Bluebolt One (30 page)

The men nodded.

“Right. Now get out, the pair of you.”

When they had made the two journeys with the heavy crate Hartog dusted his hands together distastefully and went across the passage to his own office. He opened his drink cupboard and poured himself a large whisky, which he took neat in a couple of long gulps. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips and gave a slight belch. Then he went softly across to the window and looked through it, glancing at his wrist-watch.

He stared into the pitch blackness, the dark of the night relieved only by the floodlights on the gates and the brilliant glow coming through the control-tower’s dome to light up the great beaming mast. In times of international conflict that dome would be blacked out, but not to-night. . . that was all part of the plan, his own idea. He looked at his watch again. It shouldn’t be more than half an hour now. Hartog found that his palms were clammy, that his hands were shaking badly. He had to be in first-class form for what he had to do, and he mustn’t make any mistakes. It was so important so vital for the whole world. He wiped his hands on the slack of his khaki trousers and went back and had another whisky, and this steadied him. He returned to the window and lit a cigarette, stared out at the rain.

It was just a question of waiting now. At this stage he could do no more, and nothing could possibly go wrong. It was a stroke of real luck that Shaw, having so miraculously escaped from Zambi village and the ants, should have come straight here rather than try to make it into Manalati and alert the authorities... and yet, even if Shaw had got to Manalati he couldn’t have done anything to stop the march of events now, no matter how wide that fat bastard Wiley had opened his big mouth—which obviously he had done, no doubt feeling secure enough to do so once he’d got Shaw safely in his hands as he’d thought. That was the trouble with the blacks: a little power gave them a big dose of megalomania, and, like all others of his race, Wiley became boastful a little too early in the game.

Wiley!

Hartog’s mouth twisted into a thin, bitter, downturned line. God . . . but he loathed that stinking African and what he’d had to do to keep him sweet all these last weeks. But it was going to be worth all the crawling, all the degradation and the gall. Well worth it.

A hell of a lot of people were going to get the biggest shock of their lives to-night—or to-morrow, when they read their papers—and Wiley was going to get the biggest shock of all.

Suddenly Hartog put his head back and gave a long, high-pitched shout of laughter, laughter in which there was no trace of humour but more than a hint of unbalance. His whole body shook. The peal of hysteria rang around the office, beat at the closed window. After a few moments he subsided, took a long look as though in farewell around the station and the surrounding jungle, the fringes of which were touched by the glare of the floodlights on the gates, and then he turned away from the window.

Taking up a 9 mm. Browning automatic, he checked the slide carefully and thoughtfully. Then, putting the weapon in his pocket, he went out of the room and along the passage and pushed open the door of the telephone exchange, the station’s link with the outside world.

As he went in the operator on watch looked round and said, “Evening, Mr Hartog, sir.”

Then his head jerked in astonishment. He’d seen the small round mouth of the automatic pointed at his head, and Hartog coming close. Hartog said softly, “Get away from the switchboard, Morgan.” The scientist’s eyes were crazy, filled with that red glint. He snapped, “Go on—move!”

The ‘safe’ was off, and Hartog’s knuckles gleamed white. The naval rating got up and backed away. Hartog went right up to him, and, still keeping the automatic levelled, his left arm jabbed forward suddenly with all his weight and muscle behind it, and took the operator on the point of the jaw. There was a crunch of bone and the man sagged to the floor, his eyes glassy, his jaw shattered and hanging limp and bloody.

Hartog bent and examined him, his sensitive fingers almost caressing the broken face. He murmured, “Sorry, old lad, but it’s got to be that way.”

Then he went across to the switchboard, took up a mouthpiece, and buzzed the guardroom at the gates on the internal line. When the petty officer of the guard answered he said, “Oh, P.O. . . .Hartog here. Commander Geisler’s busy with Commander Shaw, and I said I’d ring through to you. We’ve just had word from Jinda that the authorities expect some sort of trouble and they’ve ordered a police riot squad out from Manalati to stand by here—just in case.”

“Very good, sir. When are they due?”

Hartog said, “I gather they’re well on their way and they’ll be here quite shortly. Commander wants you to ring him when they arrive.”

He cut the connexion and sat back for a moment, wiping his face. Then he lit a cigarette, got up, and dragged the operator’s body under cover where it couldn’t be seen from the doorway. Breathing heavily, he resumed his seat at the switchboard.

The two police cars and the armoured vehicles pulled up just outside the gateway, having left Wiley along the track to make his entrance later.

The Inspector in charge put his head out of the window of the leading car and called in English to the sentry.

“Riot police reporting from Manalati as ordered.”

“Okay.” The sentry swung the gates open. “Get out and come in by yourself first, please. Sorry, but that’s routine around here.”

“Of course.” The Inspector got out into the rain, pulling a waterproof cape over his head and shoulders. He ran through to the shelter of the guardroom’s veranda and pushed a wad of documents at the sentry. He said, “Here is a party-pass and also the individual documents to cover all my men—twenty-two constables, two sergeants, and myself, all of the riot squad. You will find them in order.” He pushed his steel helmet back from his glistening forehead and mopped at his face and neck. “Very bad, all this. We have been sent out as an extra safeguard—”

“Sure. We know about you, I guess. What do they expect to happen?”

“I do not know!” The Inspector grinned and shrugged broad, squat shoulders. “Maybe just somebody panicking— you know how it is—but they say the mob is rising and may march on the station, and the Government is taking no chances. For myself, I hope we won’t be needed!”

“You can say that again. . . right, this lot’s okay.”

The sentry, who had glanced perfunctorily through the bunch of passes, handed them back and looked up. “Here’s the P.O. now. He’ll see to you.”

Whistling a tune between his teeth, the sentry hooked his thumbs into his belt and moved away as the British petty officer came out from the guardroom. The policeman began to repeat his story, and the petty officer said, “All right, mate, save it. We’ve been told. Come inside while I ring the Commander’s office. The Duty Officer’ll take you over.”

He turned back into the guardroom and the Inspector followed. Taking up the phone to the exchange the petty officer said, “Commander’s Office, please ... oh, that you again, Mr Hartog?”

As though he had received his cue, the Inspector of Police moved up casually behind, his face tight and watchful, and then he reached into his holster, brought out a heavy revolver, and quickly reversed it. Lifting it, he brought it smashing down on the petty officer’s skull. As the man fell, the Inspector turned away and walked out of the guardroom. A sergeant had got out of the first of the armoured vehicles and was standing on the veranda nodding and grinning at the sentry, who was trying out his smattering of the language on the African. The Inspector called out something in the local dialect and the sentry looked round at him. At once the sergeant brought up his gun and gave the sentry the same treatment as the petty officer had had. The rating crashed forward, his cap falling off and rolling down towards the gates through the rain-pocked mud. The police cars started up and drove in, together with the armoured vehicles. Constables stood up in the turrets with sub-machine-guns levelled towards the compound. One of the armoured cars turned and headed back to cover the gates from inside, and then the gates themselves were shut and locked by the sergeant.

The rest of the vehicles drove on, the fingers of their crews caressing the triggers of heavy weapons. When they stopped the African police piled out and ran for their objectives—the administration building and the living quarters and mess-rooms—while the big, lumbering vehicles remained in their strategic positions, dominating the whole area with their silent menace.

It had all worked with perfect precision, and the whole station staff was taken completely by surprise when they first saw the uniformed men. It was only when their own African mess-boys turned on them that they fully understood what was going on, and by that time it was too late. After a brief struggle they were rounded up and locked in some store buildings near the one in which Shaw and Geisler and the girl were shut up. Within ten minutes it was all over and the Africans were in complete control.

Hartog meanwhile had come out on to the veranda outside the offices, his face dark and tense, keyed-up. As the Inspector came running through the rain and up the steps Hartog asked, “All correct?”

The policeman nodded. “I came to report. It has gone very well. There was no trouble to speak of.”

Hartog said, “Good.” He seemed a little unsteady, and whisky was strong on his breath. “Keep it that way. I don’t want any killing, understand? That’s Edo’s orders too.”

“I understand. Shall I give the signal now?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

The policeman turned away and marched off to the gates. There he blew one long blast on a whistle. At once the night seemed to come alive with shadowy moving figures outside the gates. African tribesmen materialized from the thick, close jungle, converging on the perimeter of the station, carrying their age-old weapons and an assortment of rifles, rusty old pieces mainly; a vast body of men, their black skins and ceremonial adornments glittering with the rain in the glare of the floodlights. They moved in utter, uncanny silence; and then, after a few minutes, their ranks divided and, as a low chant began and rose to a kind of triumphant paean, a big Negro walked down the middle towards the gates.

The African constables swung the gates back to let him in, at once closed them again behind him. The shouts, the acclaim, echoed from all sides as Edo was seen walking quickly towards Hartog on the veranda, Hartog the white man who had rejected Western ideas and who was going to confound the West by disarming the big bird that flew so high . . . who was going to bring the big egg down in the sea, safely, so that the station would be rendered superfluous and would be taken away. They watched from the bush, hundreds upon hundreds of eyes, the excitement, the fever, swaying the close-packed bodies like a swift tide until they seemed to move backward and forward in unison, shouting and chanting. The men, the warriors representing the villages, summoned from their daily tasks by the drums that morning to don the ancient apparel of their fighting forbears, had all come together now, and they were ready for the final act.

None of those Africans realized that Edo’s scheme went far, far deeper than the mere disarming of Bluebolt, that within the next hour or so terrible devastation and death was planned to drop on their brothers somewhere in Africa.

Edo’s cruel, thick-lipped face was close to Hartog’s on the veranda. Hartog was smiling; that smile was a mere grimace, and yet there was a kind of triumph in it as well as a painful pretence. Flatly he asked, “All ready?”

“As soon as you are. I think we should waste no more time.”

“Right.” Hartog hitched at his trousers. “Bluebolt’s due in position in. . . fifty-nine minutes, dead on. That gives us plenty of time, but we might as well get lined up right away, I suppose.” There was a bitter grin on his face as he added, “By the way, I didn’t tell you . . . we’ve got guests.”

Wiley’s eyes narrowed. “Guests?”

“Shaw and the girl.”

The Negro stared at him, amazed, unbelieving. “It isn’t possible.”

“Possible or not—they’re here.”

“But the ants—”

“Don’t ask me how, but they escaped them. Ask Shaw how he did it. I’ve got them locked up with Geisler. I’d like Shaw to see the fun, if you’ve no objection. I gave him a nice little crack on the head, but he should be on his feet again by now. All right?”

Wiley looked at him, scowled; then the scowl became a peculiar smile. He said softly, “So Commander Shaw lives yet. . . well, my friend, provided they’re properly guarded by the armed police, I have no objection in the world to both him and the girl watching the grand finale!”

A little after that armed constables came for Shaw; together with Gillian Ross, he was escorted up the steps into the Bluebolt control-tower. The mast was revolving, its intricate antennae seeming to probe out into the darkness and the night sky and the rain, and a low throb and a hum came from inside the tower.

The atmosphere in the big, glass-domed control-tower was on a knife-edge. Looking up through that glass, Shaw could see clearly the antennae still revolving. For some reason or other, the floodlights from the gates were now turned on the beaming mast in addition to the light from the tower itself. From that mast, standing out starkly in the night, the radar impulses would go out to Bluebolt when Hartog pressed the transmission key. The place would have had almost a cathedral hush if it had not been for the continuing low hum of the dynamos and the electric motors and the flickers of coloured lights from the control panel before which Hartog was sitting, a pair of headphones clamped over his ears, and his sensitive fingers manipulating switches and dials.

He had checked everything now, in those first few minutes of the operation. Main beaming motivator... monitoring control. . . target-setting transmission. . .recall-control transmitter. . .check-signal receiving gear. . . they were all warmed through and ready now.

Shaw watched with Gillian Ross, standing motionless and tense in the middle of a group of the uniformed constables. Revolvers were pressed close into their spines and the hands holding those guns were itchy on the triggers—it was easy enough to sense that. Hartog, who was obviously well steeped in whisky but entirely in control of himself and his nerves, was silent and intent as he sat before the big spread of instruments and dials and gauges which reminded Shaw of the controls on the flight-deck of an airliner. Now and again Hartog glanced at the revolving, illuminated globe-rep-resentation with its small dot of brilliant green light moving across the world’s seas and continents, the green dot which was Bluebolt so far out in space and which seemed to move so slowly and inexorably on that ingenious flat ‘globe.’ Just now that dot was coming down from the Eastern Mediterranean, slanting towards Cape Town as Hartog began his preliminary transmission to the satellite.