The pilot had jotted down the coordinates, and when Paco arrived it was impossible to tell where the irregulars had gone. However, he had marked on his map the location of the battle where the group had first been noticed. And a line drawn on the map from that location to this, pointed generally south. The strange band of armed men was moving south. Why? Who were they?
He ordered his carriers to head south. Probably they were on a mission to join with a stronger force of Contras. It was an educated guess. For the time being he would have to react and counterpunch. But there would come a time when he would set a trap and haul them in. Paco Suran had no doubts at all.
Raul was gone more than an hour. Two helicopters appeared in the dusk and landed on the far side of the village where several bonfires were lit, possibly to light a landing zone.
When he finally came, with a pack strapped to his back, Raul was full of apologies. He had not known that he would be going on an extended journey, and he had much to do in a very short time.
"Troops will be searching for us in the morning," Mark said. "Lead us to an area where we can escape an air search."
Raul nodded. "We will go this way, then." He led them across a fallow field and into a long, narrow valley that took them mostly west.
As they got well into it Hog fell back to march beside Mark. "Don't like this much, amigo. We get spotted by a gunship in this here twat-shaped valley, we's got troubles."
Mark was thinking the same thing. Militarily speaking, it could hardly be worse. But then, who would expect a schoolteacher to be an expert on tactics or terrain?
Loughlin felt the same way. "Makes me nervous."
Partway through the valley Mark made a decision. The mountain range to their left was rugged and forested but not at all impassable. He halted them. "We'll go south from here," he announced, noting the grins from Hog and the Briton. Raul looked suddenly shocked. "But this is the closest way!"
"Closest way to Hell," Loughlin said, drawling the words.
Raul looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"No more talk," Mark said. "Move out." He pointed "Hog, take the point."
Raul said no more, but Mark heard him grumbling to himself. He was probably muttering that they were fools to hire a guide and not let him do his job.
Hog set a hard pace and they followed, strung out in single file with Mark bringing up the rear. As they began to climb, Hog halted in a copse of skinny pines and suddenly motioned them down. Mark fell prone, hearing the engine of a small plane high above them. It passed and he got up, scanning the sky. Had the pilot seen them?
Hog led them a roundabout way, staying in the shelter of the largest trees. They saw no more planes and three hours later they crossed the ridge and started down the south side . . . and halted. Hog yelled at Mark, "Why not go along the ridge?"
Mark nodded. As he took the first step he heard the drone of an engine. "Down!"
He dropped, seeing Loughlin pull Raul down. A small plane passed over them several thousand feet up and continued on. They would have been hard to see through the thick covering of trees, Mark thought, watching the plane disappear in the mists. But why so many planes all of a sudden?
They moved along the ridge for an hour or two. Hog stayed well in front as point. In late morning they came up to him. He was draped over a boulder, prone, using binoculars pointed into the valley they had left earlier.
He gave the glasses to Mark. "Somethin' moving down there. See what you figger."
Mark focused the binocs carefully. The narrow valley had closed in. There had been a gigantic landslide in some primeval time, leaving the face of the mountain pale stone where nothing grew. The floor of the valley was largely filled with rubble; only a tiny pathway seemed to wind among the earth and rocks.
And beyond the landslide were trucks and milling men, a hundred or more at a quick estimate.
He handed the binoculars to Loughlin, glancing at Raul. Hog was fingering the butt of his pistol. "Soldiers down there," Mark said in a conversational tone to Raul.
"I know nothing about it!" Raul said, looking from one to the other of them.
"How come they're there, then?" Hog asked. "Y'all the only one knew we was coming this here way."
"I told no one! Not even my wife!"
Loughlin said, "They're setting up an ambush, looks like." He smiled at Raul. "I'd say they expect us down there."
Raul was wringing his thin hands. There were tears in his eyes. "I told no one! I swear it! It has to be a coincidence! Maybe they had some other information!"
Terry patted his cheek. "If we really thought you did it, we'd cut your balls off. Comprende?"
"All right," Mark said. "We give him the benefit of the doubt." He moved close to Raul and patted him down. "No gun. No knife. Let's move out."
Paco received word that an ambush was being set up in the valley, turned his carriers around, and headed there at once. The message center could tell him only that word had been received that an irregular band would be traveling the valley. It was apparently an anonymous tip. He was familiar with them.
Was this the group he sought? There were any number of small rebel bands, some bandits, roaming the countryside, taking advantage of the unrest and war. He asked the message center to radio the ambushers not to kill the approaching band, but to capture as many as possible, even though he knew his request would probably be ignored.
The roads were terrible, but his BTR-60s were eight-wheeled vehicles with a top speed of 50 MPH, and he could expect an average of 30 MPH over a long period. They reached the ambush site, after a long, roundabout route, at dusk. The troop commander, a slim, buglike major, was very unhappy. Their prey had not come through the valley—nothing had been sighted but a lone goat—and he was out of sorts and wanted no conversation with a suddenly appearing lieutenant.
"Did you send out scouts?" Paco asked.
"We sent out every fucking thing but the cook!" the major yelled. "It was a bad tip."
Paco got out, feeling frustrated. Obviously the stupid major had made elemental mistakes, and the outlaw band had detected him and his men. He drove to the nearest village for food and drink and to pore over his maps.
Maybe Major Rosas was wrong. Maybe there was no particular band—his men might have been killed by bandits who had long since scattered to the winds. He ordered another drink.
Stone took the point, and they went down the mountain into a wide and gullied valley where a stream wandered like a lost soul. It was an excellent place for cover, but they made poor time. There was a road winding through the valley, but they were loath to use it until Loughlin said, "It's a gamble. We'll make half the time pushing through the sticks, and anyway, we'll hear a vehicle long before it reaches us, right?"
Hog was of the same opinion. "Lemme git out in front. I got ears like a eagle."
Mark said to Raul, "Is there a village in this valley?"
"No, señor."
Mark motioned Hog to take the point, and they went on much faster for more than two hours. It was early afternoon when he stopped, and when they came up to him, he was smiling.
"What is it?" Mark asked.
"There's a truck around the next bend, an old Chevy."
"Soldiers?"
"No more'n five. I seen five anyways. If there's six, he's out taking a crap."
"What'd they stop for?"
"One of 'em's made a fire. I guess they drinkin' coffee or havin' a bite."
"We need that truck worse'n they do," Loughlin said. He checked his Uzi. Hog did the same.
Raul was horrified. "You're going to kill them!?"
Hog was astonished. "Hell, no. We goin' send them a card askin' for the loan of it. Ain't that the civilized way?"
Mark pointed to Raul. "You sit right here. If you run off, we'll find you."
"An' paddle your ass," Hog promised.
White-faced, Raul sat down in the grass. He was shivering as they moved out.
Loughlin went wide to the right, of
f the road into the gullies. They would give him ten minutes to get into position. Mark followed Hog around the bend. Halfway around they went to their bellies and crawled, coming to a stop in clumps of brush beside the road.
It was an old Chevy, dark blue with yellow designs painted on the hood. Some unknown artist had indulged himself. The truck had been pulled off the road into a flat area under some age-old cedars. Four men were sitting around a small fire, talking and laughing. The fifth man had walked down the road and was gazing off toward the distant mountains.
Mark watched the second hand of his watch race around the dial. In two minutes Loughlin would be in his spot. He crawled half a dozen feet from Hog and pushed the big .44 through the brush. He didn't care for executions, but—
The fifth man suddenly shouted and began running back to the truck. "What the fuck—" Hog said.
There was a burst of fire from the right, and the man stumbled and went down, arms flailing. He hit the dirt and plowed into it with his nose and was still.
He must have spotted Loughlin . . . or a metal reflection. The four men around the fire reacted quickly.
Mark squeezed the trigger and watched his victim hurled backward, legs flopping limply.
Hog's Uzi chattered viciously and another man whirled around and fell.
A third pulled a revolver and fired once toward them, but a burst from Loughlin cut him almost in two.
The fourth man made it to the truck. He snatched an AK from somewhere and turned, firing it full auto. Hog's Uzi and Mark's .44 Magnum smashed him to pulp. The Kalashnikov stitched a row of holes along the side of the mountain and fell from lifeless fingers.
It was suddenly silent.
Remembering Hog's statement that five were all he saw, Mark remained still, searching the area with his eyes. Nothing moved but the leaves of the trees. Loughlin came in from the boonies, his gun ready, eyes darting here and there.
"I think we got 'em all," he said.
Mark rose, holstering the pistol after reloading. They pulled the bodies aside, dragging them by the heels. The truck had an open body and contained sleeping bags, four assault rifles, canteens, food, and shovels. There were also five boxes of thirty-round detachable rifle magazines. A good haul.
"We've gotta bury these guys," Mark said, "and police the area. They never existed."
It took an hour or more to dig a trench to contain all five. They put it out in the field away from the road, and when the bodies were in and the hole filled, they spread grass and weeds on it till it looked like the surrounding area.
"Who was it said war is hell?" Loughlin asked, leaning on a shovel.
"It was me," Hog replied. "I say that ever' now and then. I think I even wrote it somewheres."
Stone rummaged in the truck and came up with an unlabeled bottle that turned out to be brandy. It was only half full. They passed it around, then flung the empty into the weeds. They were getting ready to depart before Stone remembered Raul. He walked around the bend to find the schoolteacher still sitting there, head pillowed on his arms. He looked up when Stone yelled and got slowly to his feet.
"Let's go. Get the lead out." He was one hellova soldier, Stone thought. A full-blooded rabbit. Poor guy.
According to the gauge, the truck had plenty of gas and the tires were fair. "With a little luck," Stone said, "it ought to get us to Managua."
They spread the map on the hood. "Where the hell are we?"
With Raul's help they were able to make an educated guess. They were farther north than they wanted to be, and maybe halfway to the capital. But Raul was positive the road they were on would take them nowhere. Only a few decent roads crossed the mountains, and there were plenty of mountains to cross before they reached Managua.
This road, he told them, would peter out soon. It probably only connected a few villages and farms. They would doubtless come across a highway later on.
"What we need," Hog said with unassailable logic, "is a airplane, a chopper, or a fuckin' balloon."
They folded the map and walked up the road a bit, away from Raul. "You think that bugger is shittin' us?" Hog demanded.
"About the road?"
"About the road and ever'thing else. I wouldn't trust him any farther than I could throw a forty-pound turnip. "
"Well, why not let him walk back home, then?" Loughlin suggested.
Stone rubbed his chin. "If you're right and he is a wrongo, and we let him go, won't he put the constabulary on our trail chop, chop?"
"Yeah." Loughlin nodded. "If he really is a Sandinista deep down, he knows too much about us."
Hog grinned at them. "Y'all wanta make damn sure? Let me take him over in the woods a minute. I'll find out, or he won't piss green no more."
Stone said, "We only suspect him . . . on pretty lousy evidence. The guy could be straight, up and up and square."
"All right," Loughlin said, snapping his fingers. "We give him the benefit of the doubt."
"Hog?" Stone asked.
The burly Texan nodded. "OK. Saved by the bell. But he makes a wrong move and I kick his ass up between his ears."
"You're all heart," Stone said.
Chapter Six
The truck was easy to start and ran well, though it gave out a lot of black smoke. Probably needed a ring job, Hog thought. It had no radio and showed 98,000 miles, but the counter had gone around twice from the look of the truck. The seats had obviously been replaced many times, and the dashboard was a welter of dents from boots.
Mark drove with Hog beside him, the Uzi across his knees. Terry sat on a sleeping bag in the back with Raul, and for the first twenty miles they saw no one. However, the road got worse and worse, and they had to move slower and slower and frequently get out to move large rocks out of the way.
It was a pain in the ass, as Hog said a number of times.
But the road got better a mile or two from the village. Mark halted instantly as soon as they spotted it. Raul thought it was called La Cruz, but he had never been there. The village was a mile or so distant, with smoke rising from home fires. There was a fringe of trees about it and open fields to the left. They could see the gleam of water reflected in the late sun.
Mark said, "The road goes through the village. What d'we do—abandon the truck and go around it, or go see if there're bad guys waiting for us?"
"A recon is called for, chum," Loughlin said. "We wait for dark and slide in to have a look."
"Anybody have a better idea?"
"Let me go," Raul said. "They won't give me a second look, but they will know you are norteamericanos in an instant."
They looked at each other. Then Mark gave them a wink when Raul was not looking. "Ok," he said. "You go in, Raul. We'll wait here by the truck. But no funny stuff."
"Funny stuff?"
"No tricks."
Raul looked offended. "I will not trick you." He glanced at the sky. "I will return as soon as possible . . . after it is dark."
"Why not right away?"
"Because if there are Sandinistas there, they will be suspicious if I go and leave so soon. I must be cautious."
"All right," Mark said. "Do it your way. We don't want any suspicion. We'll bed down and wait."
Raul nodded and started toward the village. He glanced back once to see them all sitting and lying in the grass by the truck. But as soon as he was out of sight, Mark led them off to the right, in a circle around the village.
With infinite care they crept close to the house in the gathering dark. From a vantage point in one of the last shacks, Mark spotted three trucks parked in the center of the village. That could mean thirty or forty men. Two of the trucks had tall aerials sticking up and each was armed with heavy machine guns, their ugly snouts thrust out over the cabs. The distance was too great to tell what they were, probably Russian made. A guard with a slung rifle lounged against a fender and lit a cigarette.
There was no one else on the streets except a couple of dogs. Maybe the people were frightened by the presence
of soldiers and were staying indoors.
As he watched, Stone saw three soldiers go to one of the trucks, and one man climbed into it and put on headphones. Stone nudged Hog. "They're using the radio."
"You figger that little shitface, Raul, told them about us and they reportin' it?"
Stone sighed. "It could be."
Loughlin said, "Let's go sit where we can watch the truck. If those soldiers go and surround it, then we can be sure Raul is a fink. Right?"
"He's a fink all right," said Hog. "When a shithead looks like one and smells like one, chances is, he is one."
They faded back into the line of trees and retraced their steps to a position where they could watch the truck without being seen.
They had only a short wait until a group of about twenty men came out of the village, formed a line, and closed in on the truck with rifles ready. In a moment they saw flashlights playing over it, then a couple of men got into the cab and drove it back into the village. The men on foot followed.
"That settles it," Stone said. "He gave us up."
Hog scratched his chin, watching the truck disappear in the gloom. "Wonder iffen I could find out where he's sleepin' tonight. Maybe I could—"
"Forget it," Stone said. "We've gotta be miles from here before morning. They'll surround this area and use Bill Bailey's fine-tooth comb. Let's head south."
They moved into the dark, and Loughlin remarked, "He knew we were heading for Managua, chums."
"But not what for."
Hog said, "Them fellers got our truck, and they got two others in the street there. Maybe we c'n steal one and—"
"If we steal one, they'll know exactly where we are," Stone retorted. "On that road. Every chopper in Nicaragua will be breathing down our necks in the morning. Besides, the road may only go a mile or two, and all the trouble'd be for nothing."
Escape from Nicaragua Page 5