Ник Картер - War from the Clouds

So far, I hadn’t seen any signs of animosity out of Purano. He treated me with his usual silent respect. If he was plotting any mischief against me out of jealousy, he didn’t show it. And we hadn’t been on the trail ten minutes before his obvious pique about losing his first argument with Elicia seemed to have dissipated.

There were seventeen of us in the party heading out to find the entrance to the sacrificial cave and, hopefully, a way to the top of Alto Arete. Besides me, Elicia, Antonio, Purano and Pico, there were twelve warriors armed with knives and spears. We left the Indian camp at 2:32 in the afternoon, giving us just six hours to reach Don Carlos Italla’s lair and to stop him from giving the war signal.

We had no time for toe-stubbing.

Purano and his warriors led our party. Purano knew of secret trails which would take a few minutes longer, but which would keep us out of danger from the guerilla patrols. Even so, we spotted the red-shirted members of the elite corps in half a dozen places before we even approached the entrance to the fifth hollow.

Strangely, there were no guards or guerillas at the mouth of the fifth hollow. It was quiet there; not a soul was about. We found the campfires used by guards only recently, and places on the jungle floor where they had slept. The warriors in our group spread out to make certain the guerillas weren’t waiting in ambush, but the whole area was clear.

As we made our way up the hollow, through ever-narrowing ravines and along high ledges above a cascading stream, I began to feel more and more uneasy about the absence of guards. If we had spotted guerillas and avoided them, I would have felt easier. At least, we would have known where they were.

This way, the jungle hollow had an eerie feeling about it. Even the birds and the rushing water seemed to have muted sounds, as though anticipating a disaster.

As we neared the top of the hollow and were weary from an hour-long forced march over difficult trails, Pico called a halt and we rested. He sat down and studied the ancient map, getting up frequently to check certain points. Elicia and Purano sat side by side on the grass, gazing at invisible points near each other’s feet. I wondered just how those two would help propagate the race among the Nincas, but decided it was none of my business.

I used the time to study my crude map of the top of Alto Arete, based on information I had gleaned from Luis Pequeno, the hapless Marine sergeant who had helped me plunge into this whole mad affair. There were squares for the main buildings; the barracks for the monks, the minefields and other fortifications. Even as I pondered the map, I had the distinct feeling that it would be useless. Luis Pequeno could have lied through his teeth about everything, or he could have made the whole thing up just to keep me from torturing him. But it was all I had to go on and I had the others study it closely.

We moved on. It was 3:45 when Pico spotted a deep ravine separating the fifth and sixth hollows. He had been right about that. We slid down the steep banks and came up on the other side, through a wall of vines and into a small clearing about the size of a high school gymnasium.

It was quiet in the clearing, quieter than it had been on the trail. Not even the sound of the tumbling water from the ravine behind us reached our ears. Not one bird sang or called out. Pico spotted a mound of rocks at the far end of the clearing, up a steep slope.

“That would be where the well is,” he said. “If my calculations and faint memory are correct, the entrance will be through the well.”

I had a great deal of nylon rope in my knapsack, and Purano and his warriors had brought long lengths of well-made hemp rope. We could use it all for climbing down the well — and possibly for climbing up the natural chimney. The husky Indian and Pico started off briskly up the slope. The hemp rope in hand.

For some reason I still haven’t been able to fathom, I decided to remain behind. I smelled danger. I signalled Antonio to take a post to my right with his Volska automatic weapon. I pointed toward the mound of rocks and Antonio dropped to one knee. He aimed at the rocks. Elicia, unaware of our vigilance, went on up the slope with Purano, Pico and the warriors.

My hunch of danger proved true. Pico was no more than halfway across the clearing when guerillas came streaming out from either side of the rock pile. They opened fire and the big hermit was the first to fall. The warriors began to let out hideous war cries and then flung their spears.

The spears fell harmlessly against the rocks and the guerillas advanced down the slope, cutting the warriors to pieces with automatic rifles.

Antonio was going crazy near me. He wanted to fire and I kept holding him back. Elicia had seen the guerillas and had made a dash for the jungle off to her right. She was temporarily out of danger.

“Wait, Antonio,” I said, watching the guerillas murder the now unarmed Indians. “Our only chance is surprise. They don’t know we’re here.”

I signalled for him to move up the right side of the clearing. The guerillas had stopped and were watching the warriors who were all on their bellies in the high grass. I counted six guerillas, all armed, then set off up the left side of the clearing.

As I was easing back into a clump of bushes halfway up the slope, I saw that Antonio was doing the same across from me. The guerillas were still near the top of the slope, eyeing the fallen Indians for signs of life. I felt a sick feeling at the pit of my stomach and was convinced that all twelve, plus Pico and Purano, had been killed in the withering gunfire.

Slowly, the guerillas began to edge down the slope to inspect their kill. I raised my rifle and signalled to Antonio to hold off firing. All six guerillas advanced down the slope. Just as I was considering that a stupid move and was ready to open fire, four more guerillas came rushing down from the rocks, firing madly.

If they had waited one second more, they would have caught Antonio and I in a trap.

I opened fire when all ten guerillas were together. Antonio, across the clearing, did the same. The guerilla band split, some running in all directions. Two came down the slope, firing from their hips. I picked them off cleanly, then went after three who were running back up the slope, toward the safety of the rocks.

But four of the guerillas stood their ground. Crouching just above the fallen Indians, they singled out Antonio and began blasting away at him. I knew I was next. I ducked into the jungle wall and started upward, hoping to come out at a better vantage point. It was then that I heard Elicia scream out Antonio’s name.

There was more screaming and yelling in that clearing as I struggled against the heavy vines and underbrush. I couldn’t make any headway in the jungle, so I found a new opening to the clearing and went rushing through.

Four of the Indian spearchuckers were up. They were struggling with the guerillas in hand-to-hand combat. Below, I saw Antonio lying flat on his face in the grass. Elicia was dashing down the slope to him.

I looked back toward the struggling warriors and guerillas and knew that the automatic weapon was useless here. If I opened fire, I would kill friends and enemies alike. I reached back and snaked Wilhelmina from the tape.

Kneeling, I singled out a guerilla and took careful aim. The luger boomed and seemed to shake the trees around the clearing. But a guerilla went down. One by one, I picked off five guerillas and made a quick count in my head. Of ten guerillas, we had killed seven. Three were missing.

Worse yet, of the twelve Indian warriors Botussin had sent with us, eight were dead. Purano had been shot in the shoulder and Pico had slight wounds in his thigh and left arm. Both could walk, but they would never be able to climb that chimney to Alto Arete.