The Lazarus Drop

by Paul Moomaw

  “I don't see anything that looks like lights,” I said.

  “What difference does that make, gringo?” Carlos said.

  I ignored him, focused my attention on Cruz. “So they probably aren't working around the clock."

  Cruz nodded. “Let's hope that's the case, and that there are no guards around after the workers quit for the day."

  “If there are?"

  “We kill them,” Carlos volunteered.

  “Only if we absolutely have to,” Cruz replied.

  “I say we kill them on general principle.” Carlos insisted. “They are pigs. They work for Noriega. They deserve to die."

  “Otero worked for Noriega,” Cruz’ voice was mild, but his eyes were cold. “I work for Noriega, now that I think of it."

  Carlos ducked his head and looked away.

  “Anyway,” Cruz continued, “that's not the point. The last thing we want to do is attract attention. Our best hope is to catch the General off guard. If we can sneak in, pick up the arms, and sneak back out unnoticed, that's the best."

  “If there are any arms to pick up,” I said.

  Cruz nodded, sighed. “A good point, Senor Blue. Tonight will be a test of your much-vaunted yanqui efficiency, que no?” He smiled at me. “How do they plan to get the shipment to us?"

  “Do you know what a Phoenix capsule is?"

  “No."

  “It's named after a legendary flying beast which burned up in its nest, then recreated itself out of its own ashes. The capsule is inertial, but with wheels and a braking system. It will drop from an aircraft and land on the runway, special delivery, right at our door. We empty it, trip a fuse, and get the hell out of the way while it self-destructs."

  “It blows itself up?"

  “No. It burns. It's made of a special composite material that generates a lot of heat, but no flame. When it's done, there's nothing left but a little pile of ashes for the wind to blow away. Or I guess you can sweep them up if you want to be extra neat."

  “It lands? On wheels? No dropping down on a parachute?"

  “Exactly. It's pretty precise."

  When it works, I added to myself.

  “Then how fortunate for us that these people have resurfaced the runway."

  We all laughed, even Carlos.

  “Now,” Cruz was all business again, “how many men do we really need to get the stuff from down there to up here in one load?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the police jail wagon which stood some 30 meters away, at the end of a bumpy, rock road.

  I did some quick calculations. Smart wire rockets are light. I assumed there would be about twenty of them and a few antipersonnel grenades—two or three of those at most.

  “Maybe seven men,” I answered. “All with big hands and strong backs."

  “Good,” Cruz said. “We are fifteen. Seven can go to unload, and eight can stay back to cover."

  “I should go down, of course,” I said.

  Cruz nodded. “Of course. You know how to deal with the machine. I will go down, also. Carlos, you should stay here with the others, to be in charge of them."

  I expected Carlos to protest, but he merely nodded.

  Cruz went to the other men, counting them off into two groups. Then he came back and settled down next to me.

  “Now we wait,” he said. “And it happens I brought a little something to help pass the time.”

  He pulled out a flask of old, tarnished silver, and held it out to me.

  “This I also inherited from my great-great grandfather,” he said with a grin. “Guests first."

  I popped the cap and sniffed. It was mescal.

  “You have a great mind, jefe,” I said.

  As dusk spread over the valley, one of Cruz’ men scrambled through the trees toward us.

  “The workers appear to be leaving, jefe,” he said.

  Cruz and I got up to take a look. The sounds of construction had ceased, and the workers below were lining up to get into a large, open-backed truck.

  And the runway was littered with big pieces of construction equipment.

  “Does this Phoenix capsule know how to dodge?” Cruz asked with a wry grin.

  I shook my head in disgust. “I don't know how tough it is, either."

  “Let's hope it's both tough and well-padded."

  The last worker climbed aboard the truck, and the vehicle trundled off toward the town of Huetamo, three or four kilometers away. We waited a few minutes longer to make sure, but the landing field remained silent as darkness began to settle.

  Cruz gave a signal, and started down the hillside.

  “Is this capsule pretty accurate?"

  “Supposed to be."

  “Not much doubt it will come down on the runway itself."

  “Not much?"

  “A shame, in this case. A near miss would be preferable."

  I had to agree. The abandoned equipment was right in the center of the strip; the more accurate the drop, the more certain that the capsule would collide with something.

  We stationed ourselves along the side of the runway and waited. I sensed the approach of an aircraft before I saw it, and touched Cruz on the shoulder.

  “Here it comes."

  Everything happened fast after that. Something huge and dark swooped in out of the west, close to the ground, near enough to feel the change in the air pressure as it shot overhead. I had a hurried impression of almost insubstantial blackness, and broad wings like a manta ray, and an odd, sucking, popping sound. Then it was gone.

  I didn't see the capsule at all until it was down, a dark gray pod, racing along the runway at what seemed like a crazy speed, then slowing suddenly with a rushing hiss of airjets.

  Not suddenly enough, however. The capsule missed the first road grader, and was losing speed rapidly as it shot past the heavy roller. But there was no way to miss the second grader. It caught the blade of the earth mover with a soft crunch, then flipped into the air and landed on its back, skidding and twisting crazily on down the runway, making grinding and tearing noises as it shredded pieces of itself on the new pavement, and finally came to rest a hundred meters away from us.

  We sprinted toward it. The gray body was crumpled and torn, and a huge gash grinned at us from the center.

  “We won't need to find the door, anyway,” I said. I unzipped my belt and pulled out a glow wire, popped off the tip, and crawled inside the capsule. In the cool green light of the wire, I could see stacks of silver-gray rockets, each wrapped in clear protective plastic. It looked as if at least half of them had suffered some damage, but it was hard to tell without a closer inspection.

  I stuck my head out.

  “I don't think we'll have to worry about having more stuff than we can use,” I said.

  “Let's get it out of here and check it over later,” Cruz said. He signaled to his men, who lined up patiently next to the capsule. Each one carried a soft, wicker bag with a padded strap that went around the forehead. I pulled stuff from the capsule and handed it to Cruz, who loaded each man as heavily as possible.

  “Pretty clever,” I said, nodding at the first man as he moved away, heavy bag straining at his neck.

  “Mexican high tech,” Cruz responded with a laugh.

  The last man was gone, and the only things left were four small, self-propelled antipersonnel grenades, which Cruz and I could carry off easily enough. We started to pick them up when I heard the whine of a turbine approaching from the direction of town.

  “Hell of a time for company,” Cruz said. We ducked behind the capsule. I was grateful for the dull, gray finish which made it almost impossible to see at night from any distance at all.

  Headlights approached, and the turbine grew louder. I pulled out the stinger. Cruz noticed it immediately, despite the darkness and the distraction of the approaching vehicle. But I was realizing that there wasn't much which escaped his attention.

  “Cute,” he said.

  “I'll let you play with it some day."


  Just as the approaching lights got close enough that the capsule was beginning to cast a shadow, they veered off. It was a small truck, which pulled up in front of the new building on the edge of the runway. After a brief space of time, lights went on the building, and we could see five or six uniformed men go inside.

  “So far so good,” I said. “Now, if I can find the self-destruct switch, we can get the hell out of here and have a party."

  I climbed back into the capsule. The switch would be on the inside panel of the hatch, which we hadn't had to bother to open, and which should be somewhere under my feet, because the capsule had come to rest upside down. I found the hatch easily enough, and found where the switch should have been.

  But all that reflected back at me in the dim light of the glow wire was paved runway, peeking through a large hole which the capsule had worn in itself skidding along the ground.

  I climbed out and told Cruz what I had found.

  “Is there any other way to destroy the thing?” He looked worried for the first time.

  “Maybe.” I held out the stinger. “This thing fires explosive projectiles. The question is whether they will generate enough heat to start the stuff going."

  Cruz shrugged.

  “If that doesn't work, we'll try fuel from our vehicle."

  “Those guys might see that."

  “Better that, than what they would see in the morning, otherwise."

  “You have a point."

  I stepped back from the capsule, aimed the stinger, and fired. There was a satisfying little boom, and a flash of flame, then nothing. I decided to try the inside wall. I stepped through the gash, extended my arm, closed my eyes, and squeezed the trigger. I held it down while half a dozen rounds struck the wall.

  The rapid sequence of flashes dazzled me for a moment, even with my eyes closed, and after I got my vision back I couldn't tell at first whether anything was happening.

  Then I made out a faint, rapidly spreading blue glow, and began to feel intense heat. I scrambled back out.

  “Let's go,” I said.

  Cruz put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Not yet."

  Then I heard it. Another vehicle was coming from the direction of town, headlights veering oddly from side to side as they approached. The lights kept getting closer, and we kept waiting for them to turn toward the building where the other men had gone.

  It never happened. The lights just kept getting closer, and then swept past. It was a roadbat, with three men in it, and from the laughing and singing they were doing, I guessed they were pretty drunk, which would also explain the difficulty they seemed to have keeping the roadbat cruising a straight line.

  The vehicle sped off into the night. I was about to breathe again, when the lights spun crazily around a couple of times and headed back our way.

  We stood there, our hides getting uncomfortably warm from the capsule, which was getting a good burn going.

  “This time, as soon as it goes by, we run like hell,” Cruz said. He picked up two of the antipersonnel grenades. I picked up the other two, and we tried to make ourselves small, crouching on the runway, no longer able to get near the intense heat of the capsule.

  But the roadbat didn't shoot past. It headed straight toward us, then slued to a halt.

  “Hey, look,” a voice rang out over the suddenly silent runway. “Some new kind of machine."

  “Don't get too close,” another voice said. “It's glowing. Look at that!”

  “That's exactly what I want to do—take a look at it."

  “No way, pendejo. Fucking thing may be radioactive, or something."

  “The General wouldn't make us stick around something dangerous, cabron."

  “Maybe not. But those fucking foreigners he's got hanging around—what do they care about us poor fucking indios?"

  Good thinking, I silently cheered the reluctant one on. Just go home and get a good night's sleep.

  The capsule kept getting hotter. I was amazed the men in the roadbat couldn't feel the heat. I was eager to get a whole lot farther away from it, myself; but I was afraid to move a muscle.

  Then a third voice. “I'm going to get a little closer, anyway. Not too close, just a little closer.”

  The roadbat engine started its whine again, and the lights began to edge closer. I looked over at Cruz, to see if he had any bright ideas. He didn't, from the look on his face.

  “Hey, feel that,” one of the men yelled. “It's hot, man. This is close enough for me.” The road bat swung to one side, started circling around the capsule toward the building.

  “As soon as the capsule is between us and them, we go,” Cruz called in a low voice.

  I nodded and waved. The roadbat continued its circle, moving slowly; the men in it apparently still wanted to inspect the capsule, but from a distance now. I was breaking out in sweat, and my left side was beginning to feel fried.

  “Now!”

  Cruz started sprinting away from the runway. I followed, staying in a low crouch.

  I had taken about ten steps when a shot rang out, then another one. I stood up and doubled my speed.

  There was another shot, and Cruz and I both stopped; the shots weren't coming from the direction of the roadbat.

  “What the shit?” Cruz looked wildly around. The roadbat had started moving even more crazily than before, lurching and veering until, with a loud, screeching crash, it plowed into the side of one of the graders.

  Suddenly, figures emerged from the darkness. One of them was Carlos. He ran over to the grounded roadbat, jumped up on it, and fired another noisy cluster of shots at the three men who were in it. Then he jumped back down and sauntered over to Cruz and me.

  “Service with a smile,” he said with a little bow.

  Cruz just stood there, body rigid, fists clenched, staring at Carlos, who at least had the grace to stop grinning and look a little uncomfortable.

  “You stupid son of a bitch!” Cruz finally said in a low, venomous voice. “You brainless piece of shit. Why in the name of all six hells did you do that?"

  “I saved your life, and you need an explanation?"

  “You didn't save our lives, baboon. Those men never even saw us. They were leaving. By morning, that thing would have been gone,” he pointed at the capsule, which was already half its former size and dwindling visibly, “and they would have chalked everything up to being drunk."

  “How was I supposed to know?” Carlos lamented.

  “There you go again,” I started, when a shout from one of the other men interrupted me.

  “Someone's coming!"

  We looked over our shoulders. Men were charging out of the building down the runway, and somehow I didn't imagine the long things they were carrying were walking sticks. The headlights on the parked truck came on, and it started heading in our direction.

  Cruz gave me a slap on the shoulder. “A volar, gringo. Take off for the trees and wait. You're already supposed to be dead, remember?"

  I started running, and sprinted right into the headlights of the oncoming truck. There was a shout, and the truck swerved and started after me. I just kept running as fast as I could, and the truck came after me as fast as it could—and the truck was a hell of a lot faster than I was. I heard a shot, and something ricocheted near my feet in almost the same moment. Suddenly I seemed able to run faster.

  There was another shot, and something whirred past my ear, and then I was in the trees. The truck slued to a stop, spun around and headed back toward the capsule.

  I collapsed against a tree and was sitting there, eyes closed, catching my breath and listening to the sounds of fighting down the runway, when I began to realize that I wasn't alone. I hadn't stopped to think that the truck might have dropped someone off before it left.

  A twig snapped. I lurched and rolled to one side, and the world blew up in my face with a blinding flash, while at the same time my left arm felt like someone had set off a magnesium flare inside it.

 
I lay on my back, waiting to die. But nothing else happened, except that my night vision gradually returned, and I became increasingly aware that a sharp rock was pressing up against my shoulder blade, and something heavy was lying across my feet.

  I sat up. The weight on my feet was a man in uniform. I rolled him off me and checked him out. He was dead, and there was a soft, sticky place in his midsection. It was then I realized I still had the stinger in my fist. I hadn't known that I had pulled the trigger, but I had, reflexively, and the little gun had done the rest. Then I noticed a little orange flag sticking out the bottom of the handgrip. The damned thing was empty. It was just dumb luck that I hadn't already used it up before now.

  I opened my belt and groped around for a new clip, reloaded the gun, and tucked it away. I no longer heard any noise at all. I stood up and moved cautiously to the edge of the trees.

  Cruz was walking in my direction.

  “You in there, gringo?” he called softly.

  “Right here,” I answered, and stepped out into the open. “Everything under control?"

  “I guess. We lost two men, but we cleaned up on them?"

  “Now what?"

  “Now we clean up the mess. The roadbat is still functional, so we can take it and the truck into the hills. There's a very dangerous curve on the road up there. I think it might be a good place for an accident. We can pull the drunkest guy from the roadbat and put him behind the wheel of the truck, then send them both over the side and torch the whole mess."

  “You think they'll buy it?"

  “Shit, who knows? I can't think of anything else to do."

  “I've got one to add to the pile, anyway.” I jerked my thumb back into the trees. “Fellow back there and I had a little disagreement."

  * * * *

  I didn't get a good look at my arm until we got back to town. The shirt sleeve was torn and bloody, but the wound was only a grazing one, the kind a bandage and a little antiseptic would take care of. It wasn't even bleeding much any more.

  “Looks like the other guy made a few points in that little disagreement you mentioned,” Cruz said.