Lieutenant Avila and a troop-carrying truck. "They are long overdue," Cortes said. "Maybe they met the men we are after and the truck was stolen from them."
It was possible. Grumpily Paco agreed to backtrack and investigate the occurrence. By radio he learned the officer and men had been ordered to a particular location and had not appeared. A cursory search had not turned them up.
Paco turned his carriers around and went back—and found nothing.
But they picked up a message, as they were searching, that three men of that squad had turned up in another sector with a story of having been nearly killed by a crazy man with a machine gun. They'd had very little time to observe, but all three had the same impression —the man had been a norteamericano.
Paco went at once to interrogate them.
He found them in a small village under guard. A company of men under a stout captain was in charge and very suspicious of the story. He was sure, he told Paco, that the men were merely deserters.
Paco had them brought out and placed in a small room. They were calm now and could tell their story coherently. They had been part of a ten-man squad, under a Lieutenant Avila whom they did not know. They were being sent somewhere; they only shrugged when Paco asked where. Avila had appeared and counted them off and ordered them into the truck.
At any rate, they had captured two norteamericanos—
"Two?" Paco asked.
"Two, sir." Avila had said they were worth a great deal of reward money and they would all share in it. Avila had ordered the two men tied up and roped to trees. Then the lieutenant had tortured them.
"Tortured?" Paco said in surprise.
The three men nodded vigorously. Avila had been aggressive in trying to get information from the captives . . . who had insulted the officer even though tied up.
"What did he do?"
"He beat them and burned them with a cigarette, sir."
"And what did the prisoners tell him?"
The men shook their heads. "Nothing, sir. But they had no time. The madman appeared."
"Tell me," Paco said.
"A wild man ran from the jungle, yelling at the top of his voice—with a machine gun!"
"Ahhh" Paco said, "the third norteamericano! Do you tell me he killed seven men?"
"Oh, yes, sir. And would have killed us, too—"
"But you are brave soldados, you ran into the jungle. You dropped your weapons and ran . . . is that not so?" They hung their heads.
"You were ten to one and you ran?"
"He took us by surprise, sir!"
Paco's lip curled. "You are scum. Get out of my sight!" He ordered them handcuffed and thrown into one of the carriers. "No one is to talk to them. No one!"
With their directions, Paco drove at once to the rounded hill. They quickly discovered the bodies of the soldiers and the lieutenant. Paco radioed for someone to come and carry them away.
Then he sent out word for all units to be on the lookout for a Ford truck with green canvas sides.
They tossed a coin and decided to go on with the truck. With Loughlin at the wheel they set out at midnight and drove until nearly dawn, passing three villages and a number of parked vehicles. Only once were they hailed, and they ignored it. A burst of AK fire followed them. It ripped and shredded the canvas on one side of the truck.
Morning found them parked in a forest well off the road, in a hilly section. With daylight; they made a small fire in a draw and heated coffee. Their rations were getting low, even with what they had found in the truck. They would have to liberate some soon, Mark said, or go hungry.
"Hongry is not my thing," Hog said definitely. "How you say beans in Spanish, frijoles?"
"Frijoles."
"All right, next village we come to I'll go in and yell frijoles. See what we can scare up. But I wisht we had us some good ol' Texas chili."
"And fish'n chips to go with it," Loughlin said wistfully.
Mark said, "As long as you're wishing, let's wish for something sensible."
"That's right." Hog nodded. "We oughta wish fer some gals."
When they started out again, they ran into a roadblock in the first five miles.
There were two Russki trucks and a jeep parked squarely across the narrow road.
Stone was driving and he could see instantly there was no way around. He jammed on the brakes, backed up, and turned around—as shots were fired at them and men scurried.
"Get in the back!" Mark yelled. "Keep them off our tail!"
He pushed the gas pedal to the floor. The road was very rutted. It had not been scraped since Balboa had discovered the Pacific, and the big truck bounced and swayed. Not a good platform for shooting.
Hog and Loughlin quickly climbed through the door and into the truck bed and in a moment were firing back.
Mark could see, in the side-view mirror, that the trucks and the jeep were following, at a respectful distance. The AK bursts from the back of the Ford were telling.
"Aim at the tires!" Hog yelled.
They got the jeep first. It swerved off the road with a shredded front tire, and the trucks dropped back farther.
Stone decided to take the first promising road that led toward the left . . . west. The two in the back were firing short bursts now and then. The assault rifles had a long range. After ten or fifteen minutes they set up a cheering. Mark peered at the mirror. One of the big trucks had slewed around and was stopping, blocking the other. They must have hit the driver.
They lost sight of the pursuers for the next few miles, but the road he hoped for did not show up.
When they came to the first village, men were hurriedly piling up boxes and debris to form a roadblock; the radio had alerted them. But they were not in time.
Mark gunned the Ford through, smashing the boxes and sending the other boards flying. Hog fired from one side and Loughlin the other, and they were past, into the open again.
But they were going the wrong goddamn way!
When they finally came to a crossroads, Mark slowed and turned left, crossing the railroad tracks, moving into the hills. How long would it take for the helicopters or planes to find them? He yelled for one of them to come up and study the map, and in a few moments Loughlin climbed into the cab again.
"We smashed the truck up proper, chum. They may have to junk it unless they have a hell of a lot of Russki parts."
"Nice going," Mark said. "Get the map out."
Loughlin spread it on his knees, finding the penciled circle he'd made before. He clucked and frowned over the map, moving his finger . . . and decided. "Here. We must be just about here." He took out the pencil and made another circle. "We're not gaining much, you know, going backwards."
"I don't understand why—we're doing a hell of a lot of driving."
"It's probably that kilometers are shorter than miles."
Mark sighed deeply, watching the rearview mirror. The pursuit was not visible; no one behind them at the moment. Had they gotten away? Probably not.
Loughlin folded up the map and pointed to the gas gauge. "Getting low on petrol, chum. Better stop at the next station. Get the windscreen cleaned, too."
Mark grunted and swung around a sharp turn—and braked hard.
In front of them was a formidable roadblock.
And a dozen or more rifles pointing at them.
There was no room to do anything, not even back up. Men swarmed behind them and a burst of fire screamed over their heads. Hog was swearing.
They were prisoners.
Chapter Ten
Stone saw instantly that their captors were not Sandinistas. They were Contra rebels. Men pushed close to the truck, then made way for an officer with a braided cap. He said curiously to Stone, "You are the norteamericanos."
Mark nodded. "You heard about us on the radio?"
"Sí, señor. You are famous! Come, you are our guests!"
They got out of the truck and the officer introduced himself. "I am Captain José Ortega. In the States y
ou call us freedom fighters, do you not?"
"Yes, I think so . . ." Mark smiled. "Did you get your money from Congress?"
Ortega shrugged. "I have seen no money."
It did not look as if they had. All of the men were poorly dressed in cotton shirts and pants. Their weapons were mostly those liberated from the government troops, but their spirit seemed high.
Ortega took them around the hill by a narrow, covered path; covered, he said, against nosy aircraft and their bombs.
There were well-camouflaged huts and caves. He took them into one of the huts where there were chairs and a bench and a wide table. This was where they held meetings, Ortega told them. He had studied in the States, in California, in fact. "I want to be a veterinarian when this is all over." He had come home to fight for his country against Communist invaders. "When we win, I will go back and finish my studies."
"I hope it's soon," Mark said.
A woman brought them food, and as they ate, Ortega said they had been monitoring the Sandinista radio and knew quite a bit about the notorious norteamericanos. "There is a large reward for your death or captures, señores. Somehow you have made them very angry. It is a great shame."
"They kind of riled us up, too," Hog told him, attacking a plate of beans. "We shore didn't get along from the start."
"They wonder what you are doing in Nicaragua."
"They mentioned that . . ." Loughlin made a face.
"We fight for freedom, too," Mark said seriously, "in our own way. It is true we have a mission that we hope will hurt them very much. Can you help us get to Managua?"
Ortega studied them. "Yes, I can give you a guide, but not much else. I have only thirty men and no money. We are a thorn in their sides. . . ." He shrugged again. "I am sorry to say you cannot go farther in your truck. Every government soldier in the area is looking for it. You would be bombed from the air."
Loughlin asked, "Can we trade it to you for another car?"
"We do not have a car, señores." He poured some wine for them and sat down, lighting a fat cigar. He smiled. "My best offer is the guide."
Mark asked, "Do you really have hopes of winning? You've been fighting them for five years, after all."
"We can win if we get enough aid from Washington—from your Congress. We need many things."
"Your enemies say you have made no significant gains in all the years you've opposed the government and that your army has no real bases in Nicaragua."
Ortega puffed smoke. "I am the leader of a very small group, señores. I do not know anything about high strategy. My men and I do what we can. We are gaining recruits slowly, and I am told we are gaining footholds. Our enemies are trained by Cubans and by the Communists of Russia, and they are ruthless. But we will fight them to the death."
An airplane droned overhead, and Ortega glanced up at the ceiling of the hut. "We need aircraft. . . ." He shrugged, looking at the cigar ash. "When I went to school in your country, I read about your revolution from Britain, and about Valley Forge. Sometimes I think we are now in our own Valley Forge, or something maybe even worse. Because if we lose, we will have the evil of Communism on the mainland of America."
"That damn well ain't good," Hog commented.
The understatement of the year, Mark thought.
Another aircraft buzzed overhead, high up, and in moments a helicopter gunship skirted the hills, moving along parallel to the railroad tracks.
"They are looking for the Ford truck," Ortega said, standing in the doorway of the hut. "They will not find it."
"Have you hidden it?"
"Sí, My people have taken it into a cave. We will take it apart and change it altogether. It is our first truck, and I thank you for it." He smiled at them. "Will you have more wine?"
Hog accepted, emptying the flask.
Ortega left them for a bit and returned with a young man he introduced as Fortun Deppe, once a farmer's son. Fortun was lithe and brown with very white teeth. He was dressed like the others in cotton shirt and pants, with a Smith & Wesson revolver strapped about his narrow hips. He spoke better English than most, Ortega said, and he knew every inch of the ground between here and Managua. "You can trust him completely." Fortun grinned at them, saying he was pleased to meet them, then he hurried out to get his kit together. Ortega said, when the lad had gone, "His mother is alive in Honduras, but the Sandinistas killed his father and brother while they were working in the fields unarmed, provoking no one. Fortun has avenged them several times." Ortega shook his head sadly. "There is much hate in Nicaragua."
They set out in an hour, walking south with Fortun in the lead, a captured AK assault rifle slung over his shoulder with a cartridge belt. They marched in single file with Loughlin bringing up the rear. They wound over the hills under a wide blue sky, with the sounds of gunships coming closer. The choppers were making circles, as Ortega had said, looking for the Ford truck they would never find.
Fortun seemed to know exactly how close a chopper could come to them before they were seen. When he signaled, they all flattened themselves until it veered away.
They saw five lightplanes and choppers that afternoon. A vigorous pursuit must be on, Mark Stone thought. What would happen to them if they were caught? An execution? Probably a prolonged interrogation of each man first—then execution. Thinking of interrogation, he touched his cheek. It was very sore and he kept it well covered with the salve, but it never allowed him to forget it.
As the long shadows lengthened, the search came their way. Fortun then led them into a deep ravine, and they trudged along it for a mile or more until they came to an overhanging cliff; then they sat in deep shade as the aircraft passed overhead with rotors beating their monotonous song. They were not spotted and the choppers drifted away.
Fortun seemed to have no great fear of them; they were deadly in some circumstances, but when a man had a ditch to protect him and a good automatic weapon, the chopper had better sheer off. He had shot down one, he told them, and would do it again if he found one alone.
The helicopters were called off toward evening; they all whirled away to the east and the rotor song faded. Fortun suggested they travel a bit farther before dark; he had a destination in mind. Not far away was a region of more rugged hills where their cover would be better, and Mark agreed.
When they halted at last it was a deep valley, heavily wooded, by a muddy pond. Well hidden by the canopy of trees were several uninhabited shacks used by travelers, Fortun said. He assured them that a fire would not be seen by an enemy. "The Sandinistas do not come into these hills unless in great force."
Mark asked, "Do you know the city?"
"A little. I have spent no time there."
"Do you know of any rebel groups in the city?"
"No, but I know someone who would know." Fortun indicated their clothes. "You cannot go into the city in daylight dressed like this."
Loughlin nodded. "We'll have to liberate some Sandinista uniforms, just in case."
They were up early in the morning and under way, threading a path through the hills with the choppers far off to the left, still quartering the ground. Whoever was in command was persistent. Fortun avoided all villages and farmhouses. They could see field workers in the distance now and again, and once they lay in tall grass while a Sandinista patrol, twenty or thirty strong, passed with equipment jangling.
"We will meet more of them," Fortun said softly. "I regret we cannot set an ambush for them. But Captain Ortega—" He shrugged.
Obviously Ortega had given him explicit instructions.
The region was more settled and they had to detour many times to avoid meeting field workers or travelers, and occasionally soldiers. Fortun advised even avoiding rebel forces, saying that all their leaders were not as sophisticated as Captain Ortega and might detain them.
They assumed he meant that some were less likely to smile on wandering norteamericanos who were armed to the teeth and apparently had no business in their country.
They skirted a large plain, traversed a series of low hills, and crossed a fast-running stream, all very peaceful and quiet. Nicaragua was a beautiful country, Stone thought. Too bad it was caught up in a terrible civil war.
In late afternoon they came to the edge of a stand of oaks and saw in the distance what seemed to be a tower and an airfield. Fortun confirmed that it was indeed a small military field, an airstrip and a helicopter pad owned by the government. "We have noted there are troops stationed there, sometimes as many as a hundred."
Hog rubbed his chin. "Maybe we can steal us a plane?" He glanced around. "Anyone fly one of them things?"
No one could. Fortun had never been up in one, he said. He did not sound eager to do so.
"Well," Loughlin remarked to the air, "if we can't steal a plane, maybe we can smash one or two. I'm goddamn tired of twisting my neck watching out for them."
"Me too," Hog agreed. "Them buggers is askin' for it."
Stone looked at Fortun. "Is it possible to get onto the field?"
"Oh, yes. But Captain Ortega has given me—"
"The captain ain't here," Hog said, glancing around as if he expected to see him. "And what he don't know ain't gonna bite his ass. You don't want to burn up a airplane? What kind of a rebel are you, anyways?"
"Oh, I want to," Fortun assured him as the others laughed.
The airfield, when they came nearer, sat in the shadow of a line of hills on a level bit of ground that had probably been bulldozed. The strip itself was paved and blacktopped and was very narrow. The tower was some forty feet above the ground and had what seemed to be a single room with a drooping flag on top. Even with the binoculars they could see no one in it.
There was a low hangar and three other buildings. Three lightplanes were parked by the hangar beside a small truck where two men fussed.
As they crawled along a deep furrow and reached a position near the west fence, chain link, in a drainage ditch, a chopper came in to land. It settled down on the pad and the rotors ground to a halt as two men got out and walked to one of the buildings.
"Three planes and a chopper," Stone said, rubbing his hands together. "That'll cost 'em."
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