High Citadel. Desmond Bagley
its efficiency and Filson, my boss, isn’t good at paperwork. This flight didn’t even have a number – I remember wondering about it just before we took off. It’s on the cards that San Croce control haven’t bothered to notify Santillana to expect us.’ As he saw Forester’s expression he added, The whole set-up is shoestring and sealing-wax – it’s only a small field.’
‘But surely your boss will get worried when he doesn’t hear from you?’
‘He’ll worry,’ agreed O’Hara. ‘He told me to phone him from Santillana – but he won’t worry too much at first. There have been times when I haven’t phoned through on his say-so and had a rocket for losing cargo. But I don’t think he’ll worry about losing the plane for a couple of days at least.’
Forester blew out his cheeks. ‘Wow – what a Rube Goldberg organization. Now I really feel lost.’
Rohde said, ‘We must depend on our own efforts. I think we can be sure of that.’
‘We flew off course too,’ said O’Hara. ‘They’ll start the search north of here – when they start.’
Rohde looked at Aguillar whose eyes were closed. ‘There is nothing we can do now,’ he said. ‘But we must sleep. It will be a hard day tomorrow.’
III
Again O’Hara did not sleep very well, but at least he was resting on a mattress instead of a hard floor, with a full belly. Peabody was on watch and O’Hara was due to relieve him at two o’clock; he was glad when the time came.
He donned his leather jacket and took the vicuna coat that Forester had given him. He suspected that he would be glad of it during the next two hours. Forester was awake and waved lazily as he went out, although he did not speak.
The night air was thin and cold and O’Hara shivered as he set off down the road. As Rohde had said, the conditions for survival were better here than up by the airstrip, but it was still pretty dicey. He was aware that his heart was thumping and that his respiration rate was up. It would be much better when they got down to the quebrada, as Rohde called the lateral valley to which they were heading.
He reached the corner where he had to leave the road and headed towards the looming outcrop of rock which Rohde had picked as a vantage point. Peabody should have been perched on top of the rock and should have heard him coming, but there was no sign of his presence.
O’Hara called softly, ‘Peabody!’
There was silence.
Cautiously he circled the outcrop to get it silhouetted against the night sky. There was a lump on top of the rock which he could not quite make out. He began to climb the rock and as he reached the top he heard a muffled snore. He shook Peabody and his foot clinked on a bottle – Peabody was drunk.
‘You bloody fool,’ he said and started to slap Peabody’s face, but without appreciable result. Peabody muttered in his drunken stupor but did not recover consciousness. ‘I ought to let you die of exposure,’ whispered O’Hara viciously, but he knew he could not do that. He also knew that he could not hope to carry Peabody back to the camp by himself. He would have to get help.
He stared down the mountainside but all was quiet, so he climbed down the rock and headed back up the road. Forester was still awake and looked up inquiringly as O’Hara entered the hut. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, suddenly alert.
‘Peabody’s passed out,’ said O’Hara. ‘I’ll need help to bring him up.’
‘Damn this altitude,’ said Forester, putting on his shoes.
‘It wasn’t the altitude,’ O’Hara said coldly. ‘The bastard’s dead drunk.’
Forester muffled an imprecation. ‘Where did he get the stuff?’
‘I suppose he found it in one of the huts,’ said O’Hara. ‘I’ve still got my flask – I was saving it for Aguillar.’
‘All right,’ said Forester. ‘Let’s lug the damn fool up here.’
It wasn’t an easy thing to do. Peabody was a big, flabby man and his body lolled uncooperatively, but they managed it at last and dumped him unceremoniously in a bunk. Forester gasped and said, ‘This idiot will be the death of us all if we don’t watch him.’ He paused. ‘I’ll come down with you – it might be better to have two pairs of eyes down there right now.’
They went back and climbed up on to the rock, lying side by side and scanning the dark mountainside. For fifteen minutes they were silent, but saw and heard nothing. ‘I think it’s okay,’ said Forester at last. He shifted his position to ease his bones. ‘What do you think of the old man?’
‘He seems all right to me,’ said O’Hara.
‘He’s a good joe – a good liberal politician. If he lasts long enough he might end up by being a good liberal statesman – but liberals don’t last long in this part of the world, and I think he’s a shade too soft.’ Forester chuckled. ‘Even when it’s a matter of life and death – his life and death, not to mention his niece’s – he still sticks to democratic procedure. He wants us to vote on whether we shall hand him over to the commies. Imagine that!’
‘I wouldn’t hand anyone over to the communists,’ said O’Hara. He glanced sideways at the dark bulk of Forester. ‘You said you could fly a plane – I suppose you do it as a matter of business; company plane and all that.’
‘Hell, no,’ said Forester. ‘My outfit’s not big enough or advanced enough for that. I was in the Air Force – I flew in Korea.’
‘So did I,’ said O’Hara. ‘I was in the R.A.F.’
‘Well, what do you know.’ Forester was delighted. ‘Where were you based?’
O’Hara told him and he said, ‘Then you were flying Sabres like I was. We went on joint operations – hell, we must have flown together.’
‘Probably.’
They lay in companionable silence for a while, then Forester said, ‘Did you knock down any of those Migs? I got four, then they pulled me out. I was mad about that – I wanted to be a war hero; an ace, you know.’
‘You’ve got to get five in the American Air Force, haven’t you?’
‘That’s right,’ said Forester. ‘Did you get any?’
‘A couple,’ said O’Hara. He had shot down eight Migs but it was a part of his life he preferred to forget, so he didn’t elaborate. Forester sensed his reserve and was quiet. After a few minutes he said, ‘I think I’ll go back and get some sleep – if I can. We’ll be on our way early.’
When he had gone O’Hara stared into the darkness and thought about Korea. That had been the turning point of his life: before Korea he had been on his way up; after Korea there was just the endless slide, down to Filson and now beyond. He wondered where he would end up.
Thinking of Korea brought back Margaret and the letter. He had read the letter while on ready call on a frozen airfield. The Americans had a name for that kind of letter – they called them ‘Dear Johns’. She was quite matter-of-fact about it and said that they were adult and must be sensible about this thing – all the usual rationalizations which covered plain infidelity. Looking back on it afterwards O’Hara could see a little humour in it – not much, but some. He was one of the inglorious ten per cent of any army fighting away from home, and he had lost his wife to a civilian. But it wasn’t funny at all reading that letter on the cold airfield in Korea.
Five minutes later there was a scramble and he was in the air and thirty minutes later he was fighting. He went into battle with cold ferocity and a total lack of judgment. In three minutes he shot down two Migs, surprising them by sheer recklessness. Then a Chinese pilot with a cooler mind shot him