Bluebolt One (28 page)

No wheeled transport could ever pass through this.

Shaw judged that they had been covering little more than a mile an hour.

On and on and on, lurching, staggering, slogging away with only will-power and sheer determination to keep them moving at all, the knowledge that for the sake of humanity they had to get there and not give up. After a time Shaw had to support the girl every step of the way, and she was crying now with weariness and desperation. Every now and then when they came to a more or less sheltered spot, Shaw called a brief halt and they rested, eating when they came to them such berries and fruit as had been missed by the ants. Glancing constantly at his watch, fuming with impatience at the delay, however short, he knew that a break was essential, and he didn’t let the girl see his anxiety to press on; for her part, she knew the urgency now as well as he did himself, and she stopped only for long enough to ease her exhaustion so that she could make better speed.

The farther they went, the worse the roadway became. Now it was just a derelict, shifting sea of mud and slime and loose rubble in which all purpose and direction was lost. The track had merged with the surrounding bush. All he could do was to set his sights on a high peak of the Naka Hills whenever he could glimpse it through the trees, and press on that way, and hope.

Somewhere the other side was Manalati. . . Manalati and a telephone line, and the depot of the Rifles. And—much later—hot food and drink and a bath.

Shaw decided, after a while when they came clear of the jungle into a kind of plain, that they might just as well strike direct across country. On the plain the road itself could no longer be made out at all, didn’t give them any direction whatever, and there wouldn’t be the slightest hope of picking up any sort of vehicle. So they might just as well take the shortest distance and go on hoping to make it in time. Hoping—though Shaw had realized now that the bringing down of the load on such a vast area as “somewhere in Africa” was not like pinpointing a target.
The twelve-hour delay might not be necessary after all.

It was late afternoon and they were passing through a long tree-belt when Shaw caught sight of the dim, rain-hazed outline of low buildings, and what looked like mine workings. It could be one of the copper-mines . . . but even at this distance there seemed to be a derelict air hanging over the place, as though it had stood there abandoned and deserted for a long, long time.

It was a mine right enough, but a tin-mine and not copper, as Shaw discovered when they approached. And it had pretty obviously been abandoned. But it wasn’t quite deserted. Shaw and Gillian were quite close when he caught just a glimpse of the black form coming out from behind the corner of a building and he got an equally brief sight of metal as the man crouched and lifted something in his arms.

Shaw snapped, “Down, Gillian—quick!”

He reached out and pulled the girl down beside him roughly, down into the cover of a big tree, and he cocked his gun. As the girl dropped to the ground, they heard the wicked
phut-phut-phut
of an old Sten gun crashing through the rain. Slivers of wood flew above their heads as the bullets snicked the tree.

Earlier, during the morning, Sam Wiley had also reached the mine on foot, carrying the portable two-way radio which he had mentioned to Shaw.

He had only just escaped with his life when the truck, which he had been driving recklessly, had skidded off the road, hung for a moment—long enough for the big Negro to grab the radio and scramble clear—and had then slithered off into a deep, water-filled declivity beside the track. That had been when he was not far from the mine, and he’d walked on, cursing to himself at the further slight delay.

When he had got to the line of old buildings he had spoken briefly to the man on guard with the Sten, and then he’d run across to the disused working-face and disappeared into a tunnel which led under the sheer drop where the earth had been cut away in the open-cast workings. He flicked on some electric lights. Some way up the tunnel he turned off the lights again and climbed into the same trolley which Julian Hartog had used in the opposite direction some days earlier. He switched on the motor and was carried rumblingly away into the darkness stretching ahead. In due course he reached the widened section of the tunnel, where he left the trolley and went ahead on foot, coming out into the small, overgrown secondary mine encampment not far from the Bluebolt station, the mast of which he could in fact see distantly.

As he had emerged into view he’d heard the shout:

“Edo . . . Edo comes at last!”

Men had moved out from the bush, prostrating themselves before their leader. There was a big gathering of Africans under a headman, men from a near-by village, armed with rifles as well as native weapons; and there was a detachment of twenty-four steel-helmeted, well-armed African riot police under an inspector.

As Wiley stood there, tight-lipped, just staring back at them with his massive arms folded across his chest, the headman got up from his subservient position and walked across to him. He said, “Master, we have waited since one hour before the dawn, as we were told—-”

Wiley interrupted bad-temperedly. “Of course. I too was waiting—for the signal from the control-station. What went wrong?”

The headman bowed low, humbly. “Lord Edo, Bwana Hartog sent a message to my village to explain and to ask me to send a runner to you in the village of Zambi. This I was unable to do because of the march of the ants.”

“Yes, my friend. . . but what was this message—and why did not Bwana Hartog speak to me himself on the radio?”

“Lord Edo, he said that he was not yet ready, that there had been much work going on and that his own headman, the Bwana Geisler, was with him all the time, and that there were many other people about as well. For that reason also, he was unable to use the radio at the proper time, and when he could use it, you did not answer him. He feared that you had been overcome by the ants. However, he has sent again to my village to say that he will be ready to bring down the big weapon safely into the sea... ninety minutes after dusk to-night, if you should escape from Zambi. He awaits your order. A man from his African workers is waiting now at my village to convey your commands.”

Wiley nodded. “Hartog had better be ready. This delay is dangerous, though the biggest of the men working against us will assuredly be dead by now—eaten by the ants, for he was tied up and helpless. Now, you will send a message back to Bwana Hartog that the plan will be put into effect to-night at the time he says... ninety minutes after sunset, as soon as the big bird that flies so high is in the right position. The only other change in the plan will be that now I shall myself be at the station when the big bird releases its offspring, and I shall want the men from the villages to be there also.” He chuckled to himself, then added, “You will also tell Bwana Hartog to speak to me on the radio as soon as it is safe for him to do so. He knows that I cannot call him.”

He turned then to the inspector of police, who had now joined the group. “Inspector, you know your orders?”

“Perfectly, Lord Edo.”

“Very well. Then you’ll carry on exactly as you’ve been told except for the change in timing. You’ll now make your entry to the station one hour after the sun has gone below the western hills, and I shall be with you. That is all.”

The inspector gave a smart military salute and turned about. He passed some orders to his patrol. Shortly after, the party moved away in two police cars and an armoured-car section which had been drawn up in the shelter of the trees. Wiley stood for a moment and watched them go; then he gave a signal, and the headman and his villagers formed up around him and they went off, making for the village from which they had come before the dawn. One of them stayed behind, on Wiley’s order, concealed in the trees.

Shortly after Wiley’s party had reached their village the drums had started up, beating out monotonously. Their message, the message telling of the change of plan, was picked up in other villages and was passed on, and isolated Africans at work in the fields and jungle heard it, and they stopped their labours for a space and listened . . . while in the far-off places men already began to lay down their tools and put on ceremonial dress, and as the day went on they began moving in from those more distant villages, making towards the rendezvous, with tom-toms at their waists but moving in uncanny silence up the valleys and over the hills. In time those men would reach the area of the Bluebolt station, and with their innate skill at bushcraft they would lie low, unseen, unheard, keeping their distance until the word was given and the great god Edo was ready to make the white man discharge his wicked, circling weapon harmlessly into the sea.

Earlier their hopes had been dashed when the flames of Edo’s signal had failed to materialize. Now all was well again.

Shaw whispered, “It’s all right. He doesn’t know how to handle that thing. The first burst was sheer luck. And do you know___I’ve just an idea he thinks we’re unarmed. He’s not being particularly careful about cover, anyhow.”

Coldly, steadily he brought his gun up, sighting on the corner of the building where he had seen the man. He waited. Then, as the black figure moved out for another burst from the Sten, Shaw squeezed the trigger of his own gun. He sensed the girl’s sudden nervy jump beside him as the Webley roared out, and then he saw the man fall to the wet earth without a sound.

The smoke from Shaw’s gun trailed upward into the rain, through the branches of the tree. He said quietly, putting a hand on the girl’s shoulder, “We’ll just hang on a little. Perhaps he wasn’t alone. We’ve got to make sure before we move.”

They waited fifteen minutes, and then Shaw helped Gillian up and with his revolver ready in his hand he ran, crouching low and keeping ahead of the girl, across the short open space to the corner of the building. They were both ready to drop flat in an instant if they had to; but nothing moved except the rain and they heard nothing but their own squelching footsteps and an occasional animal cry from the bush.

Shaw knelt down by the African’s still body.

He lifted the shattered head, saw the widening pool of blood dark on the muddy ground, welling out from the skull, running with the rainwater. After that he reached for the right forearm and examined it. Just below the bend of the elbow he saw the mark burnt into the flesh: the Black Widow.

He let the arm drop slack again and said, “We’re on the right road anyway, Gillian. Recognize that mark?”

She nodded whitely. “Sam Wiley had it. So had the others.”

“I bet they had. . . it’s the trademark—the mark of the Cult.”

“I know that—now. It’s the same. . . as Pat had.”

Something in the way she spoke made him look at her quickly. He asked, “You know about Pat?”

“I know all right.” She spoke bitterly. “Wiley told me.”

He said with a great gentleness, “Gillian, my dear—I’m sorry.” Then he changed the subject quickly. “This bloke’s had it. Now we’ve got to find out what he was doing here. I mean, it’s pretty obvious he was guarding this place—what I want to know is why.” He got up. “I’m going to take a look round.”

“But what are you going to look for?”

“I don’t know, to be honest! But there’s got to be some good reason why that chap was left here. Keep close to me, Gillian—and keep your eyes skinned.” He touched her hand. “All right?”

“Yes.”

He passed his Webley over to her. He asked, “Know how to use this?”

“Well. . . I’ve never used one before, but I’ll manage if I have to. I know how they work.”

He squeezed her shoulder. “Good girl—so long as you know which end is which!” Picking up the Sten from the dead man’s side, he led the way along the wall of the tin-roofed building, and found a door. It was unlocked, and he jerked it open, standing aside with the Sten ready for action. Nothing happened. He pushed it wide with a sweep of his arm, his finger on the Sten’s trigger, his mouth tight and hard; the door creaked on ancient hinges. He went in, with the girl close at his back. The place was dark, dirty, long disused. The windows were thick with grime, with mud splashed up by the rains of many wet seasons. He saw an electric-light switch, reached out for it almost without thinking, and depressed it. The light went on overhead and it was only then that he realized what he’d done; that he’d switched on an electric light—in an abandoned mine.

He murmured, “That’s just a shade odd.”

The room looked as though it had been an office; around the walls were filing-cabinets and cupboards, their woodwork rotting badly, and a couple of mildewed desks stood empty of everything except insect life and one or two time-stained typewritten sheets of what appeared to be general maintenance orders. There was no telephone, nor even any evidence that there had been one.

“Nothing here. Let’s move on.”

They went into other buildings; all were empty except one. In this Shaw found what he had expected to find before long: the power unit which gave the old mine its private electricity supply.

This was in perfect order, well maintained, functioning as though the mine had never been closed down.

An electric supply, and a man left on guard with a Sten. . . .

There was something here worth investigating, that was obvious now. Shaw said, “Gillian, we’ll have to go through the actual workings. I still don’t know what I’m looking for—unless it’s Wiley himself. He must have come this way—as far as where we left the road, anyhow. If he’s got this far, there’d be any amount of hideaways in the old tunnels and galleries. Come along with me—and stick close. It’ll be a risk, but I’m not leaving you alone. All right?”

Her rain-wet face looked suddenly very young and appealing and forlorn; but she said quietly, “Oh, I’ll manage. Don’t worry about me.”

“That’s the spirit!”

He led the way towards the big scar of open-cast workings cut into the earth’s surface, walking with difficulty over rough, broken ground soft with the rains. They came to the same rough-hewn, cave-like entrance which Wiley had entered that morning, went into the black tunnel leading into the earth below the working-face, feeling their way cautiously. Shaw had noted the electric cable running into the tunnel; now he felt along it and found the big power switch. He pulled it down. A line of lights came on at the tunnel roof, leading a little way into the far, dark distances of the earth. There was a dead, flat silence, an eerie, brooding quietness. The light showed up the rotting, slimy planks lining the walls, and the narrow-gauge track leading inward to the gloom. This place hadn’t been used for years; it smelt of neglect and decay. Shaw walked along for a little way. To the left a series of doors led off, probably to overseers’ offices or workshops. He opened each of these doors, carried out a thorough check, but found nothing beyond piles of rusty metal, old pieces of mine machinery, and tools of outdated patterns. There was a film of undisturbed dust over everything, and the air was fusty and tired, used up.