Juggernaut

He said, 'I am Colonel Maksa, commander of the fifteenth Infantry Battalion of the Nyalan Peoples' Liberation Army. I am here in pursuit of an unfriendly military force under the command of Captain Sadiq. I have reason to think you are shielding them in an act of aggression against the Nyalan Peoples' Republic and I intend to have this information from you.'

'Colonel, we really don't — ' Wingstead began.

'Be silent! I will ask you in due course. I will begin by knowing all your names and your business, starting with you.' He thrust the shotgun in the direction of Ritchie Thorpe, who was at the far end of the line.

'Uh… Mister Wingstead?'

Wingstead nodded gently. 'As the Colonel says, Ritch. Just tell him your name.'

'I'm Richard Thorpe. I work for Mister Wingstead there. For Wyvern Transport.'

The gun's muzzle travelled to the next man. 'You?'

'Bert Proctor. I drive a rig for Wyvern. I'm English.'

'Me too. Derek Grafton, Wyvern Transport.'

'Sam Wilson. Driver…'

The roll call continued. Some were sullen, one or two clearly terrified, a couple displayed bravado, but no-one refused to answer. The nurses, clustered together, answered in Nyalan but Dr Kat refused to do so, speaking only English and trying to get in a word about his patients. Maksa brushed him aside and went on down the line. Once the flow of voices stopped Maksa said icily, 'Well? Do you refuse to name yourself?'

Zimmerman raised his voice.

'Colonel, they don't understand you. They don't speak English.'

'Who are they?'

'They're Russians: truck drivers. Their names are — ' and he supplied the two names which the rest of us could never remember. Maksa's brows converged and he said, 'Russians? I find that most interesting. You speak Russian, then?'

'Yes, a little.'

'Who are you?'

'Harry Zimmerman. I'm a blaster for Lat-Am Oil, and I'm an American. And I don't have anything to do with your war or this captain you're after.'

Maksa looked at him coldly. 'Enough! Next?'

As he looked along the line his sergeant whispered to him. The next man was Russ Burns., 'Russell Burns, Lat-Am Oil, a good Texan, and one who doesn't like being shoved around. What are you going to do about it?'

Burns was looking for trouble once again.

'My sergeant tells me he has already had trouble, with you. You insulted my soldiers. Is this true?'

'You're damn right I did! I don't like being pushed around by a bunch of bastards like you.'

He stepped out of the line-up.

'Burns, cut it out!' I said.

Zimmerman added, 'For God's sake, Russ, take it easy.'

The shotgun rose in the Colonel's hand to point straight at the Texan. Burns gave way but was already too late. The Colonel stepped forward and put the muzzle of the shotgun under Burns' chin and tilted his head back.

'You are not very respectful,' Maksa said. 'What is this — has someone tried to kill you already?'

The shotgun rubbed against the bandage round Burns' throat, and he swallowed convulsively. But some mad bravado made him say, That's none of your damn business. I cut myself shaving.'

Maksa smiled genially. 'A man with a sense of humour,' he said, and pulled the trigger.

The top of Burns' head blew off. His body splayed out over the floor, pooled with blood. The line scattered with shock. Maksa backed up near the door and his sergeant flanked him with his own gun at the ready. Someone was puking his guts out, and one of the nurses was down on the warehouse floor in a dead faint. The bloody horror of war had caught up with us.

CHAPTER 20

Horror gave way to anger. The men started to voice their outrage. I looked down at Burns' body. Nine one third inch lead slugs, together weighing over an ounce, driven with explosive force from close range had pretty well demolished him. It was the quickest of deaths and quite painless for him; but we felt it, the bowel-loosening pain of fear that sudden death brings.

Maksa's voice rose over the babble.

'Be silent!' he said. He hefted the shotgun and his eyes raked us. 'Who owns this?'

Nobody spoke.

'Who owns this shotgun?' he demanded again.

I was debating what to do when Maksa forced my hand. He stepped forward, scanning us, and then pointed. 'You — come here.' The person he had indicated was Helen Chula. After a moment's hesitation she walked slowly towards him, and he grabbed her by the arm, swung her round to face us and jammed the shotgun against her back. 'I ask for the third time, and there will not be a fourth. Who owns this gun?'

I had never found violence of much use in solving my problems, but it seemed to work for Maksa. He1 could give McGrath pointers in terrorism. I said, 'It's mine,' and stepped forward.

Maksa thrust Helen away. I heard her sobbing but could see nothing but the muzzle of the shotgun as it pointed at my belly. It loomed as large as a fifteen inch navy gun.

'So,' said Maksa. 'We have an American civilian, wandering around with a weapon during an armed conflict. A dangerous thing to do, would you not agree?'

'It's a sporting gun,' I said with a dry mouth.

'Can you produce your licence?'

I swallowed. 'No.'

'And I suppose you will also tell me that you do not work for your CIA.'

'I don't. I work for a British firm, and no-one else.'

'Backing the corruption of our so-called Government?'

'Not at all.'

'A man can have two masters,' he said thoughtfully. 'You Americans and the British have always worked in double harness. You imperialists stick together, don't you? You give up your colonies and tell the United Nations that now Nyala is self-governing. But you don't leave my country alone after that.'

I kept silent.

He went on, 'You say we are independent, but you keep the money strings tight. You choke us with loans and reap the profits yourselves; you corrupt our politicians; you plunder us of raw material and sell us the so-called benefits of Western civilization in return, to take back the money you gave us. And now you have been joined by the dogs of Moscow: the old Czarist imperialists ally themselves with you to loot our oil and ruin our country.'

He drew a long breath, controlling himself, and then changed tack.

'Now, about Captain Sadiq. Where is he and what are his plans?'

I said, 'Colonel Maksa, the Captain pulled his men out early today and went away. We know no more than that.'

He said, 'I have talked enough to you. You weary me. I can get more from the others.'

I stood frozen. The Colonel slid his hand down the gun barrel, and then a new voice cut in from high up and behind me. It wasn't very loud but it was very firm.

'If you lift that shotgun I'll cut you in half, colonel.'

Maksa glared over my shoulder. I spun round to see a big black-faced man aiming a sub-machine gun at the Coloneclass="underline" I turned swiftly and took Maksa's gun away from him.

The man on the cotton stack swung the machine gun in a slow arc to point it at the Nyalan sergeant. Without a word the soldier put his gun down and backed away. Hammond picked it up and we held both men under guard. The man with the black face and McGrath's voice swung himself down to the floor. Voices murmured in recognition and relief, and then fell silent again. The atmosphere had changed dramatically, despite Russ Burns' body sprawling at our feet.

I said, 'Maksa, you've seen what this gun can do. One twitch from you and I'll blow your backbone out.'

'If you shoot me you'll bring. the soldiers in. They'll kill you all.'

'No they won't,' Hammond said. They didn't come in when you shot Russ there.'