked with the RedCross. So that’s that, he thought; McGruder got through and someone got on the phone to this side of the mountains and stirred things up. It couldn’t possibly be another batch of communists — what would they want with ambulances?

He lifted his eyes and looked ahead for flat ground and a place to land.

Aguillar watched Armstrong’s face lighten as the wheels of the truck rolled off the bridge and they were at last on the other side of the river. So many good people, he thought; and so many good ones dead — the Coughlins, Señor Willis — Miss Ponsky so dreadfully wounded and O’Hara also. But O’Hara would be all right; Benedetta would see to that. He smiled as he thought of them, of all the years of their future happiness. And then there were the others, too — Miguel and the two Americans, Forester and Peabody. The State of Cordillera would honour them all — yes, even Peabody, and especially Miguel Rohde.

It would be much later that he heard of what had happened to Peabody — and to Rohde.

O’Hara looked at Miss Ponsky. ‘Will she be all right?’

‘The wound is clean — not as bad as yours, Tim. A hospital will do you both a lot of good.’ Benedetta fell silent.

‘What will you do now?’

‘I suppose I should go back to San Croce to hand my resignation to Filson — and to punch him on the nose, too — but I don’t think I will. He’s not worth it, so I won’t bother.’

‘You are returning to England, then?’ She seemed despondent.

O’Hara smiled. ‘A future President of a South American country has offered me an interesting job. I think I might stick around if the pay is good enough.’

He gasped as Benedetta rushed into his one-armed embrace. ‘Ouch! Careful on this shoulder! And for God’s sake, drop that damned gun — you might cause an accident.’

Armstrong was muttering to himself in a low chant and Aguillar turned his head. ‘What did you say, señor?’

Armstrong stopped and laughed. ‘Oh, it’s something about a medieval battle; rather a famous one where the odds were against winning. Shakespeare said something about it which I’ve been trying to remember — he’s not my line, really; he’s weak on detail but he gets the spirit all right. It goes something like this.’ He lifted his voice and declaimed:

He fell silent and after a few minutes gave a low chuckle. ‘I think Jenny Ponsky will be able to teach that very well when she returns to her school. Do you think she’ll “strip her sleeve and show her scars”?’

The truck lurched down the road towards freedom.