The Golden Gate (29 page)

Revson was much less verbose and not at all forthcoming with explanations. Ensuring that he was the last man in, he turned and chopped the unsuspecting Peters below the right ear just as Peters turned the key in the lock. Revson relieved him of both key and machine-pistol, dragged him in and propped him in the driver's seat, then brought out his radio.
'Revson here.'
'Hendrix.'
'Ready yet?'
'Hagenbach's still on the phone to Branson.'
'Let me know immediately he's through.'
'So the money's in Europe,' Branson said into the phone. 'Excellent. But there had to be a code-word.'
There was. Very appropriate this time." Hagenbach's voice was dry. ' "Off-shore." '
Branson permitted himself a slight smile.
Hendrix's voice came through on Revson's receiver. He said : They're through.'
'Clear with Hagenbach.'
'Clear.'
'Now.'
Revson didn't replace the transistor in his camera case. He put it in his pocket, unslung his camera and laid it on the floor. He unlocked the door, leaving the key in the lock, opened the door a judicious crack and peered back. The first smoke bomb burst about two hundred yards away just as Branson descended from the rear coach. A second, twenty yards nearer, burst about two seconds later. Branson still remained as he was, as if momentarily paralysed. Not so O'Hare. Revson observed, who moved very swiftly into the back of his ambulance, dosing the door hard behind him: the driver, Revson assumed, was already inside.
Branson broke from his thrall. He leapt inside the rear coach, lifted a phone and shouted: 'Hagenbach! Hendrix!' He had apparently overlooked the fact that if Hendrix had been at Mount Tamalpais some five minutes previously, he could hardly have returned by that time.
'Hagenbach speaking.'
'What the hell do you think you're up to?'
'I'm not up to anything.' Hagenbach's voice was infuriatingly unconcerned.
The dense clouds of smoke were now no more than a hundred yards away.
'I'm going inside the Presidential coach.' He was still shouting. 'You know what that means.' He thrust the phone back and pulled out his pistol. 'Giscard, tell the men to prepare for an attack on the south. They must be mad.' Johnson and Bradley had advanced from the rear of the coach but he thrust them back. 'You two I can't afford to lose. Not now. Stay here. That goes for you, too, Giscard. Tell the men, get back here, and tell Hagenbach what I'm doing.' Giscard eyed him with understandable concern. An erratic, repetitive and slightly incoherent Branson he had not encountered before: but then Giscard had not spent the previous twenty-four hours on the Golden Gate Bridge.
Two more smoke bombs had fallen by the time Branson jumped down to the roadway. The pall of smoke, thick and dense now totally obscuring the south tower was no more than fifty yards away. He rushed to the door of the Presidential coach, grabbed the handle and tried to wrench the door open: but the door remained immovable.
Another smoke bomb exploded. This one was just abort of the rear coach. Branson battered at the window of the door with the butt of his pistol and peered inside. The driver's seat, the seat which Mack, the guard, should have been occupying, was empty. General Cartland appeared at the doorway as the next smoke bomb burst not ten yards away.
Branson shouted at him, quite forgetting that he was only mouthing words-for the coach was totally sound-proof-and pointed at the driver's seat. Cartland shrugged his shoulders. Branson loosed off four quick shots at the lock and wrenched the handle again but the Presidential coach had been specifically designed to withstand assaults of this nature, which was as well for Branson: Cartland's right hand, held behind his back, had the forefinger on the trigger of the cyanide gun.
The next bomb burst directly opposite Branson and the dense, acrid evil-smelling fumes were on him in seconds. Branson fired two more shots at the lock and tried again.
Revson withdrew the key from the door of the lead coach, dropped down to the roadway, shut the door, locked it and left the key in position. A smoke bomb burst immediately opposite him.
Vile though the fumes were to both nostrils and throat, they were not incapacitating. Running his fingers along the side of the Presidential coach, Branson made his way back to the rear coach, opened the now closed door and went inside, closing the door behind him. The air in the coach was clear, the lights were on, the air-conditioning unit was functioning and Giscard was on the phone.
Branson managed to control his coughing. 'I couldn't get in. Door's locked and no sign of Mack. Get anything?'
'I got Hagenbach. He says he knows nothing about this. 1 don't know whether to believe him or not. He's sent for the Vice-President.'
Branson snatched the phone from him and as he did Richards's voice came through. 'You this fellow Giscard?'
'Branson.'
There is no attack. There will be no attack. Do you think we're mad-you there with guns at the heads of seven hostages? It's the Army, in the shape of Carter, who's gone mad. Heaven alone knows what he intended to achieve. He refuses to answer the phone. I've sent Admiral Newson to stop him. It's that or his career.'
In the communications wagon, Richards turned to look at Hagenbach. 'How did I sound?'
For the first time in his years of contact with Richards, Hagenbach permitted an expression of approval to appear on his face. 'You're keeping the wrong kind of company, Mr Vice-president. You're as devious as I am.'
Giscard said: 'Do you believe him?'
'God only knows. It's sense. It's logical. Stay here. And keep that door closed.'
Branson dropped down to the roadway. The smoke was thinning now but there was still enough of it to make his eyes water and start him coughing again. On his third step he bumped into a vaguely-seen shape in the opacity. "Who's that?'
'Chrysler.' Chrysler was almost convulsed in his paroxysms of coughing. "What the hell's going on, Mr Branson?'
'God knows. Nothing, according to Richards. Any signs of an attack?'
'Any signs of an-I can't see a bloody yard. No sounds, anyway.'
Just as he spoke, there came half a dozen cracks in rapid succession. Chrysler said: Those weren't smoke bombs.'
In a few seconds it was clear that they were indeed not smoke bombs. Both men started to gasp, searching for oxygen and unable to find it. Branson was the first to guess at what might be happening. He held his breath, grabbed Chrysler by the arm and dragging him towards the rear coach. Seconds later they were inside, the door closed behind them, Chrysler lying unconscious on the floor, Branson barely conscious on his feet.
Giscard said: 'What in God's name - '
'Air-conditioning maximum.' Branson's voice came in short painful gasps. They're using CUBs.'
Unlike O'Hare, Giscard knew what CUBs were. 'Asphyxiation bombs?'
'They're not playing any more.'
Neither was General Cartland. Mack's machine-pistol in hand, he unlocked the washroom door. Mack gave him a baleful glare but with the machine-pistol's muzzle six inches from his stomach was unable to give any more direct expression of his feelings.
Cartland said: 'I'm the Army Chief of Staff. In an emergency such as this I am responsible to no one, including the President, for my actions. Give me the door key or I'll shoot you dead.'
Two seconds later the door key was in Cartland's hand. Cartland said: Turn round.'
Mack turned and almost immediately collapsed to the floor. The impact from the butt of Cartland's machine-pistol may have been too heavy, but from the indifferent expression on Cartland's face it was clear that he didn't particularly care one way or another. He locked the washroom door behind him, pocketed the key, walked forward, thrust the machine-pistol out of sight beneath the chair of a rather dazed President, and made his way to the control panel in front of the driver's seat. He touched a few buttons without effect, pulled and pushed some switches then turned sharply as the entrance window slid down. He took two paces, sniffed the air, wrinkled his nose and quickly moved back to push the last switch he'd touched in the other direction. The window closed. Again, very briefly, Cartland touched the switch. The window slid down an inch. Cartland moved across and dropped the door key outside, returned and closed the window.
Two minutes later the gentle western breeze from the Pacific had blown the now dispersing fumes into the bay. The bridge was clear. Branson opened the door of the rear coach: the air was sweet and fresh and clean. He stepped down, looked at the figures lying on the ground and started running. Giscard, Johnson and Bradley followed him. A slowly recovering Chrysler sat up but remained where he was, shaking his head from side to side.
They checked the men lying on the bridge. Giscard said: They're all alive. Unconscious, totally knocked out, but they're still breathing.'
Branson said: 'After CUBs? I don't understand. Load them aboard your chopper, Bradley, and take off when you're ready.'
Branson ran towards the Presidential coach and immediately saw the key on the ground. He picked it up and opened the bullet-scarred door. Cartland was standing by the driver's seat. Branson said: 'What happened here?'
'You tell me. All I know is that your guard locked the door from the outside and ran. He ran when the smoke reached here. I assume that the smoke wasn't really smoke, just a smoke-screen, to allow another defector to escape.'
Branson stared at him, first shook his head, then nodded. 'Stay here.'
He ran towards the lead coach. He at once saw the key in the lock, twisted it and opened the door. He looked at the slumped and clearly unconscious Peters, mounted the steps and looked down the coach. He said: 'Where's Revson?'
'Gone.' A well-rehearsed and apparently uncomprehending Grafton spoke in a weary voice. 'I can tell you only three things. He chopped your guard. He spoke on what looked like a miniature radio. Then, when the smoke came, he left, locked the door from the outside and ran. Look, Branson, we're only bystanders, civilians from your point of view. You promised us safety. What's happening out there?'
'Which way did he run?'
'Towards the north tower. Hell have reached there long ago.'
Branson remained silent for quite some time. When he spoke, it was in his accustomed measured tones. 'I am going to destroy this bridge. I do not kill innocent people. Can anybody here drive a coach?'
A young journalist stood up. 'I can.'
'Get this coach off the bridge. Immediately. Through the south barrier.'
He closed the door and ran towards the ambulance. The rear door opened as he approached. O'Hare appeared and said: 'Well, you certainly know how to lay on entertainment for your guests.'
'Get off this bridge. This moment'
'Whatever for?'
'Stay if you like. I'm going to blow up this damned bridge.'
Branson left, not running now, just walking quickly. He saw a dazed Chrysler emerging from the rear coach. He said: 'Go stay by the President's coach."
Giscard and Johnson were standing by the rear helicopter. Bradley was leaning through an opened window. Branson said: 'Go now. Meet you at the airport."
Bradley lifted his helicopter cleanly off the bridge even before Branson had reached the President's coach.
Revson lifted himself from his cramped position on the floor of the rear seat of the lead helicopter and glanced briefly through a window. The seven hostages, escorted by Branson, Giscard and Chrysler, were approaching the helicopter. Revson sank back into hiding and pulled the transceiver from his pocket. He said: 'Mr Hagenbach?' 'Speaking.'
'Can you see the rotor on this helicopter?'
'I can. We all can. We all have glasses on you,'
'First turn the rotor takes, the laser beam.'
The seven hostages were ushered in first. The President and the King sat in the two front seats on the left, the Prince and Cartland on the right. Behind them, the Mayor, Muir and the oil sheikh took up position. Giscard and Chrysler took up separate positions in the third row. Each had a gun in his hand.
The ambulance was approaching the south tower when O'Hare tapped on the driver's window. The window slid back. O'Hare said: Turn back to the middle of the bridge.' Turn back! Jesus, Doc, he's about to blow up the damn bridge.' There's going to be some sort of an accident but not the kind you think. Turn back.'
Johnson was the last to enter the helicopter. When he was seated Branson said: 'Right. Lift off.'
There came the usual ear-numbing clattering roar, a roar which rapidly developed into a screaming sound, the sound of an engine running far above its rated revolutions, but even so not loud enough to drown a fearsomely clattering sound outside. Johnson leaned forward and all the noise suddenly ceased.
Branson said: 'What's wrong? What happened?'
Johnson stared ahead, then said quietly: 'I'm afraid you were right about the laser beam, Mr Branson. The rotor's just fallen into the Golden Gate.'
Branson reacted very quickly. He lifted a phone and pressed a button. 'Bradley?'
'Mr Branson?'
'We've had some trouble. Come back to the bridge and pick us up.'
'I'm afraid I can't do that. I've had some trouble myself - a couple of Phantom jets riding herd on me. I'm to land at the International Airport. I'm told there will be a welcoming committee.'
Revson was silently on his feet, white pen in hand. He pressed the button twice and, almost in unison, both men slumped forward then, quite unexpectedly and to Revson's shocked dismay, toppled far from silently into the aisle, their guns clattering on the metallic floor.
Branson twisted round and there was a pistol in his hand: Revson was too far away for his tipped needles to carry. Branson took careful aim, squeezed slowly and steadily, then cried out in pain as the President's cane slashed across his cheek. Revson threw himself to the floor of the aisle, his right hand clamping on the butt of Giscard's gun. By the time Branson had wrenched away the President's cane and swung round again, Revson was ready. All he could see of Branson was his head: but he was ready.
They stood in a group, isolated but not twenty yards from the ambulance, the President, the Vice-President, the seven decision-makers and Revson. Revson had a firm grip on April Wednesday's arm. They stood and watched in silence as the shrouded stretcher was lowered from the helicopter and carried through the dozens of armed police and soldiers to the waiting ambulance. Nobody had anything to say: there was nothing to say.
The President said: 'Our royal friends?"
Richards said: 'Can't wait to get to San Rafael tomorrow. They're more than philosophic about the entire episode. They're downright pleased. Not only has it all given America a great big black eye but it will make them national heroes at home.'