The Heights of Zervos (29 page)

The right-hand caterpillar was acting superbly as an improvised braking system, had lost him a great deal of lethal speed, but the track rammed against the bank had become trapped and now it was rotating furiously inside the earth as it desperately tried to break free. Macomber was holding the wheel with a ferocious grip which signified more than an attempt to regain control - it also signified his fear that the track would come loose, break away altogether from the vehicle. Above the roar of the engine a new sound screamed out, a sound of churning metal rasping over rocks embedded inside the bank, a hellish sound which went on and on as the track revolved frantically and clouds of earth and loose stones soared above them. Then it freed itself and the half-track leapt forward down the natural gradient while Macomber wrestled to keep control, to lose more speed without tipping them over as the right-angled bridge rushed up to meet them. He hit the ice patch at the moment when he felt he might just make it.

The ice patch, starting at a point where part of the earth bank had collapsed into a ditch, was several inches thick, so instead of breaking under the enormous weight of the vehicle it propelled the half-track forward like a sledge sweeping over a skating-rink. Macomber turned the wheels, felt them take on a life of their own, as they hurtled down on the leftward turn over the bridge. He swung the wheels farther to the left, praying for the massive tracks to act as a sheet-anchor, then they were half-way round the bend with the tracks continuing the sweep behind them and Macomber had the feeling some irresistible power had taken hold of their tail as the momentum of track weight carried them farther and farther sideways. The wheels were half-way up the bridge when the right-hand track smashed .into the stone wall, a dry-stone edifice of boulders unsealed with mortar. The impact of steel against stone was mind-shattering: Prentice was hurled along the bench, stopped by the side of the vehicle as Ford cannoned into him, and only Grapos, still upright, held his position by the tightness of his grip on the rear of the bench. A few feet beyond them, Macomber took less of the shock, but the impact sound was deafening as the track battered the wall open, tumbled huge boulders into the river below, and then they were suspended over the brink, half the right-hand track in the air over the drop. Prentice shook his head to fight down the stunned sensation, peered over the side and saw he was looking down into the river thirty feet below, a foaming torrent which carried along half-submerged floats of greenish ice. He felt the half-track tremble, begin to tip backwards gently. They were going over...

At the last moment Macomber had braked. A swift glance over his shoulder showed him the appalling danger - the jagged gap between the boulders, the greenish swirl, a third of the vehicle in mid-air, so probably at least half the equilibrium, then he, too, felt the tremble, the insidious lifting motion beginning. He released the brake, depressed his foot. The engine throbbed, built up power; something bumped gently in front. Christ, the wheels had left the ground, had just returned to the road surface! Something had locked onto the vehicle, holding it fast. He felt the floor rising under him again as they started to tip backwards again, the wheels clear of the ground. They were going to somersault over, the track weight no longer a sheet-anchor as it performed the function of a fulcrum to see-saw the half-track down into the roaring torrent. Mist like smoke drifted over the bridge, obscuring the view like a London fog, the clammy moisture settling on Macomber's sweat-stained forehead. His instinct - of self-preservation - urged him to leave the wheel, to jump for it onto the road still beside him - but for once he ignored the instinct, knowing that the others would go over the edge with the vehicle. He remained rigid behind the wheel, pressing his foot down still farther as the caterpillars revolved furiously among the scattered boulders, metal clashing so savagely with stone that Prentice saw flint-sparks fly in the mist. It lasted perhaps twenty seconds - the final skid, the smash into the wall, the first lift of the vehicle, the brief return to firm ground, the second more nerve-rasping tilt. It was the left-hand caterpillar Macomber was counting on, the track less thrust out over the drop, the track whose treads still clawed at firm ground, and now the gamble began to work as the caterpillar shifted the mess of boulders and grated its way forward inch by inch - dragging the other track with it until that also gained a firmer grip and did its part in heaving the vehicle farther on to the bridge, farther away from the yawning gap. Macomber felt it coming, felt the wheels hit the road again, released some foot pressure just in time as the vehicle surged free, and in freeing itself the right-hand track let go of a section of wall which had leaned outwards under the shock of the initial impact. Above the growl of the engine they heard a muffled splash as a whole fresh section of wall dived into the river and Macomber steered the half-track over the bridge and started to take the right-hand turn, then braked. He looked back, bis engine still running.

'Jesus ... I thought that was it..." Prentice wiped his damp face while Ford licked his lips and held his wounded shoulder where it had cannoned into the lieutenant. Grapos, recovering more quickly than the others, had his rifle gripped in his hands as he stared backwards the way they had come, the way the pursuing half-track would come. 'Not much point in hanging about here, is there? Let's get moving,' Prentice demanded irritably.

'There might be - a point in waiting here for them.' Macomber stared back at the wrecked wall. The vanished section was perhaps twenty feet wide and he was seeing it as the Germans would see it when they reached the bridge, his mind racing while he tried to estimate their likely reaction when they reached the bottom of the hill. The mist, which had thinned but still swirled over the bridge, made the devastation look even worse, like the aftermath of a battlefield. He looked forward again to where the road turned to go up the mountain : the road turned right sharply, but to the left, where the bridge ended, a rock slope continued up from the road and disappeared behind a clump of trees only half-seen in the greyness. A gentle slope which looked firm enough, firm enough to take up the half-track. 'I want you all to get out and take up position for when they arrive. We'll fight it out here,' he said abruptly.'

'What the hell for?' Prentice was vehement. 'If we go on we should keep ahead of them with a bit of luck...'

'Up that mountain road?' Macomber was twisted round in his seat again where he could face Prentice and his expression was grim. 'Look, I've been up that road once before - it's just about wide enough to take this thing, it zigzags backwards and forwards up the mountain with a sheer wall on one side, a sheer drop on the other, and higher up it may be covered with shot ice. There's even ice in the river behind us, We'll be crawling up that mountain like a man going up on his belly ...'

'We'll still be in front,' Prentice persisted obstinately, 'and if we have to, we may discover a better spot to ambush them...'

'Not as good as this.' The Scot was eyeing the left-hand slope speculatively. 'And we're more likely to get the element of surprise here - they'll think we went over with that wall'

'Not when they look over and see nothing there, they won't...'

'So, we'll have to make sure that by the time they discover their mistake it's too late.'

'You'll have to hide the half-track,' Ford pointed out soberly, 'It would give the whole game away if they can see...'

'That's the guts of the thing.' Macomber extracted one of his three remaining cigars, lit it quickly. 'They won't spot it until it's too late if I can work this the way I see it.' He took several puffs and then pointed up the slope. 'I'll be up there inside those trees and I don't want anyone opening fire too soon. They'll come down that road, maybe a bit more slowly than we came down it, and they'll see the ice patch, which will slow them down even more, give them time to spot that smashed-up wall. But they won't stop on the ice - they'll keep on coming and pull up on the bridge to have a look. That's when I come down out of those trees. Then you can shoot as long as your ammunition lasts out.'

'You're going up that slope?' There was an incredulous note in Prentice's voice. 'You'll never make it - you must be bonkers even to attempt it...'

'What are you beefing about?' Macomber growled. 'You're not coming with me - and I'm just beginning to get the feel of this gadget. I could even get to like it. Now, for God's sake get moving - they'll be here any minute.'

Partly because he felt they had lost too much time to continue up the mountain, partly because he sensed the agreement of Ford and of Grapos, who had dropped into the road and was already looking for a good vantage point, Prentice reluctantly helped Ford out of the vehicle, and as soon as they were in the roadway Macomber let off the brake and began driving forward. The slope was a little steeper than he had anticipated but once the tracks gripped its surface he felt them steadily pushing the vehicle up the ascent. The mist was thickening again when he had climbed sixty feet above the bridge and he switched on his lights to see where he was going. The beams were blurred cones and the lights reflected off tiny particles of moisture as they penetrated the trees, showed up a massive slab of rock beyond. Tilted at an angle of perhaps thirty degrees, sagged back heavily against his seat, he steered the half-track cautiously between two tree-trunks, pulled it up with its nose inches from the slab, looked back and swore. The one essential of the ambush was a clear view of the bridge and the mist had closed over it, blotting it out completely. If it didn't shift before the German half-track arrived he was impotent, powerless to help, and the other three would have to fight it out alone. He took out the cigar, moistened his lips and waited with the engine ticking over. Another calculated risk - that the motor of the German vehicle combined with the mist would muffle the sound of his own engine. What the devil was keeping Jerry?

Waiting was an activity - if doing nothing can be termed activity - Macomber had some experience of. Waiting in the shadows of a warehouse on the Danube while he checked the supplies going aboard a barge; waiting beneath a manhole cover while a German soldier patrolled the street above; some of his most gruelling hours during the past fifteen months had been spent waiting. But at the moment waiting didn't suit him; it gave a chance for the fatigue to make itself felt, to settle in his weary limbs and his over-strained mind, and he wondered how much more he could take before his final reserves were drained. Even the slow-motion coils of mist which drifted below as he remained twisted round in his seat seemed to add to the appalling tiredness which was becoming his permanent condition. He blinked, thinking he saw a man creeping up through the mist, but it was only the vapour assuming strange shapes, and then, above the murmuring throb of his own motor, he heard the sound he had been waiting for.

The half-track proceeding cautiously down the hill echoed weirdly through the fogged silence, a distant engine sound combining with a more distinctive noise - the rattle and grind of the descending tracks. And still the bridge was lost, might be a dozen miles away for all he could see of it through the dense pall which smothered the slope so that now it might have been late evening or early morning. Had he known this was going to happen he could have stopped lower down, relying on the mist alone to conceal his presence, but it was far too late to alter position, so all he could do was to wait and hope -hope that damned mist would thin in time. The clanking sound was closer now, the half-track still moving slowly, as he had foreseen it would. His hand went towards the brake, clutched it, and he had forgotten he was smoking as he stared fixedly downwards, trying to make up his mind whether the mist had thinned just a little. His eyes were feeling the strain of staring in one direction and a dull ache was building up behind his temples as the clanking noise grew louder, still a muffled ratchetty sound, but definitely louder. They'd be at the bottom any moment now, turning onto the bridge. It wasn't going to work, there was going to be a tragedy down there, Macomber felt it in his chilled bones, a chill brought on by a feeling of almost unbearable frustration which twitched at his nerves. I may be responsible for the death of three men, he thought.

A breath of wind touched his face as he heard the engine sound slow - they had reached the bottom, they were turning the corner. He suddenly realized his lights were still on and switched them off quickly. A blunder like that would have lost him his life long ago. Pull yourself together, for Christ's sake, this is going to be tricky enough as it is without going to sleep on the job. A noise like gently falling water came from above as the wind rustled the trees, then the mist began to retreat rapidly, to dissolve back down the slope as the wind parted it in melting eddies. He stiffened, his side rigid against the seat, straining to see what was happening down there. Had a voice drifted up from below? He was frowning ferociously, still trying to decide, when the mist cleared from the bridge and he saw the German half-track turning the first corner as it lumbered up to the bridge and stopped, broadside on to the destroyed wall, stopped in the position Macomber had prayed it would stop. Four men inside, and the man standing up by the driver was Hahnemann. Too far away to see clearly, but Macomber knew it was Hahnemann, knew it for a certainty from the way he moved. Now!

He released the brake, accelerated, reversed down the slope at gathering speed as the tracks churned and slithered their way down, the revolutions increasing with every yard of the descent. Had they reacted instantly, remained cool, taking deliberate aim before they fired, they might have killed the Scot, freed the half-track's steering so it would have careered in a different direction. But Macomber had counted on the element of surprise, on the element of terror which can freeze men's minds for vital seconds, on the view as seen from the bridge which a moment earlier had seemed so deserted, on the view seconds later as they heard the harsh grind and thunder of the descending tracks and saw the tank-like projectile coming out of the mist and roaring down on them. Still twisted round in his seat, both hands locked to the wheel, steering by feel alone, Macomber turned the direction of the onslaught a fraction, aiming the half-track square at the vehicle below. He saw Hahnemann react at last, saw him haul out his pistol from his holster, raise it, take deliberate aim, then collapse as Grapos, secreted behind a rock above the bridge, fired at the same moment as Prentice pressed the trigger of his machine-pistol. Hahnemann's three companions ducked, or fell, Macomber had no idea which, as the tracks bounded over a flat boulder and changed direction round the end of the bridge, smashing with enormous force into the side of the German vehicle parked by the gap. The collision was tremendous, a jarring shock which knocked Macomber backward into the wheel, and only his anticipation of what was coming prevented his being impaled on the steering column as he braked at the last moment, a split-second problem of timing since he needed all the force of the rushing descent to strike the half-track before he tried to escape following it to destruction. The battering-ram blow slammed the German vehicle half-way over the edge as one of the Alpenkorps men scrambled dazedly to his feet, acted intuitively and threw himself over the brink, only to be followed seconds later by the half-track which dropped sideways and buried him when it plunged into the river. A burst of water jumped up to bridge height, subsided, and Macomber, turning painfully round saw that his own vehicle was perched on the brink, but perched safely. He was lying forward over the wheel, taking in great gulps of mist-laden air when Prentice reached him. 'Are you all right, Mac?' 'I think so. Stand clear a minute.'