Ник Картер - War from the Clouds

On the fifth swing, I was nearing a ledge that was perhaps ten feet wide and about ten inches deep. Below that were other ledges at about ten and twenty-foot intervals.

On the sixth swing, my feet touched the ledge. On the seventh, I was able to make a slight purchase with my toes. To give myself a better chance, I kicked off Nuyan’s sandals and heard them clatter down the rocky mountain, knocking loose pebbles down on the Marine guards.

“Bring him up,” I heard the fat monk scream from above.

“Drop him down, drop him down,” another monk yelled.

I had just pushed away from the mountain and was at the apex of another swing out into space when I looked down and saw the Cuban Marines aiming their rifles up at me. I had to make the ledge on this try or I wouldn’t have another chance. Even so, where would I go from there? I tried not to think of that. I put everything I had into that swing, bearing down so hard on the wicker chair and tugging so hard on the ropes as I arched my body that I was certain something had to snap — the ropes, the lock on the winch, the winch itself.

Bullets were now plunking into the rocks. My feet landed on the ledge and I dug in my toes for maximum purchase. I felt the chair drop away behind me and knew that it was all between me, the ledge and gravity. And, of course, the poison-coated steel scraps on the ledge.

The wall above the ledge bulged out from the mountain, giving me little room. My feet had adequate purchase on the ledge, but I had to double over fast to keep from slamming my shoulders in the bulge of rock and being knocked back into space. In one swift, writhing movement, I curled my body and landed on the ledge on my right side. My hands and feet grasped for holds and, as the wind still ripped at my robe and hood, I felt myself settle onto the solid surface.

I had made it, just barely, but there were other problems. Bullets were smacking into the outcropping of rock above me, sending splinters of rock in a shower all over me. A ricochet could easily do me in. And I could feel the sharp pricks of the metal shreds beneath my body as I clung to the ledge. Fortunately, the two thicknesses of cloth — the robe and my own clothes — had so far kept the metal from puncturing my skin. So far.

The bulge of rock above me proved to be a salvation for now. The clustered monks above couldn’t see me. Even if they had guns and would let down their religious tenets long enough to fire them, they had no clear line of vision. For the moment, if a ricochet didn’t get me, I was safe.

Slowly, carefully, I moved about on the narrow ledge and plucked up the bits of sharp metal. I flung them over the side, hoping the wind would catch them and drive them into the Marines still firing from below. The Marines also had no clear line of vision, but their bullets were just as dangerous as if they had me as an easy target.

The firing ceased just about the time I had located and discarded the last chunk of poisoned metal. I stretched out on my stomach and gazed over the ledge. I could see the roof of the small station below, but couldn’t see the Marines. I knew, though, that the guards had already sent word down the mountain via walkie-talkie that an imposter had made it this far. Marines would be coming up in force.

I spotted another ledge a dozen feet below me and to the left of the point where the winch stood above me. I worked my way to the extreme end of my ledge, tossing over metal scraps as I went, and prepared to drop down to that next ledge. The sunlight caught hunks of sharp metal down there and gave me fair warning. I had no sandals now; dropping down there barefoot would be certain suicide.

An idea came. I took off Nuyan’s robe and hood, and began to tear them into strips. Working slowly and purposefully, wondering what the guards below and the monks above were plotting, I wrapped my feet, hands, buttocks, thighs and hands with the heavy garb of the monk. If I had had more material, I would have wrapped myself up like a mummy, but I didn’t so I would have to take more risks with the sharp metal and the poison than I wanted to take, but there was no other way.

Sure enough, when I dropped to the next ledge, my left foot landed on a huge chunk of metal. I eased up quickly and the metal didn’t make it through to skin. And I had made it to the ledge without being observed from above or below. I knew this because the guards were still firing sporadically, and their bullets were going to that outcropping of rock that had been above me on the first ledge.

This second, lower ledge was about thirty feet wide and a foot deep. I cleared it of metal and worked my way to the westernmost end where I dropped to a third ledge only six feet down. I was still more than seventy feet above the trail and was running out of ledges that would keep my momentum to the west, away from the guard station.

I found a small cave on the third ledge, but it would do no good to hide out in there. Even if they didn’t find me, I would soon starve. I had already decided that I couldn’t wait for darkness to cover my escape from this rock wall of a mountain. Darkness would not be my friend and ally up here. If I didn’t miss my footing in the dark, I would certainly fall prey to the ubiquitous metal shards if I couldn’t spot them ahead of time.

In fifteen minutes, though, I had worked my way down four more ledges, to a point about thirty feet above the trail and a hundred yards to the west of the Marine station. The Marines were still taking potshots at the first ledge and, above, the four green-hooded monks manning the winch had filled the wicker chair with an enormous rock and had lowered it ten feet. They were swinging it back and forth, trying to hit whoever might be hiding there. Of course, no one was.

Intenday and his group had apparently gone on up the trail, working their way to the top where plans of war would be discussed with Don Carlos Italla. Following this incident of the imposter and the killing of the real Nuyan, I had no doubts as to the outcome of that discussion. Don Carlos would get his support and he would signal from his cloud-ringed mountaintop in two days for the bloody sport to begin.

Once again, my efforts to head off trouble had only fueled the fires of war and made my own task more difficult. Perhaps I’m a firetender by nature.

While I was resting at my last point, thirty feet above the trail, I heard a terrible hubub below and looked down to see Colonel Vasco and a whole company of Marines scrambling up the trail. The final passage to the trail was a gradual slope. I wouldn’t have to jump it. If it weren’t for the metal slivers and the Marines coming up the trail, I could slide down it and run like hell for a time. Eventually, though, I knew I would have to come face to face with the Marines. Unless I wanted to take an even bigger chance with the metal scraps and hotfoot it down the mountain slope to the west.

I crammed myself back against the wall at the back of my last ledge and let the Marines go streaming past below. Soon, I knew, they would have the monks lower the basket, put an armed Marine in it and winch him up to the ledge where I’d gotten off. At that time, the search would fan out and they’d find me. There were more than a hundred of them up on the trail now, and I couldn’t be more than two hundred yards from the station at the gap in the trail.

I remained hidden, not even watching the Marines at their latest activity. After ten minutes, I heard one of them trudging back down the trail, apparently going after climbing equipment to supplement the winch. I waited another five minutes, surveyed the slope beneath me for metal scraps and then went over.

Five metal scraps caught in the wrappings, but I plucked them out and sent them flying over the trail. I reached the trail, undetected I was sure, and began running down toward the base camp. It had taken us two hours of climbing to reach this point; I figured I could run back down it in about fifteen minutes. I figured wrong.