War From The Clouds

by Nick Carter

  Annotation

  ISLANDS OF DEATH!

  Nicarxa and Apalca — idyllic island republics in the Caribbean. Until Don Carlos Italla, monk turned warlord and guerilla leader, chooses one of them for a hideout.

  In a bizarre struggle for power and influence in the Americas, Nick Carter, AXE agent N3, has to ferret out the guerillas — and fend off the Cuban marine forces. All without the official recognition of the U.S. government!

  Deep in the tropical mountains, Alto Arete stands, an impregnable fortress. Nick Carter's job is to conquer it and Don Carlos's crazed army of «monks» before peace in the Western Hemisphere becomes no more than a fond memory!

  * * *

  Nick CarterChapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  * * *

  Nick Carter

  War From The Clouds

  Dedicated to the men of the Secret Services of the United States of America

  Chapter One

  He was definitely a Cuban Marine. He had this particular swagger, this incredible poise, even when crabbing across volcanic banks or hacking through jungles or sweating out his guts on mountain trails.

  I had followed him for six miles through the night. Across the volcanic bank of Mt. Toro, through a section of the Nicarxa Rain Forest; now he was resting, getting his breath in short, gasping snorts preparatory to making the climb to Alto Arete.

  Home of Don Carlos Italla, the wizard of war, the vicious chieftain of guerilla forces that would not let peace come to this beautiful land.

  Don Carlos, the monk, the man of God, the religious fanatic whose religion was the taking of lives, the shedding of blood, the stirring of maniacal passions in men who would be far better off at home screwing their wives, tilling their fields, drinking their vino, loving their children.

  And the Cuban Marines were the left hand of this God, this humble monk who loved war above everything and who lived in ultimate protection and seclusion among his monk-brothers in the ancient abbey that occupied the flat top of Alto Arete, three thousand feet above the jungle floor.

  It was my job to bring the man down from his mountain lair. To topple the man-God. To eliminate the Cuban Marines, to educate the monk's followers or to kill them, to bring peace once again to Alto Arete and peace to the Reina Valley below that lofty peak.

  My name? Nick Carter. My job? For the moment, to topple the man-god named Don Carlos Italla.

  "Nick," Hawk had said, "we have put the finishing touches on a peace treaty that will end the long war between Nicarxa and Apalca."

  "Are they both willing to sign?" I asked.

  In fact, I had not known that Nicarxa and Apalca, two island Republics south of Cuba, had even been at war. But there are, at any given time, perhaps fifteen small wars going on in various parts of the world. It's the big wars that get all the publicity.

  "Everyone involved has agreed to it," Hawk said. "Except for Don Carlos Italla. He is a violent enemy of the Nicarxan power structure. Religious differences, mostly, but there's a rumor that someone in the country once did something rather atrocious to him or his family. I don't know the details. I do know that Don Carlos must be shown the light. Think you can handle it, Nick?"

  "I certainly can, sir."

  If I had known what I later learned, I probably wouldn't have said anything so abysmally foolish. I don't know what I would have told the man, but it would not have been a definite, foolish, braggadocio like that.

  I also knew that I had a great deal more to learn, all of it bad for our side. All I knew for certain (which was more than I wanted to know once I had learned it) was that Don Carlos and his closest lieutenants were on top of Alto Arete, which I could now see in the distance, dark clouds hovering around its great, lumpy peak. They were armed to the teeth. The only way up was by a narrow, winding mountain trail that left enormous gaps missing from its path. The trail was guarded from bottom to top.

  What I didn't know was how many guards were on location, top or bottom. I also didn't know if other defenses were on the mountain — minefields, electrified fences, snake pits, guard dogs, that sort of thing.

  The Cuban Marine was going to tell me what I didn't know, only he didn't know yet that he was going to tell me.

  He was only a hundred yards ahead of me now. We were still two miles from the base of Alto Arete, where the trail began its vertical climb to the top, still swathed in cumulus clouds.

  I increased my pace, sweating like a eunuch with an erection, narrowing the distance between us. Ahead was a small farmhouse, nestled in the foothills, sheep grazing in a meadow beside a meandering stream. The Cuban, as cool as viewer reaction to a new sit-com television program, veered from the trail and walked with uncanny grace down toward the farmhouse.

  I waited until he had crossed the stream, then I checked my weaponry. Strapped to the small of my back was Wilhelmina, the big, booming Luger that had no notches for kills. If I had begun to notch my pistol, Wilhelmina would have disappeared long ago in a mass of filings.

  There was Pierre, my admittedly old-fashioned gas bomb, but effective as ever in this world of modern chemicals, potions, drugs and hallucinogens spurted from aerosol cans. He was cool and calm in his tiny lamb's wool pouch right behind my testicles. All three were precious to me.

  Last, but sometimes first to be used, was Hugo, my razor-sharp stiletto that is always in a sheath on my wrist. Always, that is, except when in use. Sometimes, though, I have to use more primitive weapons. They are also quite effective, even in this modern world. I call them "hands."

  I stood near the trail, behind a banana tree, keeping an eye out above for the massive scorpions that love green bananas, and watched the Cuban disappear into shadows beside the farmhouse. I knew where he was. When the door opened and mellow light streaked out into the softly-moonlit night, it was confirmed. He was standing on the farmer's porch and I figured he had stopped for a drink of water, or perhaps vino.

  I was wrong.

  The feminine scream that rent the quiet jungle night told me one thing, and one only. The farmer had a daughter. The Cuban knew about her. He had stopped for fun and frolic, and she was not really very interested.

  The Cuban Marine's obvious poise had failed to charm the lass.

  Even as I dashed noiselessly down the path toward the stream, I triggered the release to snap Hugo into my hand. Time was important, but silence was vital. There was a whole detachment of Cuban Marines two miles ahead. One bark from Wilhelmina and the sound would ricochet off Alto Arete, sending the whole damned detachment down the trail in quadruple time.

  Screams, especially feminine ones, didn't send them crashing out of their tents. Feminine screams had been rather commonplace in this valley since Don Carlos Italla had brought in the Cubans.

  They would never become commonplace with me.

  My boss, David Hawk, once told me: "Nick, you'll never fall prey to the real enemy. No man, however monstrous, however vicious, however powerful, will ever best you. You'll get yours, my boy, on the trail of a lady's petticoat."

  The ladies I fool around with — and occasionally save — haven't worn petticoats in fifty years, but Hawk is a bit old-fashioned.

  I got over the stream without even getting my shoes wet. Another scream, muffled by the closed door, cracked into the night. A wild, frightened bird from a banana tree responded with a horrible shriek. Then silence. So silent that I could hear the husky trickling of the stream behind me.

  I disappeared into the shadows, but avoided the front porch. The first th
ree windows produced nothing of interest — an overturned chair, a smashed pitcher, a rumpled rug, all indicating signs of struggle in the family parlor. At the fourth window, I saw the farmer and his wife huddling on their bed. They had to huddle; they were tied together.

  The fifth window said it all.

  The Cuban had stripped the girl, who was one hell of a ripe-looking young thing, and she was cowering naked on her narrow cot. Her black hair fell in cascades about her tear-stained face, covering most of her nubile breasts. She was trying to cover herself, but her slender brown hands couldn't handle all the chores at once.

  The Cuban Marine was slipping off his pants, his tongue out, his bulging eyes taking in the view of nipples, creamy breast, pubic hair, rounded little belly, the long expanses of thigh that glistened enticingly in light from a kerosene lamp.

  As the Marine slung his trousers against a far wall and began unbuttoning his tunic, I edged my hands up to the window frame. Hugo was clamped tightly in my teeth. The window wouldn't budge from slight pressure, so I gave it a healthy shove. Nothing.

  The tunic was off, going the way of the trousers. The Cuban Marine was a husky one. His light brown muscles rippled in the kerosene lamplight as he whisked off a grimy white tee shirt and snaked his thumbs under the waistband of his shorts and jerked down quickly. His back was to me, so I couldn't tell what was going on in front until I saw the girl's eyes widen. She was staring at his crotch. What she saw brought new terror.

  It was then that she gave me the opportunity to act without alarming the local Marine detachment or getting my head blown off. The man's rifle was leaning against the foot of the bed and the girl made a lunge for it.

  She moved fast. The Cuban was late in responding, but he flipped away his shorts and dashed for the rifle just as the girl closed her hands on the barrel.

  I hit the window frame with the heels of both hands, the lock broke and the window went up with the jerking swiftness of a killer carnival ride.

  The girl was squealing, the man roaring, so the sound of the rising window was lost on that. I leaped in headfirst, ducking my head low to bring my feed around. I landed in the middle of the room on my heels and buttocks, then flipped up to my feet. The Cuban, his hands grasping the stock of the rifle, turned abruptly and glared at me, teeth and gums bared like a trapped animal's.

  "Quien es?" the man hissed in Spanish. "Que pasa?"

  "Just a little disturbing of the peace," I said, unable to resist that horrible old pun. Too bad he didn't understand English. As it was, I caught a tiny crinkling around the corners of his mouth. By God, he did understand English.

  I was in my if-you-don't-attack-me, I-won't-attack-you crouch, Hugo glistening in my outstretched right hand.

  The girl suddenly let go of the rifle and flipped back on the bed. Another display of streaking goodies until she yanked a sheet up around her.

  The Cuban's eyes had followed her. My eyes had followed her. Now we were eyeball-to-eyeball. He had the right end of the rifle. I had the right end of Hugo.

  "Quien es?" he said again in Spanish, asking me who I was.

  "My name is Carter," I said politely, inching Hugo a bit nearer his now flaccid member. "I'm also known as N3, also Killmaster, the numero unoagent for AXE. Does that clarify things?"

  He Began moving his hand toward the trigger guard. His large blue eyes were on my large brown eyes, although both of us were being torn apart by an urge to see what the beauty was doing on the cot.

  "Lower the rifle," I said, "or I remove your manhood."

  "No hablo engles," he said.

  If he did speak English. I thought, he's taking one hell of a chance. His manhood was on the line. His hand moved another quarter of an inch on the stock.

  I lunged forward. The man leaped backward. The girl screamed. I made a light swipe with the stiletto, drawing only a few drops of blood right at the stump of his penis where it disappeared into crinkly black hair. He yelped in the universal language of pain.

  His finger found the trigger and I aimed Hugo to another place. It was a good aim. The vibrating point of the stiletto caught the fingernail and sliced through it as through icing on a baby's birthday cake. I felt the blade grind against bone as I whipped the stiletto up, nearly severing his trigger finger.

  The rifle went flying, as I knew it would. The girl screamed again, as I knew she would. The Cuban had both hands on his bleeding manhood, as I knew anyone would.

  And it was over. So easy. Talk sense to any man in any language and he'll get your point. Hugo is tops in his field at talking sense and making points.

  What I learned during the next few minutes lade me sick to my stomach.

  After untying the old farm couple and using the ropes to tie up my Cuban jock-commando-makeout artist-Marine, I learned that the people were Jorge and Melina Cortez. The daughter was Elicia, age seventeen. A son, Antonio, age nineteen, had been conscripted into the Italla guerilla band a year ago, hadn't been heard from — or of — since.

  Elicia had lost her virginity three months ago when the Cuban Marines arrived. She had lost it the same way she was about to lose her free will tonight. A Marine had stopped by on his way between the village and the garrison, after having seen the girl riding her horse in the fields. Drunk, he had decided to test the wares, had found them suitable and had brazenly told his fellows.

  For three months, Elicia had had callers almost nightly. Even though her parents knew the routine and never fought, the routine was always the same. Elicia screamed when a Marine appeared, the Marine tied up the old folks and ripped the girl's clothing from her body.

  After three months, she still fought. Her hatreds were gestating like laboratory cultures.

  Why didn't the old man get a gun and shoot the next bastard who came to entertain his daughter? Threats, that's why. A roll in the sack would be the least the girl could expect if the old man fought back.

  The visits may not have been under the sanction of Don Carlos Italla, but he had been told of them, had said nothing. He needed the Cuban Marines; he didn't need that old farm couple and their lovely daughter.

  "But why is Don Carlos continuing his battle when both governments want peace?" I asked the old man. I had asked Hawk and I had even asked the President that same question. Their answers had been couched in protocol, political guessing, rumor; much flim-flam. The old man's answer was the only true answer.

  "Because he is a man of Satan, not a man of God."

  What wasn't true, I hoped, was the old man's description of Don Carlos Italla. A giant of seven feet, a mountainous specimen of three hundred pounds, eyes like ingots of burning phosphorous, hands that could shred stainless steel slabs. A fury of a monster with a booming voice like the rumble of thunder.

  Obviously, Don Carlos Italla was the local dragon, a creature to rival Tolkien's Smaug, hidden away on his evil mountaintop where no woman had ever gone, where Satan was welcome, where wars were planned, but never fought, in clouds.

  Well, it was time for a few changes.

  If Don Carlos would not come from his cloudy retreat to wage war with me, I would take war to him. My brand of war, on my terms.

  Wizards and giants and men of Satan have always given me a royal pain in the ass.

  Elicia had gone into shock after the little scrap between me and her would-be lover. Her mother bathed her, bundled her up and sat in the back bedroom rocking her on her lap, singing in a low, mellow voice of lost Spanish princes and faraway castles. The proper nursing for children. And she was a child, not equipped mentally or physically for the kind of abuse that had come to her from across the Caribbean.

  Anger was building in me with every word the old farmer spoke. And the filthy soldier sat listening to those words, still holding his crotch. I couldn't be cruel enough to tie his hands behind him, but they were tied nonetheless. After listening to the old man, and learning also that this was the third visit for this bastard, I wished I had cut off his hands altogether.

  "All righ
t, up," I said, looming above him.

  "No comprendo," he said, looking up with what I interpreted as disdain.

  Good, you son of a bitch, keep it up. I'm only pissed off right now, you just wait until I get mad.

  "You understand," I said.

  He stood, but I had made a rising gesture with my hands as I talked, so it could have been from that. Maybe he didn't speak English. I knew that my Spanish wasn't adequate for the details I needed from this jocko. In time.

  Jorge Melina gave me a lantern to find our way down to the barn. I didn't want him or his wife to see what was to happen next. It's hardly something you'd take to school for show-and-tell day.

  The horse, whose name I learned was Pistola, glared at us through huge, frightened eyes as we stumbled into the ramshackle barn. I walked with hard strides, barely containing my anger. I wanted to hit. I mean, really hit. My intentions must have been obvious to my Marine friend, because as soon as we hit the barn he began to sing.

  Chapter Two

  The Marine's name was Luis Pequeno and it was not a pleasure killing him. Killing is never a pleasure, except for the hopelessly insane, even under extreme conditions when your life is threatened. I have never killed without remorse; I hope to God I never do.

  What bothered me most was that my life was in no immediate danger from Sgt. Luis Pequeno. But, if I let him live, he would most certainly make his way to his unit and report my activities and purposes in the little island country. At that point, my life wouldn't be worth the sweat off Pistola's shanks.

  What Luis Pequeno had told me convinced me of that.

  The Cuban contingent, he said, was headed by Col. Ramon Vasco, a man who was every bit as much a maniac as Don Carlos Italla. Colonel Vasco had grown up in New York City, returning to Cuba to join Fidel Castro's revolutionaries in 1957. His experiences in the Cuban "minority sector" of Gotham had built in him a crushing hatred of Americans.