by Len Deighton
The site of the skirmish was marked by the casualties. Under the shrubs where Novillo had first fired his gun, Tito, his number two, crouched alongside Novillo’s body watching the indentation of the tripod feet fill with blood. He dipped his fingers into it and smelled them. He’d never seen blood in such abundance before, he was thinking as he died.
Just a few paces away knelt René the bullfighter. He remained close to his box of stores, its strap over his shoulder, as if ready to go when the order was given. When he realized that no one was coming back for him, he opened the heavy and cumbersome box that had made his journey an agony and his death inevitable. He hoped to find food inside but, except for a packet of tobacco leaves, the box held only medical supplies. He sorted through them, delighting in the spotlessly clean instruments and packets of dressings. He suspected that some of these items could save him from death but, for all the use he could make of them, they could have been pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Even the tobacco could not be smoked, for he had no means of making fire. He opened a bottle of tablets and swallowed some, but they did nothing to alleviate the compound fracture that was causing him to cough blood.
After René the bullfighter died, one of O’Brien’s men, Billy Ovcik, dragged himself ten pain-filled yards to get that packet of tobacco leaves. His matches were too wet to strike. He tore off bits of tobacco and chewed them. He persuaded himself that it dulled his pain, but the leaves were all used up in forty-eight hours, and it would take him nearly four days to die.
It rained heavily as Singer waited for the stragglers to catch up and tried to reassemble the party. Angel Paz had taken one of the mule drivers and had gone back to find the panniers. The boxes of medical supplies and the food were the most important but Paz wanted ammunition too. He didn’t trust any of the others to get the ammunition: only the really motivated understood the revolution.
The survivors settled down to wait. The sparser vegetation of the semi-swamp gave them no shelter. Lucas had selected it as a place to halt. Here Paz could locate them more easily than among the thickets, and on this outer curve of the watercourse they had firm ground almost all round them. It would be a reasonable place to defend and a rallying point for stragglers. There were many still unaccounted for.
‘Which of them is bad?’ Singer asked.
‘Santos, Rómulo and this chap,’ Lucas answered. ‘It’s hard to say how bad. Oh, yes, and there’s the one with a septic tooth. He can’t last long.’
‘And Inez?’
‘Yes, Inez too,’ Lucas said softly. The surface of the swamp, and the muddy puddles, were lashed by the rain. It stung the face and made a noise so the men spoke loudly in order to be heard. ‘Inez too,’ Lucas repeated, louder still this time.
They had put down some branches to make beds for the badly wounded. Santos was stretched out there. A grenade had blown off most of his forearm. The fragments had sealed off the blood vessels so that he’d lost very little blood. He was in a state of shock: his muscles had slackened and his pulse and circulation were failing. Lucas had seen it all before. Heavy sedation, reassurance and a warm bed might have saved him. Even that was doubtful. Santos was dying for no reason. For no reason except that he could not come to terms with his injury. His bowels moved in a spasm. He whimpered. Lucas put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. ‘Watch the fallen trees,’ said Lucas, indicating a piece of decomposing jungle. ‘That’s the way they will come if they attack again.’
Santos nodded.
Lucas went back to Inez. The place where some sort of metal fragment had entered her body was no more than a speck. The shiny grease that Lucas had smeared on it, fearful of a lung wound, showed more clearly than the wound itself. She was not fully conscious. He leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. She shivered and for a moment opened her eyes. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Try to sleep.’
Covering her with a blanket, he moved on to the next casualty. He was a dark-skinned Indian with a passive face like that on a statue of some pagan god. He was covered in mud. Two friends were hunkered beside him and not looking at each other.
‘He went right into the swamp,’ Singer said. ‘These two pulled him out.’
‘Lucky fellow.’ Lucas undid the jacket. Normally he would have sliced it off but to deprive a man of clothes could kill him here.
‘It’s the cook,’ Singer said.
‘I recognize him,’ Lucas said.
One of the boys with him found courage enough to say, ‘He caught the snakes and the turtle. You said they tasted good.’
Lucas nodded and looked suitably guilty. By now he’d learned to accept that sort of reproach. They all wanted to pretend that the doctor dealt out death and suffering like a crooked card-sharp in a game of life that was fixed in the medico’s favour. Lucas made a movement of the hand that indicated to Singer that this one was about to die too.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Singer asked.
‘Internal bleeding.’ Lucas rinsed his fingers in a little of the precious drinking water and shook them dry. They’d put out tins. If the rain continued there would be plenty more water.
‘You can’t do anything?’
Lucas looked up into Singer’s face but didn’t reply. A long flickering of lightning flashed from the north beyond the Sierra Serpiente. When the thunder came it was no more than a rumble.
‘Do you think the Paz kid will find the stuff?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ Lucas said. ‘We haven’t come very far, and he has the compass. The swamp will prevent him wandering off to the west.’
‘You’re right. Can you spare a smoke?’ Singer asked.
‘In the tin. Light one for me too. There’s no point in saving them for ever.’
Singer opened the tin. He took from it the one and only cheroot he found. They shared it. Singer held the cheroot to Lucas’ lips and then presented it to the lips of the dying cook. Lucas exhaled and said, ‘I don’t know why I carry on behaving like a surgeon. Aseptic operating-room rituals are absurd when we wallow in filth.’
‘But Inez isn’t bleeding?’ Singer asked.
Lucas didn’t resent Singer’s persistence. He wanted to think it through again. ‘The fragment was probably red-hot – or hot enough to be aseptic. It entered below the bottom rib but I don’t know where it went. There is no paralysis so it’s probably not lodged in the spine, no frothy blood so that’s okay too. There is a slight stiffening at the top left-hand quadrant of the abdominal wall but I don’t think that’s it – more likely something to do with the diaphragm. Abdominal or thoracic; that’s the big question, you see.’
‘Yes,’ said Singer, who didn’t see. ‘What would you do in a hospital?’
‘An X-ray and an exploratory laparotomy … I’d look in the abdominal cavity and find it. It might be a tiny fragment. But she’s in shock. And here …’ He looked at the rain beating down and shrugged. He hadn’t voiced his fears of gangrene. ‘When Paz comes back with my box I’ll have the anti gas-gangrene serum … Anyway we’ll see how she goes. If we could get to the foothills of the Serpiente and find some shelter …’ He didn’t finish.
‘He’s taking a long time. Suppose the kid doesn’t come back?’ Singer said.
‘He’ll be back,’ Lucas said. ‘He likes to show us how tough he is.’
By the coming of darkness Paz had still not returned. As the sun’s yellow light faded, Santos died quietly. He was watching the jungle, just as Lucas had ordered. He’d never been a man to make a fuss and death collected him silently, without anyone but Santos noticing its approach. The rain continued until after midnight. Then the darkness of the storm-clouds gave way to night. There were stars and eventually a moon. Sheltering under ponchos, and alert for a renewed attack, the party slept only fitfully.
Lucas stayed near Inez, and in the early hours she came fully awake for a few minutes. ‘Lucas,’ she said. He had to lean close to hear her. ‘Lucas I love you.’ She held his hand in hers and pressed it to her cheek. ‘Were you ever marr
ied, Lucas?’ Her words were soft and clear as if she’d suddenly made a miraculous recovery.
‘A long time ago.’
‘And?’
He hesitated. ‘She died.’
‘Can you talk of it?’
‘In a car accident. Don’t talk. You must rest.’
‘You were with her?’
‘No.’ It was a lie.
‘Poor Lucas.’ Inez sank back, relapsing as Lucas knew she would.
Yes, poor Lucas. He had been with her. Despite everything the hospital had done she had died of tetanus as now he dreaded Inez might die. There is no death more painful and terrible. That nightmare had pursued him for years. On every previous occasion he’d known it to be just a nightmare, and had known that, if he held on to his sanity, he would eventually awaken. Now he could expect no consolation; no escape.
Inez spoke again. This time it was only a whisper. ‘I shot the sentries. It’s a judgement on me … Pray for me.’
‘My sister has a little cottage … on Tenerife. It’s a little island in the Atlantic. She never goes there. I could buy it or rent it. It’s high above the sea … behind it there’s a mountain: the Pico de Teide.’ She kissed his hand very gently so as not to stop him speaking. ‘Beyond the kitchen there’s an old stone wall that we can knock down to build a conservatory. I’ve often thought what a fine place it would be to have breakfast. On a clear day you can see the African coast.’
Pausing between each word she said, ‘Are there flowers?’
‘There is the valley of the Orotava: more flowers than you’ve ever seen together in one place.’
‘And birds?’
‘Sea-birds. Some days, when the weather is bad, they come and huddle together all over the roof.’
‘You don’t trap them?’
‘I photograph them sometimes.’
‘I love you, Lucas.’ She always said it like that: Lu-Karr. ‘I will make you happy.’
‘I am happy.’ He held her head in both hands and kissed her eyelids and her nose. He wondered once again about the fight between Singer and Paz. Had Inez been involved in the argument? He dismissed the question. Perhaps it was better not to know.
‘I love you,’ she said as if able to read his mind. She smiled but the effort seemed to hurt her.
It was three o’clock when they saw the coloured flares: two white and one red. Starshells; blinding bright. They lit the faces of the men who stared up in wonder. The balls of fire fell to earth very slowly and drifted on the south wind making cracking noises and spluttering to extinction.
‘What are they doing, Singer? Re-forming?’
Singer didn’t answer for a moment. ‘Withdrawing. Pulling back along the river.’ And then they heard the blades of a helicopter thrashing the air above their heads as it followed the course of the moonlit water.
‘So what was it all about?’ Lucas said.
‘I’m not going back there any more,’ said Singer.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘They were trying to find me.’ Lucas had never seen Singer in this sort of mood before. It was caused by a high fever, of course. Lucas should have watched him more carefully. Fevers often brought on such hysterical states.
‘Is that what you think?’ said Lucas, hoping to calm him.
‘They will never let me go.’ He was trembling and his face was contorted with anger.
‘Pull yourself together, Singer.’
‘The Valley of the Tears of Christ. They’ll raze the whole coca region. They said defoliation but it will be napalm. Napalm!’ Singer was wringing his hands. Lucas decided that aspirin might help. It was one of the few medicines they had available. He wouldn’t tell Singer it was aspirin.
‘To destroy the coca plants?’ Lucas asked.
‘There was nothing on paper … My talks with Ramón were relayed back to Washington at every stage but nothing was ever signed. They need me,’ Singer said very loudly, ‘but I want out.’
‘You may be running a fever,’ Lucas said. ‘I’m going to give you some tablets.’
‘Are you listening to me?’ Singer shouted furiously, trembling with rage. ‘They’ll burn those people!’
‘Of course I’m listening,’ Lucas said. ‘Just swallow them down; you don’t need water, do you?’
Inside the big helicopter there were only the dim operating lights that such operations permitted. Mike O’Brien looked at the fighting men in the seats opposite him. They sat hunched over, bleak-faced and heavy with pain. It was always the same, he thought, the wrong man at the wrong place for the wrong job. O’Brien knew how to run his desk in Tepilo and far more importantly how to humour the ambassador when he was in a bad mood. But for a rough job like this they should have brought in a platoon from Fort Bragg or some of those civilians from Panama City. O’Brien felt sick. Under his sleeve, mud and blood was hardening into a plaster-like gauntlet that encased him from elbow to fingertips.
Alongside him on the metal floor of the helicopter sat Paul Cohen. Cohen had come out of the fire-fight in high spirits. He had enjoyed the excitement and the confusion. It was ‘Pablo’ who had insisted upon going back to get Billy Ovcik and had spent nearly an hour scouring the swamp for him. It was only when it was almost dark that he had given up and headed back to the rendezvous. It was then that Cohen had spotted the man they’d come here to find. There was no mistaking an American. Young, thin and wearing glasses, the fellow had come wandering along the path as if looking for a lost glove. There was an Indian with him and they were both carrying heavy boxes. It was typical of an American that he hadn’t even bothered to keep his voice down. He was singing: ‘Ol’ man river; that ol’ man river’ in a jokey voice. He was obviously very pleased with himself. ‘Tote dat barge! Lift dat bale! Git a little drunk an’ you land in jail.’ Only a white American city-dweller could sing like that.
All Paul Cohen had to do was to keep out of sight until they had their backs to him. Then he shot the Indian dead and slugged the American with his gun. It was all too easy: just like he’d done it in training, just like he’d seen it done in the movies. Carrying the unconscious American back to the rendezvous had been the most arduous part of it. What good luck his captive was not too heavy.
‘You did all right,’ said O’Brien. He’d said it several times as he looked at this slim white American youth. The only reason his approval was muted was that the CIA man was still unconscious. Cohen tried to reassure his boss. As he said, if O’Brien had heard him speak – or rather sing – he might have stopped worrying that this was not the American CIA agent they’d been sent here to rescue. But O’Brien was a worrier: he went from one extreme to the other: joy to despair to rage and back again. One of the embassy secretaries had remarked that all the Irish were like that.
O’Brien got to his feet and walked unsteadily forward past their unconscious prisoner. The floor of the helicopter vibrated under his feet and tilted as the pilot changed direction. On the outward journey this big chopper had carried thirty men with full field equipment: combat gear, plus rations, weapons, tools and ammunition. Now there were fifteen of them and only ten still had their guns. Fluttering from several collars were bright yellow labels that the helicopter crew’s medic had tied there. One of the casualties was not expected to survive the journey. He was choking and retching blood. The medic was nursing him like a sick child, stroking his head and whispering the blandishments that all dying men deserve. On the other side, Angel Paz was slumped on a stretcher on the floor. His eyes were closed. The medic said he was just unconscious; that he would be all right. But O’Brien knew that medics always said things like that. O’Brien wouldn’t be happy until the Navy doctor looked at the man and pronounced him fit and well. What had Cohen hit him with: a steam shovel?
O’Brien opened the flight-deck door and stepped through. It was dark except for a control panel alive with flickering orange lights. The big windows gave a view of the moonlit jungle. He looked at where the pilot’s pointed finger in
dicated the river snaking along the edge of the Serpiente mountains. Close above their heads the blades stropped the air with monotonous ferocity.
‘Can you spare an American butt?’ O’Brien asked the co-pilot. That was another lousy thing about these covert jobs: no ID, no paper, no US Army weapons, not even American cigarettes and matches.
‘There you go, buddy,’ said the co-pilot, looking up from the scope that would show them the best way home. He was a slightly built man with a tailored leather jacket, a Mephistophelean beard and a pearl-handled six-shooter strapped to his leg. He gave O’Brien a cigarette and lighted it from his own. He said, ‘Your other platoon is somewhere back in the Sombras, on a three-thousand-foot contour. The second chopper is having trouble finding them.’
‘We lost radio contact,’ O’Brien said. ‘That thunderstorm took the radio out; just a mess of static … The other platoon never made contact with the guerrillas.’
‘These things never go exactly as planned.’
‘Operation Shanghai,’ said O’Brien. ‘That must have seemed like a smart name to some desk jockey in Washington.’
The flyer shrugged. He wasn’t a CIA man and could never understand what motivated these people. He was a highly experienced free-lance pilot. Twenty-five hundred a day; whether it was guns, dope, or World War Three.
The man blew smoke and turned back to his radar. They would soon be over the water. The ship would appear on the scope. Getting this big chopper down on that fantail called for the kind of skill that made such men worth their fee.
25
THE JUNGLE. ‘My handgun is all I need.’
No one was immune to the torments of the jungle. They plodded on. The disappearance of the energetic Angel Paz, the loss of their friends, their weakened condition, all these things had brought on a wave of acute depression even amongst the most stoic of the Indians. That morning, at hourly intervals, they counted the party and searched out those men who wanted to creep into the bush and die. Some of them had developed the bright-eyed stare that comes from chewing the coca leaf. Soon no one any longer had the energy to search, or to count.