His beady-eyed confronter had gone out of coil and was not coming toward him, the rattles still proclaiming their music of war. It was getting into a position where it could go into another coil and make its try at this intruder.
Joe Mauser brought up the gun and shot it into the middle of the snake’s body. It writhed, it turned over and over, it thrashed, and it showed its obscene belly, a contrast to its beautiful back. It rattled hopelessly, desperately before it died.
Joe Mauser, his lips dry, continued onward, his gun at the ready, his eyes darting. In the next few minutes he must have seen a score of snakes, but none quite as large as the one he had killed. He emerged into more of the semi-desert beyond. After fifty or sixty feet, he came to a depression, possibly half as deep as a standard combat foxhole. He took a deep breath and took his stand in it. He brought out a handful of his cartridges and stuck them head first into the sand above him, and reloaded. Then he waited, until the two gunmen came within pistol range. He fired once, and twice, and they took cover. He reloaded again.
Joe could imagine how satisfied they were with the situation. They were undoubtedly crawling forward with the utmost care. They would probably decide to come in on him from opposite sides. And when he exposed himself, the Sten gun would cut him down.
He heard the first scream in about five minutes, and the second immediately afterwards. And then the others. City hoodlums are seldom acquainted with diamondheads. Joe Mauser shuddered in compassion for them.
Chapter Three
He forced himself to go in fifteen minutes later. There were no snakes in sight. As he reconstructed it, they had been alarmed and enraged at the intrusion of the two crawling men into their domain and at least several must have struck. But then they had crawled into their holes.
The two were still alive, but in a complete state of shock. Joe shot them both in the head, mercifully, and took up their weapons and carefully left. He left slowly and quietly and respectful of the area through which he was traveling—and hence made it. He headed directly for the cars.
After a short distance, he stopped and sat on a boulder and examined the Sten gun. He had never held such a weapon in his hands before. He had seen the equivalent in military museums, made inoperative so as to subscribe to the Universal Disarmament Pact, firing pin removed, or whatever, but he had never held one. However, Joe Mauser was well acquainted with the world of firearms. He took his time and figured this one out.
In actuality, the Sten gun was easy to use. He had read that literally hundreds of thousands of them had been produced on a mass production basis. Many of these had been turned out with the intention of parachuting them down to the guerrillas in the Nazi rear areas, ranging from Norway to Yugoslavia and Greece. They were ultra-simple in their construction because the men who were to wield them were often peasants or factory workers without knowledge of advanced firearms.
Joe detached the clip and figured out how to extract the round currently in the chamber. He checked the clip and then cursed himself inwardly. He should have searched the body of the man who had been carrying the weapon for additional clips. There were only eight rounds left, including the one which had been in the barrel chamber.
He wasn’t going to go back into that rattlesnake den. He figured out the cocking lever, the safety, and swung the gun about, dry firing, getting the feeling, the heft of it. He wasn’t going to be able to actually try it. Not with only eight rounds. However, it was not complicated. He reloaded and started back again in the direction of the cars. He knew he was in no particular hurry. Max and his pursuers, plodding more slowly over the circuitous route, wouldn’t be on the scene as yet. For the first time, Joe was conscious of his thirst. The Mexican sun at that altitude of eight thousand feet was not exactly kindly.
When he got to the road, not too far from his blasted-out sports model and the black sedan of the gunmen, he spent five minutes looking up and down it, listening carefully. Then, bent double, he sped across and into the cactus and maguey beyond. He went on back to approximately the stand he and Max had taken, and settled in.
In his day, Joe Mauser had spent many an hour under cover, waiting for his quarry, many an hour in a foxhole of a trench awaiting an opportunity to fire at a foe. Every infantryman has done the same. He waited now.
Before long, Max Mainz, stumbling slowly but determinedly along, could be made out coming across the plain. And then, not too far behind, the two gunmen, also barely able to walk from weariness. They had been damn fools, Joe thought, not to have left a guard at the car. He could have stolen it and taken off, had he been willing to desert Max.
By this time, Joe Mauser had rested enough to have regained control of his breathing and steadiness of hand. He cocked the Sten gun and waited.
Max wavered across the road. Even at this distance, Joe could make out the agony in his face.
Joe Mauser leveled the gun.
The two pursuers came to the road in their turn and started across. Joe gently touched the trigger of the submachine gun and, remembering to hold the barrel down, shot a four round burst to each of them.
He came to his feet, drew his.44, and walked down to them. One was still breathing in gasps. He died as Joe came up.
Max had stopped at the sound of the machinegun bursts, thinking the gun still in the hands of the enemy and that he was the target. Despair washed over him. He knew that he could go no farther.
But then he saw Joe Mauser, standing there over the two bodies, the Sten gun in hand. Max groaned relief and turned back.
When he had stumbled up to his companion, Joe looked at him and growled, “Damn it. I wish we could have taken one prisoner. I’d like to know who the hell they are and why they wanted to clobber us.”
Max sat down on the road and put his arms around his knees and panted. He couldn’t find breath to talk.
Joe went over to the field and, using the butt of the submachine gun in lieu of a shovel, dug a hole in the sand and gravel. He tossed the Sten gun into it and then filled the hole in with the side of his shoe. The more quickly he got the illegal weapon out of his hands the better. After his court-martial for violating the Universal Disarmament Pact, it would be all he needed to be caught violating it again. They’d most cheerfully throw the book at him.
There were three bodies on the road, the one he had originally shot in the belly and the two he had just machine-gunned. One by one he took them by the heels and drug them into the desert a couple of hundred feet and hid them behind a large clump of cactus. He searched the bodies but came up with no indication of identity, not even universal credit cards.
Scuffing out the marks of the dragging with the side of his shoe, he went back to Max and said, “Come on. Let’s get out of here. It’s probably unlikely, but there just might be more of them in the vicinity.”
He helped the smaller man to his feet and they headed for the abandoned black sedan the killers, had arrived in. It was an old-fashioned, wheeled vehicle, a gasoline burner. That made sense. They couldn’t have entered the area they had blanketed with their electronic damper in a hovercar. A gasoline vehicle was operative where a power pack car wasn’t. Happily, the hoodlums had left the keys in it.
They got into the front seat and Joe took over the driver’s position. He handed Max the pistol he had confiscated from the fallen killer in the rattlesnake den.
Max had finally caught his breath. “It’s against the law for a Military Reservation,” he said.
Even as he started up, Joe had to laugh. He said, “It’s also against the law for somebody to kill you, but those five tried to do it As long as people are shooting at you, Max, shoot back if you can, and the hell with the law. You can work out your problems with the law later—if you’re still alive.”
Max tucked the gun into a side pocket and said, “How in the name of Holy Jumping Zen did you manage to kill those other two and get that machine gun, Joe?”
“I didn’t. At least not directly. They made the mistake of crawling through
a den of diamondhead rattlesnakes.”
The little man shivered. He said, “I never seen a snake, but I’m afraid of them.”
Tensions evaporating, Joe Mauser laughed. They were underway now, headed once more for Queretaro. Joe was hoping that they had enough gas to make it to Mexico City, which was about one hundred and fifty miles to the south.
Max, recovering rapidly, said, “How in the name of Zen did they know where to find us?”
Joe thought about it. “Somebody planted a directional bug in the car, somewhere tucked away, so that they could zero in on it. It had to be done back in Greater Washington, possibly while it was parked in our apartment building garage. So most likely whoever engineered the attempt to crisp us is Washington-based. Those five men, by the way, weren’t Mexicans. They were of Northern European extraction.”
Max wasn’t up on this sort of thing. He said, “Couldn’t they have been Mexican?”
Joe shook his head. “It’s unlikely.”
To Joe’s relief, they ran into no more trouble on the Guanajuato Military Reservation. Once on the ultra-highway again, with its heavy traffic, it seemed unlikely that any attempt would be made on them. At Queretaro he turned left and made time in the direction of Mexico City. The gasoline held out, which was another relief. Now, more than ever, he wanted to refrain from using his universal credit card. His sports hovercar had been well bombed, but sooner or later the authorities were going to find it. His only chance was to get back to Greater Washington and put in a report that it had been stolen. He doubted that they would find the boides. He doubted that they would even look for them. Even if they did, they’d have their work cut out for them puzzling through what had happened. Three bodies were hidden, and two were up in the rattlesnake den. Presumably, the whole five could have been in on the theft of Joe’s hovercar. Then, for whatever reason, they had fallen out. The two killed the other three, hid their bodies, and took off into the desert after blowing up the car. They had wound up in the rattlesnake den and were killed there. In a day or two the buzzards would have stripped them, and there would be no evidence remaining that Joe had finished them off with his pistol. At least, that’s what he hoped they would think. Thank the powers that be that Frank Hodgson was the actual working head of the North American Bureau of Investigation. He could suppress just about anything.
Joe Mauser had been in Mexico City before. He drove around the ultra-highway that circled it until he arrived at Reforma, and then drove in toward the center. In its day, Mexico City had been one of the most beautiful capitals in the world. This was no longer its day. Like most of the world’s cities with a multi-million population, it had deteriorated. Who would wish to live in a major city if it wasn’t necessary? And in these days of People’s Capitalism and the Ultra-Welfare State, it wasn’t necessary for about ninety percent of the population. Given your Inalienable Basic Common Stock, issued to every citizen at birth, and reverting to the government upon death, you could live anywhere you wished, particularly if you weren’t one of the few lucky enough to secure employment and thus be able to augment your income. You could live on the beaches, in the mountains, in the forests, in a climate of your choice. If you subsisted on the dividends from only your Inalienable Basic you weren’t rich, but at least you didn’t have to live in a city slum.
Joe drove through Chapultepec Park, and emerged onto Paseo de la Reforma, one of the most beautiful boulevards in the world. He checked the address which Miss Mikhail, of Philip Holland’s office, had given him, and at Dinamarca he turned right. He parked the car at the corner near the Avenue Chapultepec.
He said to Max, who had been staring out the window in fascination, “Wizard. We’ll dump this wagon here and go on by foot. I’d think it would take them a couple of days, at least, to locate it and check it out. By that time, Zen willing, we’ll be back in Greater Washington. I hope this guy Zavala has the funds to advance us for a couple of tickets.”
The address of Jesus Zavala was at the corner of Chapultepec and Morelia. It turned out to be an impressive looking office building. They entered the lobby and looked up at the directory. Jesus Zavala was a dentist. They took the elevator to the fifth floor and located the office. By the looks of it, Zavala wasn’t going to have much difficulty shelling out for two tickets on the airline for them. There was no one in the reception room save a pretty Mexican girl behind the desk.
Joe said to her in Spanish, “Is the doctor in?”
She smiled at him and answered in Amer-English. He was obviously not a Mexican. She said, “Do you have an appointment Señor?”
“I’m afraid not, Señorita. This isn’t a business call.”
“Your name, please?”
“Joseph Mauser.”
Her eyes widened. “Major Joe Mauser?”
Damn. Just his luck to run into a fracas fan. He had hoped that no one would recognize him here in Mexico City. She’d probably tell all her fracas-buff friends that she’d met the famous Joe Mauser. He hoped that he wouldn’t get into the local news.
“Not major, any more,” he told her. “I’ve been disqualified to participate in the fracases.”
“You’ll always be Major Joe Mauser to me, sir. I’ve watched you on telly a dozen times. Everybody I know thinks you got a very raw deal because of that glider thing.”
“Thanks,” Joe said. “The doctor?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.” She did the things receptionists do, then looked up and said, “Go right in, Major.”
Joe Mauser went through the door next to her desk, trailed by Max who slipped her a wink as he passed.
Jesus Zavala looked up from his desk. He was a man in his fifties, darker of complexion than even most Mexicans. His sparkling white teeth were a good advertisement for his trade. He wore a Van Dyke beard which was beginning to show traces of grey and old-fashioned glasses, in this day of contact lenses or eye surgery. He was almost as small as Max and thinner. His clothes were conservative and some twenty years out of date.
Joe looked at him and said, “Progress.”
The others eyebrows went up. “Indeed” he said. And then, “It must be resumed.”
Chapter Four
Joe nodded at the response to the password and said, “I’ve been sent from national headquarters.”
“Indeed. For what purpose?” The dentist had come to his feet. He shook hands across the desk with first Joe, and then Max.
Joe looked around the room. “Is there any possibility at all that this room is bugged?”
“Bugged?”
Joe said, “An electronic microphone to pick up any conversations that take place. They’ve got some fantastically advanced models these days.”
The other looked startled. “It never occurred to me.”
Max said, “I’d hate to be the cloddy who had to monitor a dentists office. The screams would give me ulcers before the week was out.”
Zavala looked at him questioningly, then back to Joe. He said, “The girl gave me your name, of course, Señor Mauser. And I am familiar with it. I followed the news of your remarkable duel with the Hungarian in Budapest. However… this gentleman?”
“Names aren’t important,” Joe said, avoiding introducing Max. “Is there someplace we can talk that we absolutely know couldn’t be bugged?”
The dentist looked at his wrist chronometer and said, “Have you eaten?”
“Only sandwiches and such for the past three days,” Joe told him.
“Then, let us go. It’s my lunch hour and I have no appointments until four.”
Joe said, “I see that the institution of the siesta is still with us in Mexico.”
They filed out, Max tipping the girl another wink as he went by. She smiled at him. Joe had a sneaking suspicion that given a few days in town Max would have her in the sack in short order. Especially if he told her he was Category Military and had fought in the fracases.
The small, thin dentist led the way to the street and then to the nearest entry to the famous Mexico
City Metro. Some stations had small Aztec pyramids or temples in them, which were found when the underground was being excavated.
Max said, “Subway? Don’t you have no vacuum-tube transport in this here town?”
The dentist looked at him testily. “To some extent, but we also have the metro for mass transportation. What I had in mind was the fact that anyone attempting to trail us through the mobs that press into metro cars would have quite a problem on their hands.”
“Good thinking,” Joe said. “Let’s all keep our eyes peeled for anyone who looks as though he’s tailing us.”
They got out at the station at the far end of Alameda Park near the Bellas Artes building, turned right down San Juan de Letran, and then left at the next street.
“Here we are,” Zavala said. “Prendes. One of the oldest restaurants in Mexico City. Emiliano Zapata once rode in here on his horse, gun in hand, seeking an enemy.”
“How’s the food?” Max said cynically.
The dentist didn’t answer.
The Prendes certainly looked like one of the oldest restaurants in Mexico City. In fact, it looked like one of the oldest restaurants anywhere.
“Many of we Mexicans like the old ways,” Zavala said to Joe, no apology in his voice.
“Can’t blame you,” Joe said. “Looks like a damn good place to get a meal.”
The dentist, being acquainted with the specialties, made suggestions and ordered for them. Largely, it was seafood, though the steak Max selected was probably the first real steak he had ever eaten in his life. Mexicans, Zavala explained, didn’t go for commercial whale meat from the herds now being exploited by the whale “cowboys” with their porpoise assistants. The food was accompanied by the darkest, richest, and strongest beer Joe Mauser had ever tasted.
The Fracas Factor Page 3