The Dark Crusader

Miss Hopeman?'

'In the armoury.'

I didn't ask why he hadn't shifted her also-I knew the bitter answer to that, she was probably either still unconscious or too unwell to be moved-and I didn't ask that she should be moved. If the Black Shrike exploded she would have no more chance than we had, the armoury was less than a hundred yards from the hangar, but better that way than to survive in the blockhouse.

I sat down at the end of one of the rows of men, Farley beside me. Nobody looked at me, everyone was staring fixedly at the doors of the hangar waiting for the Black Shrike to emerge.

They hadn't long to wait. Thirty seconds after LeClerc and Hewell had left us the two big gantry cranes with the Black Shrike between them rumbled slowly into view. Two of the technicians were at the controls of the gantries. The bogies of the gantries were spanned by two connecting bars that spanned the rocket bogie, so ensuring that the gantry clamps holding the Black Shrike remained in exactly the same relative positions. After about thirty seconds the bogies stopped, leaving the Black Shrike planted exactly in the centre of the concrete launching pad. The two technicians jumped down, removed the connecting bars and, at a gesture from one of the Chinese, came and sat beside us. Everything was now radio-controlled. The guards themselves left for the blockhouse at a dead run.

'Well,' Farley said heavily. 'A grandstand seat. The murderous devil.'

'Where's your scientific spirit?' I asked. 'Don't you want to see if the damn thing works?'

He glared at me and turned away. After a moment he said significantly: 'My part of it will work, anyway. It's not that I'm worried about.'

'Don't blame me if it blows up,' I said. 'I'm only the electrician around here.'

'We can discuss it later on a higher plane,' he said with heavy humour. 'What are the chances, you think?'

'Dr. Fairfield thought it would work. That's good enough for me. I just hope you haven't crossed any wires and that it doesn't come down straight on top of us.'

'It won't.' He seemed glad to talk as everybody around seemed glad to talk, the strain of just sitting and waiting in silence was too much. 'Worked before, often. Never a failure. Our latest infra-red guidance system is foolproof. Locks on a star and stays there.'

'I can't see any stars. It's broad daylight.'

'No,' Farley said patiently. 'But the infra-red cell can. Heat detection. Wait and see, Bentall, 1,000 miles and it will be bang on target to a yard. To a yard, I tell you.'

'Yes? How's anybody going to pinpoint a yard in the South Pacific?'

'Well, eight foot by six,' he conceded magnanimously. 'A magnesium raft. When the rocket re-enters the atmosphere the stellar navigation unit is switched off and an infra-red homer in the nose takes over. The rocket is designed to home in on a heat source. A ship, of course, especially a ship's funnel, is also a heat source, so a magnesium raft, a source of tremendous heat, will be ignited by the Neckar's radio ninety seconds before the missile arrives. The rocket will make for the greater source of heat.'

'I hope so for the Neckar's sake. Just too bad if they're ninety seconds late in igniting the raft.'

'They won't be. A radio signal is sent from here when the rocket leaves.' He paused. 'Well, if it leaves. The Shrike will take exactly three and a half minutes for the flight, so they ignite two minutes after receiving the signal.'

But I was hardly listening to him any more. LeClerc, Hewell and the last of the guards had disappeared behind the blockhouse. I looked away, over the shining sands and the green gleam of the glass-smooth lagoon and stiffened abruptly as I saw a vessel about four miles out heading for a break in the reef. I didn't stay stiff long, this wasn't any knight-errant naval vessel coming to the rescue, it was that intrepid navigator Captain Fleck, coming to collect his wages. Hargreaves had mentioned that he was expected that afternoon. I thought about Captain Fleck, and I thought that if I were in his shoes I'd be steering my schooner in the diametrically opposite direction and putting as many sea-miles as possible between myself and LeClerc. But then Captain Fleck didn't know what I knew, or I was reasonably certain he didn't. Captain Fleck, I thought, a shock awaits you.

I twisted round as the rumble of bogie wheels came to my ears. The two gantry cranes, weirdly unmanned and controlled by radio, were moving slowly away in opposite directions, withdrawing their top clamps and leaving the Shrike supported only by the extensible clamps still gripping its base. Ten seconds to go, perhaps less. No one was talking any more, finding a suitable conversational topic when you've perhaps only eight seconds left to live isn't a thing that many people have had practice in.

The big high-speed turbine induction fans near the nose of the Shrike whined abruptly into life, two seconds to go, one, everybody rigid as stone and with eyes half-closed against the shattering shock they would never feel, the base clamps leapt apart, a single thunderclap of sound and a great seething ball of orange flame appeared at the foot of the Shrike, completely enveloping the bogie. Slowly, incredibly slowly, the Shrike lifted off the ground, the ball of orange flame riding up with it, and now the echoes of the thunderclap were replaced by a steady continuous roar, terrifying in its intensity, battering at our shrinking eardrums like the close-up thunder of giant jet engines, as a fifty-foot long brilliant red tongue of flame pierced the flaming sphere at the base of the rocket and lifted the Black Shrike on its way. Still it climbed slowly, unbelievably slowly, it seemed that it must topple over at any moment, then at 150 feet another violent explosion as the second set of fuel cylinders ignited, the Shrike doubled its rate of climb, a third explosion about 600 feet and then it began to accelerate at fantastic speed. At about five or six thousand feet it turned over abruptly and headed south-east on a trajectory that seemed almost to parallel the surface of the sea, and within eight seconds was completely lost to sight with nothing to show that it had ever been except the acrid stink of the burnt fuel, the flame-blackened bogie and the thick white trail of its exhaust which stretched bar-straight across the hot blue sky.

By this time my chest was hurting me, so I started breathing again.

'Well, it works!' Farley smacked a fist into a palm in grinning exultation. He gave a long tremulous sigh of satisfaction, he'd been without oxygen even longer than I had. 'It works, Bentall, it works!'

'Of course it works. I never expected anything else.' I rose stiffly to my feet, rubbing the wet palms of my hands against my drills, and crossed over to where Captain Griffiths sat with his officers. 'Enjoy the show, Captain?'

He studied me coldly, not bothering to hide the dislike, the contempt in his eyes, and glanced at the left side of my face.

'LeClerc seems to like using his cane, doesn't he?' he asked.

'It's just an addiction he's got.'

'And so you collaborated with him.' He looked me up and down with all the enthusiasm of an art collector who's been promised a Cezanne and finds a comic coloured postcard in front of him. 'I didn't think you would, Bentall.'

'Sure, I collaborated with them,' I agreed. 'No moral fibre at all. But the court-martial can wait, Captain Griffiths.' I sat down, pulled off shoe and sock, removed a paper from its plastic cover, smoothed out the creases and handed it to him. 'What do you make of this? Quickly, please. I found it in LeClerc's office and I'm certain it's in some way connected with his plans for shipping the second Shrike to its destination. Nautical stuff isn't in my line.'

He took the paper reluctantly as I said: 'The Pelican's a ship, we know that, because LeClerc himself told us. I suspect the others are too.'

'Pelican-Takishamaru 20007815' Captain Griffiths read. 'Takishamaru is a Japanese ship name, no doubt about that. Linkiang-Hawetta 10346925. Probably all ships' names. All paired. Now, what would that be for. The numbers, always eight numbers.' He was getting interested. 'Times, could they be times? 2000 could be 8 p.m., none of the first four numbers go higher than twenty-four. But the second four do. References of some kind. Ships, eh? Now what kind of references-' His voice trailed off, I could see his lips moving, then he said slowly: 'I think I have it. No, I know I have it.'

'2000 is twenty point oh-oh. Latitude twenty degrees south. 7815 stands for 178.15 degrees east. Together they give a position less than fifty miles west of here.' He studied the paper in silence for almost a minute while I looked over my shoulder to see if there was any sign of LeClerc approaching: there was none, he would be waiting to hear from the Neckar about the success of the firing.