Beyond the Poseidon Adventure (24 page)

He grabbed Coby’s arm and almost flung her up to the end which was still protected. “C’mon, get outta here!” He helped Martin to his feet, and also bustled the nurse away from the danger zone. The attackers could see the gap now and the bullets zinged into the hold, against the door, and ricocheted back against the turbine. They had lost at least half their haven.

“Hey, cowboy.” Rogo gently shook Jason’s shoulder. He was still slumped against the metal drum. “Jump to it, fella. We gotta have the full team out today.” He looked into Jason’s face. It was numbed with shock and grief. He shook him again and whispered, “Your old pal Batman needs a hand.”

Nothing seemed to touch him. Jason closed his eyes wearily, opened them again, and his voice was a dull croak. “Just when I was beginning to believe again, Rogo. Just when I thought I’d found something that was true. And it wasn’t true. She was a fake, like everything else.”

Putting both hands on his shoulders, Rogo turned Jason to him. He spoke with surprising tenderness. “I know, pal. I understand. But we still gotta bust these rats.”

Martin had dragged himself up to the far end of the barrier and was trying to shoot round it. Coby was with him and gamely firing, although the recoil from the old gun nearly knocked her over each time. Klaas was rising and firing every few seconds, and the nurse knelt behind them, reloading and passing up the guns. Jason took his place alongside Klaas, but he fired automatically and did not speak.

There were barely fifteen feet of their strip of protected territory left, and it was Rogo who stood alone at the end which was slowly opening for Bela’s advancing gunmen. It was all Rogo now. He was firing rapidly and talking all the time, and the battle light was in his eyes. He cursed Bela in fluent and blasphemous tones, and then turned to exhort the others. Their morale was built around the plucky cop, and it was only the sight of his undaunted and sweat-streaked face that held up their fading spirits. Jason seemed a blank.

But all the time the angle was opening as the shadows out there moved further around, and gradually Rogo found himself being beaten back. He fired on grimly, his eyes white and wide, and occasionally shot back looks of desperation at Jason, searching for support. The younger American was oblivious to them all.

Soon Bela’s men would sneak far enough to be able to pour their fire directly down the channel where they crouched. Then the siege would be over.

There was little to be said. Once, Klaas touched Coby’s arm and whispered, “I’m sorry, Coby. I should never have brought you here.”

She attempted a gallant smile and reassured him, “It’s not your fault, papa. You couldn’t have known.”

Martin overheard. He too murmured up to her, “You’re a very brave young lady, Coby.” This time the smile involved no effort. “It isn’t so hard with someone like you beside me, James.” And the little shopkeeper, drained by pain and exhaustion, felt his limp spirits rise a little.

Rogo had been driven back almost into their midst now. All that was left was a small island. Soon that too would be covered by the withering fire from the Stechkins. He snapped his words over his shoulder as he pumped shot after desperate shot into the dark.

“Listen, you guys. This sonofabitch Bela has got it figured now. Two of his thugs are snaking around under that goddamn hole they cut in the side. Any minute now they’re gonna get a clear shot down here. I can’t take ’em shooting against the light. So here it is. I’m taking Bela’s deal. The rest of you can get outta here, and I’ll take my chances with him.”

Rogo was trading his life to save theirs. They all knew what he meant, and they did not know how to respond. Klaas glanced at his daughter and thought for a moment, then said, “Well, perhaps . . .” But she cut in, “No, papa, I will not allow it.”

Between shots, Rogo’s voice came back in a hoarse but insistent whisper. “Look, miss, I’m a cop. This is what we’re paid for. We’re the guys who catch the flak when you’re home in bed. That’s the way it is. Christ, I’m lucky I lasted this long in the job. Beat it while you got the chance. He ain’t gonna let me leave alive, and what the hell, I ain’t walking out on that gold for any goddamn deal.”

They saw his streaked and pleading face in the half-light. “Please!”

“No.” The one word hit them like a hammer. It was Jason. He was alive again. Rogo’s offer of self-sacrifice had penetrated the armor of his stunned apathy, and he took over forcefully.

“Forget it, Rogo. Whatever we do, we don’t start selling out now. Not you, not anyone. And we don’t give in that easy either.”

The sheer vigor of the man reborn seemed to warm them all again.

“So what do we do?” Rogo’s question was not his usual ironic sneer. He was looking for help.

“Okay, I’ll tell you. We take out those two guys before they get us.” Even as he said it, a spray of bullets rattled behind them against the bulkhead. “When I give you the word, put this light on them, full beam straight in the eyes. I’ll jump up there and try to hit them.” He pointed to the top of the turbine.

“You’ll be dead within seconds,” Rogo replied.

“Right,” Jason countered. “But it won’t take seconds. By the time they’ve got over the shock of the light and realized I’m up there, I’ll be back down. It’s worth a whirl.”

“Okay.” The cop tilted his head questioningly. “One thing, though. You switch the light, I do the blasting.”

Jason handed the torch to the reluctant cop and checked his rifle. “Sorry, Rogo. Can’t allow that. This is my game. Don’t forget, where I been you couldn’t walk a hundred yards without some sniper taking a shot at you. I’m trained for it. Anyway, an old guy like you couldn’t climb up there without help.”

It was settled. Rogo nodded agreement. “But snap it up, Jason. Those Commie creeps ain’t no gumballs. They done it all before.”

He dropped flat and, wheezing with effort, hauled himself along on his elbows until he reached the end of the steel barrier. He bent his arm around the corner and cocked his head to listen for the position of the men who were firing. He grunted with satisfaction and adjusted the flashlight until he was sure the angle was right.
It has to be right,
he thought.
You don’t get a second chance on this one.
He lay quietly listening to the sound of his own heart. It wasn’t often that Mike Rogo could hear his own heart.

Jason grasped a pipe that stemmed from the turbine and braced his right foot against it, with his left leg bent, ready for the leap. “Okay,” he whispered, and sprang upwards and forward. He landed, caught his balance with a twist of the body, and his gun was at his shoulder as the strong white beam sliced the darkness.

The circle of light enveloped the two men perfectly. One was on his stomach, working his way through a tangle of railings; the other was sitting up pushing a new clip in his gun; both held up their hands to protect themselves from the unexpected, unaccountable glare. The scene, a startling and luminous tableau, caught everyone’s attention so completely that it was not until the first shot that they saw the phantom figure, feet apart, standing above them.

The man who was reloading grunted and slumped forward. The crawling man jumped and twitched and then fell back, still and limp. Then the silent seconds were ravaged by blasting gunfire as the automatics roared, and they heard a cry of jubilation ring somewhere from the darkness. Jason swayed, then crashed backwards.

“Oh, Mr. Jason!” The nurse gasped, and snatched his hand to find the pulse.

Instantly he was sitting up. “How d’ya like them apples, Batman?” He grinned, and saw his smile of triumph reflected on all the faces around him.

The nurse tore at his sleeve where a dark stain was slowly appearing above his elbow. “It’s bleeding a lot,” she said, “but it’s only a flesh wound.”

Rogo’s hand hauled Jason to his feet. “That was some shooting,” he said. “You ever decide to take up crime in New York City, let me know. I’ll retire.”

“Fine,” said Jason. “Now let’s go to it.”

Time and gold were slipping through his fingers. Captain Bela knelt in the cover of a wrecked dynamo and thought about this delicate equation. They must have been fighting for half an hour now. How many of those beautiful slim bars could his crew have shifted in that time? Enough to make him a rich man for life. He cursed quietly to himself at this day of bungling ineptitude, and searched for a simpler, more direct solution.

First, it was obvious that Anton and the others must have been killed by now. How they could have allowed themselves to be taken by that bunch of raggle-taggle amateurs he could not begin to imagine. But they were gone. Then, just when his plan was about to work, he had again been outwitted. A light and two bullets, and all that time had been wasted. He cursed himself too. It was only a matter of reflexes. If he had recovered from his surprise quickly enough to fire it could have been avoided. And Jason must have lived. There were still two first-class shots operating from behind that barricade: Jason and the policeman. He had lost five men, two more at least were wounded. That did not matter. They were replaceable. What did matter was that he had no choice other than to repeat the operation to smoke out the policeman, and see the golden minutes slide away.

It would not happen again. His Stechkin was trained steadily on the spot where Jason had stood. Two more of his men were working their way back under the light of the square entrance. He cursed them too for their slowness. They were apprehensive now, he knew. Their initial contempt for that ill-assorted band had turned into grudging respect, and they were reluctant to take chances.

He felt no malice against Jason. Bela prided himself on his objectivity. He had always known that Jason was a formidable man, from his reputation alone. He did not profess to understand the motives of someone who would risk his own life to save that of a worthless policeman. But Bela could only find admiration for the man’s resourcefulness. He wished him dead only because he stood between him and the gold. At the same time, Bela wished he knew the price of a man like that. Everyone had a price, and Bela would have dearly loved to buy Jason’s professionalism. It was a crazy world where two people as skilled as he and Jason were flung into opposite camps like this in the name of obscure political ethics. What couldn’t they have achieved together? His pistol hand was unwavering as he held himself ready to kill the man he so respected. What a terrible waste, he thought. Captain Bela hated waste.

He tried once again to imagine the feelings of his adversaries. What would they be thinking? What would they be planning? It must be obvious to them that they could not pull that trick again, that he would be ready for it. They must also know that as soon as their sheltered spot was within range they were finished. They were being worn down. They were outnumbered. They were outgunned. They would have to make a deal with Bela, or die, and he could not understand why they did not do so.

Then he heard noises from behind the barricade. Their firing was only sporadic now. There was a lot of whispering and muttering. He tensed himself for another of Jason’s tricks, and cursed again the speeding seconds.

The acrid smell of gunsmoke filled the engine room. The sharp crack of the old rifles sounded steadily among the rapid fire of the Stechkins, and the hollow shell of the stricken
Poseidon
chimed and boomed and clanged as bullet after bullet zigzagged among the tangled steel. It was a place of business—urgent, earnest, lethal business—and the time was past for exhortation and heroic joking.

Bela’s men had again insinuated themselves along the side of the hull. They filled the narrow angle of the opening with volley upon volley, and moved still further to widen the angle. Side by side, Jason and Rogo knelt, firing together without pause to try to stand them off. But they were being driven back. With weapons that were over thirty years old, all they could hope to do was delay the advance. They clung to every inch until the last moment of safety had gone.

Klaas came to join them and add his fire to theirs. There was little shooting at the other end now. He leaned against the turbine that had protected them and fired blindly into the black that lay beneath the bright blue of the cutaway section.

“What do you think?” he asked. He scarcely seemed to expect an answer from the two gray, grim faces below him. Rogo flicked up a somber glance. “A can of worms, pal. A whole can of worms,” he muttered. There was no need to say it was going Bela’s way.

Even Coby knew. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the backs of the three men drawing steadily closer. “They’re being driven back, James,” she whispered. Martin did not bother to look. He too was quite aware of the desperation of their position. “I sure wish Mr. Rogo’s friends would hurry up and get here,” he sighed. “Or they’re going to be too late.”

The
Komarevo
men were concentrating their fire at Jason’s end of the bulwarks now, but Coby still strained her eyes to find a target. She could make out the looming shapes of the fallen machines and here and there the light whitened a strip of steel. Then on the floor and only a few yards away she saw a movement among the shadows. It was coming from the hole which drained when the ship lurched. The young Dutch girl swung her rifle to her aching shoulder. Her finger found the trigger and she tried to level the sights on it. Then she saw a flash of silver, and she remembered Hely and the gleaming sheet of her hair. It was Hely. She was crawling towards them. Twice she collapsed face down. Each time she heaved herself up and dragged herself a few more inches.

Coby dropped her rifle and ran to her. She slipped her hands under the sagging figure and pulled her into the shelter of the turbine.

“Look!” she said to Martin. “It’s the girl. The skin diver. I think she’s dying.”

She pulled up Hely’s mask, and blood sluiced down her face. Her mouth snatched at the air and her blood-rimmed eyes rolled, wildly off-focus but searching madly for something. Her skin looked translucent.

“What happened?” Coby asked. “Can’t you hear me?”

Her lips were moving. Coby bent near that she might feel the panting warmth of Hely’s breath on her ear. Words took blurred shapes in the soft puffs of air.