by Colin Forbes
'I'm concentrating on my driving. Which is rather a sound idea, don't you think? Under the circumstances?'
Philip had just swung round another hair-raising curve in the road, which now rose very steeply. He was deliberately keeping her talking, to take her mind off what lay ahead of them. At times he provoked an argument while they came closer to the plateau where the ground station was located.
'You're driving very well, Philip.' she said.
'Famous last words!' he joked.
'We're nearly there, aren't we?'
'Very close now. Better check the action of your Browning again,' he needled her.
'I know why you said that. But if we are very close then I think I'll take your mocking advice.'
She extracted the Browning from her shoulder bag, held it in her lap, the muzzle pointed away from Philip, tension building up inside her as the great boar's head of the Kellerhorn came into view.
Inside the main building of the ground station it was Brazil who first had an inclination of what was heading straight for them. He slept little, liked to advertise his boundless energy.
'I'm always up first – before the world has woken up.' he had told many people. 'That is how I steal a march on the rest of the world. While others slumber I work.'
It was still a couple of hours before he planned to send the second, major signal. He had had his breakfast alone and was staring out of the large window of armoured glass which overlooked the approaches to the heights. The large room was his HQ, his living and sleeping quarters. A door leading off it led to an even larger room which controlled the mobile conning tower perched above it, the sophisticated laser system which contacted the satellite.
He had been working, so it was well after dawn when he pulled back the curtains, stared in disbelief at the convoy of vehicles below him. He was confused for a few vital minutes by what he thought were two Leather Bombers on motorcycles, then he raised the alarm. Why the hell hadn't he posted heavy guards round the perimeter during the night? He cursed his omission. Pressing a button on his intercom he shouted down it.
'Craig! We're under attack…'
Rounding the last corner, Butler and Nield rode up towards the ground station, keeping well apart to provide a smaller target, looking for guards. Newman drove the jeep into the middle of the space between them, continued a long way forward.
'He's going too close.' said Paula.
'He's determined the first shell lands in the right place,' Philip told her.
As ordered by Newman earlier, he swung the four-wheel-drive in a U-turn, so it faced the way they had come, ready for a swift retreat. Marler brought his own vehicle close to them, also performed a U-turn, left the engine running when he had braked. Philip also left his engine running before diving out of the vehicle after Paula.
She was already running over the hard-packed snow, holding her Browning in both hands, ready for instant firing. She raised her automatic as guards appeared near the gates to the compound, flung them open, came running out. Men clad in black leather who, like Butler and Nield, looked sinister silhouetted against the white snow.
Above them, way beyond the ground station, loomed the huge summit of the Kellerhorn – while below it descended the long snowbound slope with rocks protruding at frequent intervals, a slope which ran down to the rear of the ground station.
Marler had brought his Armalite rifle this time. He stood in the open, well to the left of Newman and close to Nield, the weapon tucked into his shoulder. A Leather Bomber, holding a machine-pistol, was running down to get within range. Marler saw him in the crosshairs, pulled the trigger, and saw his target sprawl forward, lie still. It was the first shot. It provoked a fusillade from the advancing guards, now pouring through the open gates, drawing closer to Newman.
Butler and Nield, plunging their hands inside their canvas satchels, brought out grenades, hurled them into the nearest guards. They threw more and more grenades. The guards fell like ninepins, not close enough for their weapons to reach the attackers. Not yet.
Craig rushed out of the gate, ducking and weaving, gripping a machine-pistol. His target was Newman, still standing like a statue, taking very careful aim at a point on the slope, midway between the Kellerhorn summit and the ground station. Craig somehow missed all the bullets flying over the snow, came within range. He raised the machine-pistol.
'Newman, no time to say your prayers. You're going down. For ever …'
Despite the fusillade Newman heard his voice, filled with venom, clearly. The thought flashed across Newman's mind that Craig was recalling the time when he had bested Craig during the fight in the Black Bear, way back in Wareham.
Everyone seemed occupied, holding back the tide of oncoming guards. Craig's large face split into a grin of hate. His finger tightened on the trigger.
More shots rang out in a brief silence as men reloaded. Shot after shot. Craig staggered, a look of sheer disbelief on his face. He stumbled forward close to Newman. More bullets hit him. Dropping the machine-pistol, he lifted both hands, sprawled forward. More bullets entered his prone form.
Marler glanced towards Newman, saw Paula, Browning held steady in both hands, emptying the eight-shot automatic into Craig. No particular expression on her face. She slipped in a fresh magazine, looked for another target.
Rocket launcher pressed into his shoulder, Newman pulled the trigger. The shell whooshed into the air, in a high arc. It landed exactly where he had hoped.
Detonated on the unstable slope Marchat had referred to. A ton of snow and rocks soared into the air. Then came a sound which muffled all the shooting, a dreadful rumbling like the fall of a gigantic waterfall. The whole slope began to move.
'Evacuate!' Newman shouted at the top of his voice.
Paula suddenly noticed the rotor blades of the chopper on the helipad inside the perimeter were moving, whirling faster and faster. Brazil ran out of the building, climbed aboard the machine beside the pilot. The blades became a whirling blur, the machine lifted off.
'Brazil's getting away,' she screamed to Newman.
'Evacuate!' Newman roared again.
They rushed to the four-wheel-drives. Philip, running, threw a grenade under the jeep. It exploded, the petrol tank blew, the jeep burst into flames. No point in leaving something the guards could follow them in. Butler and Nield had earlier thrown their motorcycles over sideways, had used the barrel of a gun to smash a vital part.
Newman climbed in behind the wheel of a four-wheel-drive. Paula came behind him, noticed Butler was stumbling, helped him climb into the back and joined him. Newman drove off.
Marler had taken over the wheel of the second vehicle. Philip leapt in beside him while Nield jumped into the back. They followed Newman who was already driving like a madman to the road leading down the mountain.
A menacing rumble like thunder made Paula look back. She was awestruck as she gazed at the spectacle. The whole mountain below the peak was collapsing, a tidal wave of snow and rocks thundering down, smashing through the fence surrounding the ground station, overwhelming the buildings, smashing the wooden edifices housing the scientists. She had no way of knowing Craig had earlier shut off the air-conditioning system.
The ground station vanished, the wooden houses crumbled, disappeared, the tidal wave of rocks and snow rushed down the mountain with gathering speed. Newman caught a glimpse of what was happening in his rear-view mirror and his expression became grim.
'We've done it!' shouted Paula.
'Now we have to survive,' Newman warned.
You can't out-race an avalanche.
The words of his advanced instructor when he was once skiing at St Moritz came back to Newman. They did not make him feel any better as he reached the road and began the frightening descent. He knew he couldn't go as fast going down as he had coming up. He'd observed that the avalanche had divided into two great rivers of flooding rock and snow. The major river was veering away from the road. It was the second, smaller river -still an aw
esome killer – which worried him. It was heading straight for the cliff edge and at some point would roar over the mountain road.
Marler was close behind him as he swung round the bends again, keeping up as fast a pace as he dared. In his vehicle Newman was aware Paula was talking to Butler, her mouth close to his ear, and then she began unfastening his black leather jacket. It was only then he realized Butler was wounded.
He forced himself to resist the impulse to move faster. He couldn't call back, ask Paula how badly Butler was hurt. The implacable roar of the descending avalanche was deafening. At a bend he slowed for a few seconds, glanced back. Paula had taken out her first-aid kit from her shoulder bag.
'Just keep going.' he said to himself. 'Maybe pray a little:'
Paula had opened Butler's jacket, which had a tear in it where a bullet had penetrated. His shirt underneath was bloodstained. She had a tricky job – to cut away a portion of the shirt with the vehicle rocking from side to side. She managed it, was surprised – and relieved – to find he wore only one woollen vest, very bloodstained. She told him to keep as still as he could, then carefully cut away a portion of the vest. The bullet could be seen, embedded in his flesh.
'This will hurt.' she warned him, mouth close to his ear. 'I have to guard against infection. Now…' She treated the wound. Butler remained quite still.
'Does it hurt?' she asked.
'Only when I laugh.'
God, she thought, he's tough, is our Mr Harry Butler. She applied dressings and a bandage, then tucked his clothes back in position. Looking up, she shuddered.
Newman's hands instinctively tightened on the wheel. Ahead was a huge overhang of rock, way above them but curving over the narrow ledge the road ran along. Pouring across the overhang was an endless cascade of huge rocks, snow and shale. At the moment it was carried by its momentum straight into the precipice on one side of the road.
Was it his imagination, Newman wondered? The overhang seemed to be slowly bending under the strain of the second river crashing over it. The cascade was about fifty yards below Newman on a rare straight stretch. He saw patches of ice appearing under the snow covering the road. Once again he resisted an almost overpowering impulse to speed up dangerously. His eyes never left the overhang as he drove closer and closer.
The deafening rumble rose to a crescendo. Paula felt relieved about one thing only. She had dealt with Butler's wound. It would have been impossible for him to hear a word she said now. She sat transfixed, gazing at the oncoming cascade as larger rocks – boulders – toppled from the overhang. Butler nudged her.
She glanced at him. He was grinning, gave her a thumb's-up sign. She forced herself to smile, squeezed his arm, then stared ahead again. Remembering that Marler, behind him, had to pass under the cascade, Newman took a chance, pressed his foot gently on the accelerator. He felt the vehicle begin to skid towards the abyss, went with it, turned the wheel slowly. Inches from the drop the vehicle responded, returned to the ledge. Now he was passing under the cascade. The sound hammered at their eardrums. Then they were past it.
Paula looked back quickly. She saw Marler's face and he had never looked so grim. He nodded at her, passing under the cascade, smiled at her. As she continued looking back she saw the overhang give way, a vast chunk of rock falling on to the ledge, followed by a stream of rocks, snow and shale piling up over the immense rock now blocking the road. She sighed with relief and sagged against the back of the seat. The horrific noise was fading. Butler leaned towards her.
'Bit close that, wasn't it?'
To his right Newman saw the helicopter escaping with Brazil on board descending towards the airfield outside Sion. He wondered what Tweed was doing, how he would react.
44
Tweed endured one of the most agonizing experiences of his career. Standing outside the canteen in the bitter cold, he had witnessed the cataclysmic events high up on the Kellerhorn through a pair of field glasses.
If only I could have been up there with them, was his recurring thought.
He had not been able to pick out individual figures, but he had seen the enormous collapse of the mountain as it turned into a rolling avalanche. He guessed that Newman's rocket launcher had triggered this off. He felt thankful he had brought the weapon, but fearful for the survival of his team.
His vigil had been interrupted by phone calls from Beck.
'How is it going, Tweed?'
'The ground station has been destroyed. A huge avalanche.'
'A natural one, of course,' Beck had replied quickly. 'We do get them at this time of the year. There have been a number of small ones in the Valais already.'
'This is a monster.'
'I understand. Tweed, Brazil's pilot has filed a flight plan by radio, a flight plan for the jet to take off soon for Zurich.'
'I'd better let him go.'
'Please do,' Beck had urged. 'We shall track his movements nonstop …'
That had been the third call. Tweed had rushed outside with his glasses again. Even without his glasses he could see an immense cloud of dust rising above the Kellerhorn. Then he saw the helicopter. He decided to stay under cover when it landed. Brazil was escaping, leaving behind his own men to face the music. Some music, Tweed thought, then he caught sight of vehicles moving down the mountain road.
Fearfully, he focused his binoculars on the two four-wheel-drive vehicles. He thought he could see Newman driving the first one and Marler behind the wheel of the one close behind. Then, appalled, he saw the avalanche cascading over the precipice, the two vehicles approaching it.
He held the glasses very steady, glued to his eyes. He was counting how many people were in the vehicles. Six. He heaved a sigh of relief. He thought he saw Paula in the rear of the first vehicle. Then his relief turned to chronic anxiety. They were close to the hideous cascade.
He had an almost irresistible desire to stop watching, but continued to stare through the lenses. He saw them pass under the cascade, then saw the overhang collapse, realized that had that happened seconds earlier it would have hurled both vehicles over the precipice.
'Christ,' he said aloud.
Few people had heard Tweed swear. No one had heard him use sacrilegious language.
He lowered the glasses. His arms and wrists were aching with the tension. The helicopter was coming closer. His team was safe now. They'd make it the rest of the way down the mountain. Time to get under cover. He went into the canteen where a nice Swiss girl was on duty.
'I could do with a cup of coffee.' he said. 'Very strong. Please.'
'You look exhausted,' she said in French, the language he had used. 'Shall I put a drop of cognac in the coffee?'
'Yes, I think you'd better. Then I'll go and sit in the room set aside for me. A helicopter is landing. You don't know I'm here.'
'But you are not here,' she said, and gave him a lovely smile as she handed him the cup and saucer.
Inside the room, he locked the door, sagged onto a couch, sipped at the drink. He rarely touched alcohol but he found its warmth comforting as it settled in his stomach. He got up, closed the curtains over the window, so no one could see inside, sagged again on the couch.
He heard the helicopter landing a few minutes later. It's a good job I haven't a gun, he was thinking. I'd go out and shoot the swine.
He sipped more of his coffee and cognac, wondered why now he was so warm. He was still wearing his overcoat. He took it off, sat down again. Outside he could hear the whine of a jet's engines starting up. Brazil doesn't waste much time, he mused. I suppose that's why he's got where he has. Well, he won't stay on top of his pinnacle much longer if I have anything to do with it. The phone in the room rang. He snatched up the receiver to stop the noise.
'Tweed?' Beck again.
'Speaking. The chopper with Brazil on board has landed. I can hear his jet starting up.'
'Radar will track him all the way to Zurich. I'll have men at Kloten to follow him wherever he goes in this city.'
'Are you going to arrest him?'
'For what? I have no evidence.'
'Of course. Just wanted to check.'
'I'm really phoning to say Inspector Leon Vincenau will be arriving shortly on an express from Geneva. He's of medium height, and fat. He'll show you identification. I've instructed him to give you full cooperation. He thinks he travelled with one of your team recently from Geneva on the early morning express.'
That would be Philip Cardon.'
'Keep in touch. Thank you for all you're doing…'
Tweed put down the phone, surprised that Beck had thanked him. Then it struck Tweed that Beck regarded Brazil as an enemy – but because of Beck's official position he could never have attempted what Newman's team had achieved.
Hearing the jet's engines building up power, Tweed risked pulling the curtains aside slightly, peered through the crack. The white jet stood at the end of the tarmac, ready for take-off. Igor the wolfhound was leaping delightedly up the staircase, vanished inside, followed by Brazil.
There was a pause, presumably while Brazil settled himself in, then the mobile staircase was removed. The engines climbed into a powerful nonstop roar, the jet sped ever faster down the runway, lifted off, headed upwards into the clear blue sky.
Tweed watched it as it flew towards the mountain peaks at what seemed a dangerously low altitude. He went on watching – in the vague hope the machine would smash into one of the fearsome jagged peaks. It cleared them, flew out of sight.
'Well, at least I know where you're going to, my friend.'
Tweed later heard the two four-wheel-drives approaching, went out to meet them. A small portly man wearing a dark business suit hurried up to him.
'Mr Tweed? I am Inspector Leon Vincenau from Geneva. I have been instructed by my chief, Arthur Beck, to give you every assistance.'
'Thank you. Excuse me, my team has arrived.'
Paula dived out of the back of her vehicle, ran across to Tweed, and flung her arms round him. He hugged her.
'Am I glad to see you!' she said, standing back. 'Harry Butler has a bullet in his thigh. I treated it, dressed it as best I could…'
