Target, p.37
Target, page 37
“Very impressive,” conceded Litvinov at the end of the first day.
“Thank you,” said the KGB chief.
“You didn’t expect this visit?”
“No,” admitted Petrov.
“The Politburo decided it was necessary,” disclosed Litvinov, and for the first time there was an indication of his customery attitude. “They want an unequivocal guarantee of success.”
“An unequivocal guarantee isn’t possible,” disputed Petrov, unconcerned. “But I see no reason for any fears about the ultimate outcome.”
At the very moment that Petrov was giving the assurance, Peterson was hunched in the radio room of the missile ship, listening to Bohler’s account of Gerda Lintz’s death. He was just about to alert Petrov at the Black Sea command post when the second emergency signal came in. Blakey and Makovsky had been on the run for almost four hours and were crouched, near exhaustion, in the bole of a huge msasa tree. Believing themselves sufficiently ahead of their pursuers, they had decided it was safe to report their discovery by the Africans.
34
He had hoped at first they were animal sounds. But with animal movements through the jungle there is always other noise, however muted: grunting or snuffling or snorted, open-nostril breathing. And this was just movement. Makovsky, whose turn it was to remain awake while Blakey attempted some sort of rest, reached across for the American, awakening him with a warning hand across his mouth. Blakey had not been sound asleep and became alert immediately, staring pointlessly down into the deep blackness below him. Back in the jeep were infrared night-glasses through which he could have identified them — and the compass, too, which might have given him some idea where they were. Blakey felt the despair go through him, a nauseous feeling, and fought against it; to allow it was as pointless as gazing down into the forest below, trying to isolate the Africans who were pursuing them. Worse, if he let the fear take control then he increased the chances of their capture. And he couldn’t be captured. He felt into his pocket for the familiar section of his wallet holding the photograph of Jane and Samantha: he couldn’t leave them alone. Jane was too young, too innocent. Samantha was a baby who would one day grow up into a child needing the support and guidance of a father. He couldn’t be captured.
His body began aching from the tensed, fixed position in which he held himself and, without relaxing his attention to what was happening down below on the jungle floor, Blakey eased himself back against one of the branches of the tree. So intently was he concentrating, in fact, that the rustling and twig-snapping for which he was listening merged into the other jungle noise and very quickly he felt a euphoria: there had been a mistake and there were no Africans down there at all. At first light they’d set off, fully rested, get a position fix from their radio and be able to walk out to a pick-up spot somewhere. Blakey screwed his clenched fists into his eyes, trying to drive away the euphoria as he had moments before suppressed the fear. There were Africans down there; there were Africans whose families he had maimed and whose crops he had destroyed and who would destroy him, if he allowed the exhaustion to take control of reasoning.
He started at sudden, unexpected closeness. Makovsky had moved through the tree tangle and reached out for him again, as if aware of the American’s need. He squeezed Blakey’s arm reassuringly several times and the American felt out and returned the pressure, gratefully. He wouldn’t give in, Blakey determined; he’d keep control, whatever happened. He’d keep control and get out: once again he felt for the wallet and the photograph of his family.
The dripping dampness of a jungle at night wrapped itself around them, soaking their clothing and chilling their bodies. They hunched one beside the other, each trying to push back the fatigue and each, periodically, failing — until the sudden slump of tiredness jerked them awake once more. It seemed a night without end and they both stirred, thankfully, at the first signs of greyness. They were cramped and unrested and wet.
In the growing light, they peered down into the jungle, trying to see the Africans. Fronds and leaves shuddered under the weight of the birds and the monkeys and the dampness still dripped, undried as yet by any sun. Makovsky looked curiously across at the other man: Blakey humped his shoulders uncertainly.
They waited until it was fully light, and still there was no indication of any human life below them. Makovsky looked again and Blakey nodded. His body felt weighted and heavy. He was trying to concentrate on any movement below him, but other images forced their way into his mind: children with bellies bloated from undernourishment and Samantha in her favorite red dress with white stars on the collar; great gaps of ruined crops and undergrowth, like the first workings on a six-lane highway; and village elders, looking at them with implicit trust. “Do you come to talk of God?”
Blakey felt the pressure against his shoulder and turned to see the Russian gesturing that they should move. Blakey tried to concentrate again, looping the radio around his body and stretching out, to get the cramp from his body. He dropped to the ground too quickly, before there was sufficient strength in his legs to support him, and rolled sideways in a ball. Within seconds, Makovsky was beside him, supporting his back.
“What is it?” asked the Russian worriedly.
“Just numb,” assured Blakey.
They stayed crouched, suddenly aware of the restrictions of their vision.
“We’ll have to be careful,” said Makovsky.
“Bloody careful.”
They moved off cautiously, both tensing and pressing the life back into their arms and legs, twitching at any sudden screech or movement around them. It seemed a long time before they got to a clearing suficiently large for them to gauge the position of the sun and decide on a direction.
“Would Peterson risk any sort of helicopter pick-up from the missile ship?” said Makovsky.
Blakey shrugged. “There probably isn’t a machine with the range, anyway.”
“N’Djamena then?”
Blakey stared at the other man, then at himself. Their clothes hung in sweat and jungle slime, their shirts and trousers ripped in several places. Makovsky was hollow-eyed with tiredness, his face unshaven and criss-crossed with scratches. Blakey realized he probably looked even worse.
“What if the villagers have reported back to the authorities?” he said. “They must know about the poisoning in Mao, at least.”
“What then?” demanded Makovsky.
“Attempt to cross the Cameroons border?” suggested Blakey, without any conviction.
“Without food or water or compass or any weapons?” dismissed Makovsky.
“You’re right,” said Blakey. “That was a ridiculous suggestion.”
The Russian looked at the radio slung across Blakey’s back.
“Peterson could set something up for us in N’Djamena, in advance.”
“Yes,” agreed Blakey. “N’Djamena is the only way to go.”
Both men remained immobile at the edge of the jungle clearing. “Which way?” said Blakey. “And how far?”
Now Makovsky looked disconcerted. “I don’t know,” he said. He squinted up at the sun, then gestured vaguely in what he thought to be a southeasterly direction. “It’s only a guess.”
“I can’t do any better,” said Blakey.
“We should broadcast,” said the Russian. “Give a position report at least.”
Blakey looked nervously around the forest, unwilling to spare the time, then unslung the set and assembled the aerial from the tree against which they were standing. They used an open line and immediately Peterson’s voice came back to them, strained and uneven through the static. The Director asked their position several times, complaining of bad reception, before fully assimilating Blakey’s inability to give it. He agreed on N’Djamena and ordered Blakey to transmit news of any further trouble on the emergency wavelength. He promised that by nightfall he would have arranged shelter, fresh clothing and the earliest transportation out of the country.
“Best of luck,” he said.
“We’re going to need it,” said Blakey. “We’re virtually lost.”
“Keep in contact on the emergency wavelength.”
“We will.”
Blakey closed down the transmission and looked to the Russian. Makovsky had squatted against another tree, his arms ringed around his bent legs and his head lolled forward. His eyes appeared open, but Blakey didn’t think he was fully awake.
“Did you hear?” he asked.
Makovsky pulled upwards. “Enough.”
“He’s going to set something up in N’Djamena.”
“If get to N’Djamena,” qualified Makovsky.
“We’re not going to do it sitting around here.”
Reluctantly Makovsky pulled himself upright and helped Blakey set the radio comfortably across his shoulders. The Russian took the field-glasses and the water-bottles. He shook the bottles, testing the contents.
“About half full,” he said.
“And we don’t have any more purifying tablets.”
“So we’ll have to ration.”
Makovsky led, making a path for the other man and the bulky equipment. They moved without any conversation, scuffing their feet through the undergrowth, arms raised ready to ward off the cutting, snatching branches. At first they were intent upon everything around them but gradually the exhaustion bore down on them, and very soon they stumbled in head-bent unison, conscious only of the obstructing tree or sudden gully immediately before them. It was Blakey who called the halt, gasping out for Makovsky to stop. The Russian appeared not to hear him and the American grabbed out, pulling at the other man’s shin and gesturing him to the ground. They squaned, panting; the amount they allowed themselves from the water-bottles seemed to worsen rather than relieve their thirst.
After several moments, Makovsky looked back through the jungle.
“We’re leaving a hell of a trail,” he said.
Blakey looked back, dully. “When we get out of the jungle, we’ve got the open plains,” he said. He released a sudden sob, tried to disguise it as a cough, and failed.
“Dear God!” he said, giving way to the hopelessness. It was instinctive to pray, but he stopped himself. He had no right, not any more.
They felt their bodies settling and pushed onwards again. This time Makovsky shouldered the radio and Blakey the bottles and binoculars. They plodded on, the American leading now. The sun was quite high, trapping the heat among the trees and undergrowth. Sweat streamed from them and mosquitoes and insects were everywhere. It was too much trouble to flick them away and soon the bites stopped irritating. Blakey moved in a half-consciousness, the discordant imagery of the Africans they had encountered and the wife and daughter he loved so much swirling through his mind until they became intermingled, and Samantha was one of the babies with the red-pooled eyes and defoliant burns and Jane one of the bare-breasted women ululating her grief in a perpetual prayer-line. He was only vaguely aware of Makovsky’s hand against his shoulder, held there by one of the water-bottle straps, as the Russian groped for guidance, like a blind man.
Again it was Blakey who decided the stop. Makovsky came down unprotesting beside him.
“It must be almost twenty-four hours since we’ve had anything to eat,” said Makovsky.
“Yes.”
“Are you hungry?”
“I don’t think so,” said the American. Until that moment, he hadn’t considered food.
Makovsky looked around, as if expecting to find something within arm’s length. “Nothing seems to grow here — nothing that we could obviously eat, anyway.”
“It would be dangerous, unless we knew what it was.”
Had they been walking, they could probably not have heard it, because for a long time they had been struggling, careless not only of their tracks but of any sound they might be making. But they were motionless and close to the ground and so they detected it. Like those they had heard during the night, the movement was different from the other jungle noises — a regular, unhurried pad of something confldently in pursuit. Blakey’s head came up and he stared at the Russian, a disbelieving look on his face.
“Oh no. Please no.” The plea whimpered out.
“Run,” said Makovsky, thrusting up.
Fear coursed through them, driving the lassitude before it. Blakey led, crashing wildly through bushes and vines, his mind blank of any thought except the need to get away from those behind. Breath was coming from him in wincing, mewing sounds. Once, far behind, he thought he heard something that sounded like a war-cry, a shout of triumph at least, and he tried to run faster, but the matted creeper and fern seemed thatched all around him and he ripped and tore at it in his frustration.
The break came suddenly in front of them, without any thinning that would have warned them. It was a lush, grassy area, the sort of place where they would have rested gratefully: maybe even bathed in the stream that coiled through and disappeared into the renewed jungle thickness about forty yards away.
Blakey came to a nervous halt, staring wildly around. “The stream,” he said. “We can wade along it: it’ll be easier and with luck there will be no tracks.
“What about crocodiles?”
“Too shallow,” judged the American. He turned, looking fully at the other man. “And I’m more frightened by the certainty of being caught than I am by crocodiles.”
Blakey stumbled on, thrusting through the water and making what appeared to be a path into the jungle beyond, then carefully retraced his steps and entered the water. He shivered at the sudden, surprising coldness, testing the bottom and nodding at the firmness. The water came to just below his knees, making walking comparatively easy.
“Downstream,” he said. “It’ll drain into the lake. We can clear the jungle that way.”
Makovsky stepped in behind him and together they strained out against the water, immediately aware of the additional difficulty in walking. But the obstruction was far less, even where overhanging branches met and intertwined over the waterway. Only once did it threaten to become dangerously deep and that only lasted for a few feet. Once sufficiently far away from the clearing, Blakey looked back, satisfying himself that any sediment trail which would have pointed to their direction had cleared from the water. Makovsky was holding his shoulder again and almost involuntarily he squeezed it, one of his encouraging gestures.
They were making good progress now, far better than they had done in the jungle. Blakey waded along alert for any reptiles, despite the assurance he had given the Russian.
“We should broadcast,” said Makovsky, from behind. “They should be warned.”
“No time,” gasped Blakey.
“If I kept the radio on my back, we could do it as we walked,” said Makovsky.
Blakey hesitated, accepting the other man’s advice. They reached out, holding each other’s shoulders and then maneuvered around, so that Makovsky was in front and the American behind. Blakey had reached out for the transmitter and tuned to the emergency frequency when the sound came from behind, the splashing of many men moving through the water. Blakey and Makovsky urged themselves forward, actually trying to run in the places where the stream shallowed out to cover little more than their ankles. Blakey seemed to discover the microphone in his hand and it triggered his terror. Without any attempt at coherence he babbled out their pursuit and the closeness of the Africans behind them and then, all control nearly gone, shouted: “Help. For God’s sake help us!”
Six miles away Bradley and Sharakov leaned towards the radio. Hours before they had tuned to the emergency frequency on Peterson’s instructions and they now heard the plea.
“Jesus!” said Bradley softly, stirred by the near hysteria in Blakey’s voice. The Green Beret colonel nodded to the men around him and the Americans began to assemble.
“What do you think you’re doing?” demanded Sharakov as Bradley stood up.
“What do you mean, what am I doing! Going to get them out of it, of course!”
Although the Americans had been gathering their kit, it was the Russians who appeared more readily prepared. At Sharakov’s movement the AK-47s came up and there was a slightly unsynchronized sound of safety catches being released. Bradley and his group stopped in mid-action, gazing disbelievingly at the guns being pointed at them.
“Help,” came a distant, slightly distorted sound from the radio lying beween them.
“We don’t know where they are,” Sharakov began, talking slowly. “We could blunder about in this jungle for days and they could be only a hundred yards away and we’d still miss them. We know that the girl inside the installation is dead. We know that your man failed. So there’s only us left. All we’d be doing, trying to find them, would be chancing discovery; and to avoid that was the very first order that either of us received.…”
“You wouldn’t shoot,” insisted Bradley, shifting slightly. The muzzles of two rifles moved with him.
“I would,” said Sharakov. “I’d kill you all and attempt whatever we’re ordered to do with a reduced group, and I’d be fully supported in any subsequent inquiry that your people might hold.”
“I’ll kill you,” Bradley promised simply. “For this, I’ll kill you.”
“You’ll probably try,” accepted Sharakov, without any apparent concern.
Cautiously Bradley made a gesture, ordering his men down. It was repeated by Sergeant Banks and, reluctantly, the Americans threw off their kit and settled on the ground again. Because there was nowhere else to look, everyone stared at the radio. There was no transmission, just the grunting, whimpering sound of the bogus priests trying to escape.
It went on for several minutes and then Banks said suddenly, “It’s stopped.”
Makovsky had slipped out of the shoulder supports and cast the radio aside, swinging it wide into the jungle in a desperate attempt to delay its discovery. Seeing the man’s attempt to make the going easier, Blakey dropped first the binoculars and then, without thought, took off the water-bottles and let them go. They were beyond speech now, beyond almost everything. Neither was properly conscious; they were aware only of their left-foot, right-foot stumble through the water. First Makovsky and then Blakey fell, splashing full length into the shallow stream. The coldness revived them, initially making them want to stay there, in the relaxed, comforting wetness, then sufficient to make them struggle upwards again, to continue running. It was just after he’d fallen that Blakey felt the sudden hardness against his ankle, below the water where he couldn’t see. He screamed, expecting an attack from a crocodile he hadn’t identified, and tried to pull himself away, instead forcing his foot even further into the wedge of a submerged tree root. When he fell this time, his leg was held almost in an upright position and he screamed once more, as the pain seared through him. Makovsky stopped at the noise, turning as Blakey thrust up from the water, swivelling into a sitting position so that he could see his ankle. Already it was ballooning up, the flesh tight and whitely pinched by his sock and boot.
