Carol Jenner had the emergency exit covered.
This maverick team did not take chances. They had spent too many missions "in the cold," functioning on their own, treated as outlaws by their own government as much as any Communist country.
Terrance Loughlin was a former commando of the Special Air Services. He was big, rugged, and unflappable.
Hog Wiley was a huge, hairy, powerful asskicker from east Texas, unpolished and wholly without couth but a magnificent fighting man.
An attractive, sensitive woman in spite of her association with Stone's violent team, Carol Jenner had never touched a knitting needle in her life. Given her way, she would have been out in the field on every mission, but she was stuck stateside. Someone had to run the team's headquarters, and she was it.
There was one other woman in Stone's life: Rosalyn James, an army nurse who Stone had been in love with in Vietnam. One of Stone's last "outlaw" M.I.A. missions had been to return to Southeast Asia to rescue Rosalyn, who he'd long thought dead. During the war Stone and Rosalyn had talked of marrying when it was over, but anything like that was now on hold. Readjustment after so many years of captivity was a long, painful process. Stone knew enough to give Rosalyn all of the time and space she needed to heal. He was fully supportive of her and saw her regularly, but he understood and accepted her need to take whatever time necessary to get her head and her life back in working order after her long, terrible ordeal.
On the screen of the darkened theater were the enlarged file photos of two men, a front and side shot of each.
"Don Shepard and Jack Harris," Stone informed his team from behind the podium. "Company contract operatives and our mission objectives."
"Are those their real names?" Carol asked.
"Probably not. Twenty-four hours ago they left Honduras and were choppered into Nicaragua."
"Their mission?" Loughlin asked.
"To connect with Contra leaders in the countryside and assess their effectiveness."
"Sounds like fallout from the Iran-Contra arms fandango," Hog grunted.
Stone nodded. "The drop should've gone off without a hitch. It didn't, which is where we come in." He flicked on the theater lights and turned to a large map of Nicaragua tacked to the wall. "The chopper went down somewhere in this small area." He drew a circle in white chalk on the map, then a line and another circle. "This is where they were headed, only a few minutes away when the Sandinistas caught up with them."
"How y'all know that's where they went down?" Hog asked.
"Wreckage," Mark said. He tossed the chalk into a box. "Intelligence says the two C.I.A. men have been turned over to Soviet interrogators at a secret mountain camp."
"Where's the camp?" Hog said.
"We don't know. That's a big chunk of the problem. The Reds keep secrets pretty good." He looked at Carol Jenner. "Carol is going to monitor the mission for us."
Loughlin said, "OK, they're in a secret camp, probably well-guarded, and all we have to do is get them out in the next three days, right?"
"Something like that."
Carol asked, "Why did the Sandinistas turn them over to the Soviets?"
"Possibly because the Communists don't trust the peasant government in Managua." Mark turned to the map. "As I see it, our best bet is to hit Managua and see if we can shake loose any info about where the Russians are holding our agents. The latest off-the-griddle info is that the two agents are in Managua or were. They may have already been taken to the secret camp. One man in Managua will know."
"El Presidente?" Loughlin guessed.
"Close," Stone said. "General Romero Perez, a big wheel in the military."
"Any scoop on where we can find Perez?"
Stone smiled. "The guy is flamboyant. Everyone in Managua knows where he lives. It's a big estate."
"Won't we need a letter of introduction?" Hog groused.
"We may need a bit more than that," Stone said dryly.
The media, and much of the American intelligence community, had not been told that a U.S. helicopter had been shot down in Nicaragua. U.S. aircraft were not supposed to overfly that country. The chopper had been on a secret mission and had run into bad luck or an ambush or . . . And only a handful of people knew about it.
The Oval Office did not want any hint of scandal linking the C.I.A. with the Contra rebels. So, unfortunately, the longer the American agents were in enemy hands, the worse it was—the more likely the story would get out. The newspapers and the television news-hawks loved that sort of thing. And, of course, the Russians were using the silence to their advantage.
Just how much the two captive C.I.A. men knew about covert Central American operations, Stone had no idea. But, with all the hullabaloo about the capture, it was likely they knew enough to severely damage the U.S. Intelligence posture if they were made to talk. Years of work could go sliding down the drain.
Carol said, "Sounds like this first official M.I.A. mission for Uncle Sam is going to be a real beaut."
"And me not even knowing Spanish," said Loughlin. "Hell, I don't even know the word for 'women.'"
"You won't have time for women," Stone assured him.
"Sounds like we ain't even gonna have time to take a crap," Hog grumbled. "Uh, sorry, Carol, honey."
"Time is of the absolute essence," Stone told them. "From here on out, it's one big countdown. Our gear is packed and a C-130 will be lifting us off in fifteen minutes. "
"Just enough time to make out my will," Loughlin said grimly.
Chapter Two
The plane made a wide circle, losing altitude, and came in softly to land on a little jungle strip that was barely long enough to allow the big C-130 to set down. It was the middle of the afternoon and humid. The sky was blue with high streaky clouds, and they were in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere, Honduras.
The pilot swung her around expertly and taxied back to a crummy-looking cluster of huts and shacks beside the strip. He shut off the engines, and the plane seemed to settle down as if wanting to rest after the long trip.
In a moment the plane was surrounded by a chattering group of ragged soldiers and civilians, one of whom pushed his way to the front of the noisy crowd and faced Mark Stone as he came to the door. He was a short man, gathering fat about the middle, using a large handkerchief, which he patted his face and neck with. He had a gleaming smile.
"Welcome to Honduras, amigos," he said, with no trace of accent. "I am Emilio de la Torre at your service." He said, motioning, "Jump down and have a drink. The soldiers will take care of your baggage."
"Howdy, Emilio," Hog said, slapping the little man on the back. "You got any cold beer?"
"Well, sort of cold. Come on."
The soldiers hauled their gear from the plane and they followed De la Torre into one of the huts. This was apparently an ongoing operation, Stone thought. The soldiers were already unloading the big plane as if they were used to it and knew exactly what to do. Trucks were backed up and orders shouted.
In the hut De la Torre provided chairs. There was a small bar, and he set out bottles and glasses. "I am the C.I.C.," he told them. "The Civilian in Charge. I was told to expect you."
Hog selected a bottle and a glass. "You speak better English than I do."
The little man lifted thick brows. "I was raised in San Diego, U.S.A. You think I should speak Rumanian?" Stone laughed and flopped in a chair with a full glass.
Hog said, "What d'we do now, neighbor?"
"Now I take you to a hotel."
At their blank looks he explained. "There's a village just around the hill. It's called Rosal, after an early settler, I suppose. Anyway, the hotel is palatial for these parts. It has five rooms."
They laughed, and Loughlin asked, "Then what?"
"Then I introduce you to Captain Vega, and he'll take it from there. I'm finished." De la Torre spread his fat hands. "That's all they told me."
"How do we get there?"
"I brought my limo. Drink up and we'll take a rid
e." The limo turned out to be a dark blue, small-window VW beetle that was parked behind the shack. De la Torre said, "I call her Marianne. Let's pile your gear on top."
There was an aluminum frame bolted to the top. They strapped the gear on and squeezed into the little car, a tight fit for four big men. De la Torre's nose was an inch from the windshield, and the little car seemed to wince and groan with the weight.
When the C.I.C. started the engine, it clattered and protested, billowing smoke out the exhaust, shuddering, but finally settling down to a steady chatter. "She is obstinate sometimes," De la Torre said. "Like all women, you have to pamper her." He shifted into first and the car jerked, slowly gathering speed. He shifted into second. "She needs new plugs, I think. I have promised to get them for her. Maybe she doesn't believe me."
"Women are funny," Loughlin said, winking at Hog. "How far is the village?"
"About five miles." De la Torre glanced at them. "You must be very important hombres. You know you are getting our best red-carpet treatment." He shifted into high.
"We're used to limo service," Stone said. "Marianne is first class."
"She's the best car in the area," De la Torre replied with a touch of pride, "not counting trucks. I didn't want to put you on one of them." He ducked his head, looking out at the sky. "It'll be dark in an hour or less. Be sure you eat at the hotel. The café is terrible."
"Thanks," Stone said.
The road was only a deep-rutted two-track path winding through pines and thick brush but generally level. It must be murder in the rainy season, Stone thought. They were at the bottom of the valley, with generous mountains on either side, and now and then he could glimpse the sheen of water off to the left; probably a stream. The little car bounced along, chugging furiously, with a plume of dark smoke trailing them. De la Torre needed rings as well as plugs.
The first shot came from almost dead ahead. It slammed into the front of the little car with a sound like a hammer hitting an anvil.
Instantly Stone grabbed the wheel, and Marianne bumped off the road and ran headlong into the brush as De la Torre yelped in terror.
The only too-familiar snarling, crackling of an AK-47 came from the direction of the stream, and bullets smashed the rear of the car, pulverizing it. Glass shattered as the rear and side windows went and bullets pounded through the roof, making the car jump and shudder.
Stone had rolled out, into the weeds, the .44 Magnum in his big hand. He crawled forward away from the car and flattened out, eyes searching for enemies, the pistol extended.
Loughlin and Hog Wiley were out of the car in seconds, and Hog's Uzi spat at a target.
Stone fired at a muzzle flash—wham, wham, wham.
He rolled again, wishing it were darker so he could see the flashes better. How many did they face? And who the fuck were they? No one knew they were coming! Almost no one.
A fusillade came from the right, more bullets smashed the little VW, tearing part of the hood off, ripping the windshield to shreds.
Hog answered the fire, spraying the underbrush in that direction. Stone fired at another flash and rolled. He saw a figure rise and fall back. He had hit one of them—whoever they were.
Hog and Terry were moving apart. He heard Loughlin firing and crawled back to get around the shattered car. Most of the firing was coming from the right.
Bullets were hacking at trees, and leaves and twigs showered down. Stone emptied the Magnum at another muzzle flash and rolled into a slight depression to reload. Bullets chewed the ground where he'd been. He wished he had a grenade or two, but they were still in the packs atop the car.
He heard Loughlin say, "I got two of the sonsofbitches . . ."
Hog replied, "Keep your dumb head down."
Stone crawled around the car and into a patch of ferns. Was the ambusher's fire slackening? They had put at least four of them out of commission.
He saw a flitting form and snapped a shot. Another figure jumped from one tree to another, and he fired twice, seeing bark fly on the tree. They were retreating all right. Another dark figure crossed his line of vision, and he and Hog fired together.
The figure halted, as if he'd run into a wall, and dropped into the weeds.
Loughlin said, "They're pulling out, chums."
Stone glanced toward the stream. No fire had come from that quarter for several minutes. Hog was swearing. His Uzi got off a quick burst. Then silence.
An eerie silence. Were they waiting for a move? Or were they gone?
Stone began to crawl forward slowly, the pistol ready. In moments he came across a body. It was a man, wrinkled and weather-beaten. He was dressed in ordinary cottons with a leather belt and holster. His pistol lay several feet from his clawed fingers. His chest was a red pulp. There was a battered Kalashnikov under him.
He heard Loughlin say, "They're gone. Like birds in the fall, they've gone south." He was far over to the right. "I can see a couple of 'em bugging out."
Stone got to his feet warily. He looked back at the VW, wondering if De la Torre had gotten himself into a hole.
Hog came from somewhere in front. "I made a quick tour. They're gone all right. Left three behind, 'nother one here."
"One over at the stream," Stone said.
"I figger they was about eight in all. Look like farmers t'me, out pickin' on tourists."
Stone holstered the pistol and they went back to the car. De la Torre was crumpled beside it, his left side shredded. He had received a burst as he was getting out of the vehicle; he had no pulse.
"Damn," Stone growled.
"He was a pretty good guy," Loughlin said sadly. "Too bad."
"His number was up," Hog said philosophically. "Can't beat your number. This here beetle is a bust, too. Ain't five square inches with no bullet hole."
Loughlin walked across the road. He came back with an AK-47 over his shoulder. "One citizen there, smashed to jelly. These poor fuckers got a lot to learn."
"Learn what?"
"None of 'em knew how to lay a goddamn ambush." He leaned the AK against the car. "I guess we walk into town, huh?"
"I reckon."
"So who were these gents?" Stone asked. "Did they know we were coming? How could they know? The colonel is careful as hell about missions."
"You ast us, then you tell us the answers," Hog pointed out.
Stone growled, "It's a bad start. I hate like hell to get ambushed before I'm even on the job."
Hog flicked out a knife and cut the straps holding their gear on the aluminum frame. He looked it over, noting a few bullet holes. The attackers had been aiming at the car, not the packs. That was good of them. He piled the packs by the road. "What'll we do with all this here Russian artillery?"
"Leave it for Captain Vega, whoever he is," Stone said. He walked to the middle of the road and peered down it. The trucks should be loaded by now; they'd be coming along soon and give them a ride. Had they heard the battle?
Loughlin said, "I don't see how they could know we were coming."
"Unless they're goddamn good guessers," Hog put in. He wiped the Uzi lovingly. "I knew a gal once, back in Fort Worth, could work a Ouija board like you wouldn't believe. She could bring back yore Uncle Peanuts—"
Loughlin asked, "What the hell is a Ouija board?"
"Don't you know anything for crissakes? A Ouija board is a gimmick that tells the future. You call up somebody who's passed over—"
"Passed over what?"
"'Passed over' means they gone to that great barbecue in the sky."
Loughlin shook his head.
"Get your stuff together," Stone said. "The trucks're coming. We'll hitch a ride."
Captain Vega met the trucks in the center of the village. They pulled their packs off and piled them to one side, and the trucks went on. Vega gave them a snappy salute. Stone offered him a drink.
Vega was a smartly uniformed Honduran officer, a very polite heel-clicker. He was on duty at the moment, he said, and must not go into a public bar.
He was genuinely horrified to learn of the ambush and the death of De la Torre. He immediately strode across the street to where a group of soldiers waited and sent them, under a sergeant, to the spot.
"They will bring back the bodies," he said. "This is a terrible thing. Señor De la Torre was well known and liked. It is a great tragedy."
"We liked him, too," Loughlin said.
"I think these men must have been bandits. I regret to tell you we have them here. However, I am delighted they did not harm you."
They were standing in the street. Mark Stone said, "Is there somewhere we can talk, Captain? A little more privately?"
Vega smiled. "Come with me, if you will, señores."
He led them into a two-story building and up a flight of stairs to a wide, almost vacant office. It had a desk and two rather frail-looking chairs and a bench against one wall. When they were inside, Vega closed and locked the door.
"I have certain orders," he said, looking from one to the other. "But of course I cannot help you officially." He stressed the "officially."
Hog and Loughlin lifted the bench and placed it near the desk. All three sat, and Vega rounded the desk and unfolded a map upon it. "This is a map of Nicaragua." He put a book on one corner, an inkwell on another, and leaned over it. "Where are you bound?"
Mark joined him and pointed to Managua. "How about there?"
"Ahhh." Vega nodded. "Very well. I can get you across the border safely and into the hands of some people who will guide you."
"What kind of people?"
"They call themselves freedom-fighters. They are peasants, but they know the terrain. They will pass you from one group to another till you reach Managua."
Loughlin asked, "How far can we trust them?"
The slim young captain shrugged. "I cannot tell you that. There is—how do you say it—bad fruit in every barrel."
"All fruits are bad," Loughlin said. "Of course, that's only an opinion."
Vega frowned at him. "I don't—"
"Don't pay any attention to him," Mark said quickly, giving Loughlin a look. "Tell us more about these guides."
"It is about a hundred and fifty miles to Managua as the crow—I believe it is the crow?"
Escape from Nicaragua Page 2