Dick Stivers - Amazon Slaughter

Jogging forward, Lyons paused beside Lieutenant Silveres. "You saw that back there? We're after the scum who gassed those people. And we're going to waste them. I don't care if they're in Bolivia, or Brazil, or France. So if we have to cross your sacred national boundary, don't give me any crap."

"The defense of Brazil is the responsibility of the Brazilian army. We don't need meddling foreigners to protect our people."

"Don't need our help? Then why didn't you protect those people?"

Without giving the proud young officer time to reply, Lyons ran forward and took his place behind the point man.

As punishment for gas-bombing the gunboat, Chan Sann crucified the pilot. He did not listen to the French pilot's explanations about Williams's reported coordinates. He did not allow the pilot the mercy of suicide.

The French mercenary hung on a cross of planks, spikes driven through his forearms and feet. Flies and carrion beetles feasted on the raw flesh of his wounds. From time to time, the man returned to consciousness as the insects attacked his eyes. Incoherent with shock and agony and sunstroke, the dying pilot thrashed his head to shake away the insects, crying out in French and English. Sometimes he raved in Latin, intoning Catholic prayers, snatches of old hymns. As the sun sank, his motions slowed. They became spasmodic as blood and strength drained from him. Before he died, the beetles would eat his eyes.

Chan Sann sat in the shade of a rubber tree and watched the pilot suffer. Other Cambodians crowded around him, taking cold bottles of Brazilian beer from an ice chest. They chattered in their language, talking of the war against the bourgeoisie during the rule of their Communist master, Pol Pot. They had killed — with torture, Kalashnikov slugs, shovels, or starvation — all opposition to their regime. The opposition included doctors, lawyers, teachers, civil clerks, businessmen, shop owners, farmers, mechanics, laborers, Catholics, Buddhists, soldiers, officers. All educated Cambodians had died. All Cambodians who could read had died. All Cambodians who would not murder their neighbors, parents or children had died. Any failure to demonstrate unquestioning joy in the creation of the perfect Marxist state meant death.

During the three-year rule of Pol Pot, three and a half million of the counterrevolutionaries died, one-half of the population of Cambodia.

Now the Communist exiles joked of the extermination, describing tortures and mutilations that had amused them. They placed bets on when the pilot would die. Chan Sann did not participate in their game. He watched the French pilot with calm disdain.

"Tay!" Chan Sann spoke suddenly.

"Yes, Commander!" One of the Cambodians sprang to attention.

"He is a weakling. He will die soon. We will make him suffer more. Your knife, here..." Chan Sann made a motion.

"Yes, Commander!"

Running across the clearing, the soldier unsheathed his knife and slipped the blade into the abdomen of the naked Frenchman. With the skill of practice and experience, he dragged the tip of the knife across. The pain brought consciousness to the prisoner. The gash yawned, spilling out intestines. Flies descended in a cloud. The Frenchman looked down at the horror inflicted on him. He shrieked and he wailed.

Chan Sann smiled.

A walkie-talkie interrupted their game. Stopping his soldiers' giggles and chatter with a wave, Chan Sann pressed the radio's transmit key. "This is Chan Sann. Why do you disturb me?"

A voice blared. "Colonel Gomez has captured a river boat of workers. Wei Ho wants them for labor."

"Ready the helicopter."

As the forest shadows became enfolding darkness, the warriors neared the river. They had left behind the hills and ridges two hours before. The trail wove through swamplands and hardwood groves. Lyons drove Gadgets and Blancanales to the limits of their endurance. Even the Indian warriors moved slowly in the heat and humidity. Swarms of insects followed the line of men.

"Lyons!" Gadgets gasped, stumbling under his heavy backpack of electronics. "Where the hell are we racing to?"

"The river."

"It's less than an hour until sundown," Blancanales reminded him. "If we don't make camp, we'll have to put out lookouts and sentries in the dark."

"We'll camp at the river. Keep moving."

Using the forced march as a training exercise, Able Team had issued the new hand radios to Thomas and several Indians. Spreading out ahead of the main group, the Indians scouted parallel trails, looking for the easiest path, always watching for signs of slaver patrols. After the novelty of the "far-speaking boxes" wore off, the point men provided both security and speed. Marshes or dead ends never forced the heavily loaded main group to double back. Lyons rotated the point men, giving all the Indian warriors the opportunity to experiment with the twentieth-century devices.

Thomas received a radio message and translated it for Lyons, "One man smells the river."

"Great, pass the word along. We rest at the river." Lyons called back to Gadgets and Blancanales. "Ten or twenty more minutes."

"Joy to the world!" Gadgets gasped.

Another radio report came in. Thomas listened, then told Lyons, "There is fighting. He hears machine guns."

"How far?"

Thomas keyed his new hand radio to question the scout.

"He thinks it might be on the river."

"Tell him to keep going until he can see who's shooting at who."

Another scout buzzed Thomas. He listened for a moment. "It is steamer boat on the river. They fight with the army."

"With the army? Brazilian army or what?"

Thomas shrugged. "We go see."

An aerial sound cut off their talk. The line of men stared up at the dark branches above them. The distant rotor-whap of a helicopter came to them, then faded away. The warriors double-timed for the river.

Calling Lieutenant Silveres forward, Lyons briefed him as they followed Thomas. Despite his heavy pack, Lyons moved fast, striding up rises, jogging down. Breathless and sweat drenched, the young officer stumbled under his load of weapons and ammunition. But he never asked for rest.

"The river's a few minutes ahead," Lyons told him. "The point men have it in sight. They told us there's a steamer boat fighting with the army. They don't know who's on the steamer. They don't know what army it is. But we know who's in the helicopter. If it's your people up against the slavers, they might need help mucho pronto. So be prepared to introduce us. And do us a big favor, will you? Say something good. I mean, lay off about the CIA and gringos and the invasion of Brazil. Please? Por favor ?"

"I will tell..." the lieutenant gasped out words as he struggled to keep up with Lyons "...my superiors... what I have seen. You have... risked your lives... to help these Indians. I respect that. You rescued me from the foreigners. You fought the foreigners... But the Mamore marks the boundary of Brazil. Only the army of Brazil... will fight in Brazil. It is not my decision or the decision of my superiors. It is the law. Because you come from a rich... military power... does not give you the right to fight in other countries. We are not cowards like the Europeans. The army of Brazil... and not the United States Army... defends our people."

"Hey, kid, that's reasonable. But understand, we're Colonel John Phoenix's men from the United States of America and we're wiping out slave-takers. If you can help us do it, great. But to me, that river's only water."

"Armed foreigners entering Brazil become the enemies of Brazil. When you cross the Mamore, you become my enemy. I will do my duty."

They heard the fire of automatic weapons. Lyons halted the line. A scout ran to Thomas. Thomas translated the report to Lyons and Lieutenant Silveres, "It is ended. The army take steamboat, take many farmers. We can do nothing."