The Dark of the Sun - Smith Wilbur (читать книгу онлайн бесплатно полностью без регистрации .TXT) 📗

Hendry and a dozen men were in the shelter across the bridge, ready to

meet any attack on that side.

Shermaine would take the Ford across first. Then the lorries would

follow her. They would cross empty to minimize the danger of the bridge

collapsing, or being weakened for the passage of the tanker.

After each lorry had crossed, Hendry would shuttle its load and

passengers over in the shelter and deposit them under the safety of the

canvas canopy.

The last lorry would go over fully loaded. That was regrettable but

unavoidable.

Finally Bruce himself would drive the tanker across. Not as an act of

heroism, although it was the most dangerous business of the morning, but

because he would trust no one else to do it, not even

Ruffy. The five hundred gallons of fuel it contained was their

safe-conduct home. Bruce had taken the precaution of filling all the

gasoline tanks in the convoy in case of accidents, but they would need

replenishing before they reached Msapa junction.

He looked down at Shermaine in the driver's seat of the Ford.

"Keep it in low gear, take her over slowly but steadily.

Whatever else you do, don't stop." She nodded. She was composed and she

smiled at him.

Bruce felt a stirring of pride as he looked at her, so small and lovely,

but today she was doing man's work. He went on. "As soon as you are

over, I will send one of the trucks after you. Hendry will put six of

his men into it and then come back for the others."

"Oui, Monsieur Bonaparte."

"You'll pay for that tonight," he threatened her. ""Now you go.

Shermaine let out the clutch and the Ford bounced over rough ground to

the road, accelerated smoothly out on to the bridge.

Bruce held his breath, but there was only a slight check and sway as it

crossed the repaired section.

"Thank God for that." Bruce let out his breath and watched while - the

line drew up alongside the shelter.

Bruce shouted "Next!" colod was ready at the wheel of the first truck.

The man smiled his cheerful chubby-faced smile, waved, and the truck

rolled forward.

Watching anxiously as it went on to the bridge, Bruce saw the new

timbers give perceptibly beneath the weight of the truck, and he heard

them creak loudly in protest.

"Not so good," he muttered.

"No-" agreed Ruffy. "Boss, why don't you let someone else take the

tanker over?"

"We've been over that already," Bruce

answered him without turning his head. Across the river Hendry was

transferring his men from the shelter to the back of the truck.

Then the shelter started its tedious way back towards them.

Bruce fretted impatiently during the four hours that it took to get four

trucks across. The long business was the shuttling back and forth of the

corrugated iron shelter, at least ten minutes for each trip.

Finally there was only the fifth truck and the tanker left on the north

bank. Bruce started the engine of the tanker and put her into auxiliary

low, then he blew a single blast on the horn. The driver of the truck

ahead of him waved an acknowledgement and pulled forward.

The truck reached the bridge and went out into the middle. It was fully

loaded, twenty men aboard. It came to the repaired section and

slowed down, almost stopping.

"Go on! Keep it going, damn you," Bruce shouted in impotent anger. The

fool of a driver was forgetting his orders. He crawled forward and the

bridge gave alarmingly under the full weight, the high canopied roof

rocked crazily, and even above the rumble of his own engine Bruce could

hear the protesting groan of the bridge timbers.

"The fool, oh, the bloody fool," whispered Bruce to himself.

Suddenly he felt very much alone and unprotected here on the north bank

with the bridge being mutilated by the incompetence of the truck driver.

He started the tanker moving.

Ahead of him the other driver had panicked. He was racing his engine,

the rear wheels spun viciously, blue smoke of scorched tyres, and one of

the floorboards tore loose. Then the truck lurched forward and roared up

the south bank.

Bruce hesitated, applying the brakes and bringing the tanker to a

standstill on the threshold of the bridge.

He thought quickly. The sensible thing would be to repair the damage to

the bridge before chancing it with the weight of the tanker.

But that would mean another day's delay. None of them had eaten since

the previous morning. Was he justified in gambling against even odds,

for that's what they were? A fifty-fifty chance, heads you get across,

tails you dump the tanker in the middle of the river.

Then unexpectedly the decision was made for him.

From across the river a Bren gun started firing. Bruce jumped in his

seat and looked up. Then a dozen other guns joined in and the tracer

flew past the tanker. They were firing across towards him, close on

eachside of him. Bruce struggled to drag from his uncomprehending brain

an explanation of this new development. Suddenly

everything was moving too swiftly. Everything was confusion and chaos.

Movement in the rear-view mirror of the tanker caught his eye. He stared

at it blankly. Then he twisted quickly in his seat and looked back.

"Christ!" he swore with fright.

From the edge of the jungle on both sides of the clearing Baluba were

swarming into the open. Hundreds of them running towards him, the

animal-skin kilts swirling about their legs, feather headdresses

fluttering, sun bright on the long blades of their pangas. An arrow rang

dully against the metal body of the tanker.

Bruce revved the engine, gripped the wheel hard with both hands and took

the tanker out on to the bridge. Above the sound of the guns he could

hear the shrill ululation, the excited squealing of two hundred Baluba.

It sounded very close, and he snatched a quick look in the mirror. What

he saw nearly made him lose his head and give the tanker full throttle.

The nearest Baluba, screened from the guns on the south bank by the

tanker's bulk, was only ten paces away.

So close that Bruce could see the tattoo marks on his face and chest.

With an effort Bruce restrained his right foot from pressing down too

hard, and instead he bore down on the repaired section of the bridge at

a sedate twenty miles an hour. He tried to close his mind to the

squealing behind him and the thunder of gunfire ahead of him.

The front wheels hit the new timbers, and above the other sounds he

heard them groan loudly, and felt them sag under him.

The tanker rolled on and the rear wheels brought their weight to bear.

The groan of wood became a cracking, rending sound. The tanker slowed as

the bridge subsided, its wheels spun without purchase, it tilted

sideways, no longer moving forward.

A sharp report, as one of the main trusses broke, and Bruce felt the

tanker drop sharply at the rear; its nose pointed upwards and it started

to slide back.

"Get outv his brain shrieked at him. "Get out, it's falling!" He reached

for the door handle beside him, but at that moment the bridge collapsed

completely. The tanker rolled off the edge.

Bruce was hurled across the cab with a force that stunned him, his legs

wedged under the passenger seat and his arms tangled in the strap of his

rifle. The tanker fell free and Bruce felt his stomach swoop up and