The QE2 Is Missing

It was a battle in hell. Clouds of sickening smoke poured out from the charred walls and carpeting, to be beaten down by the spray. Figures stumbled through it and there was the sharp crackle of gunfire.

Uzi was the last one in, stumbling over Josep, who had wiggled free of the flame-thrower and was trying to stand. Uzi shoved him aside, and pushed his way along the wall. There, just before him, was Wielgus, firing his pistol over and over. Uzi did not shoot, but instead hurled his own gun at the man, catching him on the jaw and sending him staggering backwards. Before he could right himself Uzi was upon him, chopping at his wrist, seizing the gun, burying his fist deep in the roll of fat over his solar plexus. Wielgus dropped, falling over Sergeant Pradera who was lying sideways on the floor, still tied to his chair. He had hurled it over when the shooting had started.

“What kept you?” the Sergeant said.

The brief battle was over. Above their heads the sprays of water died away to a trickle, then stopped. Most of the lights were out and someone opened the drapes. Gray light of dawn filtered in on the carnage.

“We have them,” Josep said happily.

Diaz looked around at the carnage, the charred flesh of the man next to the door, then turned and threw up.

They had indeed won. At a bitter price to both sides. Admiral Marquez was dead, a bullet through his face.

“Small loss,” Josep said, pushing the body with his toe, then pointing his gun at General Stroessner who was unharmed. Stroessner let the empty pistol drop from his fingers and backed slowly away.

It was Major de Laiglesia who had caught the full blast of the flame-thrower — he had been standing just in front of the door when it was kicked open. The Major had tortured his last victim, was now the victim of a torture far worse than anything he had ever inflicted himself. Leandro Diaz looked down at the eyeless, faceless, charred and still living object that was moaning in a continuous, breathless, mewling sound. Then he bent and placed his pistol against the side of the black-charred head. A single, muffled shot blasted out.

Wielgus lay writhing on the floor, both hands pressed to his stomach, oblivious to the fact that Colonel Manfred Hartig lay next to him, sightless eyes staring upward. The handful of survivors of the Polish concentration camps that he had supervised would have enjoyed the sight. There would be no need of a trial for the Colonel.

Karl-Heinz Eitmann was alive, cowering against the wall. He had always been afraid of guns and did not really know how to use one; he had thrown his pistol away when the firing had begun.

This was not true of Klaus who stood, head down, obsessed with bitterness and shame. For over thirty years he had been Doktor Wielgus’s bodyguard — and he had failed him in his hour of need. He could not hold a gun. By reflex he had raised his hands before his face when the flame rolled towards him. His face was scorched a bit, his hair burnt away, nothing important. But his hands were like raw meat, the skin hanging off them in strips. He had tried to hold the gun, to fire, but his fingers would not obey him.

These were the only German survivors. The attackers had suffered as well. Three men dead, Concepcion on the floor, blood flowing from her throat and mouth.

“Where is the doctor?” Josep called out. It was Sergeant Pradera who answered him.

“In the bedroom with the injured Uruguayan.” Pradera levered himself up on an elbow, trying to ignore the waves of pain from his legs, and looked quickly about the room. “All accounted for. No stragglers with the doctor.”

“Diaz, get him,” Josep ordered. Diaz hurried into the bedroom and returned a moment later pushing out the protesting Dr. Llusera, his black bag clutched to his chest.

“That man on the bed, he is injured, concussion, I shouldn’t leave him… my God!” He looked around at the blackened chaos, the dead and wounded, the handful of survivors. “This is awful, awful…. “

“Here! This woman,” Josep ordered.

The doctor knelt beside Concepcion and saw that her eyes were open, looking up at him. “Don’t try to talk,” he said. “You have been shot in the neck.” He felt beneath her head. “Very lucky. Missed the spine. No major blood vessels severed. Lie quietly. I’ll dress the wound, give you something for the pain.”

Running footsteps sounded from the corridor outside and three men burst in through the door. They were dressed in heavy protective clothing with breathing apparatus, and carried fire extinguishers and axes. At the sight of the carnage in the room they stopped dead, staring at the guns that covered them. Josep waved them into the room.