Dark vendetta, p.19
Dark Vendetta, page 19
Larren himself felt as though he was being torn apart by a dozen straining stallions all being whipped into a frenzy in a dozen different directions. It seemed that at any moment his arms must be dragged from their sockets or his whole body pitched from the cab, but somehow he held his seat and fought the twisting wheel. He knew that no man and no car could possibly survive this for long, but still he kept going, and his only prayer was that he should be allowed to catch up with Dressler before the jeep spun out of control down one of the steep slopes to the sea.
He knew that he must be gaining rapidly, for despite his start Dressler would barely be doing half this speed, but still Larren maintained his reckless pace. Disaster Point was many miles behind him now, and it seemed that this spitefully-writhing track must follow the coastline for ever. From time to time he received brief glimpses of the darkening sea, for a dusky twilight was taking the place of the setting sun, but eventually the track began to swing more inland and there was nothing on either side but the craggy ridges of the barren hills.
Almost half an hour had passed since Larren had settled the score with Franz Reutall, and the punishment he was inflicting upon the jeep was nothing compared to the battering that the jeep was inflicting upon him. But no amount of battering could dull the burning spur of vengeance that goaded him on to the final clash with the last of his wife’s killers. As he had murmured in the brief moment before Reutall died, this was for Andrea; not for Mason or Kendall, or even the dead Maclean and his butchered household, but solely for Andrea.
The shadows were lengthening now, and the world was blurred by the half darkness that lingers between the setting of the sun and final nightfall. The poor light made an additional driving hazard, but Larren was determined to refrain from using his headlights for as long as possible. Dressler would be able to spot the lights in his mirror long before he could hear the sound of the jeep’s engine, and Larren meant to give him as little warning as possible.
He had to strain his eyes to follow the direction of the track ahead and more ruts and boulders made the jeep bounce erratically beneath him. A few more crashes like that and he knew that the jeep’s axle must inevitably snap, but still he refused to relax his foot from the accelerator. Then quite suddenly a beam of light sprang into life through the hills ahead and below him, and elation gripped him as he realised that the beam could only be the headlights of Dressler’s car. The man was still half a mile ahead of him but the gap was closing rapidly.
Larren concentrated everything into his driving during those last few suicidal miles, and gradually he drew ever nearer to the large black saloon. Dressler was driving with more regard for his car and was keeping his speed down to the realms of sanity, and within a few minutes Larren had his enemy clearly in sight. Inexorably the gap narrowed until at last Larren could see the outline of Dressler’s head and shoulders through the rear window of the saloon.
Larren was still driving blindly without lights and he cut the distance between the two vehicles to fifty yards before some sixth sense warned Dressler that he was being pursued. Larren saw the outline of the man’s head twist round as he looked over his shoulder and then the black car began to leap ahead. Instantly Larren flicked on his lights, and the bright arc of the twin beams settled like the relentless probe of a searchlight on the car in front.
Dressler was pushing his foot hard down, but the black car needed a few minutes to pick up to the speed of Larren’s jeep, and in those few minutes the jeep gained another ten to twenty yards. Larren smiled savagely as he watched the gap lessen and then reached calmly for the sten gun that had long ago been thrown on to the floor near his feet. He transferred the sten to his right hand and gripped the steering wheel with his left. His thumb released the safety catch as he leaned his body half out of the jeep and he pulled the short sten gun firmly into his right shoulder. The black saloon car was brilliantly illuminated in his headlights as he aimed the sten at the vehicle’s rear wheels. Then he fired a long, chattering burst.
Strips of shredded rubber flew from Dressler’s exploding left rear tyre, and the back end of the black car swung round in a great slithering half circle. Completely out of control the car bounced off the track and plunged down the steeply sloping hillside to the left. There was a great, shuddering crash as the car heeled over and a high-pitched scream from the man inside. The car bounced helplessly on its side and then a second reverberating crash pitched it completely over in a final death roll. There was the last teeth-grating tear of tortured metal and then at the last the car came to a standstill at the bottom of the slope. Miraculously it had rolled back until it was standing the right way up.
Larren had been forced to drop the sten as it had kicked back viciously when he fired, and he had to grab desperately at the wheel of his jeep to prevent it from following Dressler’s course down the hillside. Now he fought tensely to control the jeep and then braked it to a skidding halt fifty yards farther down the track. The jeep stopped with a final jolt and Larren sprang down and raced back to where Dressler’s car had disappeared.
He reached the spot just as the petrol tank exploded and the black car burst into sheets of flame below him. He stopped to stare, and in that moment he beheld the most incredible and horrifying sight that he had ever witnessed.
The door of the black saloon was thrust open and Dressler struggled out; Dressler with his clothes and hair blazing and his mouth open in one continuous scream of agony; Dressler who stared up at him as he stood gazing down the hillside, and then came charging up the slope towards him: Dressler who was now reduced to a blazing ball of agonised flesh, motivated solely by a still-living spur of hatred.
CHAPTER 20: MOMENT OF VENGEANCE
Even Simon Larren had to flinch from the terrible picture that Dressler presented as he rushed up the steep slope of that hillside. The man was bathed in flame and clawed at the earth with his hands and feet as he moved almost on his hands and knees. His horn-rimmed glasses were somewhere in the fiery wreckage behind him and his weak eyes were bulging at bursting point from his head. He had lost both his revolver and his silver-headed cane and he came forwards with his bare hands alone. His crazed screams rang with hideous echoes above the snarl and crackle of his blazing car.
Larren had no weapon left now except the sheath knife that still hung at his hip and he barely had time to draw the blade free before the final moment of vengeance and horror was upon him. He had to fall back from the sheer, insane fury of Dressler’s attack, the flames from the man’s burning clothes seared his face and the gruesome smell of burnt flesh sickened in his nostrils as the groping hands sought for his throat. He crashed down to the ground beneath the weight of the impact and terror chilled his soul as the man’s shrieks of agony pierced his eardrums.
He could feel the flames transferring themselves to his own clothes as he struck home desperately with his knife. He buried the blade to the hilt in Dressler’s body but it seemed that nothing could stop the fiery, pain-strengthened hands that clutched at his throat. Dressler had passed the ultimate peak of pain by now and it had left him as nothing more than a maddened monster that fed upon hatred and revenge.
Larren writhed frantically beneath the mass of living flame that was choking away the last shreds of his consciousness, and somehow he dragged his sheath knife free. He struck again and again and with each blow the creature above him screamed and shuddered.
Larren was on the point of blacking out when at last the fiendish grip about his throat began to slacken slightly. He made a last superhuman effort to tear the throttling hands away, and even as he did so he realised that Dressler had stopped screaming. He struggled from underneath the still-burning body and realised slowly that Dressler was dead. Not even the man’s madness could sustain him after those deep, killing thrusts of the knife.
Larren crawled away and rolled his body weakly over in the wet grass that flanked the track in order to put out the flames that had begun to smoulder on his own clothes. Then he collapsed and lay face down on the earth while Dressler’s corpse still smoked and the black car blazed furiously to the night.
By the time Larren had recovered enough strength to stir the car had burnt itself to a skeleton and a cold night wind was moaning softly through the hills. Larren rose unsteadily to his feet and found that the stained sheath knife was still gripped fast in his hand. He replaced the weapon at his hip and then moved with faltering steps towards Dressler. The man made a ghastly corpse and he soon turned away and staggered back to his jeep.
Dressler was dead, and the dark vendetta was over, and now he could concentrate on the fate of Paul Mason and his sabotage party. He had to get back to Disaster Point.
The explosive charge that Mason had planted on the hatch cover of the sunken Vigilant had done its work well. The heavy steel hatch had buckled and was half open, and with the powerful muscles of Hugh Logan to help him Mason soon had the hatch right back. He shone his torch down into the conning tower and for a moment there was a respectful hesitancy in his manner, for it was impossible to forget that the sea was a grave and that Vigilant’s steel hull was a giant coffin for over a hundred brave men.
Then slowly Mason pulled himself down head first into the hatch, disappearing like some great black fish into its haunt. The silence and the pressure were almost unbearable as he pulled himself down the ladder into the submarine, and his lungs and heart seemed as though they all wanted to burst open together inside his chest. He twisted his body and shone his torch back through the hatch, lighting up the crouching shape of Hugh Logan; the Sergeant’s eyes were weirdly distended behind his mask, and the fine black beard that fitted his face so well above water now sprouted strangely around his lips where his teeth were closed around the mouthpiece of his aqualung; the round curves of his two oxygen bottles protruded above his shoulders like sinister humps. Mason signalled to him to follow him into the submarine.
Logan swam down without hesitation and Chao Lin was left alone to remain on watch while the others did their work. It had been arranged on the beach that the Chinese guide was merely to take the dead Randell’s charges down to the submarine and then stand guard while the two experts placed them in position. Now he could only watch as the twin beams of torchlight sank deeper into the interior of the sunken Vigilant and finally vanished altogether in the watery darkness.
There was something distinctly eerie about being left alone on Vigilant’s bridge, and Chao felt a chill that was not due to the temperature of the water circulating through his bloodstream. He stared down at the long deck, his gaze following it as far as he could see in the range of his torch and then straining his eyes into the inky depths beyond. A strange, cold sense of power swept through him and it was as though the gods of the sea had given him command of this silent, shark-like ghost of the deep. He had to shake his fancies away and he knew that he would be glad when the job was over. Vigilant was a tomb and would be best left undisturbed.
The minutes crawled by, each one clinging defiantly to every distended second of its allotted time. Chao glanced repeatedly at the waterproof watch on his wrist and tried to will the two men inside the submarine into more speed. Their time was getting short and soon they would have to start back for the surface for they could not ascend swiftly without succumbing to the terrible cramp that came from the sudden changes in water pressure. But unless Mason and Logan hurried they would have to run that risk, or else never reach the surface at all.
However, the sowing of those deadly seeds of destruction that the two Englishmen carried was a job that could not be hurried, and Chao Lin was forced to wait while they were placed with infinite care against the most vital parts of Vigilant’s secret equipment. Three of the evil canisters were distributed with their hollow clanging sounds about Vigilant’s control room and attack centre, each one carefully placed in accordance to the instructions that had been issued by the experts back in Hong Kong.
Both Mason and Logan had to steel themselves against the sight of the bloated bodies of the crew that stared with sightless eyes from all sides, and Mason’s stomach began to revolt as he worked. When he had placed the last charge in the control room he led the way through the underwater corridors towards the launching room for the armament of Polaris missiles that Vigilant carried. Here they placed their last three charges with equal care.
The dull, slightly reverberating sound of the last magnetic charge clamping itself into place sent a surge of relief through Mason’s frame. The job was done, and now they could get out. He and Logan were invaders here; invaders committing foul sacrilege in an underwater grave. The open eyes in some of the dead faces they had passed seemed to stare with shocked disbelief, and the water they had disturbed had caused some of the swollen bodies to sway menacingly towards them. There was resentment here in this dead ship, resentment and pain that emanated from the lost souls to whom she was both a monument and sepulchre. They had no right to come here to destroy; no right to mangle any farther the men who were already dead.
For a brief moment he looked into the face of his companion and saw that behind his mask Hugh Logan was similarly disturbed. It made Mason feel a little better to know that he was not alone with his thoughts and emotions and he jerked his head grimly to indicate that they should leave. Logan nodded his head in solid agreement and one behind the other they swam back through the dead silence that was as oppressive as the fearsome weight of the sea. Their only thought now was to get away from this dark world of fish and ghosts; away from the ugly, ticking canisters that were timed to release their shattering destructive power within ninety minutes of being placed into position; and away from the taste of death and slime and back to the clean-smelling freshness of air that could only be breathed above the sea.
On Vigilant’s bridge the agony of waiting was playing havoc with Chao Lin’s nerves. The torch in his hand moved consistently as he played the beam along the dim outline of the submarine, or tried to pick out the fern and coral formations on the seabed below. However, he found it impossible to distract his mind from Mason and Logan and every few seconds he would direct the beam down into the conning tower in the hope of seeing them return. Each time he was disappointed and gradually the fear that some accident must have befallen them became almost a certainty in his mind. The thought nagged at him and he became prey to indecision as he wondered whether or not he should defy his orders and dive down to find them. It was while he struggled with this problem that he suddenly became aware of four separate splashes of light descending through the darkness above him.
Fear gripped Chao Lin, cold fear that was pumped through his body with every beat of his speeding heart. But he did not panic. For a moment he stared up at the four pale, slow-moving torch beams and then he quickly switched off his own light. Total and absolute darkness fell upon him, the deep, cold darkness of the bottom of the sea.
Chao resisted the near overpowering urge to light up his surroundings again and groped around the conning tower for the open hatch. His fingers found it and he hesitated for a moment to glance again towards the approaching lights. Four lights could only mean four men; four enemy frogmen. The thought made the fear circulate more thickly through Chao’s veins but he ignored it and pulled himself down into the invisible tomb of the submarine.
His hands found the steel ladder that led down from the hatch and he pulled himself rung by rung as he entered, and then suddenly there was a glimmer of light below him. Chao had never felt so great a need to offer a prayer of gratitude in all his life, and he was almost sick with relief as Mason and Logan swam up from the control room below.
Mason gave a start as he saw the black, rubber-clad form suspended head downwards in the light of his torch, and then the head twisted round and he recognised the staring eyes of Chao Lin behind the mask. Chao pushed himself away from the ladder and his body writhed grotesquely as he straightened himself up.
Mason could only look at him in bewilderment as he wondered what the hell was happening. Then Chao gestured to the now extinguished torch at his belt and then pointed upwards through the hatch, then he held up four fingers, and finally he drew the knife from his belt and held it in readiness.
Mason and Logan both understood, they drew their own knives and switched off their torches, waiting in the pitch blackness.
There was no sound and they might each have been suspended alone in an inky vacuum as they steeled themselves to meet the coming clash. Mason’s dark thoughts returned in a chilling torrent and he wondered whether this was some ironic decree of justice on the part of some leviathan god of the sea; to be trapped and killed here in the very grave they had despoiled. The vile pressure of the sea held them fast and they could only wait and fear.
The next few minutes were the worst that any of them had ever faced, the strain on their nerves was crippling and the tension built up into a great, smothering, invisible force around them. Then slowly the blackness above them became less complete and a glimmer of light reflected down through the hatchway. The light grew stronger and they realised that one at least of their enemies was swimming down on to Vigilant’s bridge.
They heard the slight clang of the diver’s boots on the steel deck, and the sudden break in the silence tightened the tension almost to snapping point. The full beam of the diver’s torch was now concentrated on the ruptured hatch cover above them, and Mason knew that at any second they would have to surge out and fight. To retreat and attempt to play hide and seek in the bowels of the sunken submarine would be fatal, for already their air was running low and they had no time to waste if they were to escape the terrible, choking death of drowning. Then suddenly the light above became a blinding white ball that radiated its powerful glare straight into their eyes as the enemy diver directed his torch down the hatchway.
