Knife Edge (2004) (15 page)

Ross nodded, remembering his cousin and the exploding launch. The burning fragments, and the pain in his hands as they had dragged each other to safety.

Irwin said gently, “The only way, as I see it. We can hold off any attempt to shift the buggers by boat.”

Ross felt his throat tightening in a yawn. “They may have more of their men already here.”

“Doubt it. Any case, Ross, we don’t have a lot of choice.”

He could almost hear Houston’s voice.
Any one on the other end of a gun is the enemy.

He said, “I’d like to tackle the bridge, sir.”

For a moment he thought Irwin had not heard, or was ignoring him.

Then he said, “You don’t have the required skill or training with explosives, unlike your namesake. Otherwise . . .” He paused. “Besides which, if anything happens to me, you’ll be in command here.” He could have been smiling. “There’s a thought, eh?”

Sergeant Boyes was here. “In position, sir.”

Irwin looked at the dull sky and then at the back of his hand. The rain had started. “Bloody hell.”

Boyes said, “Just like you said, sir.”

They might have been discussing a cricket match.
Rain stopped play.

“More of ’em on the bridge, sir!”

Irwin was up and running.

“Start the attack! At ’em, lads!”

There was no more time. Not even for fear.

The outburst of machine-gun fire and the crash of heavy bullets slashing through trees sounded so close and concentrated that for a few seconds Steve Blackwood imagined they had already been seen, and were pinned down. Somehow he had managed to keep his balance, waist deep in the river, both hands gripping the camouflaged canoe as his mind grappled with their chances.

He focused his thoughts: experience over alarm, even panic. It was cross-fire, some from the opposite side of the river, Captain Irwin’s section, and the rest from Colour
Sergeant Brannigan’s carefully sited guns, which he had left behind minutes or half an hour ago; he had lost track of time. He had heard shots hitting the rickety bridge where some of the terrorists had been seen, so confident that they had done little to conceal themselves, and he had heard faint screams when eventually the firing ceased. Just like Irwin, he thought. Never waste ammunition simply to impress somebody.

His companion, who was stooping even lower in the sluggish water, straightened up carefully. “All done, then?” It was Corporal Laker. He was even able to grin.

“Better get moving.” Blackwood stared at the sky. No sun yet, but the sudden, heavy rainfall was easing, the water smoothing in its wake, reflections and shadows shaping the lie of the land. The bridge, and beyond it the fort-like mission, splinters on the woodwork from the gunfire, and star-shaped scars where bullets had smashed away the plaster and paint from the walls. Something still moved on the bridge, kicking the air, and dying as he watched.

Laker was testing the lashing around the canoe. There was some camouflage netting as well, which, added to a few broken branches of bamboo, might just do the trick. Not good to think too much about the explosive charges inside. If things went wrong, they would not feel much. There would be nothing left.

Blackwood climbed carefully into the canoe. There seemed to be only a few inches of freeboard.
Enough. Has to be.

He saw something pale on the water, like a feeble torch beam. The clouds were moving fast. It was the first ray of sunlight.

More shooting, from his left. That was one of Brannigan’s gunners.

Keep it a bit higher, old son.
Aloud he said, “Ready?
Now or never.” He gestured with his paddle. There was a narrow strip of mud. Several clumps of flotsam and fallen branches had already become marooned there. The storms had been some use after all.

Laker was in the little hull, legs braced, his paddle already testing the flow alongside.

“What about leeches, Sarge?”

“Don’t worry. The cobras’ll probably get you first.”

Laker grinned again. “Thanks. See you in . . .” and broke off in disbelief. “What the hell!”

Blackwood exclaimed, “Christ! You could have got your head blown off,
sir!
”

Piggott was standing in the water a few feet away.

“So could
you
, Sergeant!”

There were a few more, single shots. Marksmen, marines or otherwise, it was not possible to tell.

Piggott seemed oblivious to them.

He said, “They might see this
thing
.” He gestured at the canoe and its crude camouflage. “Before you get within range. Had you thought of that?”

Blackwood shot a quick glance at the sky. Brighter still. What was the point? Was Blondie Piggott going off his rocker?

At any second now . . .

His mouth was like dust. What did it matter, anyway? He felt himself shrug. So Piggott was right again.

He said, “Hop aboard, sir. I’m afraid it’s not what you’re used to!”

Piggott clambered across the rear of the canoe and raised the paddle.

“Watch your stroke. Not too much movement!”

Corporal Laker pushed a waterlogged branch aside, muttering, “Just follow my example, boys!”

There were more shots, stray or haphazard, cutting down
more leaves or cracking angrily inland. None hit the water nearby, and Blackwood could feel the canoe already moving faster, carried clear of the shallows and past the first sandbar.

Piggott snapped, “
Back
paddle, Corporal! We’ll broach to if you don’t watch out!”

Irwin’s men were firing now, timed to the second. Anybody remaining on the bridge would be an easy target.
Crack crack crack.
Larger pieces of wood were being blasted from the bridge. It looked almost as old as the mission. Blackwood thought suddenly of Houston, all the planning, the quick-fire exchange of ideas and doubts.
And for what?
He saw the bridge rising to meet them, the upper span in bright sunlight as if it alone had been painted.

“Are you ready?” Piggott was leaning right over, his face wet with sweat or spray. “No slip-ups, right?” He looked wild.

Blackwood wanted to yell at him. To ram the paddle into his stupid face. But somehow his mind remained in command. Each stroke of the paddle. Start the timer . . . Loosen the grapnel. Ready to drive right under the centre span. Laker could make fast. Be ready to get the hell out of it.

Piggott was calling out again. If only . . .

It was like being kicked with a hob-nailed boot, in the shoulder or his waist, but all sensation was leaving him. He saw Laker twisting round in his cockpit. He was holding two paddles, and yet Blackwood could not remember letting go of his. Piggott was shouting, but his voice was coming like an echo, or from far away.

The canoe swung against the scarred timber, pivoting hard over until the grapnel brought it under control. There was water everywhere, sluicing over the camouflage netting, and around his legs.

Piggott was clambering past him, shouting, his mouth like a hole in his smeared face.

It was like fighting something. Holding on. Telling yourself that it was not enough.

He realized that Piggott was above him, climbing straight up, toward the sky and the sun-painted span, still shouting but not looking back.

Blackwood pulled himself on to the lowest span, his mind reeling as the pain drove into him like the tip of a furnace bar.

He held the pack in position, and sensed that Laker was reaching up to help him. But he was not an expert. It would be unfair. Dangerous . . . He shook himself again, and the pain helped clear his mind. The timer was in his hand; he stared at it. So slippery, although he had kept it in his special pocket until this final moment. It was blood.

Shots came from somewhere; he knew they were hitting the woodwork only a few feet away.
At any second now . . .

Laker was somehow pressed against him, their faces nearly touching. He was shouting or sobbing; it was all blurred. But where the hell was Piggott?

The canoe seemed to be moving again, but he was staring up at the sky. There was a solitary bang, loud and very near, followed by complete silence. Even the sporadic small arms fire had ceased.

Misfire. I failed.

The canoe was being held steady, and he knew that Laker was covering him, shielding him.

Soon he would stand away and leave him. Like those others. Houston.

His arm was bare, one hand dragging in the water. He tried to pull away as something pricked the skin. There was no pain now. Nothing.

It was impossible, but he could hear men’s voices.
They were cheering. The sudden crash of the explosion went unheard.

Lieutenant-Colonel Leslie De Lisle crossed to one of the wide office windows and pried the slats of the sun blind apart with his fingers. He winced as reflected light lanced up from the harbour; he could feel the heat of the sun through the glass. And it was still only March. Back in England you could see your breath as you walked. Greatcoat and gloves weather.

He seemed to have been constantly climbing in and out of aircraft. Here in Hong Kong, then Singapore. Meetings, some familiar faces, some strangers. Decisions.

He looked at the big fleet destroyer below, awnings spread, ensign lifting lazily in an offshore breeze. Busy police boats cruising nearby to keep the sightseers at a distance. Beyond her, a wisp of oily smoke drifting around her bridge, was the old Singapore patrol vessel, the
Vigilant
, which had played her part in Operation Ratcatcher. Getting ready to sail. Another mission, perhaps?

He turned his back on the window and looked around the office, the maps and plans folded away, so quiet now without Houston’s larger than life presence. Irwin would stay on in Hong Kong until . . . He would never fill Houston’s shoes, no matter what might have been suggested.

He paused and rubbed his spine. Too many flights, too little sleep. He was feeling it now.

Only March. He glanced at the squash racquet which was still propped in a corner. He could see it all in his mind, as if he had been there.

He looked at the clock. Why had he come? Some one else could have done it.

He strode to the window again and opened the blinds
fully.
Taunton
and
Yelverton
were moored side by side. They had made a fine sight when they had entered harbour, flags flying, some cheers from old ships greeting friends. No ambulances this time; the casualties had been put ashore at Singapore. Mercifully few, as if that made any difference. Two officers and three marines killed. Twelve wounded.

Just a flea bite, as the old sweats would say. He turned, hearing the door before it opened. It was a lieutenant he did not recognize.

“Yes?”

The lieutenant cleared his throat. He was frightened of De Lisle, and De Lisle knew it.

“Mr. Blackwood is here, sir.”

“Well, don’t keep him waiting, man!”

He fled.

It was unfair. But . . . It was only two months ago. Stonehouse Barracks . . . He strode to meet him and thrust out his hand.

“Good to see you, Ross!” And he meant it.

Ross sat in the offered chair and looked around the office, acutely aware of Houston’s absence.

De Lisle was saying, “I’ll get us a drink in a minute. It’s all dead around here.” He spread his hands. “Sorry, not a good choice of words.”

Ross rubbed his eyes, but the fatigue was still more mental than physical. For days he had still seen it, the white mission building, the darting figures, gun flashes in the jungle’s dimness. Men bleeding, wounded. Calling out.

And the final image; awake or asleep, it was always waiting. The crudely camouflaged canoe, breaking cover and striking out for the bridge. Bullets splashing nearby, return fire from Brannigan’s gunners, and his own below the bridge.

He had not seen who had been hit, but instinct told him it was Steve Blackwood. He had watched helplessly with Ted Boyes, Irwin and the others while the canoe had lurched amongst the wooden piles, and while shots had slammed around them Steve had somehow managed to secure the charges.

And then the solitary figure had appeared on the bridge, firing into the defenders, falling but struggling up again to ram another clip into his gun, firing again until that, too, was empty. He was hit several times; they could see the blood even without binoculars. Dying even as his attackers had started to push forward.

Voices had yelled, “They’ve done it!”

The canoe had reappeared, only one paddle being used. But all eyes were on the lone, bloodied figure on the bridge. Rolling on to his side, teeth bared in agony or determination, his uninjured arm curving back, a live grenade in his hand. Even at that distance the sound was lethal. Then, only the canoe was moving.

Ross had managed to see Steve at the hospital before he had been taken elsewhere. The bullet had passed through his body. He would live. They had clasped hands, like that other time, oblivious to the nurses and orderly confusion around them.

All Steve could say was, “Piggott, of all people! The bravest thing I’ve ever seen! Without him . . .”

He did not need to spell it out.

Ross was suddenly on his feet, the response instant and automatic as the screech of a ship’s siren filled the room.

De Lisle said, “It’s all right, Ross. It’s
Vigilant
getting under way.”

Ross sank down again. The same sound he had heard when the old landing craft had suddenly appeared, filling the river, its ancient howitzer lobbing a shell directly into
the mission. It was done, the ‘combined operation’ Major Keith Houston had always wanted.

The door was open, and in the other room a marine was putting some glasses on the desk. Through the windows beyond, he could see the Mandarin, as he had seen it when he had stepped ashore from the destroyer’s motor boat. Where he had last spoken to her.

A messenger had been waiting for him, determined that he and no one else should receive the note.

Dearest Ross. I thank God you are safe and out of danger. I am on my way to England as you read this. My husband Jock was taken ill unexpectedly. And I am a nurse. Take care, dear Ross.