Then, to everyone’s surprise the
partisan spoke: “Australian soldiers, where
are you
? I
know you are in there. I saw you. Do not shoot. I surrender.”
Was it a trap?
A
trick?
Roger saw Inspector Sharpe
exchange a worried glance with DS Crowe. The partisan spoke again, “Australian
soldiers, I surrender. I wish to claim political asylum.” He put his hands up,
well clear of his rifle.
Inspector Sharpe spoke, quietly
but clearly: “Who are you and why do you wish to surrender?”
“I am Comrade Platoon
Administrator Yuri Barkovitch. I am not a communist. I no longer believe.
Kosaria not a good place to live.
I wish to live in
Australia.”
“I am a police inspector. I
cannot make you promises like that but if you co-operate it will be easier for
you.”
“I help! I help! I tell you where
other partisans are so you can escape,” the partisan replied.
“Are you alone? Is there anyone
with you?”
“I am alone. I was walking along
to check the sentries. That is how I saw you. The others are all back on the
road.”
“Put down the radio and the rifle
and come here with your hands up.”
The partisan did as he was told.
As he walked towards them he said: “The radio, you see it? I could have used it
to call the officers, but I did not.”
Inspector Sharpe stepped out,
pistol ready. “Crowe, search him. Then tie his hands behind his back. Peter,
pick up the rifle and radio and get back under cover. Roger, keep watch back
along the track.”
Roger moved forward so that he
could just see along the track. Shuddering with relief he put the safety catch
back on and wiped sweaty palms on his trousers.
Inspector Sharpe continued to
question the man. “How many others are there and where are they?”
“We are a platoon of thirty nine;
three squads and a headquarters. I am here at this place with the Comrade
Quartermaster. The two officers and their signallers are up there somewhere.”
He jerked his head towards the cloud-shrouded peak. “I have half a squad spread
out along the road to Walsh Falls. I can show you on the map.”
“Map,” Inspector Sharpe called.
Stephen pulled his out and went over. Inspector Sharpe asked: “Are any of these
men close? Will they come here?”
The partisan shook his head. “No.
The nearest is two hundred metres away at the road junction over there. He will
not move without orders.”
“Where are the ones on the
mountain?”
“I do not know for sure. They
camped right on top last night. I took them a hot meal. I did hear that one of
the squads is lost in the jungle somewhere over to the west. The two officers
are at the top.”
“Two officers?”
Hauptman Ritnik answered. He rose
from the weeds to glare at the man. “Yes. They use the old Communist system, a
Military Officer and a Political Officer; a Commissar who has the power of
veto.”
The Partisan sergeant looked at
Hauptman Ritnik’s uniform. His eyes took in the badges and his mouth fell open
in alarm. He spoke rapidly in Serbo-Croat, a frightened, whining tone evident.
Inspector Sharpe cut in: “Speak
English! What did you say?”
Hauptman Ritnik answered: “He
wanted to know if mine is a Royal Guard uniform. I told him that it is.” He
gave the partisan a hard and suspicious appraisal.
“Why are you partisans here?”
Inspector Sharpe asked the partisan.
“We were sent to assassinate
Peter Dragovitch.”
“How did you get here?”
“We were flown to Australia last
week, disguised as tourists. We came in ones and twos and were flown or driven
to North Queensland only two days ago. The Embassy people gave us the uniforms
and guns. We only came into these accursed mountains yesterday morning.”
“Are you some sort of special
squad?”
The partisan nodded. “We are what
you would call ‘commandos’. Our platoon got the job because we all speak
English and some had been to Australia.”
Prince Peter stepped out from
behind a pine tree and asked: “Were you sent because you knew the plans of the
Royalists?”
The partisan stared at Prince
Peter with frightened eyes. “Yes. We
..
er
...,” he stammered. The man licked his lips with obvious
uncertainty, unsure whether he had been wise in surrendering to this group.
“There have been many rumours sweeping Kosaria that the king was about to
return. The people are in a state of ferment. It has even been said that Peter
Dragovitch would return with the Thigh Bone of St Joris. The peasants believe
that; the superstitious fools!”
“So you were sent to murder
Prince Peter?” the Prince asked.
The partisan licked his lips
nervously and nodded. “Y... yes
..
er
..
s.s.sir,” he croaked, his voice quavering with fear.
Prince Peter held himself erect
and opened his jacket to reveal his badges. “I am Peter Dragovitch.”
The partisan’s eyes opened wide.
His mouth gaped open.
“S-s-sir, Sire.
I...
I..
Your M-m-aj...” He clicked his heels to attention and bowed his head. His body
trembled.
Prince Peter stepped forward and asked
in a steely voice: “Where is the Princess Mareena?”
“Sir...Sire...Highness.
I..
We... She is our prisoner. She is being guarded by the
other half of the squad from here. I can show you where.” The partisan looked
up at Prince Peter in awe and swallowed nervously. Roger could see that strong
emotions were gripping the man.
Prince Peter nodded grimly. “You
had better. Has she been harmed?” he
asked,
icicles in
his tone.
The partisan shook his head. “No!
No Your Royal Majesty. She is being guarded in a hut till the Special
Interrogators arrive.”
“Special
Interrogators?”
“KOSPUSS men
Highness.
A major from the Embassy in Canberra.
He is due this
morning.”
Inspector Sharpe cocked an
eyebrow.
“KOSPUSS?”
“Secret Police.
Like the KGB was,” Prince Peter
replied. He turned back to the now ashen faced partisan. “You say this morning?
What time this morning?”
“I do not know Sire. He and his
team had to fly up from Canberra.”
“And you know where she is?
Where?”
There was anguish in Prince Peter’s voice.
“Yes Your Majesty. She is in the
hut at this end of the Rifle Range down there in the valley; the hut where they
keep the targets.”
Prince Peter snatched the map
from Stephen’s hand. Graham moved over beside the Inspector with his map.
“How many men are guarding her? Where
are they?” Prince Peter snapped.
“Five Highness.
A Comrade
Squad Leader and four riflemen.
I do not know their exact positions.
They have put up a sign on the road into the rifle range warning people away
and there may be one on guard at the entrance,” the partisan replied.
Prince Peter looked at his watch.
“It is ten thirty. We must hurry. We must rescue her. We must!”
Inspector Sharpe tugged at his
chin. Even Roger was aware that if this incident was handled wrong it could
wreck the policeman’s career. “We will try. What is the quickest way?”
Graham spoke: “If there are men
at these road junctions we have no chance of sneaking past without wasting
hours, or making big detours. The track to Mt Baldy is still our best bet. That
puts us above the Rifle Range.”
Inspector Sharpe nodded. He asked
the partisan: “Are any of your men along this road?” He pointed on the map and
then to the east.
“No Comrade
..er
..
sir
.
Definitely none.”
The partisan
now looked very frightened.
“Then Mt Baldy it is. Let’s start
moving. Go fast, but keep the noise down.”
Peter murmured to Roger: “Aren’t
we lucky. Mt Baldy! But we don’t have to climb all the way up from the front.
We can sneak in from behind.”
“Bugger Mt
Baldy!”
Roger
grumbled, getting to his feet. But he did not care how high the mountain was.
He just wanted to move fast. He wanted to run. An intense desire to rescue the
princess gripped him.
Graham led off at a brisk walk.
The partisan sergeant followed, with Inspector Sharpe behind him, then Prince
Peter, DS Crowe, Hauptman Ritnik, Stephen, Peter and Roger.
A couple of minutes walk brought
them to a wall of jungle along a small creek. Pine trees could be seen beyond
it.
Graham pointed to the left. “Go round.
Be quicker than going through,” he said. He turned left and headed up the slope
on the edge of the pine plantation, trampling weeds and small bushes as he
went. The others followed as fast as they could walk. Roger began to sweat and
pant but barely noticed. He wanted to run. He cursed his unfit body. ‘We must
save the princess!’ he told himself.
Five minutes walk brought them to
the end of the pines on the edge of a wide, grassy ridge top. The vegetation on
their left was open forest with a scattering of large eucalypts; on their right
rainforest. A rough vehicle track plunged down slope into the rain forest. With
barely a pause Graham stepped out onto the track and turned right.
The partisan inclined his head
towards the open ground. “Our base camp is along there. It is a place called
‘Tardents Lookout’.”
They all looked that way but
no-one was visible so the group continued walking fast in single file. In a
less than a minute they were safe inside the jungle. Roger was sweating inside
his jacket. He saw that the clouds had gone and that the sun was blazing down.
On their left the ground dropped very steeply into a large valley. At the far
end of it, only a few kilometres away, the sunlight glinted on house roofs.
Atherton! Roger’s heart leapt.
Not far now! Would they make it in time? He sucked air into his wheezing lungs
and began to pump his legs determinedly up a long muddy slope.
The road wound its way on up
through thick rainforest. It seemed to go on and on. False crest succeeded
false crest. At each bend Roger hoped to see the top. His heart hammered in his
chest cavity. His breath came in hot gasps. His vision went hazy. His muscles
became one impatient ache.
The group went up the mountain
with barely a word, other than a few muttered curses at the mud or when some
dangling wait-a-while tendrils snagged them. After ten minutes they reached a
crest, still in thick jungle. Roger noted that the area had been deeply rooted
by wild pigs but he simply did not care about any risk from them. To his disgust
the road went steeply down a churned up and muddy slope through more jungle.
They slithered and slipped from
time to time. The partisan fell twice, unable to save himself with his hands
tied behind his back. Inspector Sharpe hauled him to his feet each time.
The radio began to talk.
Inspector Sharpe called back to Peter: “Give that thing to the prince. Do not
answer it Your Highness. Just tell us what they say.”
The partisan spoke. “They are
calling for me,” he said.
“Answer them, and no tricks,”
Inspector Shape replied. He held the radio close to the partisan’s face. The
partisan nodded and Inspector Sharpe pressed the transmit button.
The partisan spoke, watched anxiously by a glowering Hauptman
Ritnik.
A short conversation followed. Hauptman Ritnik translated, the
gist of it being that the platoon commander wanted to know where the partisan
was. The partisan replied that he was on his way back to the base camp and
would be there in a few minutes after checking the sentries. The radio fell
silent.
Inspector Sharpe shrugged, passed
the radio to Prince Peter, and resumed walking.
Open country!
Roger cried out with relief. The
track emerged onto a razor-back ridge, open timber on the left and jungle on
the right. On his left he could see across the valley to more hills to the
north. The forced march continued; up a small rise, then down a long slope with
loose gravel and eroded runnels. The massive bulk of a feature loomed ahead
through the trees.
Roger realized it must be Mt
Baldy. It looked much bigger than he had expected. He fished out his map to
check. Yes. It was Mt Baldy. He realized he had not studied the map carefully
enough. He had not noticed the jungle covered peak they had just come over.
With a groan he gritted his teeth and pushed himself on.
The track plunged into jungle
again, then abruptly went up a very steep pinch and out onto open country. It
led diagonally up around the side of the mountain on a badly eroded bench-cut.
Roger found himself falling behind, gasping for breath. He felt sick in the
stomach and his feet felt like lead. Grimly he plodded on.