Rebel in Time

The night was suddenly silent. The firing outside the building had ceased. He backed slowly to the entrance door, the questing muzzle of his gun looking on all sides. There were no survivors. He still kept it pointed while he wrestled the wooden bar off the door and pulled it open with one hand.

'Is that you?' a voice called from the darkness outside. It was Shaw's.

'Right. Come ahead. I'm pretty certain that all resistance here has been knocked out.'

There were two dead guards outside. Shaw stepped over the bodies and pushed the door wide, then handed in the saddlebags. 'How did it go?' Troy asked.

'Not good. The guards saw us, opened fire. We returned it, got them both, but it alerted the others inside. You know what happened after that.'

'I certainly do. I came in the back way. I was lucky.'

'We have two men dead. One wounded. And another man who's not hurt.'

'Go to him. Tell him to get the wounded man to John Brown. He is to report that we have secured the rifle works and all is well.'

'Right.'

Troy stood in silence, gun pointed and ready, until Shaw returned. 'Bolt the door,' he ordered. Shaw did so, looking around at the huddled bodies as he pushed the bar into place, then at Troy. He pointed.

'Is that the gun you told me about?'

'It is. You have seen what it can do. What do you think an army of rebels could do with guns like this?'

'Sweet Jesus,' Shaw breathed. 'Are we in time?'

'I think so. The weapon's existence is still being kept secret. The chances are that they might still be stored here. Let's look. You take this. Here.'

He handed over the submachinegun and Shaw took it reluctantly. 'I don't know anything about it,' he said.

Troy nodded grimly. 'You don't have to know, not with a gun like this. It's cocked now. Just point it and pull the trigger. It sprays death. Now cover me.'

Troy carefully reloaded his pistol before they began the search. Shaw stood ready with the Sten as they went through the building, room by room. There was no one else there. They were almost certain of this when they found the guard room; Troy pointed to the beds.

'Eight of them. And eight dead soldiers. I think we have them all. But I still don't want to take any chances.'

Half of the rifle works was made up of the machine shop. There were long-bedded drills for manufacturing the rifled barrels, as well as iron-framed presses for drawing the cartridges. To the rear were storerooms for bar metal and other supplies, as well as a sealed room that proved to be filled with barrels of gunpowder and boxes of fulminate caps. It was next to a bigger storeroom with an even heavier locked door. It took them a quarter of an hour, working with crowbars, to smash their way through it. When the door finally opened, Troy stepped in, holding the lantern high.

Boxes were stacked there, row after row of them, stretching from the floor almost up to the rafters. They walked to the nearest ones, still unsealed, and looked in.

The first one was filled with neatly packed brass boxes of bullets.

Submachineguns were in the next crate.

'Is this it?' Shaw asked. 'What you were looking for?'

'It is. The machinery to manufacture these weapons, and the guns and ammunition as well. All in one place. It's almost too much to expect. But we must make the most of the opportunity.' He looked slowly around. 'We better get started — we have plenty of work to finish before the night is out.'

'What are you going to do?'

'I thought it was obvious. Blow up the machinery. Burn this place down. Destroy it utterly. And when that is done we go after McCulloch. No more running away.

'I must find that man and kill him. This threat must be ended for ever.'

Chapter 33

'If you really want to prevent this factory from ever operating again,' Shaw said, 'you are going to have a most difficult job.'

'Why? Won't burning it down put it out of commission?'

'Only temporarily — if there are people who are really desperate to keep it running.' He slapped the frame of one of the big presses. 'These things are made of cast-iron and steel. I've seen them taken out of the burned ruins of a collapsed building, dusted off and greased — and put back to work within twenty-four hours.'

'Then what are we to do?' Troy asked.

'We are to do what our French cousins call sabotage, an act of botching. We shall botch these machines beyond repair. The drawing presses that form the cartridges would be the best for us to work our mischief upon. They are the most delicate — and practically irreplaceable. Specially made to order in Scotland. A charge of black powder for each one should do the job well enough.'