by Donn Taylor
“We do not know it was Sledge, Comandante.”
“There is no other man with that size and skill.” Contreras’s hand went to his brow. “What more can you tell me?”
“The outguards were killed with knives. We cannot tell how large a force was involved, nor in which direction it withdrew. Someone tried to cover their trail, but there are definite signs leading north. That is where I sent the pursuit party.”
“Very good, Tomás.” Contreras stroked his beard. “They will not go west, down the valley, and run into our main defenses. So it must be either north or south. I hope you have alerted our outguards on the two watersheds?”
“They will be ready, Comandante. But I am worried about our coup. If the women suspect and alert the authorities—”
“But what is their plan?” Contreras gave a final tug at his beard. “The distance is too great for them to walk out, and a truck could not pass our roadblocks. So they must be extracted by helicopter. They will know our men have orders not to shoot at helicopters unless threatened. We must rescind that order.”
“I will tell them to shoot down all helicopters until further notice.” Tomás’s face darkened. “But what about our coup? We cannot take a chance on the women—”
“Our coup will proceed as planned. In ten days we will have enough of the new munitions. As for the escape…”
Contreras’s anger pulsed in his temples. He did not particularly mind his men being killed. That was what they were for. But he could not abide knowing that someone had bested him. Steve Spinner had been his comrade once, but now he deserved whatever revenge Contreras might choose.
“You are right, Tomás. Neither the women nor their rescue party must reach the authorities. They must all be killed.”
****
Kristin listened as the sounds of firing continued—long bursts of full automatic echoing back and forth among the dark Andean peaks. That meant Sledge’s group had not achieved the surprise they’d hoped for. But did it mean they had failed?
One final automatic burst, followed by two single shots. Then a silence more terrifying than the gunfire. Some fatal conclusion had been reached. But what was it?
“What will we do?” whispered Jocelyn.
“Put on your night vision goggles and wait.”
Kristin didn’t know what to do either, but at least they would see anything that came their way. She adjusted her own night vision device and the black night dissolved into eerie green, as if she were submerged beneath the waters of a lake. The path showed clearly, and she could make out shapes of trees and bushes she judged to be more than fifty feet away. Now she understood how they could traverse the difficult mountain trails in full dark.
Another interminable wait. Then heavy footsteps sounded on the main trail. Footsteps of only one man. The steps came closer, and a ghostly green form materialized from the shadows. It stopped before them, its lungs sucking hard in the thin air.
“Señoritas,” the voice gasped, “this is Javier. Mario has been hurt. Put on your packs and come quickly.”
****
Night vision goggles had allowed Sledge and his two partners to move quickly toward the outguard’s position. They’d scouted it the night before and were cautiously confident its layout had not changed.
As they walked, Sledge reviewed the day’s events with satisfaction. Their plan had gone better than he’d hoped. The only negative was Steve Spinner’s spoiled brat with her harebrained scheme to recover photographs. She couldn’t have taken bird-watching that seriously, could she?
Odd that she’d make such a stupid scene when she seemed otherwise in possession of herself. And he was surprised at how unassertive the other woman, the reporter, had been. He’d expected her to be trouble. With an effort, he pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the task ahead.
Well short of the watershed, he led his men off the trail and crept up the mountainside to a position some thirty yards above the outguard. There he paused to confirm the guerrillas’ disposition. Two lay prone on each side of the trail in mutually supporting positions about twenty yards apart.
That made things difficult. Sledge’s party of three had to dispose of one guard each and still get to the fourth before he could open fire. The silenced pistol could not help; the silencer would not conceal its telltale muzzle flash. It could only be used to shoot the fourth guard without raising an alarm with the guerrilla main force in the valley.
Earlier that evening, all had agreed that whoever worked alone on the far side of the trail had the most dangerous task. Originally, Sledge had taken that job for himself, had given Mario the silenced pistol and responsibility for taking out the fourth guard. But Mario insisted that his pistol marksmanship was poor, and Javier made the same plea. Despite misgivings, Sledge gave in and kept the pistol, with Mario taking the hazardous task on the far side of the trail.
Now, poised on the slope above the guerrillas, Sledge and his companions exchanged nods to confirm their chosen targets. Mario had the greatest distance to travel, so Sledge and Javier waited ten minutes before making their own advance. Javier moved quietly as a panther as he slipped away toward the more distant guard on this side of the trail. Sledge admired his companion’s silence as he began his own movement toward the nearer guard. His night vision device helped him avoid fallen branches and other potential noisemakers.
Knife drawn, Sledge moved to within eight feet of his target. In the silence he could hear the man breathing. Muscles tense, Sledge crouched and prepared to spring forward in the attack.
Then one guard beyond the trail sprayed the slope above him with a long, full-automatic burst. The night was filled with echoes from the surrounding peaks and the sound of bullets ricocheting away among the trees. The muzzle flashes, greatly intensified in Sledge’s night vision goggles, blinded him momentarily.
The guard nearest him changed position and fired a burst from his weapon, aiming at something on the other side of the trail. Sledge ripped off his goggles with one hand and drew his pistol with the other, hoping that the guard would be momentarily deafened by the sound of his own firing. He waited, blinded and seeing nothing in the darkness. Off to his right he heard sounds of a struggle that indicated Javier was engaging his own target.
Then Sledge’s guard fired another burst, and Sledge could see him plainly in the flickering muzzle flashes. Sledge’s pistol spoke twice, and the guard’s weapon went silent. Across the path, both guards were firing at the forest above them. On the mountainside, two muzzle flashes returned fire. One of the guards cried out.
Sledge thrust aside the body of the guard and picked up the man’s weapon. When the remaining guard across the trail fired again, Sledge silenced him with two quick shots.
In the sudden quiet he listened, but heard only the ringing in his own ears. He put his goggles back on and the night came alive in ghostly green.
“Mario! Javier!” he called. “Sound off.”
“I am here, señor.” Javier’s voice came from somewhere on his right.
Mario called from the far side of the trail. “Over here. I have been hit.”
Sledge found him about twenty yards up the slope, holding a pre-packaged bandage to his thigh.
“He hit me with the first burst,” Mario said. “I must have made a noise. Very clumsy of me. But I took care of him after the second burst.”
“Don’t worry about that now,” Sledge said. He removed his goggles again and inspected the wound by the light of a red-lens penlight. “It’s not too bad. You’ve lost a chunk of muscle, but the bleeding is under control. We’ll tie that bandage around your leg, and you’ll be OK.” Confirming that Mario had poured an antibiotic powder on the wound, Sledge gave him an oral antibiotic from his own kit.
That done, he sent Javier to bring the packs and women, and began cleaning up the site of their skirmish. He dragged the guards’ bodies away from the trail so the women wouldn’t see them, then smashed the captured rifles against a tree, bending the barrel
s to prevent further use. The guards’ ammunition would be too heavy to carry, so he scattered it among the trees. Then he sat down beside Mario to wait.
Mario sighed. “I cannot walk, señor. You must leave me here.”
“We’re not leaving anyone,” Sledge said. “I’ll carry you.”
Another sigh. “I am much too heavy.”
“You forget my days in the weight room for American football. But if I get tired of carrying you, I’ll throw you off a cliff.”
They laughed together and let it go at that. Soon Mario drifted into sleep, though he awakened now and then to joke about his wound.
By the time Javier arrived with the women, Sledge had planned their movement and a re-allocation of their loads. Essentials from his and Mario’s packs were divided among the other three. Javier, carrying his own weapon and pack, would lead the way. The two women would follow, carrying Sledge’s and Mario’s AK-47s and ammunition as well as their now-heavier packs. Sledge, carrying the wounded Mario, would bring up the rear. To Sledge’s surprise, both women accepted their assignments without protest.
Javier helped lift Mario into a fireman’s-carry position on Sledge’s shoulders, then moved out along the trail. The two women followed, their slight forms incongruous under bulging packs and with rifles slung on their shoulders.
Sledge himself plodded heavily behind. Except for his brief catnap, he’d been awake almost forty-eight hours. He didn’t know for certain if he could carry his human burden all the way to the pickup point. In fact, there was only one thing he did know for sure.
It was going to be a long night.
****
For Kristin, the night dragged on forever. As the men sorted out the equipment, she tried to discover what had happened in their brief battle. She soon wished she hadn’t. In nearby bushes she tripped over a corpse. Finding dead bodies in Colombia was getting to be a habit.
She was glad when they moved again, despite the heavier pack and the added weight of an AK-47 and ammunition. Thank heaven it was mostly downhill! By now she’d grown accustomed to the green aquarium-world of night vision devices, which clearly revealed the pathway and the form of Javier, some twenty feet ahead of her.
Sledge halted every hour to make a flashlight-check of Mario’s bandage. Mario himself seemed either sleeping or in a daze. Kristin worried that Mario might be hurt worse than anyone thought. She also wondered how Sledge managed to carry a man the size of Mario. But then Sledge was big as an ox. Probably about that smart, she added. She hadn’t forgiven his roughness in camouflaging her face.
They plodded on through the frigid night, rarely speaking and then only in monosyllables. Kristin’s fatigue came back with a vengeance. Her legs and back ached, and only determination kept her going. Finally, as the black of the eastern horizon lightened with the first gray of dawn, Sledge called another halt. After checking Mario’s bandage, he unhooked the satellite phone from his belt and punched in a number. His heavy breathing told Kristin that he, too, suffered fatigue.
“Sledge here,” he said into the phone. “Mission accomplished. No black socks, one red sock. Request extraction.” Kristin gathered that the code words meant no dead and one wounded. Sledge turned off the phone. “The chopper will be here in about an hour.”
The announcement did not give Kristin new strength, but it did renew her resolution. She forced herself along with no thought beyond herself and her aching body. Even the growing daylight failed to lift her spirit. Nor did she react when Javier called to Sledge, “Señor, we are here.”
Through the trees ahead Kristin could see the clearing where they would rendezvous with the helicopter. Sledge gently lowered the dazed Mario and again checked the bandage.
“Stay here and rest,” he instructed the women. “Javier and I will make sure we don’t have company.”
They returned presently and moved the group forward to the edge of the clearing. A few minutes later, Kristin heard the sound of an approaching helicopter. Now her spirits did lift. This nightmare of captivity and rescue was almost over.
The sound grew louder. Sledge took a metal mirror from his pocket and moved into the clearing. The man might be a slob and an ape, Kristin thought, but he did have all the details worked out. Who would have remembered the simple, ancient trick of signaling with a mirror?
Passing overhead, the helicopter acknowledged the signal with a dip of blades to either side. It began a graceful turn and circled away from them to set up a landing pattern. But at the far point in the turn, perhaps a quarter mile distant, two pieces of the aircraft detached themselves from the tail rotor and fell toward the ground. The aircraft yawed erratically, then descended in half-controlled circles and disappeared behind the trees at the far side of the clearing. The sound of popping blades ended with a sickening crunch.
A plume of heavy black smoke rose above the trees.
8
Sledge watched the distant smoke that marked the site of the helicopter crash and groaned. His alternate plan meant, at best, another day in guerrilla territory. This was too much like that dream where he’d struggled to reach the top of a hill, only to find that another lay beyond it. How many more hills must he climb? From lack of sleep and carrying Mario all night he was ready to drop. But the immediate problem was to see if the pilot—probably Raúl—survived the crash.
Javier stood at his side. “What must we do, Señor Sledge?”
“You stay here and keep everyone under cover. I’ll go check on the pilot.”
Without waiting for a reply, Sledge took an AK-47 and ammunition and set off at a dogtrot toward the smoke. Some way or other, he had to find the strength to keep going. And there was something else to worry about. He’d heard automatic weapons fire just before the chopper went down. His rush to the crash scene might bring trouble, but he’d have to be fast to help the pilot. Even now, the pilot might be beyond help.
Sledge’s guess that the crash was about a quarter mile away proved correct. As he approached the site, he left the path and set off through the trees. He found the smoking ruins of the helicopter in a clearing too small for a normal landing. The pilot must have aimed his partially controlled aircraft at the best spot available. He’d obviously gone in hard, but the cockpit area did not appear to be crushed. The crash looked survivable if the pilot got out ahead of the fire. Dreading what he might find, Sledge went forward to check for bodies.
Then he heard voices. They came from beyond the clearing, where a path led into the woods. Sledge circled the clearing and moved through the trees, paralleling the path.
The sound of voices returned. Whoever was speaking had moved farther from the clearing. One voice seemed to give commands. That meant guerrillas.
Sledge increased his pace. Risk or no risk, he had to get close and learn what they were up to. Counting bodies in the wreckage could come later.
The guerrillas apparently thought they were secure, for they practiced no noise discipline. Laughs and what sounded like taunts came more frequently and, he thought, closer. Fatigue dragged at his feet and legs, but he pressed on. Finally, he saw movement through the trees. Soon afterward, he caught sight of the entire group.
Four armed guerrillas were marching two prisoners along the trail. The prisoner wearing flight coveralls was Raúl. The other was a gray-haired man of moderate size, dressed in blue jeans and a fur-collared jacket. Both men had their hands tied behind them. Raúl’s blood-smeared face indicated some kind of head injury. The group marched single file, two guerrillas ahead of the prisoners and two behind. All carried AK-47s at the ready.
Sledge didn’t like the odds, but he had no choice. As soon as he closed within pistol range he shifted the rifle to his left hand and drew his silenced pistol. One head shot from the pistol dropped the rearmost guard in his tracks. When his companion spun around to investigate, a second shot felled him. His rifle dropped with a clatter.
That ended the surprise. Both prisoners and the remaining guards turned to see what had happened
. It also complicated the situation, for the prisoners stood between Sledge and his targets, both of whom were raising their weapons as they stepped sideways to clear their fields of fire.
“Prisoners—on the ground,” Sledge shouted in Spanish. At the same time, he dropped his pistol and raised the AK-47 to his shoulder. The gray-haired man hit the ground immediately. That cleared a firing lane to one of the guards, and Sledge put two single shots into him before the man could fire. Even as he squeezed the trigger, though, he saw the remaining guerrilla aim his rifle directly at him. In that split-second Sledge knew he could not shift his own aim before the guerrilla shot him dead.
But Raúl intervened. Hands still bound behind him, he sprang toward his guard and kicked the rifle aside as it fired. Sledge heard and felt something strike immediately beside him, but the rest of the guard’s burst struck harmlessly among the trees as Raúl threw himself flat on the ground. Sledge ended the skirmish with two well-placed single shots.
Raúl sat up and grinned through the dried blood on his face. “Welcome, Señor Sledge. You are a sight for sore eyeballs.”
Here we go again, thought Sledge. But he said, “You’ve got more than sore eyeballs. Let’s have a look at that forehead.”
“I lost control when they shot my tail rotor off,” Raúl said. “In the crash I am hitting my head and breaking my new flight helmet. I feel like something that crawled out from under a rock group.”
“You’re not hurt bad,” Sledge said. “There’s maybe a one-inch split in the skin of your forehead, but the bleeding has stopped. When we rejoin my team we’ll tape it back together.”
With his knife he cut the ropes from Raúl’s wrists and turned to the other prisoner. The man had the fair complexion characteristic of northern climates. He wore a short gray beard, neatly trimmed, and looked to be a healthy fifty or sixty years of age.