The Golden Gate

by Alistair MacLean

  ‘Start up the generator. We’ll have the searchlights on the north and south towers. See that the self-propelled guns are ready, loaded, crews standing by. Three men with submachine-guns to be by each gun. I’ll go south, you north and alert them. After that, you’re in charge of both. I’ll try to find out from that bastard Hendrix what this is all about.’

  ‘You don’t seriously expect a frontal assault, Mr Branson.’

  ‘I frankly don’t know what the hell to expect. What I do know is that we take no chances. Hurry!’

  Branson ran south. As he passed the rear coach he shouted: ‘Chrysler! The generator. Quick, for God’s sake.’

  The generator was running before either Branson or Van Effen reached the respective defensive positions. The powerful searchlights came on illuminating both towers: the reverse effect was to plunge the central portion of the bridge into even deeper gloom than before. The guns were readied, machine-gunners in close attendance. Van Effen stayed where he was. Branson ran back towards the central coach. But both Branson and Van Effen were concentrating their efforts on the wrong things and in the wrong direction. They should have been where Revson was.

  Revson was crouched in the nose section of the leading helicopter, the variably shuttered flashlight in his hand reduced to scarcely more than a pinhole of light. He had had no trouble in locating the triggering device: it was between the pilot’s seat and the one opposite to it.

  With the screwdriver blade of his knife Revson had already removed the four screws that secured the top-plate and the top-plate itself. It was a simple enough device. On the outside of the device was a vertical lever padlocked in position in its top position. When this was depressed it brought a copper arm down between two spring-loaded interior copper arms, so completing the circuit. Twin pieces of flex led from those last two to two crocodile spring-loaded clamps, each secured to the terminals of two nickel-cadmium Nife cells connected up in series. That would produce a total of only three volts, little enough, one would have thought, to activate the radio trigger: but that Branson would have it all expertly calculated out in advance Revson did not for a moment doubt.

  He didn’t bother to sever or disconnect anything. He merely removed the crocodile clips from the terminals, lifted the Nife cells free, broke the connection between them and stuffed one in each jacket pocket. Had he disconnected or severed anything Branson could have carried out some sort of jury rig: but Revson would have wagered heavily that Branson carried no spare Nife cells. There was no earthly reason why he should have done. He began to replace the cover-plate.

  Hendrix sounded angry, a man near the breaking point of exasperation. ‘What do you think I am, Branson? A bloody magician? I just sit here and snap my fingers and presto! all the lights in the north half of the city go out? I’ve told you and I tell you again that two of the main transformers have gone out. How I don’t know yet, but you don’t have to be a genius to know that our old friend from the skies above has been at work again. What did you expect us to do – throw in a tank regiment against you? We knew you had those heavy guns and searchlights – and your priceless hostages. Think we’re morons? I’m beginning to think that you’re the moron. I’m beginning to think that you’re losing your grip. I’ll call back.’ Hendrix hung up. Branson did the same, almost smashing the rest in the process. It was the second occasion in a very brief space of time that it had been suggested to him that he was losing his grip. His lips were compressed. It was a suggestion he didn’t much care for, far less care to contemplate. He remained seated where he was.

  Revson closed the helicopter door softly and dropped lightly to the ground. A few paces away he could see O’Hare silhouetted against the still towering but slowly diminishing flames. He called his name softly and O’Hare approached.

  ‘Let’s walk to the west side,’ Revson said. ‘No shooting practice?’

  ‘Nobody as much as looked at the place, far less came near it. Even if they had looked, I doubt whether they would have seen anything. After staring so long at that fire and the fireworks, looking back to the centre of the bridge would have been like looking into total darkness. You know, no night sight.’ He handed Revson the white pen. ‘Have your little toy back. I remain ethically unbent.’

  ‘And you can have your flashlight back.’ Revson handed it over. ‘I suggest you return it to your ambulance. At the same time I suggest we might retrieve that pistol and give it to General Cartland. I also suggest you give it to him. I don’t want to be seen being too chummy with the General. Tell him not to use it till he gets the word. Ever seen one of those before?’ He took a Nife cell from his pocket and handed it to O’Hare who peered at it in the near darkness.

  ‘Some sort of battery?’

  ‘Yes. There were two of them and I have the other. They were to be used to power the explosives’ triggering device.’

  ‘And you left no trace of your coming and going?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘So we walk towards the side of the bridge.’

  They lobbed the cells into the Golden Gate and walked to the ambulance. O’Hare ushered Revson in first, then followed, closing the door. He said: ‘I think we should use the torch. The sudden appearance of bright lights in the windows might attract suspicious attention. After all, we’re supposed to be out there enjoying the sights.’

  It took O’Hare less than two minutes to break the Cardiac Arrest Unit seal, lift out some equipment, open up, after a series of intricate operations, a secret compartment in the bottom of the box, retrieve the cyanide gun, replace the equipment, close and reseal the lid. O’Hare placed the gun in an inside coat pocket and said complainingly: ‘I’m beginning to become ethical all over again.’

  Hendrix said over the phone: ‘It wasn’t the transformers after all. There have been so many breaks and shorts in the city’s electrical equipment tonight that the generators’ overload coils just packed up.’

  ‘How long?’ Branson asked.

  ‘A few minutes. No more.’

  As was his habit, General Cartland was standing alone by the east barrier. He turned and saw O’Hare who said quietly: ‘A word, sir, if you please.’

  The lights of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge came on five minutes later. Branson left the Presidential coach and went to meet Van Effen. He said: ‘Still think I could make a fortune hiring out my antennae?’ He was smiling.

  Van Effen wasn’t. He said: ‘Do me a favour. Just hang on to them a little while yet.’

  ‘Don’t tell me your antennae are at work too?’

  ‘If they’re not, they sure have good stand-ins.’

  The last of the fireworks fizzled to extinction, the oil fire in Fort Mason sank down into a sullen deep-red glow, the lightning and thunder eased, although not markedly so, but the rain showed no sign of abating: had fire broken out in San Francisco that night, it would surely have been rained to extinction. Now that the night’s entertainment was patently over, everyone became very conscious that the rain had become very chilly indeed. There was an almost concerted movement back to the coaches.

  Revson was in the window seat by the time April Wednesday came in. She hesitated, then sat down beside him. She said: ‘And why do you want my seat? I thought it was customary for the lady to be offered the inside seat.’

  ‘To keep her from falling into the aisle during the night? Don’t you know this is the golden age of women’s lib? However, that’s not my real reason. Is it possible for me to reach the aisle without disturbing you in the process?’

  ‘That’s a silly question.’

  ‘Is it? I mean, possible?’

  ‘You can see it isn’t.’

  ‘Would you be prepared to swear – short of thumb-screws, that is – that I never once disturbed you in the course of the night?’

  ‘You propose to disturb me, then?’

  ‘Yes. Will you?’

  She smiled. ‘I think I’ve shown that I can lie with the best of them.’

  ‘You’re not
only beautiful, but you’re good.’

  ‘Thank you. Where were you thinking of going?’

  ‘Do you really want to know? I think you’d better not. Think of the thumb-screws, the rack, being broken on the wheel –’

  ‘But Chief of Police Hendrix said that Branson never offered violence to women.’

  ‘That was the Branson of yore. But he’s become jittery now, more than a little rattled. He might find himself driven to a point where he’s compelled to abandon his scruples.’

  It wasn’t the completely sodden thin silk dress she was wearing that made her shiver. ‘I think I’d rather not know. When are you –’

  ‘Just before midnight.’

  ‘Then I shan’t sleep a wink before then.’

  ‘Excellent. Give me a shake at five minutes to.’ Revson closed his eyes and appeared to relax comfortably in his seat.

  By five minutes to midnight everyone in the coach appeared to be asleep: despite their cold and discomfort nearly all had been asleep for over an hour. Even April Wednesday was asleep, her head on Revson’s shoulder, huddling close to him for warmth. She was quite unaware of this. Even the guard, Bartlett, almost certainly because Kowalski’s prowling figure was no longer there to keep him on the qui vive, was much nearer sleep than wakefulness, his head nodding on his chest, only occasionally, and with longer intervals in between, jerking his head upright. Only Revson, his eyes closed, was as awake and alert as a cat on a midnight prowl. He nudged April and whispered in her ear. She started awake and looked at him, her eyes uncomprehending.

  ‘Time to go,’ he said softly. It was almost dark inside the coach, the only illumination coming from the dimmed light over the driver’s seat and from the lights of the bridge itself. ‘Give me the aerosol.’

  ‘The what?’ Suddenly she was wide awake, the white of the smudged eyes – the pupils could have been any colour – huge in the gloom. ‘Of course.’ She reached under her seat and brought up the aerosol can. Revson tucked it in his inside left coat pocket. She said: ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘With luck, twenty minutes. Perhaps half an hour. I’ll be back.’

  She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Please take care.’

  Revson had no comment on this highly unnecessary advice. ‘Move into the aisle. Quietly as you can.’

  He passed by her and moved silently forwards, his white pen in his hand. Bartlett’s head was on his chest. Revson pressed the button at a distance of less than a foot and the needle lodged behind Bartlett’s left ear. Revson eased him back until his head dangled over the back of his seat. The drug, apart from inducing unconsciousness, had a temporarily paralysing effect so there seemed little enough likelihood that Bartlett would slip off his seat. April watched all this without any expression: the only indication of her feelings was the tip of a tongue that sought to moisten dry lips.

  There had to be a patrolling guard, Revson knew – he had, in fact, seen him several times – and he had to be taken care of. He peered cautiously through the open driver’s doorway. A guard was indeed approaching, coming up from the south, walking a few feet wide of the coaches and carrying a shoulder-slung machine-carbine. Revson thought he recognized him as Johnson, one of the helicopter pilots, but couldn’t be sure. Revson switched off Bartlett’s dimmed light and remained where he was. He had the aerosol can in his hand but at the last moment changed his mind and brought out the pen instead. A person recovering from the effects of the knock-out needles invariably awoke none the worse for his experience and usually assumed that he had just dropped off to sleep: but as Revson could tell from his own experience of that morning, a person awakening from a gas knock-out felt nauseated and thoroughly hung over and under no illusion at all that he had been anaesthetized in one way or another. It didn’t seem a good idea to have Johnson report this to Branson.

  Revson pressed the button and jumped down at the same instant to catch Johnson before he keeled over on to the roadway, less for humanitarian reasons than to prevent the metallic sound of the carbine striking the roadway. He removed the needle from Johnson’s forehead, hauled him as silently as possible inside the coach and jammed him in a very uncomfortable position in front of the driver’s seat. Johnson was in no position to feel any discomfort and Revson didn’t want to risk the possibility of any passenger awakening – highly unlikely though it seemed – and finding an unconscious stranger lying in the aisle.

  April Wednesday had gone back to her lip-licking.

  Revson emerged by the nearside front door. In the bright lights of the bridge he might almost as well have stepped out into daylight. He had no doubt that his activities were being carefully watched from both north and south shores through powerful night glasses, but that was of no concern. What mattered was that he was effectively shielded from the other two coaches, though he seriously doubted whether there was anyone keeping watch in either or, indeed, whether anybody at all was awake. In point of fact both Van Effen and Chrysler were talking quietly to each other in the rear coach, but it was impossible for them to see Revson.

  Revson crossed the crash barrier, pulled himself to the rail and peered down. Below, all was total blackness. The submarine could or could not have been there: he just had to hope it was.

  He descended and pulled the oil-skin container from under the coach. Inside was the fishing line and a weighted lab. sample canister – weighted, because the wind was still gusting and he had to be sure that the line descended reasonably vertically.

  He cut off hooks and lures at the end of the fishing line and attached the canister to the line. He eased the canister over the side and started unwinding the line from its square wooden framework. After about thirty seconds of this he stopped, held the line delicately between forefinger and thumb and waited for some sort of acknowledging tug. There was none. He lowered it another ten feet. Still no answering tug. Perhaps the submarine wasn’t there, perhaps the captain was finding it impossible to maintain position because of the tides and strong currents. But then Admiral Newson had said that he knew just the very man who could do just that and it was unlikely that a man of Newson’s reputation would make any mistake. Revson lowered the line another ten feet then sighed aloud with relief when he felt two sharp tugs on the line.

  Twenty seconds later there came another two sharp tugs. Revson overhanded the line in with all possible speed. When he estimated there were only a few feet of line left he leaned far out and pulled in at a much slower speed. He had no wish to bang the radio, however gently, against the steelwork of the bridge. Finally, he had it in his hand, a waterproof bag with the line securely fixed round its neck. He descended to the side of the bus to examine his catch. He cut the securing line with his knife and peered inside. There it was – a tiny gleaming transistorized transceiver.

  ‘Strange hour to go fishing, Revson,’ Van Effen said behind him. For a second, no more, Revson remained immobilized. He was holding the bag at chest level and his hand slid stealthily into his left inner pocket. ‘I’d like to see just what kind of fish one catches at night in the Golden Gate. Turn round, Revson, slow and easy. I’m a nervous character and you know what that can do to trigger fingers.’

  Revson turned round, slow and easy, in the manner of a man who knows all about nervous trigger fingers. He already had the aerosol inside the bag. He said resignedly: ‘Well, I suppose it was too good to last.’

  ‘So Branson was right all along.’ Van Effen, moon-shaped face as expressionless as ever, was between five and six feet away. He had his machine-pistol in both hands, held loosely, but with his forefinger indubitably on the trigger. Revson would have been a dead man before he’d covered half the distance between them. But Van Effen was clearly expecting no resistance. ‘Let’s see what you have there. Slow and easy, now. Slow and easy’

  Slowly, easily, Revson withdrew the aerosol. It was so small that it was almost hidden in his hand. He knew that the can was pressurized to three times the normal and that its effective range was ten feet. Or so O�
�Hare had told him and Revson had a great deal of faith in O’Hare.

  Van Effen shifted the gun under his right arm and pointed the barrel straight at Revson. ‘Let me see that.’

  ‘Slow and easy?’

  ‘Slow and easy.’

  Revson stretched his arm out unhurriedly. Van Effen’s face was no more than three feet away when he pressed the button. He dropped the aerosol and snatched Van Effen’s machine-pistol: again he wished to obviate any metallic sounds. He looked down at the crumpled figure at his feet. He had come to form a certain regard for Van Effen, both as a man and a professional: but regrets were not in Revson’s line of business. He retrieved the aerosol, took the transceiver and pressed a switch.

  ‘Revson here.’

  ‘Hagenbach.’ Revson lowered the volume.

  ‘This is a closed VHF line? No possibility of interception?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Thank you for the radio. I have a problem here. One of disposal. Van Effen caught me but I caught him. Gas. He recognized me, of course, and can’t remain on the bridge. I could throw him into the Golden Gate but I don’t want to. He’s done nothing to deserve anything like that. He might even turn State evidence. May I speak to the submarine captain, please.’

  A new voice came through. ‘Captain here. Commander Pearson.’

  ‘My congratulations, Captain, and thank you for the radio. You heard what I said to Mr Hagenbach.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you be prepared to accept another passenger even though he is unconscious?’

  ‘We aim to please.’

  ‘Would you have a line or rope aboard easy enough for me to haul up but strong enough to take a man’s weight? I’d need about five hundred feet.’

  ‘Goodness, no. Wait till I check.’ There was a brief silence, then Pearson’s voice came through again. ‘We have three thirty-fathom coils. Joined together that should be more than enough.’