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. I 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 any. 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. He'll 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.'
