Читать книгу Juggernaut - Desmond Bagley, Desmond Bagley - Страница 11

Everybody was up early in the dim light before dawn. I breakfasted with the crew, standing in line at the chuck wagon. The food was washed down with hot, strong, sweet, milky tea which tasted coppery and which they called ‘gunfire’.

‘Why gunfire?’ I queried.

‘That’s what they call it in the British Army. The Army fights on this stuff,’ I was told.

I grinned. ‘If they could stomach this they’d be ready to face anything.’

‘It’s better than bloody Coca-Cola,’ someone said, and everybody laughed.

After breakfast there was a great deal of activity. I went in search of Captain Sadiq, and found him sitting in his command car wearing earphones. He saw me approaching and held up his hand in warning as he scribbled on a notepad he held on his knee. Then he called to a sergeant who came trotting over. Sadiq took off the earphones and handed them to the sergeant. Only then did he come around the car to meet me. ‘Good morning, Mister Mannix.’

‘Good morning, Captain. Sorry I was in a hurry last night. Any problems? Mister Kemp says he is very gratified by all your help.’

He smiled at that. ‘No problems at all, sir,’ he said, but it was a brushoff. He looked deeply concerned and abstracted.

The sun was just rising as I heard an engine start up. It had a deep roar and sounded like one of the big tractors. A small crowd of curious onlookers had materialized from nowhere and were being pushed back by Sadiq’s men. Small boys skylarked about and evaded the soldiers with ease.

I indicated the crowd. ‘These people are up early. Do you have much of this kind of thing?’

‘The people, they are always with us.’ I wondered for a moment whether that was an intended parody of a biblical quotation. He pointed. ‘These come from a small village about a mile over there. They are nothing.’

One of the military trucks fired up its engine and I watched it pull out. Mounted on the back was a recoilless gun. The range of those things wasn’t particularly great but they packed a hell of a wallop and could be fired from a light vehicle. One thing you had to remember was not to stand behind when they fired. ‘Nice piece of artillery,’ I said. ‘I haven’t seen one of those since Korea.’

Sadiq smiled noncommittally. I sensed that he was itching for me to be off.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, Captain?’ I wanted to see how far he’d let me go before he pulled rank on me, or tried to. But outside influences had their say instead.

‘Nothing at all, Mister Man …’

His words were drowned as three jets streaked overhead, making us both start. They were flying low, and disappeared to the south. I turned to Sadiq and raised my eyebrows. ‘We are quite close to a military airfield,’ he said. His attempt at a nonchalant attitude fooled neither of us.

I thanked him and walked away, then turned my head to see him already putting on the earphones again. Maybe he liked hi-fi.

I wanted to relieve myself so I pushed a little way into the bushes by the side of the road. It was quite thick but I came across a sort of channel in the undergrowth and was able to push along quite easily. What bothered me was that it was quite straight. Then I damn near fell down a hole, teetered for a moment on the edge and recovered by catching hold of a branch and running a thorn into my hand. I cursed, then looked at the hole with interest. It had been newly dug and at the bottom there were marks in the soil. The spoil from the hole had been piled up round it and then covered with scrub. If you had to have a hole at all this was one of the more interesting types, one I hadn’t seen since I was in the army.

I dropped into it and looked back the way I had come. The channel I had come along was clearly defined right up to the road edge, where it was screened by the lightest of cover, easy to see through from the shady side. Captain Sadiq was clearly on the ball, a real professional. This was a concealed machine gun pit with a prepared field of fire which commanded a half mile length of road. Out of curiosity I drummed up what I had been taught when Uncle Sam tried to make me into a soldier, and figured out where Sadiq would have put his mortars. After a few minutes of plunging about in the scrub I came across the emplacement and stared at it thoughtfully. I didn’t know if it was such a good idea because it made out Sadiq to be a textbook soldier, working to the rules. That’s all right providing the guys on the other side haven’t read the same book.

When I got back to the rig Kemp hailed me with some impatience, shading into curiosity. I was dusty and scratched, and already sweating.

‘We’re ready to move,’ he said. ‘Ride along with anyone you like.’ Except me, his tone added, and I could hardly blame him. He’d have enough to do without answering questions from visiting firemen.

‘Just a minute,’ I said. ‘Captain Sadiq appears to be cemented to his radio. How long has that been going on?’

Kemp shrugged. ‘I don’t know – all morning. He does his job and I do mine.’

‘Don’t you sense that he’s uneasy?’ I asked with concern. I’d seldom met a man so oblivious to outside events as Kemp. ‘By the way, what did you make of those planes?’

‘They say there’s an airfield somewhere about. Maybe they were just curious about the convoy. Look, Neil, I have to get on. I’ll talk to you later.’ He waved to Hammond, who drove up in the Land Rover, and they were off in a small cloud of dust. During my absence the rig and most of the rest of the convoy including my car had moved off, so I swung myself on to the chuck wagon and hitched a lift down to where the others were grouped around the approach to the bridge.

The scene was fascinating. Kemp was using only one tractor to take the rig across the bridge and it was already in place. Another tractor had crossed and waited on the far side. The rig was fitted with its airlift skirts and looked rather funny; they seemed to take away the brute masculinity of the thing and gave it the incongruous air of one of those beskirted Greek soldiers you see on guard in Athens. Though no doubt Kemp, who had been outraged by the bunting in Port Luard, saw nothing odd about it. Behind it was the airlift truck to which it was connected by a flexible umbilicus. Through this the air was rammed by four big engines.

If Kemp was nervous he didn’t show it. He was telling the crew what they were to do and how they were to do it. He was sparing of words but most of this team had worked with him before and needed little instruction. He put the Irishman, McGrath, in the tractor and Ben Hammond and himself on the rig.

‘No-one else on the bridge until we’re clear across,’ he said. ‘And keep that air moving. We don’t want to fall down on our bums halfway across.’ It brought a slight ripple of amusement.

McGrath revved the tractor engine and there came a roar from the airlift truck as one after another the engines started up. A cloud of dust erupted from beneath the rig as the loose debris was blown aside by the air blast. I knew enough not to expect the rig to become airborne, but it did seem to rise very slightly on its springs as the weight was taken up from the axles and spread evenly.

The noise was tremendous and I saw Kemp with a microphone close to his lips. The tractor moved, at first infinitesimally, so that one wasn’t sure that it had moved at all, then a very little faster. McGrath was a superb driver: I doubt that many people could have judged so nicely the exact pressure to put on an accelerator in order to shift a four hundred and thirty-ton load so smoothly.

The front wheels of the tractor crossed the bitumen expansion joint which marked the beginning of the bridge proper. Kemp moved quickly from one side of the control cab to the other, looking forwards and backwards to check that the rig and the tractor were in perfect alignment. Behind the rig the air umbilicus lengthened as it was paid out.

I estimated that the rig was moving at most a quarter of a mile an hour; it took about six minutes before the whole length of the combine was entirely supported by the bridge. If you were nervous now was the time to hold your breath. I held mine.

Then above the uproar of the airlift engines and the rush of air I heard a faint yell, and someone tugged at my arm. I turned and saw Sadiq’s sergeant, his face distorted as he shouted something at me. At my lack of comprehension he pulled my arm again and pointed back along the road leading up to the bridge. I turned and saw a column of vehicles coming up: jeeps and motorcycles at the front and the looming, ugly snouted silhouettes of tanks behind them.

I ran towards them with the sergeant alongside me. As soon as the volume of noise dropped enough to speak and be heard I pulled up and snapped, ‘Where’s Captain Sadiq?’

The sergeant threw out his hand towards the river. ‘On the other side.’

‘Christ! Go and get him – fast!’

The sergeant looked dismayed. ‘How do I do that?’

‘On your feet. Run! There’s room for you to pass. Wait. If Mister Kemp, if the road boss sees you he may stop. You signal him to carry on. Like this.’ I windmilled my arm, pointing forwards, and saw that the sergeant understood what to do. ‘Now go!’

He turned and ran back towards the bridge and I carried on towards the armoured column, my heartbeat noticeably quicker. It’s not given to many men to stop an army single-handed, but I’d been given so little time to think out the implications that I acted without much reflection. A leading command car braked to a stop, enveloping me in a cloud of dust, and an angry voice shouted something in Kinguru, or so I supposed. I waved the dust away and shouted, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Do you speak English, please?’

An officer stood up in the passenger seat of the open command car, leaning over the windscreen and looking down at the bridge with unbelieving eyes. When he turned his gaze on me his eyes were like flint and his voice gravelly. ‘Yes, I speak English. What is going on there?’

‘We’re taking that load across the bridge. It’s going up to the new power plant at Bir Oassa.’

‘Get it off there!’ he shouted.

‘That’s what we’re doing,’ I said equably.

‘I mean move it faster,’ he shouted again, convulsed with anger. ‘We have no time to waste.’

‘It’s moving as fast as is safe.’

‘Safe!’ He looked back at his column, then again at me. ‘You don’t know what that word means, Mister Englishman.’ He shouted a string of orders to a motorcyclist who wheeled his bike around and went roaring back up the road. I watched it stop at the leading tank and saw the tank commander lean down from the turret to listen. The tank cut out of the column and ground to a rattling halt alongside the command car. The officer shouted a command and I saw the turret swivel and the barrel of the gun drop slightly.

I was sweating harder now, and drier in the mouth, and I wished to God Sadiq would show up. I looked round hopefully, but of Sadiq or any of his military crowd there was no sign.

‘Hey, Captain,’ I shouted, giving him as flattering a rank as possible without knowing for sure. ‘What are you doing? There are four hundred and thirty tons on that bridge.’

His face cracked into a sarcastic smile. ‘I will get it to go faster.’

I sized him up. He was obviously immune to reason, so I would have to counter his threat with a bigger one. I said, ‘Captain, if you put a shell even near that rig you’ll be likely to lose it and the whole bridge with it. It’s worth a few million pounds to your government and Major General Kigonde is personally handling its wellbeing. And I don’t think he’d like you to wreck the bridge either.’

He looked baffled and then came back with a countermove of his own. ‘I will not fire on the bridge. I will fire into the trucks and the men on the river bank if that thing does not go faster. You tell them.’

His arm was upraised and I knew that if he dropped it fast the tank would fire. I said, ‘You mean the airlift truck? That would make things much worse.’

‘Airlift? What is that?’

‘A kind of hovercraft.’ Would he understand that? No matter: at least I could try to blind him with science. ‘It is run by the truck just off the bridge and it’s the only way of getting the rig across the bridge. You damage it, or do anything to stop our operation and you’ll be stuck here permanently instead of only for the next half-hour. Unless you’ve brought your own bridge with you.’

His arm wavered uncertainly and I pressed on. ‘I think you had better consult your superior about this. If you lose the bridge you won’t be popular.’

He glared at me and then at last his arm came down, slowly. He dropped into his seat and grabbed the microphone in front of him. The little hairs on the back of my neck lay down as I turned to see what was happening at the bridge.

Sadiq’s troops had materialized behind our men and trucks, but in a loose and nonbelligerent order. They were after all not supposed to protect us from their own side, assuming these troops were still their own side. Beyond them the rig still inched its way painfully along as Kemp stuck to the job in hand. Sadiq was standing on the running board of one of his own trucks and it roared up the road towards us, smothering me in yet another dust bath on its arrival. Before it had stopped Sadiq had jumped down and made straight for the officer in the command car. Captain Whoosit was spoiling for a fight and Sadiq didn’t outrank him, but before a row could develop another command car arrived and from it stepped a man who could only have been the battalion commander, complete with Sam Browne belt in the British tradition.

He looked bleakly around him, studied the bridge through binoculars, and then conferred with Sadiq, who was standing rigidly to attention. At one point Mr Big asked a question and jabbed a finger towards me. I approached uninvited as Sadiq was beginning to explain my presence. ‘I can speak for myself, Captain. Good morning, Colonel. I’m Neil Mannix, representing British Electric. That’s our transformer down there.’

He asked no further questions. I thought that he already knew all about us, as any good commander should. ‘You must get it out of our way quickly,’ he said.

‘It’s moving all the time,’ I said reasonably.

The Colonel asked, ‘Does the driver have a radio?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Sadiq. A pity; I might have said the opposite.

‘Talk to him. Tell him to move faster. Use my radio.’ He indicated his own command car, but as Sadiq moved to comply I said, ‘Let me talk to him, Colonel. He will accept my instructions easier.’

‘Very well, Mister Mannix. I will listen.’

I waited while Sadiq got on net with Kemp and then took the mike. ‘Basil, this is Neil Mannix here. Do you read me? Over.’

‘Yes, Neil. What’s going on back there? Over.’

‘Listen and don’t speak. There is an army detachment here which needs to use the bridge urgently. I assume you are moving at designated speed? It will be necessary for you to increase to the –’

The Colonel interrupted me. ‘What is this designated speed?’

‘Hold it. Over. It works out about a mile an hour, Colonel.’ I ignored his stricken face and went on into the mike, ‘Basil? Increase if necessary. How long do you estimate as of now? Over.’

‘Fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty. Over.’

Taking his cue, Kemp was giving answers only. He could pick up clues pretty smartly. There was no such thing as a designated speed and Kemp knew this. I went on, ‘Get it down to no more than fifteen, ten if possible. Over.’

I was praying for an interruption and for once I got lucky. Sadiq’s military unit had got restless and several vehicles, including those carrying the guns, started down the road towards us. The commander turned alertly to see what was going on. In that moment, with nobody listening except the Colonel’s driver, I said hastily, ‘Basil, if you don’t get the hell off that bridge we’ll have shells coming up our ass. These guys are trigger-happy. Go man go. Acknowledge formally. Over.’

It was all I had time for, but it was enough. The Colonel was back, looking more irritated than ever, just in time to hear Kemp’s voice saying, ‘Message understood, Neil, and will be acted upon. Going faster. Out.’

I handed the microphone back to the driver and said, ‘That’s it, Colonel. He’ll do the best he can. You should be on your way in a quarter of an hour. I’ll arrange to hold all the rest of our stuff until you’re through.’

The muscles round his jaw bunched up and he nodded stiffly, casting a quick glance skywards, and then began snapping orders to his Captain who got busy on the radio. All down the line there was a stir of activity, and with interest and some alarm I noted that machine guns were sprouting from turret tops, all pointing skywards. I remembered the jets that had gone over and wondered what Air Chief Marshal Semangala, or whatever his title might be, was doing just at that moment. Away in the distance I saw the four barrels of a 20-millimetre AA quickfirer rotating.

I said, ‘Has a war broken out, Colonel?’

‘Exercises,’ he said briefly. ‘You may go now.’

It was a curt dismissal but I wasn’t sorry to get it. I joined Sadiq and we drove back to our lines. I passed the word for everyone to remain clear of the bridge and to let the army through, once the rig was safely on the other side and uncoupled from its umbilicus. Everyone was bursting with curiosity and the tension caused by the rig’s river passage had noticeably increased, which wasn’t surprising. But I had little to tell them and presently everyone fell silent, just watching and waiting.

Seventeen minutes later the rig was clear of the bridge and safe on firm land again. Things are comparative, and after the bridge even the most friable and potholed road would seem like a doddle, at least for a time. The airlift truck was uncoupled, its hoses stowed, and it was moved back from the bridge approach. The Colonel came towards us in his staff car.

‘Thank you,’ he said abruptly. Graciousness was not a quality often found out here and this was the nearest we’d get to it. He spoke into the mike and his leading motorcycles roared off across the bridge.

I said, ‘Mind a bit of advice, Colonel?’

He speared me with dark eyes. ‘Well?’

‘That bridge really isn’t too safe: it’s been cheaply made. I’d space out my tanks crossing it, if I were you.’

He nodded shortly. ‘Thank you, Mister Mannix.’

‘My pleasure.’

He peered at me uncertainly and then signed to his driver to go ahead. As he drove off already talking into his microphone, I sighed for the days of the mythical bush telegraph. The battalion that followed was mostly armour, tanks and a battery of self-propelling guns, with a few truckloads of infantry for close defence work. Even as small a unit as a battalion takes up an awful lot of road space and it was twenty dusty minutes before the rearguard had crossed. I watched them climb the hill on the other side of the river and then said, ‘Right, you guys. Let’s go and join Mister Kemp, shall we?’

As the convoy started I turned to Sadiq. ‘And then, Captain, perhaps you’ll be good enough to find out from your driver, and then tell me, what the hell is going on. I know you’ll have had him radio-eavesdropping right from the beginning.’

And then for some reason we both glanced quickly skywards.