The gun’s muzzle travelled to the next man. ‘You?’
‘Bert Proctor. I drive a rig for Wyvern. I’m English.’
‘Me too. Derek Grafton, Wyvern Transport.’
‘Sam Wilson. Driver…’
The roll call continued. Some were sullen, one or two clearly terrified, a couple displayed bravado, but no-one refused to answer. The nurses, clustered together, answered in Nyalan but Dr Kat refused to do so, speaking only English and trying to get in a word about his patients. Maksa brushed him aside and went on down the line. Once the flow of voices stopped Maksa said icily, ‘Well? Do you refuse to name yourself?’
Zimmerman raised his voice.
‘Colonel, they don’t understand you. They don’t speak English.’
‘Who are they?’
‘They’re Russians: truck drivers. Their names are—’ and he supplied the two names which the rest of us could never remember. Maksa’s brows converged and he said, ‘Russians? I find that most interesting. You speak Russian, then?’
‘Yes, a little.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Harry Zimmerman. I’m a blaster for Lat-Am Oil, and I’m an American. And I don’t have anything to do with your war or this captain you’re after.’
Maksa looked at him coldly. ‘Enough! Next?’
As he looked along the line his sergeant whispered to him. The next man was Russ Burns.
‘Russell Burns, Lat-Am Oil, a good Texan, and one who doesn’t like being shoved around. What are you going to do about it?’
Burns was looking for trouble once again.
‘My sergeant tells me he has already had trouble with you. You insulted my soldiers. Is this true?’
‘You’re damn right I did! I don’t like being pushed around by a bunch of bastards like you.’
He stepped out of the line-up.
‘Burns, cut it out!’ I said.
Zimmerman added, ‘For God’s sake, Russ, take it easy.’
The shotgun rose in the Colonel’s hand to point straight at the Texan. Burns gave way but was already too late. The Colonel stepped forward and put the muzzle of the shotgun under Burns’ chin and tilted his head back.
‘You are not very respectful,’ Maksa said. ‘What is this—has someone tried to kill you already?’
The shotgun rubbed against the bandage round Burns’ throat, and he swallowed convulsively. But some mad bravado made him say, ‘That’s none of your damn business. I cut myself shaving.’
Maksa smiled genially. ‘A man with a sense of humour,’ he said, and pulled the trigger.
The top of Burns’ head blew off. His body splayed out over the floor, pooled with blood. The line scattered with shock. Maksa backed up near the door and his sergeant flanked him with his own gun at the ready. Someone was puking his guts out, and one of the nurses was down on the warehouse floor in a dead faint. The bloody horror of war had caught up with us.
Horror gave way to anger. The men started to voice their outrage. I looked down at Burns’ body. Nine one third inch lead slugs, together weighing over an ounce, driven with explosive force from close range had pretty well demolished him. It was the quickest of deaths and quite painless for him; but we felt it, the bowel-loosening pain of fear that sudden death brings.
Maksa’s voice rose over the babble.
‘Be silent!’ he said. He hefted the shotgun and his eyes raked us. ‘Who owns this?’
Nobody spoke.
‘Who owns this shotgun?’ he demanded again.
I was debating what to do when Maksa forced my hand. He stepped forward, scanning us, and then pointed. ‘You—come here.’ The person he had indicated was Helen Chula. After a moment’s hesitation she walked slowly towards him, and he grabbed her by the arm, swung her round to face us and jammed the shotgun against her back. ‘I ask for the third time, and there will not be a fourth. Who owns this gun?’
I had never found violence of much use in solving my problems, but it seemed to work for Maksa. He could give McGrath pointers in terrorism. I said, ‘It’s mine,’ and stepped forward.
Maksa thrust Helen away. I heard her sobbing but could see nothing but the muzzle of the shotgun as it pointed at my belly. It loomed as large as a fifteen inch navy gun.
‘So,’ said Maksa. ‘We have an American civilian, wandering around with a weapon during an armed conflict. A dangerous thing to do, would you not agree?’
‘It’s a sporting gun,’ I said with a dry mouth.
‘Can you produce your licence?’
I swallowed. ‘No.’
‘And I suppose you will also tell me that you do not work for your CIA.’
‘I don’t. I work for a British firm, and no-one else.’
‘Backing the corruption of our so-called Government?’
‘Not at all.’
‘A man can have two masters,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘You Americans and the British have always worked in double harness. You imperialists stick together, don’t you? You give up your colonies and tell the United Nations that now Nyala is self-governing. But you don’t leave my country alone after that.’
I kept silent.
He went on, ‘You say we are independent, but you keep the money strings tight. You choke us with loans and reap the profits yourselves; you corrupt our politicians; you plunder us of raw material and sell us the so-called benefits of Western civilization in return, to take back the money you gave us. And now you have been joined by the dogs of Moscow: the old Czarist imperialists ally themselves with you to loot our oil and ruin our country.’
He drew a long breath, controlling himself, and then changed tack.
‘Now, about Captain Sadiq. Where is he and what are his plans?’
I said, ‘Colonel Maksa, the Captain pulled his men out early today and went away. We know no more than that.’
He said, ‘I have talked enough to you. You weary me. I can get more from the others.’
I stood frozen. The Colonel slid his hand down the gun barrel, and then a new voice cut in from high up and behind me. It wasn’t very loud but it was very firm.
‘If you lift that shotgun I’ll cut you in half, colonel.’
Maksa glared over my shoulder. I spun round to see a big black-faced man aiming a sub-machine gun at the Colonel: I turned swiftly and took Maksa’s gun away from him.
The man on the cotton stack swung the machine gun in a slow arc to point it at the Nyalan sergeant. Without a word the soldier put his gun down and backed away. Hammond picked it up and we held both men under guard. The man with the black face and McGrath’s voice swung himself down to the floor. Voices murmured in recognition and relief, and then fell silent again. The atmosphere had changed dramatically, despite Russ Burns’ body sprawling at our feet.
I said, ‘Maksa, you’ve seen what this gun can do. One twitch from you and I’ll blow your backbone out.’
‘If you shoot me you’ll bring the soldiers in. They’ll kill you all.’
‘No they won’t,’ Hammond said. ‘They didn’t come in when you shot Russ there.’
McGrath, his face and arms covered with blacking, slung the gun over his shoulder. ‘Raise your hands and turn round, Maksa,’ he said. Trembling with anger, the Colonel turned as McGrath’s hand came out of his pocket holding the cosh. He hit Maksa behind the ear and the Colonel dropped solidly.
McGrath turned to the sergeant. ‘Now you, son. Turn round.’
He obeyed unwillingly. Again there was a surge of movement and McGrath said, ‘Keep it down, you flaming fools. We’ll have the guards in if they hear that going on. Just you keep quiet now.’
Relief made my tone edgy. ‘Where the hell have you been, McGrath?’
‘Out and about.’ He began to strip off the colonel’s uniform jacket with its red brassard on one sleeve. ‘Give me a hand. Tie him up and dump him back there in the cotton. Same with his sergeant.’
‘Goddamnit, we’re taking one hell of a risk, McGrath. We might have been able to talk our way out of that jam, but there’s no chance now.’
‘You weren’t going to be given much more time to talk, Mr Mannix,’ he said mildly. He was right but I hated to admit it; to be that close to death was hard to accept.
McGrath went on, tugging on a pair of trousers. ‘Do you know what they’re doing out there? They’re piling up petrol drums. They were going to burn down the ware-house.’
‘With us in it?’ Kemp asked in horror.
Someone said, ‘For God’s sake, we’ve got to get out of here.’
‘Take it easy,’ said McGrath. ‘They won’t strike a match before the Colonel’s out.’ He was dressing in the Colonel’s uniform. ‘Who’s for the other outfit? Who fits?’
As we considered this he went on, ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got a bit more bad news for you.’
‘What now?’
‘Max Otterman’s dead.’
Dr Kat said, ‘I should have been with him.’
McGrath said gently, ‘He was murdered.’
We stood rigid with shock.
‘I saw the soldiers going over the rig after they brought you in here. They were pretty rough on everybody, even their own sick people. Then Max started convulsing and calling out, the way he’s been doing, and they…Well, they booted him off the rig. I think his neck’s broken.’
‘Oh my God!’ Wingstead whispered.
‘I think the fall may have killed him. But one of the troops put a bullet in him as well. I’m sorry to have to tell you.’
The change in everyone’s attitude was almost tangible. Neither the war, the bombing in Kodowa, our own capture, nor the death of Russ Burns had had this effect. It had come closer with the news of the intended burning of our prison. But the callous murder of our pilot had done the trick; it had roused them to fighting pitch.
Wingstead said, ‘You’ve got a plan, McGrath, haven’t you?’
‘Carry on as though the Colonel were still here.’ McGrath adjusted his uniform. Sam Wilson was getting into the other. Dr Kat bent over Burns’ body.
McGrath said, ‘Leave Russ where he is. He’s evidence if anyone comes in. They know there was a shooting.’ He picked up the sergeant’s Uzi. ‘Anyone know how to use this?’
‘I do,’ Wilson and Zimmerman both said. McGrath tossed it to Wilson. ‘That’s fine. It fits your image. Here, add this.’ He tossed Wilson a small pot of blacking. ‘It stinks but it’ll do.’ Wilson started to smear the stuff on his face and hands.
I held on to the shotgun, and Wingstead took the Colonel’s pistol. That made four guns plus McGrath’s cosh and God knows what else he had in the way of knives or other lethal instruments. It wasn’t much to start a war with.
Wingstead said, ‘Mick, how did you get in here?’
He pointed upwards. ‘Easy. Through the roof. It’s corrugated iron but some of it’s so old it’s soft as butter. But we’re not going out that way. There’s a door at the back of this shed. I couldn’t open it from the outside, it’s bolted. And from the inside it’s hidden behind the cotton. But we can leave that way.’
Hammond said eagerly, ‘Then let’s go.’
‘Not yet, Ben. We can reduce the odds out there a bit first. Now listen. When I saw what was likely to happen I ducked out; didn’t like the idea of waiting to be rounded up.
I went into the bush to look for Sadiq. I damn near got shot by his lads. They’re trigger-happy.’
‘How far away is he?’ Wingstead asked.
‘Not far. He’s been scouting and these are his conclusions. This Fifteenth Battalion has been in action, probably against the loyalist Seventh Brigade, and came off worst. There are about two hundred men, a quarter of the battalion.’
‘It’s a hell of a lot more than we can handle,’ Zimmerman said.
‘Will you wait a minute, now,’ McGrath said irritably. ‘Maksa has sent most of them across the bridge, leaving about fifty men and a few vehicles on this side. Many of them are wounded. There are only two officers outside. Sadiq’s ready to attack. His mortars can drop bombs on them like confetti at a wedding when he gets the signal.’
‘Let’s hear your plan,’ I said.
‘It goes like this. We take out the officers first. That way the men have nobody to direct them, and they’ll run or surrender.’
‘Just how do we do that?’ Hammond asked.
‘Well, as you see, I borrowed a dab or two of boot polish from the Captain, and here I am like a bloody nigger minstrel in the Colonel’s uniform. If I put his cap on I reckon I can get away with it for as long as it takes to call them in here, one by one.’
‘It won’t work,’ said Zimmerman. ‘You haven’t the voice for it.’
Lang said, ‘We’ve got Doctor Kat though.’
McGrath took a piece of paper from his old jacket. ‘Most of the officers are on the other side of the water. The ones here are Captain Mosira, that’s the laddie in the dark glasses, and Lieutenant Chawa. We get them in here and deal with them. Then we go out the back way, smuggle the nurses back onto the rig, it’s got a light guard but they’ll be no problem, and then signal to Sadiq to start his action.’
Wingstead had a tough time of it with Katabisirua. The Doctor was concerned about violating his noncombatant status as a medical man.
‘For Christ’s sake, Doctor, we’re not asking you to kill anyone. Just talk to them,’ McGrath said. Eventually Dr Kat agreed to do what we wanted.
I said to McGrath, ‘What happens after we knock off the officers?’
McGrath took out a knife and squatted on the floor. ‘When Sadiq makes his attack he doesn’t want any interference from across the bridge. So our job is to hold the bridge.’ He scratched lines in the dirt floor. ‘Here’s the river and here’s the bridge. On it near the other side they’ve stationed a Saracen armoured troop carrier. We have to stop it coming across and at the same time block the bridge somehow.’
‘What’s it armed with?’
‘A heavy machine gun in a turret, and twin light machine guns on a Scarfe ring.’
Hammond blew out his cheeks. ‘How in hell do we stop a thing like that? Bullets will bounce off. It’ll be moving as soon as Sadiq attacks.’
‘I stop it,’ said McGrath. ‘With Barry Lang’s help.’
Lang stared at him.
‘Look, here’s the rig. All our tractors bar one have been coupled, ready to take it across the river. The free tractor is here, near the bridge. We take it onto the bridge and ram that bloody Saracen with it.’
Wingstead said sharply, ‘You won’t have a chance, Mick. The heavy machine gun will shoot hell out of you.’
‘Not if we go backwards,’ said McGrath simply.
Lang’s face lit up.
‘Behind that cab are twenty tons of steel plate set in cement. The thing’s armoured like a tank. Nothing they’ve got will penetrate it and it outweighs the Saracen by a long chalk. What we need is covering fire. The cab windows
aren’t armoured and we’ll have to lean out to see our way backwards. The rebels on this side will be busy but there may be some shooting and it’ll be up to the rest of you to give us protection.’
Kemp said, ‘With what?’
I said, ‘We’ve already got three guns and a pistol and we’ll get more from each officer. And there are four or five guards out there with sub-machine-guns that we can pick up too. I think the time for talking is over.’
‘I agree,’ McGrath said briskly, standing up. ‘I want everybody lined up again, except for a couple of you behind the doors.’
‘What about me?’ I asked.
‘When an officer walks through that door he’ll expect to see Maksa, you and Mister Wingstead, because you’re the boss men. So you’ll be right there in line, under the guns.’ He gave his knife to Lang and the cosh to Bert Proctor. ‘You two take anyone coming through that door but only after the doors are closed. Harry, you take the other machine-gun and go stand up there where I was. If the guards do come in you can fire over our heads, and if that happens everyone ducks fast. Doctor Kat, you’re in line too. Think your voice can carry outside?’
The doctor nodded reluctantly.
‘I’ll take the shotgun, Mister Mannix, if you don’t mind,’ McGrath said. I handed it over to him with some hesitation, but he was right, he had to look the part. It left me feeling vulnerable again.
We stood like actors waiting for a curtain to rise. Facing me was McGrath looking surprisingly like Maksa even from where I stood. Just as I had taken over from Kemp and Wingstead in one crisis, so now McGrath had as easily taken over from me. He was a natural leader and afterwards he would be damned hard to control. If there was an afterwards.