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Juggernaut
Desmond Bagley
Action thriller by the classic adventure writer set in Africa.It is no ordinary juggernaut. Longer than a football pitch, weighing 550 tons, and moving at just five miles per hour, its job – and that of troubleshooter Neil Mannix – is to move a giant transformer across an oil-rich African state. But when Nyala erupts in civil war, Mannix’s juggernaut is at the centre of the conflict – a target of ambush and threat, with no way to run and nowhere to hide…
DESMOND BAGLEY
Juggernaut
COPYRIGHT (#ulink_33a9aef5-d1f9-5538-abe2-bd9255635763)
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by Collins 1985
Copyright © Brockhurst Publications 1985
Cover layout design Richard Augustus © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Desmond Bagley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Source ISBN: 9780008211394
Ebook Edition © August 2017 ISBN: 9780008211400
Version: 2017-06-29
CONTENTS
Cover (#u5b47423a-ba76-5039-bb1b-9f900dfa0233)
Title Page (#uc7150c75-88b3-5c8d-92d5-94be0845075c)
Copyright (#u76d04578-b1b7-56ec-a014-f1fa6e49e9e4)
Juggernaut (#uacf33b38-a695-5bf2-92a9-3858f32f5a4b)
One (#u7bba76d8-aa83-5ff9-9761-d6aaf4296770)
Two (#u36d52048-84b1-5bb2-bcb1-e3322f16118c)
Three (#u90108dc7-1d51-5c0b-a30c-0a4745caa67d)
Four (#u5dd08539-9c55-5cb5-8c28-5f8d22555cc6)
Five (#u72f70cb3-daf4-5fe4-a150-c31f711523d6)
Six (#u8e580fbd-0d3a-5b5c-8931-881717c6b983)
Seven (#uc0e636e7-bf20-5b98-ab45-489a1c9928c8)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
JUGGERNAUT (#ulink_2c6424b2-f041-5808-9156-d496b65edf27)
ONE (#ulink_0e025d1f-bc88-59f6-93f2-74bef38078fc)
The telephone call came when I was down by the big circular pool chatting up the two frauleins I had cut out of the herd. I didn’t rate my chances too highly. They were of an age which regards any man of over thirty-five as falling apart at the seams; but what the hell, it was improving my German.
I looked up at the brown face of the waiter and said incredulously, ‘A phone call for me?’
‘Yes, sir. From London.’ He seemed impressed.
I sighed and grabbed my beach robe. ‘I’ll be back,’ I promised, and followed the waiter up the steps towards the hotel. At the top I paused. ‘I’ll take it in my room,’ I said, and cut across the front of the hotel towards the cabana I rented.
Inside it was cool, almost cold, and the air conditioning unit uttered a muted roar. I took a can of beer from the refrigerator, opened it, and picked up the telephone. As I suspected, it was Geddes. ‘What are you doing in Kenya?’ he asked. The line was good; he could have been in the next room.
I drank some beer. ‘What do you care where I take my vacations?’
‘You’re on the right continent. It’s a pity you have to come back to London. What’s the weather like there?’
‘It’s hot. What would you expect on the equator?’
‘It’s raining here,’ he said, ‘and a bit cold.’
I’d got used to the British by now. As with the Arabs there is always an exchange of small talk before the serious issues arise but the British always talk about the weather. I sometimes find it hard to take. ‘You didn’t ring me for a weather report. What’s this about London?’
‘Playtime is over, I’m afraid. We have a job for you. I’d like to see you in my office the day after tomorrow.’
I figured it out. Half an hour to check out, another hour to Mombasa to turn in the rented car. The afternoon flight to Nairobi and then the midnight flight to London. And the rest of that day to recover. ‘I might just make it,’ I conceded, ‘but I’d like to know why.’
‘Too complicated now. See you in London.’
‘Okay,’ I said grouchily. ‘How did you know I was here, by the way?’
Geddes laughed lightly. ‘We have our methods, Watson, we have our methods.’ There was a click and the line went dead.
I replaced the handset in disgust. That was another thing about the British – they were always flinging quotations at you, especially from Sherlock Holmes and Alice in Wonderland. Or Winnie the Pooh, for God’s sake!
I went outside the cabana and stood on the balcony while I finished the beer. The Indian Ocean was calm and palm fronds fluttered in a light breeze. The girls were splashing in the pool, having a mock fight, and their shrill laughter cut through the heated air. Two young men were watching them with interest. Goodbyes were unnecessary, I thought, so I finished the beer and went inside to pack.
A word about the company I work for. British Electric is about as British as Shell Oil is Dutch – it’s gone multinational, which is why I was one of the many Americans in its employ. You can’t buy a two kilowatt electric heater from British Electric, nor yet a five cubic foot refrigerator, but if you want the giant-sized economy pack which produces current measured in megawatts then we’re your boys. We’re at the heavy end of the industry.
Nominally I’m an engineer but it must have been ten years since I actually built or designed anything. The higher a man rises in a corporation like ours the less he is concerned with purely technical problems. Of course, the jargon of modern management makes everything sound technical and the subcommittee rooms resound with phrases drawn from critical path analysis, operations research and industrial dynamics, but all that flim-flam is discarded at the big boardroom table, where the serious decisions are made by men who know there is a lot more to management than the mechanics of technique.
There are lots of names for people like me. In some companies I’m called an expeditor, in others a troubleshooter. I operate in the foggy area bounded on the north by technical problems, on the east by finance, on the west by politics, and on the south by the sheer quirkiness of humankind. If I had to put a name to my trade I’d call myself a political engineer.
Geddes was right about London; it was cold and wet. There was a strong wind blowing which drove the rain against the windows of his office with a pattering sound. After Africa it was bleak.
He stood up as I entered. ‘You have a nice tan,’ he said appreciatively.
‘It would have been better if I could have finished my vacation. What’s the problem?’
‘You Yanks are always in such a hurry,’ complained Geddes. That was good for a couple of laughs. You don’t run an outfit like British Electric by resting on your butt and Geddes, like many other Britishers in a top ranking job, seemed deceptively slow but somehow seemed to come out ahead. The classic definition of a Hungarian as a guy who comes behind you in a revolving door and steps out ahead could very well apply to Geddes.
The second laugh was that I could never break them of the habit of calling me a Yank. I tried calling Geddes a Scouse once, and then tried to show him that Liverpool is closer to London than Wyoming to New England, but it never sank in.
‘This way,’ he said. ‘I’ve a team laid on in the boardroom.’
I knew most of the men there, and when Geddes said, ‘You all know Neil Mannix,’ there was a murmur of assent. There was one new boy whom I didn’t know, and whom Geddes introduced. ‘This is John Sutherland – our man on the spot.’
‘Which spot?’
‘I said you were on the right continent. It’s just that you were on the wrong side.’ Geddes pulled back a curtain covering a notice board to reveal a map. ‘Nyala.’
I said, ‘We’ve got a power station contract there.’
‘That’s right.’ Geddes picked up a pointer and tapped the map. ‘Just about there – up in the north. A place called Bir Oassa.’
Someone had stuck a needle into the skin of the earth and the earth bled copiously. Thus encouraged, another hypodermic went into the earth’s hide and the oil came up driven by the pressure of natural gas. The gas, although not altogether unexpected, was a bonus. The oil strike led to much rejoicing and merriment among those who held on to the levers of power in a turbulent political society. In modern times big oil means political power on a world scale, and this was a chance for Nyala to make its presence felt in the comity of nations, something it had hitherto conspicuously failed to do. Oil also meant money – lots of it.
‘It’s good oil,’ Geddes was saying. ‘Low sulphur content and just the right viscosity to make it bunker grade without refining. The Nyalans have just completed a pipeline from Bir Oassa to Port Luard, here on the coast. That’s about eight hundred miles. They reckon they can offer cheap oil to ships on the round-Africa run to Asia. They hope to get a bit of South American business too. But all that’s in the future.’
The pointer returned to Bir Oassa. ‘There remains the natural gas. There was talk of running a gas line paralleling the oil line, building a liquifying plant at Port Luard, and shipping the gas to Europe. The North Sea business has made that an uneconomical proposition.’
Geddes shifted the pointer further north, holding it at arm’s length. ‘Up there between the true desert and the rain forests is where Nyala plans to build a power station.’
Everyone present had already heard about this, but still there were murmurs and an uneasy shifting. It would take more than one set of fingers to enumerate the obvious problems. I picked one of them at random.
‘What about cooling water? There’s a drought in the Sahara.’
McCahill stirred. ‘No problem. We put down boreholes and tapped plenty of water at six thousand feet.’ He grimaced. ‘Coming up from that depth it’s pretty warm, but extra cooling towers will take care of that.’ McCahill was on the design staff.
‘And as a spin-off we can spare enough for local irrigation and consumption, and that will help to put us across to the inhabitants.’ This from Public Relations, of course.
‘The drought in the Sahara is going to continue for a long time yet,’ Geddes said. ‘If the Nyalans can use their gas to fuel a power station then there’ll be the more electricity for pumping whatever water there is and for irrigating. They can sell their surplus gas to neighbour states too. Niger is interested in that already.’
It made sense of a kind, but before they could start making their fortunes out of oil and gas they had to obtain the stuff. I went over to the map and studied it.
‘You’ll have trouble with transport. There’s the big stuff like the boilers and the transformers. They can’t be assembled on site. How many transformers?’
‘Five,’ McCahill said. ‘At five hundred megawatts each. Four for running and one spare.’
‘And at three hundred tons each,’ I said.
‘I think Mister Milner has sorted that out,’ said Geddes.
