Knife Edge (2004) (8 page)

The sergeant had said, “We had a few battalions of Gurkhas to back us up at the time.”

He must have been as young then as some of the marines around him now.

So where do I stand?

He screwed up his eyes and opened them again very slowly.

It was still no lighter. Or was it?

He tried to imagine what it would look like. Bare rock, and some narrow crevasses, a central spread of water, hardly worthy of the name of anchorage, and several channels that led eventually to the open sea. As if the island had once been one great boulder which had dropped from heaven and splintered into pieces.

The channels were deep enough for small craft in favourable conditions.

Taunton
’s skipper had said, “If the time and tide were wrong, you could wade across some of those without getting your knees wet!”

Taunton
drew six clear feet of water. He would be very aware of that.

He felt his stomach rumble. He had been too tense to eat any of the huge meal the galley had provided.

“All in position, sir.” A whisper, but he might have
shouted it. Ross saw the gleam of teeth in the camouflaged face. One of the two corporals.

“Thanks, Laker. Still quiet everywhere.”

The corporal wriggled closer, one hand protecting his submachine-gun from the ground and its loose pebbles. They had all waded ashore with every strap, buckle and clip firmly taped to prevent any unnecessary sound or accidental shot.

“Cap’n Irwin’s on a little recce with Sarn’t Boyes.” He chuckled. “Rather them than me, sir!”

All those drills and exercises. Backing up the police and dodging bricks. And seeing some one die to no good purpose.

But these men, who will look to me, will have to face far worse.

He imagined he could feel the wound on his back. But it was nothing.

I was lucky. Next time . . .

Another voice from the past. An old W.O.2 instructor somewhere.

“In this mob, Mister Blackwood, we don’t rely on luck. It’s skill wot saves yer bacon!”

“’Ere comes your dawn, sir!”

He reached out and touched the corporal’s arm, but did not see his surprise.

“So be it, then!”

Sergeant Steve Blackwood eased his back against a slab of rock and arranged a pack between his legs where he could reach it without changing his position. The rock was surprisingly smooth, as if it had been hand-made. Wind and weather: it must have lain here for generations.

The sky was still overcast, but within hours this island would be like a furnace. Nothing seemed to grow here, he
thought; no wonder it was avoided. It was getting lighter, and he imagined he could see one of the channels which had been marked on the map and described by a ship’s officer at the conference. Out there, like something black and solid, was the sea. Amongst the fallen rocks you couldn’t even hear it. But it never left you. Instinct, experience, call it what you like. It was there.

He heard a clink of metal, probably somebody taking a sip from his water flask, despite all the warnings. There was always one. When the sun came up, he’d know all about it.

It might all be a waste of time and effort. He had known a few setbacks in his time. Then it came, when you were least expecting it.

Three officers, two sergeants, two corporals and some ten marines. All different; only the uniform was the same. The injured man in
Taunton
’s sick bay was no doubt looking forward to another gargantuan breakfast in comfort. But he would not be allowed to forget it.

He touched his pocket and tried to feel the badge, which he had wrapped in a handkerchief. He should have left it on board for safekeeping.

Then he thought,
if anything happened, who’d care anyway?

He remembered the moment exactly. The badge on the desk, in the cabin with the cracked wedding picture. His feelings: cheated, betrayed, humiliated, it was none of them. Like the photograph some one had neglected to remove from its silver frame prior to the auction at Hawks Hill.

He peered at his hand, upturned on the pack. He could see the shape of it, the grit and blood left there when he had thrown himself from the boat. It
was
lighter.
Taunton
would be standing well offshore, but when the sun broke
the horizon she would stand out for all to see. If there was anybody . . .

He thought of the lieutenant, Ross Blackwood. What had he expected? Every one else claimed to see the likeness, but it had not been like looking into a mirror. To others, maybe. But they were strangers.

He watched the pale hint of dawn, like something spilling over the sea’s edge. This was always the best moment of the day, no matter which sea or ocean it was. Not like those other times, the jungle becoming wild and alive with cries and squeals, and furtive movements, while your hair stood on end, and it was all you could do to keep the safety catch on. Irwin had touched on it at the conference, but most of them did not fully understand. An enemy disguised and invisible, who struck without mercy at security forces and civilians alike. Screams in the night. Only an arm’s length away; human, not animal. It had taken him a long time to put it behind him. He had learned a lot by working alongside the Gurkhas, tough, hardy little soldiers who acted first and asked questions later.

Some one was coming up the rough track below him. Every man was in position. It could only be the other lieutenant, Piggott.

He could hear his breathing. The climb from the waterside; on edge; nervous? He did not know him well enough to judge. Seemed efficient, and ready to jump on anybody who did not measure up to a certain standard. His mouth moved in a faint smile.
His standard.
He certainly did not try to be popular, like some.

“All alert, Sergeant?” He squatted down on his haunches, his head and shoulders pale against the sea’s backdrop. “I’m beginning to think we’re on a fools’ errand.”

Blackwood waited. It was a question, not an observation.

“I mean, who would come to a hole like this?”

“They used to bring old vessels here for scrapping, breaking up, then sell any useful gear to fishermen and the like.”

“Really?”

Blackwood tensed. They had all heard Captain Irwin and
Taunton
’s C.O. discussing the background of Raven’s Island. Piggott had been all ears at the time. Was this pretence of ignorance a guise to cover something else?

“Good place to shelter if you were shifting smuggled gear from one boat to another, sir.”

Piggott said calmly, “Just what I thought.” He broke off as a marine appeared by the slab of rock. “What is it, Ellis?”

“I’m Cooper, sir.”

“And
I’m waiting
!”

“We heard some sounds, sir.” His guard was up. “Like bells.” He made a gesture, and his hand was clear against the sky. “Rattling, like.”

Blackwood felt his resentment, and said quietly, “Like they hang on goats, sir.”

Piggott almost laughed aloud. “For Pete’s sake!
Goats!
”

He was on his feet, his hair almost white above his stained features, against the colourless sky.

“I’d keep down, sir. The light’s directly behind you.” He let his words sink in. “Better safe than . . .”

“Oh, not you, too, Sergeant!” But he sat down again.

Steve Blackwood forced himself to unwind a little. He had been going to say,
better safe than dead.

He edged forward again and felt his knee crack. It was cramp. He looked down the slope and saw the narrow channel below, when minutes earlier there had been only darkness. He tried again. Piggott’s impatience and irritation were doing nothing to help . . . He stiffened. He had heard it, too. As the marine had described it, a rattling sound.

“Go and tell Mr. Blackwood.” He saw the marine lurch to his feet. “Nice and easy. No panic.”

Piggott said abruptly, “Taking sides, Sergeant?”

He checked himself. “We don’t know where Captain Irwin is, sir. And Mr. Blackwood is second in command.”

“On the ridge, sir!”

He glanced at the sky, the growing light, and carefully eased his binoculars from their case. A risk, but they had to know. He could still hear the tinkling noise. He licked his lips: bone dry. Then he raised the glasses. If Piggott said a single word . . . He pictured the marine who had whispered the warning . . . His name
was
Ellis. Young, keen-eyed. Good record. So why the bullshit?

He held the glasses absolutely still. The ridge, one of several, was directly ahead, the nearest channel appearing around its lowest edge like a ribbon of black glass. Unmoving as yet. But in a few more minutes . . .

Just a small movement, like a shadow. The sound came from the same direction. Then Ellis said softly, with surprise and disbelief, “Not goats, Sarge!”

Piggott snapped, “Do I have to guess?”

Steve Blackwood panned the glasses slightly from side to side, but the tiny, magnified image remained fixed in his mind.

He said, “Children. Two, maybe three. Coming down the slope from the ridge.” His voice was unemotional.

Who were they? Where had they come from? He could feel Piggott fuming. Perhaps he was right after all.

The sea was much brighter, pale green and shark-blue, the current visible now in the light. The ridge remained hard and dark against the dawn. He tried again, holding his breath. Two small children walking hand in hand, girls or boys he could not tell. A slightly older child, a girl with long, black hair, walked just behind them. Something
glinted in her hand and he heard the sound again. Like a necklace of seashells. He had seen them in the bazaars. Toys, or indeed for goats, to help their owners find them in a hurry.

Piggott stood up and said, “I’ll soon put a bloody stop to this nonsense. You can think what you damn well like!”

He threw his leg over the loose rocks and swung down toward the steep slope.

A shift of light, tension, instinct; there was no room for thought.

He shouted, “Get
down
, man!”

It was all he could do to hold the glasses steady, fixed on the two children. Not laughing or playing but staring ahead. Small, frightened faces.
Staring at me.
And not holding hands. Their wrists were tied together.

He heard the binoculars hit the ground, then he was up and over the same rocks, leaping and almost falling as he burst from cover.

He saw a marine staring at him, another dragging back the cocking lever of his automatic rifle. Piggott, taken by surprise, had half turned, lost his balance and sprawled headlong among some boulders.

None of it seemed important. He saw the two children, their mouths open in unheard screams, pulling away from each other but trapped by the lashing around their wrists. Of the girl with the shells there was no sign.

There were flashing lights, but not reflected sun. He heard the sudden rattle of gunfire, felt invisible fingers clutching at his clothing as he charged down the slope. Part of his brain recorded that the bullets had ripped past him only inches away.

He threw himself down, his arms around the children so that they all rolled gasping into a narrow gulley.

He heard a voice yell, “
Open fire!
” and imagined he heard the rapid fire directly overhead.

The voice had been his own.

A marine flopped down beside him, pausing to fire two shots while another ran past, reloading as he ducked halfway down the slope. There was no sign of Piggott.

Steve Blackwood waited for his breathing to steady, and realized that he had been hugging the children, and that they were quite still, their dark eyes staring up at him, too terrified to move.

“Near thing, Sarge.” It was Ellis. “How did you know?”

“Saw something like it once before.” He tried to moisten his lips; they felt like leather. “Used some kids to flush out any opposition. Nearly worked, too.”

Ellis rolled on his side, his eyes on the ridge, still dark against the first rays of sunlight. “The whole bloody island will know by now!” Surprisingly, he grinned. “Good thing you’re around, Sarge!”

The channel was alive, still partly in shadow, but the rest was moving. You would get more than your knees wet in it now . . . “Crawl back and get my pack. And go easy with it.” He was watching the water. “If it’s going to happen, it’ll be soon.”

Ellis muttered, “Here comes Blondie.”

One of the children whimpered.

“Never mind, chummy, soon be over.” It seemed to work.

Piggott was on his knees beside the gully.

“How many were there, d’ you think?”

“Two or three. All it needs.”

“I would have bagged one of them if I hadn’t tripped.” It was a question again.

Ellis was coming back, his features clearly visible in the frail sunlight.

“Captain Irwin should have got the message by now. He’ll know what to do.”
Why am I telling him this? It’s all bluff.
Piggott was shit-scared. “Watch over the kids.”

Piggott said sharply, “I don’t see why . . .”

“’Cause it’s not their bloody war,
sir
!”

The rest was drowned by the sudden roar of engines.

“Quiet as a bloody grave now the damage is done!”

Captain John Irwin crouched on his knees with his back to the sea, one hand cupped behind each ear as he listened for the slightest sound, apparently oblivious to the stone and sharp fragments littering the track. “Like a bull in a damned china shop.”

The sporadic burst of firing had stopped, as if it had never happened. You could almost feel the silence. Physical.

“Did Sergeant Boyes check our section at this end?” He was quite calm again, almost offhand.

Ross Blackwood replied, “I checked them myself, sir. Standing to.”

“Information was good. We were just a bit too late. They’ll make a run for it very soon. Not much that
Taunton
can do now, even
with
a following wind.” He stood up lightly, without any apparent effort. “Unless your namesake keeps his head.” He stared at the sky. “Corporal Laker, keep two men and cover the ridge.” He must have sensed the corporal’s doubt. “Man, you could hold up an army from this point!”