The Last Bridge

Chapter Thirty-four 1225 Hours

Corporal Luther Smith crawled to his feet and touched his head. He had cut his temple. The explosion had thrown him halfway across the tower landing. Shards of glass littered the wooden platform but, strangely, the stained rear window by Smith’s post was unscratched. A shattered porcelain figurine lay scattered across the platform. J. D. Hooker was resetting his machine gun in the tower opening. Smith heard the great roaring of flames; from his post he could not see the fire, but the platform was awash with red brilliance, and he felt the heat of it against his cheeks. Hooker was talking, complimenting himself on the expert job of demolition. Smith heard a shout, and when he saw Hooker’s swift glance, touching him and moving on, he knew it had been his own voice. His white hand would not relax its grip on the submachine gun. For a moment he fought a grim, quiet contest with his hand, but it was useless — his hand would not obey. And so when Hooker said a second time, “Open that damned window, kid,” he held the gun up in both hands and smashed the butt through the window.

Flame glanced off glass shreds, tumbling and dancing through a three-story drop to the overgrown garden beneath. And Smith saw two men down there in khaki with brown-black rifles, staring up at him from under the brims of their helmets: two men in the crimson garden with one side of their bodies made bloody by the rage of the great blaze.

Smith stared back at them. No one made a hostile move; everything was frozen. He started and moved like a slow machine, raking blades and bits of glass from the edges of the casement with the butt of the gun. He backed away from the window, and just before he lost sight of them, he saw one of the soldiers raise his rifle and aim.

Smith spoke incoherently across the high platform. He did not follow what his lips said. Hooker’s back was to him; Hooker did not turn. The upcoming bullet smashed a harmless course through the empty window, cut a splinter from the ornate ceiling, and left a hole through which Smith saw a spot of red light. Smoke crept into the place, thin but lung-tickling. Hooker was hunched over the machine gun, training it on the road.

Smith shrank back. The eye in the ceiling, put there by the bullet, stared at him. A voice came up from the garden, demanding surrender. Hooker’s gun began to bang, driving soldiers back down the road.

A long brown rat came out of a corner and blinked at Smith and scuttled back into the shadows. A small sound came out of Smith’s throat.

“Shut up,” Hooker said, in a mild abstracted tone. He fired a burst into the road.

The rat’s red eyes glowed. Smith turned his gun on the rat. The concentrated fire smashed the rat to pulp against the corner.

“You Goddamn stupid idiot! What the hell you shooting at?”

Smith’s fingers loosened. “I guess I spooked.” His voice was even and controlled. He set the gun down, leaning the muzzle against the wall. The dead rat was splashed over a square yard of wood. Smith wiped his face with his handkerchief. He watched the fur and flesh of the mangled rat until a gunshot drove a path up through the window and put a second eye in the ceiling. Smith picked up the gun and went back to the window, standing beside it and moving his face cautiously until he could see down into the garden.

Now there were four of them, standing foolishly in a group talking among themselves. “Why don’t they take cover?”

Hooker said, “They would, if you took a shot at them.”

“Come over here a minute. Let’s finish them off.”

“Why not?”

Hooker came over, taking his submachine gun down off his back. He put his back to the wall immediately across from the window. For a moment Smith heard his own breathing above the noise of the flames. Dry, hot smoke scraped his face. Hooker said, “A Goddamn shooting gallery.”

“I wonder why they don’t take cover?”

Smith put the gun to his shoulder, cheek to stock — no, the recoil would bruise his cheek; he lifted his head. Barrel up, now, and allow for shooting downhill. The targets were large and motionless, talking. All his muscles were relaxed; he felt good. “Now, Hooker?”

“Now.”

The battering of the two guns sounded out of tune. The barrel became hot against his fingers, and he moved his grip to the forestock and fired a second burst. The four soldiers fell against each other like a collapsing tent. One of them jerked in spasmic dance. They fell in a single inseparable mass. Smith was thinking about the splattered rat.

His gun ran out of ammunition. He took it down and put his last loaded magazine into it. Down in the garden, the arms and legs moved now and then. A helmet on a bush showed a dark moist spot exactly in the center.

Smith said, “How could anybody be so Goddamn stupid?”

Hooker went back across the platform to his machine gun. A big fire truck was coming up the road, and Hooker fired a belt of ammunition into the tires. The truck scraped to a stop, blocking the road.

“Okay,” Hooker said. “Time to get out of here.” He was laughing.

They ran down the treacherous stairs, leaving the machine gun behind. Smith almost lost his balance. Concussion from the exploding gasoline storage tanks had knocked down part of the lower wall and the narrow stair; they had to jump the last eight feet to the floor.

They went back through the cobwebs to the rear of the pagoda and slipped out into the garden. Hooker said, “Wait a minute. Somebody coming.”

“I don’t hear—”

Hooker slapped his mouth gently. Smith closed it; his lips stung. Hooker turned his gun toward the corner. A man’s shape broke into view, running. Hooker fired a short burst. The soldier staggered, dropped his rifle, and stumbled back around the corner.

“Crap,” said Hooker. “Come on.”

Sirens advanced not far away. Smith ran along behind Hooker, leaping tangled vines. They plunged through the back of the garden and ran down a little dirt path, still puddled with mud. Wind plunged in and out of Smith’s chest. They reached the head of a little street.

The hill blocked sight of the fire, but the clouds were red. The glow glistened on the moist cobblestones. Smith dropped to his knees and could not stand up. He could not make his voice cry out.

Half a block ahead, Hooker looked back over his shoulder. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Smith could not shake his head. He stared open-mouthed at Hooker. Hooker’s face went out of focus. Smith dropped his gun, and Hooker, a vague drifting outline, ran back to him through a clinging mist. Hooker’s big meaty hand came out of it and smote Smith across the face like the flat of an ax against a side of beef. The slap tilted Smith’s precious equilibrium — he fell against the soft mattress of the street. He saw the round toes of Hooker’s combat boots, sideways to the plane of his vision.

He saw the remains of the dead rat in the corner of the room. It scuttled forward; its eyes glowed. He could feel the rat’s hot breath.

Hooker slung his machine gun across his back and reached down to pick up the Corporal, but Smith pulled away, got on his feet, and ran off like a cyclone, shrieking. Hooker went after him, cursing. Smith ran up the street, zigzagging at amazing speed until he bounced off a wall and reeled for a bit. At the head of the street, a group of men appeared from the pagoda gardens. Hooker stopped and settled down coolly on one knee to shoot. Smith weaved back and forth across the field of fire. He ran right up to the top of the street, and the soldiers shot him down.

It was while Smith was still falling that Hooker swept the hill with his gun. The soldiers fell back into the garden, taking cover. One of them crawled, dragging a limp leg. Hooker dived for the nearest building and slid along the wall, sprinkling the head of the street at intervals with bullets. He got away into an alley and heard the rattling steel of an armored car advancing up the hill. Hooker cursed. “Stupid Goddamn idiot,” he said. “Jesus H. Christ.” He went down into the city with a disgusted expression. A dozen blocks below the hill, he stopped at an intersection in the protection of a deep doorway.

A jeep went by at high speed. Hooker flattened himself back into the door. The jeep was overloaded with troops. It went up the hill, and Hooker said, “Too late, guys.” He laughed.

The staff car came out of a side street and stopped in the intersection; he heard the engine gun three times. He stepped out of cover and walked over to the car. Sergeant Khang held the door open. Colonel Tyreen said, “Where’s Smith?”

“He didn’t make it,” Hooker said. He got in, and Tyreen drove up the street. “He cracked up. Went crazy. I couldn’t stop him. The damn fool bastard ran right up the hill, and they shot him all to pieces.”

Tyreen said, “He saw it coming a while ago.”

In the back seat Saville said, “Anyhow, nobody can hurt him now.” He had someone across his lap, wrapped in a raincoat. Hooker could not make out the man’s face.

Tyreen drove into a wagon barn and turned off the ignition. He threw the keys into a pile of straw. “We walk from here. They’ll have half the battalion looking for this car as soon as they get that fire under control.”

Hooker said, “That was a damn pretty fire, Colonel.”

Saville hoisted the unconscious man in his arms. Sergeant Khang went to the door to scout the street. Saville said, “What now?”

“It’s a few blocks to the garage. We’ll get back to the truck.” Tyreen wiped his mouth raggedly. “Breaking him out was the easy part. Getting away — that’s the rough patch.”