Cry Wolf

"It's a raft." He circled the complicated platform of empty oil drums
with its decking of timber slats, indicating its finer features with
the half-empty beer bottle.
"Armoured cars don't swim, and we have to land them on a shelving
beach. It's unlikely we will be able to get within a hundred yards of
the shore. We'll float them off." Vicky was looking at the fine
muscling of Jake's shoulders and arms, at the flat belly and the dark
pelt of hair that covered his chest, but Gareth was fascinated by the
crudely constructed raft.
"I was going to talk to you about landing the cars, and suggest
something like this," Gareth said, and Jake lifted an eyebrow at him in
disbelief.
"All we must make sure of is that the vessel that lands us has a
derrick strong enough to swing the cars outboard."
"What do they weigh?"
"Five tons each."
"Fine, the HirondeUe can handle that."
"The Hirondelle?"
"The vessel that's transporting us."
"So you have been working."
Jake laughed. "I would never have believed it of you. When do we
sail?"
"Dawn, the day after tomorrow. We will load during the night not
wanting to advertise our cargo and we will sail at first light."
"That doesn't give me much time to teach Miss Camberwell to drive one
of the cars." Jake turned to her now, and once again felt the thrill
of looking into those speckled eyes of green and gold. "I'm going to
need a deal of your time."
"That's one thing I've got plenty of at the moment." For Vicky the
interlude in Dares Salaam had served to rest her tired and strained
nerves. her previous assignment at Geneva had been irksome and
wearying. She had spent the last few days exploring the ancient port
and writing a two-thousand-word filler on its origins and history. She
had enjoyed Gareth Swales's attentions and the by-play of avoiding his
more serious advances. Now she was becoming aware of Jake
Barton's smouldering admiration. Nothing like being pursued by two
tough, dangerous and forceful males to relax a girl, she thought, and
smiled at Jake, enjoying his reaction, and watching Gareth Swales
bridle and move in to intervene.
"I can give Vicky a bit of instruction on the jolly old machines, don't
want to take you off important work." Vicky did not turn her head, but
went on smiling at Jake.
"I think that's rather Mr. Barton's department," she said.
"Jake," said Jake.
"Vicky," said Vicky.
This whole business was turning out very well indeed. A good story to
chase, a worthy cause to support, another daring escapade to add to the
blooming lustre of her reputation. She knew none of her colleagues had
dared the League's sanctions and violated international frontiers with
a gang of gun-runners to file a story.
As a bonus, there were two attractive males for company, It all looked
very good indeed, just as long as she kept it all on a manageable
basis, and did not let her emotions get into an uproar once more.
They followed the path down through the mahogany forest, and she smiled
secretly to herself as she watched Gareth and Jake jockeying for
position beside her. However, when they reached the clearing, Gareth
stopped abruptly.
"What now? "he demanded.
"The paint job is Greg's idea," explained Jake. "Make people think
twice before they start shooting at us." The four vehicles were now
painted a glistening snowy white, and the turrets were emblazoned with
a flaming scarlet cross.
"if the French or the Italians try to stop us, we are a unit of
armoured ambulances of the International Red Cross.
You, Greg and I are doctors, and Vicky is a nursing sister."
"My
God, you have been busy." Vicky was impressed.
"Also the white paint will be cooler in the desert," Greg explained
seriously. "They call it the "Great Burn" with good reason."
"The carrying racks I designed," said Jake. "Each vehicle will be able
to carry two forty-gallon drums of gasoline and one of water at the
rear of the turret. The crates of arms and ammunition we will
distribute between the four of them and rope them down here across the
sponsons, - I have welded cleats here to take the ropes."
"The crates will be a dead giveaway," objected Gareth.
"They are all marked-"
"We'll plane off the marking and re-label them as medical supplies,
"Jake told him, then took Vicky's arm. "I've chosen this one for you.
She's the most docile and friendly of the four."
"Do they have characters of their own?" Vicky teased him, and laughed
at the seriousness of his reply.
"They are just like women. My iron ladies," he slapped the nearest
machine. "This one is an absolute darling except that her rear
suspension is slightly out of alignment, so she waggles her bottom a
bit at speed. It's nothing serious, however, but it's why her name
is
Miss Wobbly. She's yours.
You'll grow to love her. "Jake walked on and kicked the tyre of the
next car. "This one is the bitch of the party. She tried to break my
wrist the very first time I ever cranked her. She is known as
Priscilla the Pig. I'm the only one who can handle her. She doesn't
love me, but she respects me." He moved on. "Greg has chosen this one
and called her Tenastelin which means "God is with us" - I hope he is
right, but I doubt it. Greg is a bit funny about that sort of thing.
He tells me he was going to be a priest once." He winked at the
youngster. "Gareth, this one is yours she has a brand new carburettor.
I think it is only fair you should enjoy her, since you are the one who
risked all to obtain it."
"Oh?" Vicky's eyes lit with interest, the news-hound in her aroused.
"What happened?"
"It's a long story," Jake grinned, "but it involved a long and
dangerous ride on a camel. "Gareth choked on a lungful of cheroot
smoke and coughed, but
Jake went on remorselessly, "She shall therefore be known in future
as
Henrietta the Hump the Hump for short."
"How very cute," said Vicky.
After midnight the four vehicles moved in column through the dark and
sleeping streets of the old town. The steel shutters were closed down
over the headlights so that only a narrow strip of light was thrown
forwards and downwards. The engines were idling as they moved at
walking speed under the trees whose spread branches hung over the road
and hid the stars.
The cars were heavily loaded. the burden that each of them carried
were drums and crate st coils of rope and netting,
trenching tools and camping equipment.
Gareth Swales led the column, freshly shaven and dressed in grey
flannel Oxford bags and a white jersey with the I Zingari cricket
colours adorning the neck and cuffs. He was mildly concerned that the
proprietor of the Royal Hotel might become aware of his imminent
departure, for there was a bill for three weeks" board outstanding and
a formidable pile of unpaid chit ties signed with the Swales flourish
for champagne supplied. Gareth would definitely feel happier out at