In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers (28 page)

They paused. “How many men in there?” Jonah carried his cane, clutching it, ready to draw the hidden blade.

“One, at night,” the engineer said. “Has a radio that keeps him in touch with the guardhouse on the main gate.”
 

“How do we get in?”
 

“Door’s locked,” Proctor said. “He won’t open up, not without orders over the radio. But there’s a way in, where the ventilation shafts leave the building, there’s a hole there, saw it when we were doing maintenance, though it’ll take some climbing to reach it.”
 

The engineer shook a length of rope, stolen weeks before and hidden in his bedding ever since, waiting for this moment.
 

“Over to you, young Hawkins,” Jonah said.
 

They moved to the side of the building and Bagatt threw the rope over the ventilation outlet pipe.
 

“Up you go,” Jonah said.
 

 
Conall looked up, scrutinising the pipe. “You think that’ll hold?”
 

“It’s steel,” the engineer said. “Secured on the inside. It’d take the four of us.”
 

“Don’t let’s get ahead of ourselves,” Jonah said. “I’m too old to be scampering up rigging.”
 

Conall took the rope and began to climb. His muscles burned as he hauled himself up but his hands were tough from hard work, on the boats and in the mines. Strong feet gripped the rope as he pulled himself upwards, his heart pounding from the exertion and the knowledge that he might be seen at any moment. He stopped, listening. Only the wind. He half expected a bullet to come whistling out of the darkness bringing cold death.
 

He kept climbing, reached the top and saw the hole that had been punched through the wall. It had been roughly repaired but was still open at the top, wide enough for him to wriggle through. He grasped the metal of the vent, tentatively at first, then heaved himself in. Conall crawled into the hole head first, dragging himself through, and fell to the floor on the other side.
 

He landed in a large, open room on the second floor. The vent pipes rose through the floor and a dim light filtered up the stairwell. He stayed motionless, listening for sound of the guard, but could hear nothing over the roar of the generators. Satisfied, he moved towards the stairs, keeping his tread light and steady. One hand on the rail, he looked down into the generator room.
 

There was an office by the main door, according to the engineer. The guard would be in there. Conall put a foot on the top step and paused. He should have brought a weapon. Another step. What if the man saw him? There’d be nothing for it but to fight to the death. He kept going down the stairs, scanning the room for movement. The machines took up most of the ground floor and the noise was deafening.
 

Get the door open, Jonah had said, they’d deal with the rest. But how? If the guard was in the office, Conall would be seen. Improvise, Jonah had said, lure the man out of there. So much planning, weeks and months, but when it came down to it, Conall had to think of something on the spot. It was up to him to find a way.
 

He crossed the ground floor to the generators, found a handle on one of them, and pulled it full down. The generator howled, picking up speed. That would do it. He ducked out of sight, and crept along the floor towards the door.
 

The guard ran from the office, heading for the generator that churned out of control. Conall slipped out behind him, pulled back the locks and swung the door open. Jonah burst through followed by Bagatt and the engineer.
 

“In there.” Conall pointed, knowing he sealed the man’s fate.

Jonah drew the sword out of his cane. “Wait here,” he said.
 

Bagatt followed Jonah. Moments later he returned and waved them into the generator room. The guard lay dead on the floor in a spreading pool of blood, his throat cut.
 

Conall looked away, choked back vomit. He put a hand on the wall, to hold himself steady.
 

“Take it easy.” Jonah thwacked him on the shoulder with his cane. “A gruesome sight I know but it had to be done and there’s the truth of it. It’s not merciful or kind, but they chose the way they live, and it impinges sorely on our freedom.”
 

The man had to die. Conall knew that. But Argent seemed to treat killing as a game.
 

The engineer got to work on the generators. It wouldn’t be enough to turn them off. They had to be sabotaged, put beyond repair, and quickly, because once the electricity went down, guards would come running.
 

The engineer took time to study the machinery, scratching his head, frowning intensely and taking notes on a wad of paper he’d kept for this moment. He waved at the three of them, summoning them to the guard’s office at the front of the building. He swung the door shut, cutting off the noise so they could talk.
 

“We switch ‘em off, then cut all the cables, hack the electricity wires where they exit the building. Remove the fuses, take ‘em with us. Tip the diesel out on the floor. There’s petrol here too, we set light to it as we leave.”

“What about the coal generator?” Jonah tugged on his beard thoughtfully.
 

“It’ll take a while to start that up again, once it’s off. I’ll take some parts out, put the casing back. Take ‘em hours to work out what’s been done. Then they’ll need replacement bits, and that won’t be easy.”
 

“This is going to take a while,” Jonah said. “Too long. They’ll be here, the moment the power goes off.”
 

The engineer unfolded a piece of paper on the desk. “We do it in this order,” he said. “Coal generator first, power’ll stay on. Fix the diesel, anything else we can think of, then we hit the power, smash everything, cut the wires, grab the fuses and go. Throw a match, last of all.”
 

Half an hour later, they were in position. Jonah held his cane in the air, and when he lowered it again they struck. Each had his task, and between them they pulled switches, took fuses, cut wiring, removed parts and contaminated fuel. The engineer threw a spark onto the petrol, it flamed into life, and they fled.

Outside, the artificial lights had gone dead. Only the ghostlight of the aurora borealis cast any shadow. Guards yelled at each other, and gunshots rang out near the main gate. A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him sideways.

 
“In here,” Jonah hissed, and pulled him into an alleyway between two buildings. Moments later, a group of slavers ran past. The four men waited, getting their breath back.
 

“We can’t stay here,” Bagatt said.
 

“Aye, we can. We must,” Jonah said. “Until the wildmen arrive. That’ll give the guards something to think about.”

 
At that moment, an engine spluttered into life. Lights went on in the main office.

“Damn,” Jonah said. “Emergency generator. You didn’t tell us nothing about that,” he said to Proctor.
 

“Didn’t know of it, but it won’t power the fences or the searchlights,” the engineer said.
 

“Needs taking out, all the same,” Jonah said. “And there was me, hoping to get away without much of a fight.”

A scream drifted across the fjord, a war-cry, a signal that something was about to begin. “Here they come,” Jonah said. “Tugon’s right on time. One way or another, we settle this tonight.”
 

Gunfire crackled in the night air. Shouts of alarm drifted from the direction of the main gate as the guards yelled for reinforcements. Three shots, a breath of silence, then a roar, the sound of hundreds of men, charging, relentless and unstoppable. The Oduma stormed the fences and the slavers took potshots at shadows.

Conall took cover in the alley between two buildings, along with Jonah, Bagatt and Proctor. A group of guards hurried past them, heading towards the gatehouse. The compound was in darkness except for the green glow of the northern lights across the arctic sky and a handful of dim bulbs flickering in the company offices.
 

“Let’s get to that emergency generator.” Jonah drew his sword from the cane, held it front of him. “You got that gun?”
 

Bagatt showed him the pistol taken from the guard in the generator room.
 

“Don’t hesitate to use it. With me.” Jonah set off across the compound, and Conall followed, running openly, not caring about the guards. They reached the office building and Jonah tried the door. It was locked but the first mate smashed into it with his shoulder. A gruff voice from the other side demanded to know who was there.
 

“Stand back,” Jonah hissed. “They’ll shoot through it.”
 

Faro was in there, shouting instructions, trying to sound in control. But Conall recognised the fear and stress in his brother’s voice. Faro had grown used to giving orders, relying on a chain of command to keep him safe. But faced with death at the hands of the Oduma, he must know the guards could break and run at any moment.
 

Screams from the gates mingled with shouts from the quayside. The wildmen were coming across the water. The engine of the patrol boat kicked into life. Then from behind Conall came a woman’s voice, calling his name. Heather stood twenty yards away, waving. She pointed at the side of the building.
 

“Best see what she wants,” Jonah said, and the four men ran to her.

Conall reached her first, grasped her by the shoulders and urged her out of the light into the shadows against the wall. “What are you doing here? Get back to the hut. You’ll be safe there.”
 

“A way in,” she said. “A side door. I work here, most days. I know it better than you.”
 

Jonah thumped Conall on the back in a gesture of triumph and joy. “Good for you Miss Hudson. Should have had you involved in the planning from the start. Take a note Mr Bagatt, remember to consult the womenfolk in future. Now where’s this door?”
 

She led them along the side of the building. “In there, it’s the guard’s canteen, empty at night, I’m sure of it.”
 

The engineer fumbled with the lock and pushed open the door.
 

“I’ll go first,” Jonah said.
 

Conall put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t hurt Faro.”
 

“He’s no friend of mine,” Jonah said. “He’ll get what’s coming to him.”

“He’s still my brother.”
 

“Tell him to surrender then, though I doubt he’ll do it. And I don’t reckon those wildmen will show him much mercy either. I can’t protect him, or you if you get in the way.”
 

Inside the building the floor reverberated from the sound of the generator in the basement below. Heather led them across the darkened canteen to a wooden door that stood ajar. “Stairs to the basement are through there, down the hall, and on the left,” she said. “They can’t see you from the front door. You should make it.”
 

“All right, we get their power first, in case they’ve got a searchlight, or tricks up their sleeves,” Jonah said. “Then I guess we fight anyone we find. Time for you to go, Miss Hudson, not safe for you here.”
 

Conall saw an opening. “I’ll see her back to the huts, you don’t need me now.”
 

Jonah glared at him suspiciously. “Mighty chivalrous of you, Mr Hawkins. Don’t get lost.” He led his men through the door, his sword raised, and Bagatt with his gun ready, pointing over Argent’s shoulder, using the first mate as a human shield.
 

Conall waited for them to get out of earshot. “He’s right, you have to go. Can you make it alone?”
 

“You lied to him.”
 

“I’ve got to find Faro.”
 

“He won’t listen.”
 

“I have to try. Will you be all right, can you find your way?

“Let’s see. I got here alone, and I come here every day to work. I think I’ll manage.”
 

He kissed her on the cheek, without thinking. He’d never done it before, and as his face flushed red he was glad of the darkness. But she touched his arm and kissed his cheek in return, so light and fast he barely knew it. Then she turned and was gone.
 

Conall stood by the door listening. Jonah and his men were heading down stairs. He crept along the hallway and peered round a corner. It was deserted but for two guards by the main door. He could slip by, make it to the stairs to the first floor and the offices where he’d seen his brother. He had to beat Jonah to it, and the wildmen. He had to get to Faro first.
 

≈≈≈≈

Conall made it half way up the stairs to the first floor offices when the lights flickered and died, plunging the building into darkness. Jonah must have got to that emergency generator. Shouts echoed through the building, guards calling to each other, and he made out Faro’s voice among them. Footsteps thudded on the stairs above him and two shapes loomed out of the dark. He stood motionless, pressed against the wall. The men passed by, unaware of his presence. He held his breath until they reached the bottom of the stairs and then inched upwards, a step at a time, finding his way by touch alone. A yell came from below, grunts and a shout of pain, followed by a single gunshot that reverberated up the stairwell. The crack of it stung his ears, mingling with the muddied thuds of distant gunfire from the main gate.
 

He reached the first floor and crept along the hallway in the dark. Pausing outside one of the rooms, he listened as two men argued over how to open the door to a safe. These men were still obsessed with their property and possessions, even when their lives hung by a thread.