Don Pendleton - Tiger War

The elephant wheeled and with a trumpeting shriek charged into the trees. A figure detached itself from a tree — a tall figure with a white face — and fled inside the forest. Bolan held on to the howdah for dear life, crouching to avoid being decapitated by overhead branches. They barreled through the jungle, the elephant swerving, tearing vines and snapping trees in a cacophony of thrashing and trumpeting. Fenster was an agile runner and was outwitting the elephant by changing course at the last moment. But bit by bit the elephant gained.

The chase led into a clearing. The elephant was nearly on him when Fenster dived into a clump of bullaca bamboo. The elephant went after him, jabbing with its immense tusks, flailing its trunk. There was a scream, then the animal backed out with Fenster held firmly in its trunk. It backed all the way into the clearing and began swinging its prey from one side to the other. Bolan stood up in the howdah, and both men could see each other, Fenster sailing through the air as if on a swing, his eyes wide with fear, Bolan watching him, the Armalite in his hands.

"Help me!" Fenster cried. "Shoot him behind the ear!"

Bolan remained motionless, a figure in black bathed by the icy moonlight. Occasionally his silver collar glistened.

The elephant tossed the man high in the air, Fenster landed with a loud thud and began moaning.

The elephant went over and very gently placed a foot on Fenster to hold him while its trunk sought out an arm.

An agonizing scream escaped the man's lips as the animal tore off the arm and sent it flying through the air.

Then the beast proceeded to tear off the remaining limbs.

Finally, giving an ear-splitting shriek, it trampled the dismembered torso to a pulp.

A birdcall sounded from inside the trees, and the mahout appeared. Seeing him, the elephant gave a joyous cry and ran to meet him. It hoisted him gently with its trunk, and the mahout came to the howdah, a bloody hand clutching his shoulder.

"Bullet went through," he announced cheerfully.

"Let's take a look," said Bolan. He bared the mahout's shoulder and examined the wound by the light of a match.

The mahout nodded at the mess on the ground. "Who was he?"

"A bad man," said Bolan. He finished his examination and blew out the match. "On the way to the drop zone we will stop at the village. I want to bandage your wound."

"We will be late for parachuting," said the mahout.

"My mahout is more important," said Bolan.

The other grunted, pleased. To the elephant he said, "Paj." The beast moved off.

Flaming torches lighting their way, the handful of riders galloped in the night. A trail loomed ahead. The point rider swerved into it and the rest followed. The new trail led them out of the forest into a savanna, a plain of tall grass and woods. The torch riders swirled their torches to extinguish them, and the group rode on by the light of the moon, grass swishing under the horses' legs. The headman, who was leading, maintained a grueling pace. It was two hours past the scheduled drop time.

On the other side of the plain was a range of hills. Twenty minutes later they were spurring their ponies up the slopes, galloping until the ground became too steep, then continuing at a fast climb, the horses straining. They went over a ridge, down an incline, and up another slope. When they got to the top, they stopped.

Below lay the Valley of the Spirits, and the slope directly ahead was dark with people and horses... and they were still waiting.

"Colonel!" exclaimed Vang Ky. "Where are the planes?"

"Weather could have delayed them," said Bolan. "It happens."

"But the sky is clear."

"Yes, but over the ocean there might be a storm."

"Password!" called the voice. A group of men emerged from bushes holding crossbows.

The headman gave the password, and the men joined them. They were one of the teams Nark had posted on the ridges to guard the drop zone. There was always a danger some Tiger patrol might show up.

"A plane came, but it did not stop," said one of the guards.

"When?" asked the headman.

"A little after we arrive."

The headman looked questioningly at Bolan.

"Could have been an airliner," said Bolan. "We'll ask Nark."

They rode to a clump of trees midway down the slope that was to be the command post for the drop. In a clearing a campfire had been lit around which sat the other headmen and Nark. When he saw Bolan, the tall man with the mustache left the group and came over.

"How did it go?" he asked.

"Better than here," said Bolan, sensing the tension.

"There's talk of going home. Some people are saying the spirits are angry we disturbed them. I'm trying to keep them from leaving."

"What's this about a plane?"

"Wasn't ours," said Nark. "A jet fighter by the sound of it. Flew high."

Bolan dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. By the fire, Vang Ky was surrounded by angry headmen. Poor Vang Ky, thought Bolan, always taking the flak. "Let's take a walk," he said to Nark.

They left the trees and came out into the grassland. There were a good three thousand people on the slope and several hundred horses. An atmosphere of doom hung in the air, everyone conscious of what no drop signified. Instead of them attacking Tiger, Tiger would attack them, and this time the expedition would be accompanied by gunship helicopters. It would be a massacre.

Bolan and Nark sat down in the grass and lit cigarettes. For a while they watched the Montagnards. They stood like statues, their upturned faces watching the western horizon, the direction of the Indian Ocean. No one spoke, and the only sound was that of clothes flapping in the breeze.

"The wind's picking up," said Nark.

"Yeah," said Bolan. With the wind would come clouds, and clouds were bad for a drop. Planes had trouble finding the drop zone.

They stretched out and smoked in silence, eyes on the stars in the sky. "What are we going to do if the planes don't come, John?" asked Nark after a while.

"I don't know." Bolan sighed. "I really don't know." He felt tired, physically and emotionally.

"Avion!" someone shouted.

"Avion! Avion! Avion!" The cry spread until the whole slope was shouting it.

In the west, high in the sky, a light was moving. Bolan and Nark sprang to their feet. Another chance traveler, or for them? Nark took a flashlight from his pocket and they waited.

The light drew nearer, flying straight for them. All of a sudden it went out. A disappointed groan swept the slope. Suddenly there was a shout. The light came again, and now it was flashing. It was flashing short, short, long, short. The letter F in Morse.

"Foxtrot!" cried Nark.

"Reply," said Bolan calmly.

Nark pointed the flashlight at the plane and Morsed the letter K, the ground recognition signal. In the sky the light flashed B , the second half of the air recognition signal.

"He's seen us!" said Nark.

Bolan cupped his mouth. "Light the fires!"

The valley echoed the shout, and moments later flames licked piles of branches stacked at the start and end of the drop zone. The bonfires grew, bathing the valley in a warm, red glow, silhouetting the men and ponies.

A deep drone filled the sky. It grew rapidly, and a floatplane flew over the valley. An object fell and a parachute blossomed.

"I'll get it," said Nark, running down.

A couple of Montagnards helped him to detach a container from the billowing parachute, and he dragged it back to the slope. Its contents included two radio handsets. Bolan took one, Nark the other.

Bolan pulled out the aerial on his. "Phoenix to aircraft, do you read me?"

The set crashed with static. "Five on five," the voice in the sky replied. "Is the DZ secure? Got a passenger for you."