DS Crowe looked up from where he
bent over Colonel von Krapnoff. . “This bloke’s still alive boss,” he called.
“But he needs medical help real fast or he is a goner.”
“Any others?”
Inspector Sharpe asked.
The constable called from the
back of the Rover: “This bloke might live if he gets to a doctor. He’s got at
least three slugs in his chest and he is coughing up blood.”
Detective West climbed out of the
police Toyota.
“Can't get anyone on the radio sir.
Too much screening.”
He indicated the jungle. “And we are
down in this valley. We might get through when we get up on the crestline.”
Inspector Sharpe rubbed his jaw,
then
gave rapid orders. “Right, clear the back of our
vehicle Constable.
Crowe, check if any of these vehicles
work.
Prince, do any of your radios work on civilian frequencies?”
Prince Peter shook his head. “No,
they are military radios on our own frequencies.”
“Too bad.
Roger, sit with the prince, over
there. West, help Bell and Bronsky to load these three wounded men into our
vehicle. You will drive. Crowe, you stay here. Constable, you go in the back
with the two worst casualties. Stick that guy in the front and strap him in.”
“What about the prince?” DS Crowe
asked.
“He can wait. He won’t die from
that. We must get these others to hospital as quickly as possible. Come on,
move!”
Stephen scrambled into the
vehicle and tossed out their packs to make room.
“Blankets,” Peter suggested.
“From these packs.”
He indicated gear belonging to the royal
guards.
“Good idea,”
Graham agreed. He bent to Zumpitch’s pack and hauled out his sleeping bag.
Peter and the policemen lifted Colonel von Krapnoff into the back of the police
vehicle and laid him down. Graham placed a pack under his head and tucked the
sleeping bag over him. The wounded signaller went in beside him and was also
made comfortable. The sentry was lifted into the front passenger seat and the
constable clambered in the back.
Inspector Sharpe pointed along
the road. “OK, get going
West
. And get more people up
here ASAP. And tell those Federal buggers, that bloody Commander Simkins, what
is going on,” he ordered.
Roger stepped forward as the
vehicle’s engine was started. “Sir, don’t drive on that way. That is where
those partisans set their ambush. They may still be there and could kill them.”
Inspector Sharpe looked up the
track in disbelief.
Prince Peter joined them.
“Believe me sir. Don’t go that way. These are desperate men. They will not
hesitate to shoot policemen,” he said.
“OK. Turn around West and go back
the way we came. Blast! That adds half an hour to the driving time. Get going!”
Inspector Sharpe cried.
The vehicle went forward to the
track junction where it did a three point turn. Rain began to fall so that it
needed its windscreen wipers by the time it roared past on its way back.
As the vehicle
went slowly down the muddy slope towards the Walsh River crossing Inspector
Sharpe turned to Prince Peter.
“Now sir; you are under arrest for at least a dozen offences. You are not
obliged to say anything, but anything you do say may be taken down and used in
evidence. Do you understand? Do you speak English well enough?”
Prince Peter nodded. “Yes I speak
English. I have lived most of my life in England and went to school there. I
understand. I have only been in Australia for a week. Please, may I have my
jacket?” he replied.
Roger looked and saw that Prince
Peter was quite blue with cold around his mouth. He then realized he was
shivering himself, although he guessed as much from shock as the lowering
temperature. He passed Prince Peter his jacket and helped him to put it
on. Then he found his own pack amongst the litter of gear.
Inspector Sharpe nodded
agreement. “Good idea,” he said. Both he and DS Crowe were only dressed in grey
business suits which now looked quite incongruous in the jungle. “See if you
can find me a raincoat,” he asked. He put his pistol on safe and slipped it
into his shoulder holster.
Graham shrugged on his own jacket
and then scooped up his maps and notebooks from where Colonel von Krapnoff had
dropped them. After stuffing them into a plastic bag he asked: “Why didn’t you
bring more vehicles sir?”
“We did. We had five vehicles
including an ambulance but the others weren’t four wheel
drive
and couldn’t get along that road. And we didn’t expect to run into a full-scale
war!”
Roger pulled on his field jacket.
Stephen passed Inspector Sharpe a grey plastic raincoat and Peter gave one to
DS Crowe. The rain grew heavier and the temperature plummeted noticeably.
Inspector Sharpe buttoned up the coat and turned to Prince Peter again. “Now
sir; do you have any identification?”
“Yes.
In my
briefcase.
In that vehicle,” Prince Peter replied.
“Get it Crowe.”
Roger zipped up his jacket and
turned to watch as the DS looked in the vehicle. A movement further up the
track caught his eye. It was a green clad figure running, or rather staggering,
towards them.
“Sir!
Inspector!”
Roger called, pointing.
“What the devil?” Inspector
Sharpe cried, whipping out his pistol.
The man was a Kosarian Royal
Guard and even at fifty paces they could see that his face was covered with
blood. He was clutching a pistol and Roger saw that he was an officer.
As the wounded officer got closer
DS Crowe crouched behind the front vehicle and levelled his automatic.
“Halt! Stop or I shoot!” he
yelled.
The officer stumbled,
then
lurched to a standstill. He wiped his sleeve over his
face to clear the blood from his eyes. He blinked and stared at the litter of bodies
and equipment and the bullet riddled vehicles. A look of horror crossed his
face.
DS Crowe called again: “Drop the
gun or I shoot! This is the police.”
Prince Peter stepped forward:
“Hauptman Ritnik, drop your gun,” he called.
“Prinz Peter?” Hauptman Ritnik
called, swaying as he stood there.
“Yes. It is me. Do as the police
command.”
Hauptman Ritnik dropped his
pistol and with a visible effort stood up straight. He appeared to focus his
eyes,
then
marched forward as though on parade. He
halted in front of the Prince, clicked his heels and saluted; then bowed from
the waist.
“Your Highness, I have failed in
my duty. The Partisans have captured the Princess Mareena. They are headed this
way. You must leave at once. I will delay them,” he said.
With an obvious effort Hauptman
Ritnik straightened up, opened his mouth to speak again then slid to the ground
unconscious. Roger stared aghast at the blood welling from what appeared to be
a huge bullet wound in Hauptman Ritnik’s left temple. He saw he had also been
shot in the left forearm.
Prince Peter knelt in the mud and
cradled Hauptman Ritnik’s head in his lap. Very tenderly he wiped mud and blood
from his face. “Please help me.”
Roger and Peter both knelt beside
him. Graham moved to watch up the track. Stephen just stood staring alternately
at Hauptman Ritnik’s wounds and at the dead bodies nearby.
Inspector Sharpe pocketed his
gun. “Crowe, do any of these vehicles work? Try them quickly.” He walked over
and picked up Hauptman Ritnik’s pistol and checked it, then thrust it into the
pocket of his raincoat.
DS Crowe climbed into the brown
Toyota but at once got out again.
“Dieso everywhere sir.
Looks shot to buggery. The fuel tank is riddled,” he said. He walked over and
handed a black leather attache case to Inspector Sharpe, then went to the
Rover. A turn of the key produced no response. He lifted the bonnet. “Batteries
smashed. Wires cut and radiator holed,” he called.
Roger was only dimly aware of
this, most of his attention being concentrated on Hauptman Ritnik’s wounds. The
rain was causing the blood to smear and run in long trickles down his throat
and into his shirt. Roger grabbed his water bottle and a handkerchief and
quickly swabbed the wound on the temple. He could hardly bring himself to touch
the blood-matted hair.
“Not as bad as it looks,” Peter
muttered. “The skull might be cracked but the bullet hasn’t gone in. He has
only been creased.”
“Be concussion probably,” Roger
replied. He applied more water and dabbed. Hauptman Ritnik moaned and rolled his
head from side to side. Peter tore open a field dressing and deftly bandaged it
around Hauptman Ritnik’s head.
“He will live?” Prince Peter
asked.
Peter nodded. “I think so sir. He
may have internal bleeding and an impacted fracture but if we get him to
hospital quickly he should be alright,” he replied. He turned to look at the
arm wound.
“Is he related to the General
Ritnik sir?” Roger asked.
“You mean Field Marshal Ritnik
who died in the great retreat of 1915? Yes. Yes, he is. He is the great grandson,”
Prince Peter replied.
Inspector Sharpe came over. “I am
sorry but neither of the vehicles
work
. We are going
to have to walk. I have your briefcase. Is there anything else we should take
so these partisans don’t get it?”
“What about Hauptman Ritnik? We
cannot leave him,” Prince Peter replied.
“We will have to make a stretcher
and carry him. Can you cadets do that?”
“Easily sir.
Pete, Steve, start making a
stretcher, fast,” Graham ordered.
Roger sat back on his heels and wiped
rain from his face. He felt distinctly queasy. A second bullet had lodged in
Hauptman Ritnik’s arm causing a horrible purple swelling. Biting his lip to
suppress the nausea Roger set to work bandaging it. “Bugger the rain!” he
muttered.
Hauptman Ritnik opened his eyes.
For a moment he looked puzzled, then alarmed. “Your Highness, you must get away
from this place. The partisans thought I was dead and I overheard them talking.
The princess is to be tortured to reveal the secret but their real mission is
to kill you.”
“How many are there?” Inspector
Sharpe asked.
“I counted five. But they were
talking on a radio to at least one other group.”
“How soon before they get here?”
“Not long. I don’t know. They
ambushed us at the top of the mountain, a log across the track. It was so
unexpected. But they knew where the princess was sitting and did not hit her.
They stepped out of the jungle and fired at point blank range. I would like to
know how they knew we were coming.”
Prince Peter looked grim.
“Treachery.
Zumpitch radioed them,” he replied bitterly.
“Zumpitch!
He was...”
Inspector Sharpe cut in: “How
soon before these partisans arrive?”
Hauptman Ritnik thought: “I
crawled out of the wreck. They saw me and chased me. I shot one. Two others
followed me but very cautiously. I suppose they must be expected at any
minute.”
“How are they armed? What do they
look like?” Inspector Sharpe asked.
“They are in partisan uniforms:
brown jacket and trousers, blue cap, red star. They have sub-machine guns; PPSh
1941s, or AK47s,” Hauptman Ritnik replied.
“In bloody
uniform!
Here
in Australia! The cheeky bastards,” DS Crowe expostulated.
Inspector Sharpe tugged at his
chin thoughtfully. “They mean business then,” he said. “How is that stretcher
coming along?”
“Not long sir,” Peter called. He
had hacked down two small trees and was busy pushing them through the belts and
straps of four sets of webbing. Stephen helped and tied the end sets on.
Inspector Sharpe looked anxiously
up the track and checked his pistol. “You keep watch up the road young Kirk;
and get under cover.”
“Yes sir,” Graham replied. He
moved to the far side of the track to get a better view along it. As he did he
glanced down to his right towards the Walsh River. His mouth opened and he
pointed. Roger saw Graham throw himself flat. Then he jumped with fright as an
automatic weapon fired a burst from behind him.
“Partisans!”
Graham yelled. He rolled
sideways and scrabbled in the wet leaves. His hands closed on one of the rifles
placed there. Several more shots cracked past or thudded into the trees beside
him. With frantic haste he brought the weapon to the shoulder, clicked
off the safety catch and pulled the trigger.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Graham snapped three shots,
then
rolled the other way.