The Dark of the Sun - Smith Wilbur - Страница 1

The Dark Of The Sun [047-066-4.8]

By: Wilbur Smith

Category: Fiction Thriller

Synopsis:

The bend in the road rushed towards them, just a few more seconds. Then

with a succession of jarring crashes that shook the whole body of the

car a burst of fire hit them from behind. The windscreen starred into a

sheet of opaque diamond lacework, the dashboard clock exploded powdering

Shermaine's hair with particles of glass, two bullets tore "through the

seat ripping out the stuffing like the entrails of a wounded animal.

"Bruce Curry is the leader of a mercenary band with the dubious support

of three white officers. His mission is to relieve a mining

town cut off by the fighting and to retrieve a priceless consignment of

diamonds. Ranged against his ill-disciplined unit are bandits,

guerrillas and hostile tribes that infest the land. But there is

another, even deadlier enemy, - one of his own men ...

"I don't like the idea," announced Wally Hendry, and belched. He moved

his tongue round his mouth getting the taste of it before he went on. "I

think the whole idea stinks like a ten-day corpse." He lay sprawled on

one of the beds with a glass balanced on his naked chest

and he was sweating heavily in the Congo heat.

"Unfortunately your opinion doesn't alter the fact that we are going."

Bruce Curry went on laying out his shaving tackle without looking up.

"You shoulda told them to keep it, told them we were staying here in

Elisabethville, - why didn't you tell them that, hey?" o Hendry picked

up his glass and swallowed the contents.

"Because they pay me not to argue." Bruce spoke without interest and

looked at himself in the fly-spotted mirror above the washbasin.

The face that looked back was sundarkened with a cap of close-cropped

black hair; soft hair that would be unruly and inclined to curl if it

were longer.

Black eyebrows slanting upwards at the corners, green eyes with a heavy

fringe of lashes and a mouth which could smile as readily as it

could sulk. Bruce regarded his good looks without pleasure. It was a

long time since he had felt that emotion, a long time since his mouth

had either smiled or sulked. He did not feel the old tolerant affection

for his nose, the large slightly hooked nose that rescued his face from

prettiness and gave him the air of a genteel pirate.

"Jesus!" growled Wally Hendry from the bed. "I've had just about a

gutsful of this nigger army. I don't mind fighting but I don't fancy

going hundreds of miles out into the bush to play nursemaid to a bunch

of bloody refugees."

"It's a hell of a life," agreed Bruce absently and spread shaving-soap

on his face. The lather was very white against his tan. Under a skin

that glowed so healthily that it appeared to have been freshly oiled,

the muscles of his

shoulders and chest changed shape as he moved. He was in good

condition, fitter than he had been for many years, but this fact gave

him no more pleasure than had his face.

"Get me another drink, Andre." Wally Hendry thrust his empty glass into

the hand of the man who sat on the edge of the bed.

The Belgian stood up and went across to the table obediently.

"More whisky and less beer in this one," Wally instructed, turned once

more to Bruce and belched again. "That's what I think of the

idea." As Andre poured Scotch whisky into the glass and filled it with

beer Wally hitched around the pistol in its webbing holster until it

hung between his legs.

"When are we leaving?" he asked.

"There'll be an engine and five coaches at the goods yard first thing

tomorrow morning. We'll load up and get going as soon as possible."

Bruce started to shave, drawing the razor down from temple to chin and

leaving the skin smooth and brown behind it.

"After three months of" fighting a bunch of greasy little Gurkhas

I was looking forward to a bit of fun. - I haven't even had a pretty in

all that time - now the second day after the ceasefire and they ship us

out again."

"C'est laguerre," muttered Bruce, his face twisted in the

act of shaving.

"What's that mean?" demanded Wally suspiciously.

"That's war," Bruce translated.

"Talk English, Bucko." It was the measure of Wally Hendry that after six

months

in the Belgian Congo he could neither speak nor understand a

single word of French.

There was silence again, broken only by the scraping of Bruce's razor

and the small metallic sound as the fourth man in the hotel room

stripped and cleaned his FN rifle.

"Have a drink, Haig," Wally invited him.

"No, thanks." Michael Haig glanced up, not trying to conceal his

distaste as he looked at Wally.

"You're another snotty bastard - don't want to drink with me, hey?

Even the high-class Captain Curry is drinking with me. What makes you so

goddam special?"

"You know that I don't drink." Haig turned his attention back to his

weapon, handling it with easy familiarity. For

all of them the ugly automatic rifles had become an extension of their

own bodies. Even while shaving Bruce had only to drop his hand to reach

the rifle propped against the wall, and the two men on the bed had

theirs on the floor beside them.

"You don't drink!" chuckled Wally. "Then how did you get that

complexion, Bucko? How come your nose looked like a ripe plum?" Haig's

mouth tightened and the hands on his rifle stilled.

"Cut it out, Wally," said Bruce without heat.

"Haig don't drink," crowed Wally, and dug the little Belgian in the ribs

with his thumb, "get that, Andre! He's a tee-bloody-total!

My old man was a tee total also; sometimes for two, three months at a

time he was tee total, and then he'd come home one night and sock the old

lady in the clock so you could hear her teeth rattle from across the

street." His laughter choked him and he had to wait for it to clear

before he went on.

"My bet is that you're that kind of tee total, Haig. One drink and you

wake up ten days later; that's it, isn't it?

One drink and - pow! - the old girl gets it in the chops and the kids

don't eat for a couple of weeks." Haig laid the rifle down carefully on

the bed and looked at Wally with his jaws clenched, but

Wally had not noticed.

He went on happily.

"Andre, take the whisky bottle and hold it under Old Teetotal

Haig's nose. Let's watch him slobber at the mouth and his eyes stand out

like a pair of dog's balls." Haig stood up. Twice the age of Wally - a

man in his middle fifties, with grey in his hair and the refinement of

his features not completely obliterated by the marks that life had left

upon them. He had arms like a boxer and a powerful set to his shoulders.

"It's about time YOU learned a few manners, Hendry. Get on your feet."

"You wanta dance or something? I don't waltz, - ask

Andre. He'll dance with you - won't you, Andre?" Haig was balanced on

the balls of his feet, his hands closed and raised slightly. Bruce

Curry placed his razor on the shelf above the basin, and moved quietly

round the table with soap still on his face to take up a position from

which he could intervene. There he waited, watching the two men.