rifle. The tanker fell free and Bruce felt his stomach swoop up and
press against his chest as though he rode a giant roller coaster.
The sickening drop lasted only an instant, and then the tanker hit the
river. Immediately the sounds of gunfire and the screaming of
Baluba were drowned out as the tanker disappeared below the surface.
Through the windscreen Bruce saw now the cool cloudy green of water, as
though he looked into the windows of an aquarium. With a gentle rocking
motion the tanker sank- down through the green water.
"Oh, my God, not this!" He spoke aloud as he struggled up from the floor
of the cab. His ears were filled with the hiss and belch of escaping air
bubbles; they rose in silver clouds past the windows.
The truck was still sinking, and Bruce felt the pain in his eardrums as
the pressure built up inside the cab. He opened his mouth and swallowed
convulsively, and his eardrums squeaked as the pressure equalized and
the pain abated.
Water was squirting in through the floor of the cab and jets of it
spurted out of the instrument panel of the dashboard.
The cab was flooding.
Bruce twisted the handle of the door beside him and hit it with his
shoulder. It would not budge an inch. He flung all his weight against
it, anchoring his feet on the dashboard and straining until he felt his
eyeballs starting out of their sockets. It was jammed solid
by the immense pressure of water on the outside.
"The windscreen," he shouted aloud. "Break the windscreen." He groped
for his rifle. The cab had flooded to his waist as he sat in
the passenger's seat. He found the rifle and brought it dripping to his
shoulder. He touched the muzzle to the windscreen and almost fired. But
his good sense warned him.
Clearly he saw the danger of firing. The concussion in the confined cab
would burst his eardrums, and the avalanche of broken glass that would
be thrown into his face by the water pressure outside
would certainly blind and maim him.
He lowered the rifle despondently. He felt his panic being slowly
replaced by the cold certainty of defeat. He was trapped fifty feet
below the surface of the river. There was no way out.
He thought of turning the rifle on himself, ending the inevitable, but
he rejected the idea almost as soon as it had formed. Not that way,
never that way!
He flogged his mind, driving it out of the cold lethargic clutch of
certain death. There must be something. Think!
Damn you, think!
The tanker was still rocking; it had not yet settled into the ooze of
the river bottom. How long had he been under?
About twenty seconds. Surely it should have hit the bottom long ago.
Unless! Bruce felt hope surge into new life within him.
The tank! By God, that was it.
The great, almost empty tank behind him! The fivethousand-gallon
tank which now contained only four hundred gallons of gasoline - it
would have a displacement of nearly eighteen tons! It would float.
As if in confirmation of his hope, he felt his eardrums creak and pop.
The pressure was falling! He was rising.
Bruce stared out at green water through the glass. The silver clouds of
bubbles no longer streamed upwards; they seemed to hang outside the cab.
The tanker had overcome the initial impetus that had driven it far below
the surface, and now it was floating upwards at the same rate of ascent
as its bubbles.
The dark green of deep water paled slowly to the colour of
Chartreuse. And Bruce laughed. It was a gasping hysterical giggle and
the sound of it shocked him. He cut it off abruptly.
The tanker bobbed out on to the surface, water streamed from the
windscreen and through it Bruce caught a misty distorted glimpse of the
south bank.
He twisted the door handle and this time the door burst open readily,
water poured into the cab and Bruce floundered out against its rush,
With one quick glance he took in his position. The tanker had floated
down twenty yards below the bridge, the guns on the south bank
had fallen silent, and he could see no Baluba on the north bank. They
must have disappeared back into the jungle.
Bruce plunged into the river and struck out for the south bank.
Vaguely he heard the thin high shouts of encouragement from his
gendarmes.
Within a dozen strokes he knew he was in difficulties.
The drag of his boots and his sodden uniform was enormous.
Treading water he tore off his steel helmet and let it sink.
Then he tried to struggle out of his battle-jacket. It clung to his arms
and chest and he disappeared under the surface four times before he
finally got rid of it. He had breathed water into his lungs and his legs
were tired and heavy.
The south bank was too far away. He would never make it.
Coughing painfully he changed his objective and struck upstream against
the current towards the bridge.
He felt himself settling lower in the water; he had to force his arms to
lift and fall forward into each stroke.
1 Something plopped into the water close beside him. He paid no
attention to it; suddenly a sense of disinterest had come over him, the
first stage of drowning. He mistimed a breath and sucked in more water.
The pain of it goaded him into a fresh burst of coughing. He hung in the
water, gasping and hacking painfully.
Again something plopped close by, and this time he lifted his head. An
arrow floated past him - then they began dropping steadily around him.
Baluba hidden in the thick bush above the beach were shooting at him; a
gentle pattering rain of arrows splashed around his head. Bruce started
swimming again, clawing his way frantically upstream. He swam until he
could no longer lift his arms clear of the surface and the weight of his
boots dragged his feet down.
Again he lifted his head. The bridge was close, not thirty feet away,
but he knew that those thirty feet were as good as thirty miles.
He could not make it.
The arrows that fell about him were no longer a source f terror.
He thought of them only with mild irritation.
Why the hell can't they leave me alone? I don't want to play any more. I
just want to relax. I'm so tired, so terribly tired.
He stopped moving and felt the water rise up coolly over his mouth and
nose.
Hold on, boss. I'm coming." The shout penetrated through the grey fog of
Bruce's drowning brain. He kicked and his head rose once more above the
surface. He looked up at the bridge.
Stark naked, big belly swinging with each pace, thick legs flying, the
great dangling bunch of his genitals bouncing merrily, black as a
charging hippopotamus, Sergeant Major Ruffararo galloped out along the
bridge.
He reached the fallen section and hauled himself up on to the guard
rail. The arrows were falling around him, hissing down like angry
insects. One glanced off his shoulder without penetrating and
Ruffy shrugged at it, then launched himself up and out, falling in an
ungainly heap of arms and legs to hit the water with a splash.
"Where the hell are you, boss?" Bruce croaked a water-strangled reply
and Ruffy came ploughing down towards him with clumsy overarm