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.There's even ice in the river behind us, We'll be crawling up that mountain like a man going up on his belly.''We'll still be in front,' Prentice persisted obstinately, 'and if we have to, we may discover a better spot to ambush them.''Not as good as this.' The Scot was eyeing the left-hand slope speculatively.'And we're more likely to get the element of surprise here - they'll think we went over with that wall''Not when they look over and see nothing there, they won't.''So, we'll have to make sure that by the time they discover their mistake it's too late.''You'll have to hide the half-track,' Ford pointed out soberly, 'It would give the whole game away if they can see.''That's the guts of the thing.' Macomber extracted one of his three remaining cigars, lit it quickly.'They won't spot it until it's too late if I can work this the way I see it.' He took several puffs and then pointed up the slope.'I'll be up there inside those trees and I don't want anyone opening fire too soon.They'll come down that road, maybe a bit more slowly than we came down it, and they'll see the ice patch, which will slow them down even more, give them time to spot that smashed-up wall.But they won't stop on the ice - they'll keep on coming and pull up on the bridge to have a look.That's when I come down out of those trees.Then you can shoot as long as your ammunition lasts out.''You're going up that slope?' There was an incredulous note in Prentice's voice.'You'll never make it - you must be bonkers even to attempt it.''What are you beefing about?' Macomber growled.'You're not coming with me - and I'm just beginning to get the feel of this gadget.I could even get to like it.Now, for God's sake get moving - they'll be here any minute.'Partly because he felt they had lost too much time to continue up the mountain, partly because he sensed the agreement of Ford and of Grapos, who had dropped into the road and was already looking for a good vantage point, Prentice reluctantly helped Ford out of the vehicle, and as soon as they were in the roadway Macomber let off the brake and began driving forward.The slope was a little steeper than he had anticipated but once the tracks gripped its surface he felt them steadily pushing the vehicle up the ascent.The mist was thickening again when he had climbed sixty feet above the bridge and he switched on his lights to see where he was going.The beams were blurred cones and the lights reflected off tiny particles of moisture as they penetrated the trees, showed up a massive slab of rock beyond.Tilted at an angle of perhaps thirty degrees, sagged back heavily against his seat, he steered the half-track cautiously between two tree-trunks, pulled it up with its nose inches from the slab, looked back and swore.The one essential of the ambush was a clear view of the bridge and the mist had closed over it, blotting it out completely.If it didn't shift before the German half-track arrived he was impotent, powerless to help, and the other three would have to fight it out alone.He took out the cigar, moistened his lips and waited with the engine ticking over.Another calculated risk - that the motor of the German vehicle combined with the mist would muffle the sound of his own engine.What the devil was keeping Jerry?Waiting was an activity - if doing nothing can be termed activity - Macomber had some experience of.Waiting in the shadows of a warehouse on the Danube while he checked the supplies going aboard a barge; waiting beneath a manhole cover while a German soldier patrolled the street above; some of his most gruelling hours during the past fifteen months had been spent waiting.But at the moment waiting didn't suit him; it gave a chance for the fatigue to make itself felt, to settle in his weary limbs and his over-strained mind, and he wondered how much more he could take before his final reserves were drained.Even the slow-motion coils of mist which drifted below as he remained twisted round in his seat seemed to add to the appalling tiredness which was becoming his permanent condition.He blinked, thinking he saw a man creeping up through the mist, but it was only the vapour assuming strange shapes, and then, above the murmuring throb of his own motor, he heard the sound he had been waiting for.The half-track proceeding cautiously down the hill echoed weirdly through the fogged silence, a distant engine sound combining with a more distinctive noise - the rattle and grind of the descending tracks.And still the bridge was lost, might be a dozen miles away for all he could see of it through the dense pall which smothered the slope so that now it might have been late evening or early morning.Had he known this was going to happen he could have stopped lower down, relying on the mist alone to conceal his presence, but it was far too late to alter position, so all he could do was to wait and hope -hope that damned mist would thin in time.The clanking sound was closer now, the half-track still moving slowly, as he had foreseen it would.His hand went towards the brake, clutched it, and he had forgotten he was smoking as he stared fixedly downwards, trying to make up his mind whether the mist had thinned just a little.His eyes were feeling the strain of staring in one direction and a dull ache was building up behind his temples as the clanking noise grew louder, still a muffled ratchetty sound, but definitely louder.They'd be at the bottom any moment now, turning onto the bridge.It wasn't going to work, there was going to be a tragedy down there, Macomber felt it in his chilled bones, a chill brought on by a feeling of almost unbearable frustration which twitched at his nerves.I may be responsible for the death of three men, he thought.A breath of wind touched his face as he heard the engine sound slow - they had reached the bottom, they were turning the corner.He suddenly realized his lights were still on and switched them off quickly.A blunder like that would have lost him his life long ago.Pull yourself together, for Christ's sake, this is going to be tricky enough as it is without going to sleep on the job.A noise like gently falling water came from above as the wind rustled the trees, then the mist began to retreat rapidly, to dissolve back down the slope as the wind parted it in melting eddies.He stiffened, his side rigid against the seat, straining to see what was happening down there.Had a voice drifted up from below? He was frowning ferociously, still trying to decide, when the mist cleared from the bridge and he saw the German half-track turning the first corner as it lumbered up to the bridge and stopped, broadside on to the destroyed wall, stopped in the position Macomber had prayed it would stop.Four men inside, and the man standing up by the driver was Hahnemann.Too far away to see clearly, but Macomber knew it was Hahnemann, knew it for a certainty from the way he moved.Now!He released the brake, accelerated, reversed down the slope at gathering speed as the tracks churned and slithered their way down, the revolutions increasing with every yard of the descent.Had they reacted instantly, remained cool, taking deliberate aim before they fired, they might have killed the Scot, freed the half-track's steering so it would have careered in a different direction [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]