He looked baffled and then came back with a countermove of his own. ‘I will not fire on the bridge. I will fire into the trucks and the men on the river bank if that thing does not go faster. You tell them.’
His arm was upraised and I knew that if he dropped it fast the tank would fire. I said, ‘You mean the airlift truck? That would make things much worse.’
‘Airlift? What is that?’
‘A kind of hovercraft.’ Would he understand that? No matter: at least I could try to blind him with science. ‘It is run by the truck just off the bridge and it’s the only way of getting the rig across the bridge. You damage it, or do anything to stop our operation and you’ll be stuck here permanently instead of only for the next half-hour. Unless you’ve brought your own bridge with you.’
His arm wavered uncertainly and I pressed on. ‘I think you had better consult your superior about this. If you lose the bridge you won’t be popular.’
He glared at me and then at last his arm came down, slowly. He dropped into his seat and grabbed the microphone in front of him. The little hairs on the back of my neck lay down as I turned to see what was happening at the bridge.
Sadiq’s troops had materialized behind our men and trucks, but in a loose and nonbelligerent order. They were after all not supposed to protect us from their own side, assuming these troops were still their own side. Beyond them the rig still inched its way painfully along as Kemp stuck to the job in hand. Sadiq was standing on the running board of one of his own trucks and it roared up the road towards us, smothering me in yet another dust bath on its arrival. Before it had stopped Sadiq had jumped down and made straight for the officer in the command car. Captain Whoosit was spoiling for a fight and Sadiq didn’t outrank him, but before a row could develop another command car arrived and from it stepped a man who could only have been the battalion commander, complete with Sam Browne belt in the British tradition.
He looked bleakly around him, studied the bridge through binoculars, and then conferred with Sadiq, who was standing rigidly to attention. At one point Mr Big asked a question and jabbed a finger towards me. I approached uninvited as Sadiq was beginning to explain my presence. ‘I can speak for myself, Captain. Good morning, Colonel. I’m Neil Mannix, representing British Electric. That’s our transformer down there.’
He asked no further questions. I thought that he already knew all about us, as any good commander should. ‘You must get it out of our way quickly,’ he said.
‘It’s moving all the time,’ I said reasonably.
The Colonel asked, ‘Does the driver have a radio?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Sadiq. A pity; I might have said the opposite.
‘Talk to him. Tell him to move faster. Use my radio.’ He indicated his own command car, but as Sadiq moved to comply I said, ‘Let me talk to him, Colonel. He will accept my instructions easier.’
‘Very well, Mister Mannix. I will listen.’
I waited while Sadiq got on net with Kemp and then took the mike. ‘Basil, this is Neil Mannix here. Do you read me? Over.’
‘Yes, Neil. What’s going on back there? Over.’
‘Listen and don’t speak. There is an army detachment here which needs to use the bridge urgently. I assume you are moving at designated speed? It will be necessary for you to increase to the –’
The Colonel interrupted me. ‘What is this designated speed?’
‘Hold it. Over. It works out about a mile an hour, Colonel.’ I ignored his stricken face and went on into the mike, ‘Basil? Increase if necessary. How long do you estimate as of now? Over.’
‘Fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty. Over.’
Taking his cue, Kemp was giving answers only. He could pick up clues pretty smartly. There was no such thing as a designated speed and Kemp knew this. I went on, ‘Get it down to no more than fifteen, ten if possible. Over.’
I was praying for an interruption and for once I got lucky. Sadiq’s military unit had got restless and several vehicles, including those carrying the guns, started down the road towards us. The commander turned alertly to see what was going on. In that moment, with nobody listening except the Colonel’s driver, I said hastily, ‘Basil, if you don’t get the hell off that bridge we’ll have shells coming up our ass. These guys are trigger-happy. Go man go. Acknowledge formally. Over.’
It was all I had time for, but it was enough. The Colonel was back, looking more irritated than ever, just in time to hear Kemp’s voice saying, ‘Message understood, Neil, and will be acted upon. Going faster. Out.’
I handed the microphone back to the driver and said, ‘That’s it, Colonel. He’ll do the best he can. You should be on your way in a quarter of an hour. I’ll arrange to hold all the rest of our stuff until you’re through.’
The muscles round his jaw bunched up and he nodded stiffly, casting a quick glance skywards, and then began snapping orders to his Captain who got busy on the radio. All down the line there was a stir of activity, and with interest and some alarm I noted that machine guns were sprouting from turret tops, all pointing skywards. I remembered the jets that had gone over and wondered what Air Chief Marshal Semangala, or whatever his title might be, was doing just at that moment. Away in the distance I saw the four barrels of a 20-millimetre AA quickfirer rotating.
I said, ‘Has a war broken out, Colonel?’
‘Exercises,’ he said briefly. ‘You may go now.’
It was a curt dismissal but I wasn’t sorry to get it. I joined Sadiq and we drove back to our lines. I passed the word for everyone to remain clear of the bridge and to let the army through, once the rig was safely on the other side and uncoupled from its umbilicus. Everyone was bursting with curiosity and the tension caused by the rig’s river passage had noticeably increased, which wasn’t surprising. But I had little to tell them and presently everyone fell silent, just watching and waiting.
Seventeen minutes later the rig was clear of the bridge and safe on firm land again. Things are comparative, and after the bridge even the most friable and potholed road would seem like a doddle, at least for a time. The airlift truck was uncoupled, its hoses stowed, and it was moved back from the bridge approach. The Colonel came towards us in his staff car.
‘Thank you,’ he said abruptly. Graciousness was not a quality often found out here and this was the nearest we’d get to it. He spoke into the mike and his leading motorcycles roared off across the bridge.
I said, ‘Mind a bit of advice, Colonel?’
He speared me with dark eyes. ‘Well?’
‘That bridge really isn’t too safe: it’s been cheaply made. I’d space out my tanks crossing it, if I were you.’
He nodded shortly. ‘Thank you, Mister Mannix.’
‘My pleasure.’
He peered at me uncertainly and then signed to his driver to go ahead. As he drove off already talking into his microphone, I sighed for the days of the mythical bush telegraph. The battalion that followed was mostly armour, tanks and a battery of self-propelling guns, with a few truckloads of infantry for close defence work. Even as small a unit as a battalion takes up an awful lot of road space and it was twenty dusty minutes before the rearguard had crossed. I watched them climb the hill on the other side of the river and then said, ‘Right, you guys. Let’s go and join Mister Kemp, shall we?’
As the convoy started I turned to Sadiq. ‘And then, Captain, perhaps you’ll be good enough to find out from your driver, and then tell me, what the hell is going on. I know you’ll have had him radio-eavesdropping right from