War From The Clouds (6 page)

The radio went dead, the connection broken. I almost did throw the thing off the mountain, but Antonio was watching me closely for my reaction. I smiled, in spite of myself. So much for Hawk's readiness to pluck me out of trouble no matter where I was or how deep the trouble.

"You heard the man, Antonio. We're on our own."

He was about to say something when we heard the twig snap behind us. We had already loaded up the two Russian Volskas with the extra clips, but had thrown away the empty forty fives. They were too heavy to carry around, waiting to find extra clips. I had taped Wilhelmina to the small of my back, where she usually rested. I had stashed extra 9mm cartridges with the radio, but hadn't yet reloaded the luger.

Antonio was the first to respond. He flopped to his stomach and poked the bulky Volska out ahead of him, aiming at the direction of the noise of the breaking twig. I shuttled the radio back into its niche between three rocks, snatched up and pocketed two extra clips for Wilhelmina, then went to the firing position.

We waited perhaps three minutes, listening to silence from the forest behind our secure ledge. Birds called. Wind whistled up from the lovely Reina Valley. There was, however, no sign of human or animal presence near us. Antonio was about to rise again when we heard the snapping again. Then came several snappings. Christ, there must be a whole battalion out there. How had they found us?

The drop from the far end of the ledge was more than twenty feet, with no slant. At the bottom was a bare area of gravel and sharp rocks, then the thick jungle below that. Even if we made it over the side without breaking any bones — more specifically, our necks — we'd have a few dozen feet of open terrain to cross before reaching the cover of the jungle.

We had no choice. The hill behind us was filling up with Marines or guerillas, or both, getting into position to catch us in a crossfire that not even the ants would escape with their antennae intact.

Although I was convinced that they could see us, or had seen us earlier and were moving up by quadrant positions, I sensed another opportunity to build my image as a magician with the good Colonel Vasco. I motioned for Antonio to follow me.

Using my elbows as legs, I edged across the narrow ledge to one side, where the drop to the rocky area below wasn't quite so high or so steep. We eased over the edge like a couple of eels. We were no sooner dropping through space than I heard the sharp bark of the colonel.

"Fire, fire, fire! Annihilate them!"

He had obviously lost his desire to quiz me and then personally remove my intestines. He wasn't about to let me slip away again as he had back there on the compound trail.

Antonio and I hit the ground at the same time. He landed lightly, flipping over in the air to keep his feet. I miscued slightly and came down on an angle, pitching forward and clanking my ankle on an outcropping of rock. The pain rumbled up through my body like a tidal wave of pellets. I stifled a yell, unwilling to give the colonel even a brief moment of pleasure.

We were off and running — me limping — even before the Marines and guerillas stopped firing. We were in the dark trees before they appeared on the ledge above. I knew they would expect us to run straight down the steep hill through the trees.

"You go left," I said to Antonio, gasping from the pain that was still running its course through my bones. "I'll go right. Stay near the top of the hill. When you're clear, meet me at the lookout point I told about, the one overlooking the valley and Mount Toro."

Further instructions were cut off by a fusillade of bullets tearing through the trees. Antonio took off, as directed. I ran-limped the other way, hearing the shots above me and the bullets thudding into the rocky soil right behind me.

I hadn't gone twenty feet when the bullet caught me. It was a ricochet off a rock, but it was just as effective as if it had come straight from the muzzle of the Russian automatic weapon. I felt the dull thud in the soft part of my left side, toward the back. I kept running, though, waiting for a hail of bullets to cut me down.

I made it three hundred yards before I collapsed from the pain. My ankle throbbed like a tympanny drum. My side, bleeding profusely now, felt as though a shark had taken a bite out of it. Weakness came with the pain and I had to rest.

There were no further gunshots from above. Soon, though, I heard them thrashing down through the trees. Most of the search party was heading downhill, but the colonel, wising up to me now, had sent some of his men on sideways sortees. It wouldn't take too many of them to finish me off.

I got, up, ignoring the pain and weakness as much as was humanly possible — which wasn't much — and stumbled along for another two hundred yards, then started straight downhill. I was giving them a hell of a lot of jungle to search. I just hoped I didn't get lost in the process.

Within an hour, I was lost, and didn't care. The pain was a steady rasping throughout all of me, no longer concentrated in my ankle and side. Weakness was also constant, and building with galloping speed. I could tell that my mind was flirting with delerium and I tried to keep clear thoughts, make clear decisions.

But one trail looked like another. All streams seemed to be the same stream that I had already crossed, and re-crossed. All rocks in my path seemed like rocks I had fallen over miles back. I went on and on, up and down the hill. Sometimes, I rambled over high ranges where the trees were sparse and the going easy. Sometimes, I plunged down steep ravines and found myself in thick jungle where the going was all but impossible.

I kept on, knowing that it was necessary to lose myself in order to lose the enemy. I knew also that I had to stop the bleeding in my side or I would simply phase myself out in that thick jungle. I stopped at a stream beside a mossy bank. I took off my shirt, with painful exactitude, and looked at the wound. It was ragged. The bullet must have been in the process of breaking up when it struck me. There were at least three punctures, one large and two small. Blood was streaming from each of them.

I tore off a piece of my shirttail, having the presence of mind to make a small mental pun about tearing off a piece of tail, and gathered up some wet moss. I wrapped the moss in the fragment of shirt material and, using the tape that had held Wilhelmina in place, I stuck the soggy bandage against the wound and taped it into place.

New pain shot through me, threatening to black me out. I took deep breaths and remember thinking how nice it would be to crawl inside that mossy bank and to go to sleep, only to awaken as a carefree and unhunted insect or worm. What sweet bliss that would be.

Strangely, the memory of Elicia's farewell kiss was what brought a sense of reality to my mind. I remembered that dark night on the dirt road near her cousin's hut when she had stood on tiptoe to kiss me, sweetly, firmly. I hadn't been kissed in so innocent and pleasant a fashion since I was a teenager in high school. Perhaps my fond recollection of that kiss had something to do with the fact that Elicia, if she were in the United States, would be a relatively carefree teenager in high school. Instead, she was a peasant girl on this tormented island, open prey to the two-legged animals from another island, destined to grow old, abused, wornout and desolate by the time her teen years had barely gone by. My God, I thought, we Americans really have it soft.

And then I mentally crossed out the "we." At the moment, I was one American who didn't qualify for the soft life.

I moved on then, and the pain strangely abated in my side. My ankle continued to make its presence known, though, so the going was still difficult. By mid-afternoon, I had just about had it. My thoughts were weird and detached and I knew that I was getting delirious by leaps and bounds.

I saw myself running naked on a Caribbean beach, pursued by a flock of naked beauties. Even as I was considering turning to face them, and my delicious fate, the image shattered and I was sliding down a mountain of hot lava, feeling my body actually being cooked by the intense heat. I went suddenly cold and aroused to find myself submerged in a cold, fast-running creek. The water was loosening the bandage over my wound and I crawled from the creek to dry myself on leaves and to re-apply the bandage.

Hunger rose again in my stomach with a great rumbling. I couldn't be starving. It had been just over twenty four hours since I had eaten, but I had been burning up a lot of calories in that time. And losing a lot of blood.

After an hour or so resting on the creek bank where I failed to build up energy, as hoped, I struck off up a worn path that led up over a slight rise. It wasn't a steep rise, but climbing it was like trying to scale the south wall of Mount Everest. I reached the top, saw that the path disappeared into a wooded ravine, and decided to go down and see where the path led.

I took two steps, my ankle twisted on a rock and sent a searing pain through all my joints. I felt myself passing out and looked skyward for a point in reality. Nothing was real up there. Clouds floated in an azure sky, but they were no longer real to me. They could have been marshmallows in blue jello for all I knew.

The sky suddenly began to race before my eyes. I didn't know that I was falling until I hit the ground and felt stones scraping my face and hands. I was sliding down into the ravine where, something in my demented mind told me, great nests of jungle snakes waited to devour me after filling me with their painful poison.

I awoke and was on my back. There was no cloud-filled blue sky above me. There was a network of vines, expertly thatched into a roof. Around me were walls of the same jungle material, showing the hand of man. To my left was a door, open, showing a small clearing and then green jungle beyond. It seemed to be dusk out there. Or dawn.

The weakness was still with me, but my mind seemed to be functioning clearly. I couldn't feel any pain in my side or my ankle, yet I didn't feel as though I'd been drugged.

The room formed by the thatched walls and roof was small, as though designed for keeping a man or an animal in captivity. It reminded me of a hut used in an African prison camp in which I once spent a few months before Hawk found me and rescued me. But it wasn't hot in this room, the way it had been in the African version.

I started to sit up, to get my bearings a bit better. Something held me and I realized then that I was tied securely. My hands and arms were outspread and tied to stakes driven into the clay earth. Even my head was tied, with soft vines wrapped around it and attached to a stake somewhere behind me. Beneath my torso was a soft pallet of thatched jungle growth.

Strangely, I felt no fear at being tied up in this small, low-ceilinged hut. It was the drugs that made me feel safe, the same drugs that had taken away my pain. But I didn't know that yet.

In place of fear was the whimsical, almost comical, feeling that I was Gulliver reincarnated, that a jungle version of the Lilliputians had tied me in this small hut. I half expected to see tiny, six-inch Indians tippy-toeing into the hut to laugh at me, to point with triumph at the giant they had captured and tied with their little vines.

My first impulse, then, was to call out, to find out if tiny creatures had really brought me here — and why. I thought better of it, knowing that small creatures like the Lilliputians existed only in literature and in the minds of demented people. Something large and real had done this to me. My last memories had been of scudding down a path into a ravine. Yet, I felt no pain in my face and hands that must have been abraded badly in that fall.

Although natural fear didn't build in me — again because of the drugs — I did have a natural suspicion that no sane man, or no friend, would have brought me to this hut and staked me to the ground. Why I hadn't been killed, I didn't know. My mind began to conjure up all sorts of grisly plans my captor might have for me.

I was once again toying with the idea of calling out, to get to the bottom of this mystery if only to satisfy my curiosity and get the atrocities over with, when a shadow fell across the open door. I heard a scuffling footstep outside.

And then a huge, hulking figure appeared in the doorway. It was so tall that I could see only its legs. The figure knelt, and kept on kneeling. I guessed the man's height at around seven feet.

He was staring at me from the open doorway. The light behind him kept me from seeing his face and clothes clearly. But it was obvious that he was a giant and, in that dim light of dusk (it was growing darker, so I knew it wasn't dawn), I could see his eyes sparkling and shiny.

With a sharp drawing in of my breath, I remembered the description I'd been given of Don Carlos Italla. I could hear old Jorge Cortez's words as though he were in the hut with me:

In that moment I knew that Don Carlos Italla's men had found me in that ravine, had brought me here to this hut and staked me down. They had also drugged me to keep me docile.

I knew this for a fact. But I felt no real fear. My only regret, as I peered back at the giant with the massive hands and red, sparkling eyes, was that I hadn't given in to my earlier urges to buy and operate a truck garden along a quiet highway in Ohio.

Soon, there wouldn't be any quiet highways. And no Nick Carter either.

"Good evening, Don Carlos," I said, trying to sound flip even though my heart was pounding with a renewal of fear. "Are you doing your own surgery these days?"

The giant said nothing. He had something in his right hand, but I couldn't see what it was. Gun? Knife? Scalpel? He began to crawl into the hut, moving slowly toward me. The thing in his hand got scraped along the clay floor.