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  I looked at the stocky man in some surprise. This was something I hadn't known and it set me thinking. Wyvern Haulage might be new as an outfit, but they seemed to have gathered a great deal of talent around them, and my respect for Geoff Wingstead grew fractionally greater.

  The press conference was under way, to a soft barrage of clicks as people were posed in front of the rig. Video cameramen did their trick of walking backwards with a buddy's hand on their shoulder to guide them, and the writer boys ducked and dodged around the clutter of ropes, chain, pulleys and hawsers that littered the ground. Some of the inevitable questions were coming up and I listened carefully, as this was a chance for me to learn a few of the technicalities.

  'Just how big is this vehicle?'

  Kemp indicated Ben Hammond forward. Ben, grinning like a toothpaste advertisement, was enjoying his moment in the limelight as microphones were thrust at him. 'As the transporter is set up now it's a bit over a hundred feet long. We can add sections up to another eighteen feet but we won't need them on this trip.'

  'Does that include the engines?'

  'The tractors? No, those are counted separately. We'll be adding on four tractors to get over hilly ground and then the total length will be a shade over two hundred and forty feet.'

  Another voice said, 'Our readers may not be able to visualize that. Can you give us anything to measure it by?'

  Hammond groped for an analogy, and then said, 'I notice that you people here play a lot of soccer — football.'

  'Indeed we do,' Daondo interjected. 'I myself am an enthusiast.' He smiled modestly as he put in his personal plug. 'I was present at the Cup Final at Wembley last year, when I was Ambassador to the United Kingdom.'

  Hammond said, 'Well, imagine this. If you drove this rig onto the field at Wembley, or any other standard soccer pitch, it would fill the full length of the pitch with a foot hanging over each side. Is that good enough?'

  There was a chorus of appreciative remarks, and Kemp said in a low voice, 'Well done, Ben. Carry on.'

  'How heavy is the vehicle?' someone asked.

  'The transporter weighs ninety tons, and the load, that big transformer, is three hundred tons. Add forty tons for each tractor and it brings the whole lot to five hundred and fifty tons on the hoof.'

  Everybody scribbled while the cameras ground on. Hammond added, airing some knowledge he had only picked up in the last few days, 'Elephants weigh about six tons each; so this is worth nearly a hundred elephants.'

  The analogy was received with much amusement.

  'Those tractors don't look big enough to weigh forty tons,' he was prompted.

  They carry ballast. Steel plates embedded in concrete. We have to have some counterbalance for the weight of the load or the transporter will overrun the tractors — especially on the hills. Negotiating hill country is very tricky.'

  'How fast will you go?'

  Kemp took over now. 'On the flat with all tractors hooked up I dare say we could push along to almost twenty miles an hour, even more going downhill. But we won't. Five hundred and fifty tons going at twenty miles an hour takes a lot of stopping, and we don't take risks. I don't think we'll do much more than ten miles an hour during any part of the journey, and usually much less. Our aim is to average five miles an hour during a ten hour day; twenty days from Port Luard to Bir Oassa.'

  This drew whistles of disbelief and astonishment. In this age of fast transport, it was interesting that extreme slowness could exert the same fascination as extreme speed. It also interested me to notice that Nyala had not yet converted its thinking to the metric unit as far as distances were concerned.

  'How many wheels does it have?'

  Hammond said, 'Ninety-six on the ground and eight spares.'

  'How many punctures do you expect?'

  'None — we hope.' This drew a laugh.

  'What's the other big truck?'

  That's the vehicle which carries the airlift equipment and the machinery for powering it,' said Kemp. 'We use it to spread the load when crossing bridges, and it works on the hovercraft principle. It's powered by four two hundred and forty-hp Rolls Royce engines — and that vehicle itself weighs eight tons.'

  'And the others?'

  'Spares, a workshop for maintenance, food and personal supplies, fuel. We have to take everything with us, you see.'

  There was a stir as an aide came forward to whisper something into Daondo's ear. He raised his hand and his voice. 'Gentlemen, that will be all for now, thank you. I invite you all to gather round this great and marvellous machine for its dedication by His Excellency, the Minister of the Interior, the Right Honourable Hamah Ousemane, OBE.' He touched me on the arm. 'This way, please.'

  As we followed him I heard Hammond saying to Kemp, 'What's he going to do? Crack a bottle of champagne over it?'

  I grinned back at him. 'Did you really design this thing?'

  'I designed some modifications to a standard rig, yes.'

  Kemp said, 'Ben built a lot of it, too.'

  I was impressed. 'For a little guy you sure play with big toys.'

  Hammond stiffened and looked at me with hot eyes. Clearly I had hit on a sore nerve. 'I'm five feet two and a half inches tall,' he said curtly. 'And that's the exact height of Napoleon.'

  'No offence meant,' I said quickly, and then we all came to a sudden stop at the rig to listen to Ousemane's speech. He spoke first in English and then in Nyalan for a long time in a rolling, sonorous voice while the sun became hotter and everybody wilted. Then came some ribbon cutting and handshakes all round, some repeated for the benefit of the press, and finally he took himself off in his Mercedes. Kemp mopped his brow thankfully. 'Do you think we can get on with it now?' he asked nobody in particular.

  Daondo was bustling back to us. In the background a surprising amount of military deployment was taking place, and there was an air of expectancy building up. 'Excellent, Mister Kemp! We are all ready to go now,' Daondo said. 'You will couple up all the tractors, won't you?'

  Kemp turned to me and said in a harassed undertone, 'What for? We won't be doing more than five miles an hour on the flat and even one tractor's enough for that.'

  I was getting a bit tired of Kemp and his invincible ignorance and I didn't want Daondo to hear him and blow a gasket. I smiled past Kemp and said, 'Of course. Everything will be done as you wish it, Minister.'

  'Good,' he said. 'I must get to Independence Square before you arrive. I leave Captain Sadiq in command of the arrangements.' He hurried away to his car.

  I said to Kemp, putting an edge on my voice, 'We're expected to put on a display and we'll do it. Use everything you've got. Line 'em up, even the chow wagon. Until we leave town it's a parade every step of the way.'

  'Who starts this parade?'

  'You do — just tell your drivers to pull off in line whenever they're ready. The others will damn well have to fall in around you. I'll ride with you in the Land Rover.'

  Kemp shrugged. 'Bunch of clowns,' he said and went off to give his drivers their instructions. For the moment I actually had nothing to do and I wandered over to have another look at the rig. It's a funny thing, but whenever a guy looks at a vehicle he automatically kicks a tyre. Ask any second-hand auto salesman. So that's what I did. It had about as much effect as kicking a building and was fairly painful. The tyres were all new, with deep tread earthmovers on the tractors. The whole rig looked brand new, as if it had never been used before, and I couldn't decide if this was a good or a bad thing. I squinted up at it as it towered over me, remembering the one time I had towed a caravan and had it jackknife on me, and silently tipped my hat to the drivers of this outfit. They were going to need skill and luck in equal proportions on this trip.

  Kemp drew up beside me in the Land Rover with a driver and I swung in the back. There was a lot of crosstalk going on with walkie-talkies, and a great deal of bustle and activity all around us.

  'All right, let's get rolling,' Kemp said into the speaker. Take station on me,
Ben: about three mph and don't come breathing down my neck.' He then said much the same thing into his car radio as drivers climbed into cabs and the vast humming roar of many engines began throbbing. Captain Sadiq rolled up alongside us in the back of an open staff car and saluted smartly.

  'I will lead the way, Mister Kemp. Please to follow me,' he said.

  'Please keep your speed to mine, Captain,' Kemp said.

  'Of course, sir. But please watch me carefully too. I may have to stop at some point. You are all ready?'

  Kemp nodded and Sadiq pulled away. Kemp was running down a roster of drivers, getting checks from each of them, and then at last signalled his own driver to move ahead in Sadiq's wake. I would have preferred to be behind the rig, but had to content myself with twisting in the rear seat of the car to watch behind me. To my astonishment something was joining in the parade that I hadn't seen before, filtering in between Kemp and the rig, and at my sharp exclamation he turned to see for himself and swore.

  The army was coming in no half measures. Two recoilless guns, two mortars and two heavy machine guns mounted on appropriate vehicles came forward, followed by a tank and at least two troop carriers. 'Good God,' said Kemp in horror, and gave hasty orders to his own driver, who swung us out of the parade and doubled back along the line of military newcomers. Kemp was speaking urgently to Sadiq on the radio.

  'I'll rejoin after the army vehicles, Captain. I must stay with the rig!'

  I grinned at him as he cut the Captain off in mid-sentence.

  They're armed to the teeth,' he said irritably. 'Why the hell didn't he warn me about all this?'

  'Maybe the crowds here are rougher than in England,' I said, looking with fascination at the greatly enhanced parade streaming past us.

  'They're using us as an excuse to show what they've got. They damn well know it's all going out on telly to the world,' Kemp said.

  'Enjoy the publicity, Basil. It says Wyvern up there in nice big letters. A pity I didn't think of a flag with British Electric on it as well.'

  In fact this show of military prowess was making me a little uneasy, but it would never do for me to let Kemp see that. He was jittery enough as it was. He gave orders as the tanks swept past, commanders standing up in the turrets, and we swung in behind the last of the army vehicles and just in front of the rig, DOW massively coupled to all its tractors. Ben Hammond waved down to us from his driving cab and the rig started rolling behind us. Kemp concentrated on its progress, leaving the other Wyvern vehicles to come along in the rear, the very last car being the second Land Rover with John Sutherland on board.

  Kemp was watching the rig, checking back regularly and trying to ignore the shouting, waving crowds who were gathering as we went along, travelling so slowly that agile small boys could dodge back and forward across the road in between the various components of the parade. There was much blowing of police whistles to add to the general noise. We heard louder cheering as we came out onto the coastal boulevard leading to the town centre. The scattering of people thickened as we approached.

  Kemp paid particular attention as the rig turned behind us into Victory Avenue; turning a 240-foot vehicle is no easy job and he would rather have done it without the extra towing tractors. But the rig itself was steerable from both ends and a crew member was spinning a ship-sized steering wheel right at the rear, synchronizing with Ben Hammond in the front cab. Motorcycle escorts took up flanking positions as the rig straightened out into the broad avenue and the crowd was going crazy.

  Kemp said, 'Someone must have declared a holiday.'

  'Rent-a-crowd,' I grinned. Kemp sat a little straighter and seemed to relax slightly. I thought that he was beginning to enjoy his moment of glory, after all. The Land Rover bumped over a roughly cobbled area and I realized with a start that we were driving over the place where Ofanwe's plinth had been only a few days before.

  We entered the Square to a sea of black faces and colourful robes, gesticulating arms and waves of sound that surged and echoed from the big buildings all around. The flags hung limply in the still air' but all the rest was movement under the hard tropical sun.

  'Jesus!' Kemp said in awe. 'It's like a Roman triumph. I feel I ought to have a slave behind me whispering sweet nothings in my ear.' He quoted, 'Memento mori — remember thou must die.'

  I grunted. I was used to the British habit of flinging off quotations at odd moments but I hadn't expected it of Kemp. He went on, 'Just look at that lot.'

  The balcony of the Palace of Justice was full of figures. The President, the Prime Minister, members of the Government, Army staff, some in modern dress or in uniforms but some, like Daondo, changed into local costume: a flowing colourful robe and a tasselled hat. It was barbaric and, in spite of my professed cynicism, a touch magnificent.

  The tanks and guns had passed and it was our turn. Kemp said to me, 'Do we bow or anything?'

  'Just sit tight. Pay attention to your rig. Show them it's still business first.' Off to one side of the parade, Sadiq's staff car was drawn up with the Captain standing rigidly at the salute in the back seat. 'Sadiq is doing the necessary for all of us.'

  The vast bulk of the rig crept slowly across Independence Square and the troops and police fought valiantly to keep the good-humoured crowd back. As soon as our car was through the Square we stopped and waited too for the rig to come up behind us, and then set off again following Sadiq, who had regained his place in the lead. The tanks and guns rumbled off in a different direction, and the convoy with its escort of soldiers crept on through narrower streets and among fewer and fewer people.

  The town began to thin out until we were clear of all but a few shanties and into the beginning of the croplands, and here the procession came to a halt, with only an audience of goats and herd boys to watch us.

  Sadiq's car came back. He got out and spoke to Kemp, who had the grace to thank him and to congratulate him on the efficiency of his arrangements. Clearly both were relieved that all had gone so well, and equally anxious to get on with the job in hand. Within minutes Kemp had his men removing the bunting and flags; he was driving them hard while the euphoria of the parade was still with them.

  'This is all arsey-versey,' I heard him saying. 'You've had your celebration — now do something to earn it.'

  'I suppose they'll do their celebrating tonight,' I remarked no him.

  Kemp shook his head.

  'We have a company rule. There's no hard liquor on the journeys: just beer, and I control that. And they've got a hell of a few days ahead of them.'

  'I guess they have,' I said.

  'A lot of trips,' Kemp said. 'Months of work. Right now it's a pretty daunting prospect.'

  'You only have this one rig?'

  I still felt I didn't know as much about Wyvern as I ought to. Having seen a tiny slice of their job out here, I was in a fever to talk to Geddes back at home, and to get together with Wingstead too. Reminded of him, I asked Kemp when he was due to come out.

  'Next week, I believe,' Kemp said..'He'll fly up and join us during the mid-section of the first trip. As for the rig, there's a second one in the making and it should be ready towards the end of the job. It'll help, but not enough. And the rains start in a couple of months too: we've a lot of planning to do yet.'

  'Can you keep going through the wet season?'

  'If the road holds out we can. And I must say it's fairly good most of the way. If it hadn't existed we'd never have tendered for the job.'

  I said, 'I'm frankly surprised in a way that you did tender. It's a hell of a job for a new firm — wouldn't the standard European runs have suited you better to begin with?'

  'We decided on the big gamble. Nothing like a whacking big success to start off with.'

  I thought that it was Wingstead, rather than the innately conservative Kemp, who had decided on that gamble, and wondered how he had managed to convince my own masters that he was the man for the job.

  'Right, Basil, this is where I leave you,' I said, climb
ing down from the Land Rover to stand on the hard heat-baked tarmac. 'I'll stay in touch, and I'll be out to see how you're getting on. Meanwhile I've got a few irons of my own in the fire — back there in the Frying Pan.'

  We shook hands and I hopped into John Sutherland's car for the drive back to Port Luard, leaving Kemp to organize the beginning of the rig's first expedition.

  CHAPTER 4

  We got back to the office hot, sweaty and tired. The streets were still seething and we had to fight our way through. Sutherland was fast on the draw with a couple of gin and tonics, and within four minutes of our arrival I was sitting back over a drink in which the ice clinked pleasantly. I washed the dust out of my mouth and watched the bubbles rise.

  'Well, they got away all right,' Sutherland said after his own fast swallow. 'They should be completely clear by nightfall.'

  I took another mouthful and let it fizz before swallowing. 'Just as well you brought up the business of the plinth,' I said. 'Otherwise the rig would never have got into the Square.'

  He laughed. 'Do you know, I forgot all about it in the excitement.'

  'Sadiq damn nearly removed Independence Square. He blew the goddamn thing up at midnight. He may have broken every window in the hotel: I woke up picking bits of plate glass out of my bed. I don't know who his explosives experts are but I reckon they used a mite too much. You said it wouldn't be too subtle a hint — well, it was about as subtle as a kick in the balls.'

  Sutherland replenished our glasses. 'What's next on the programme?'

  'I'm going back to London on the first possible flight. See to it, will you? And keep my hotel room on for me — I'll be back.'

  'What's it all about? What problems do you see?'

  I said flatly, 'If you haven't already seen them then you aren't doing your job.' The chill in my voice got through to him and he visibly remembered that I was the troubleshooter. I went on, 'I want to see your contingency plans for pulling out in case the shit hits the fan.'

  He winced, and I could clearly interpret the expressions that chased over his face. I wasn't at all the cheery, easy-to-get-along-with guy he had first thought: I was just another ill-bred, crude American, after all, and he was both hurt and shocked. Well, I wasn't there to eater to his finer sensibilities, but to administer shock treatment where necessary.