Ник Картер - War from the Clouds

We were safe. We were also exhausted, hungry, thirsty and very much in need of biological relief. We had worked ourselves into a place so small and tight with vines that we couldn’t have worked a sneeze into our regimen without getting a hernia. So we lay there, gazing up through the thick foliage, watching tiny fingers of sunlight try to penetrate the gloom.

In a few minutes, the jungle was quiet, except for a muffled hacking down below. In an hour, there was no sound but the birds that had returned after the passing of the Cubans and the guerillas and the gas. Antonio was preparing to start working his way back to the trail, but I had a hunch that our enemies hadn’t finished with the trail.

“Wait.”

“For what? They are gone. They search for us elsewhere, and I have to move or I will die right here.”

“You won’t die unless you do move,” I said. “Just wait.”

Within minutes, we heard them on the trail again. They weren’t looking for us now. They had come back to carry down the dead men, Antonio’s friends who had been massacred when I opened up that damned gate.

“I must learn to listen to you, Senor,” Antonio said, a ring of genuine gratefulness in his voice.

“You’d better learn something,” I said, smiling at him, “or that hot head of yours will get you killed.”

“It almost did,” he said. “I spoke out too soon, before my friends were prepared to act. I was responsible for getting us all locked up in the compound and sentenced to die at noon today.”

Somehow, I wasn’t surprised. But I dropped the issue then. I fished out the chain and locket again and told him to read the note from Elicia. He did, straining in the dim light to make out the words. When he had read it, his face was part smile, part concern.

“I must thank you for saving her from that cruel fate,” he said. “She is safe now, but what about my parents?”

“They refused to leave the farm. But I don’t think the Cubans will bother them — they’re so old and helpless, and they’re blameless.”

His face was a wicked scowl.

“You don’t know these bastard Cubans,” he said. “Their plans are long-ranging. When Don Carlos is in control, the Cubans will come in droves. They will be looking for land. Shrewd Cuban commanders are already having our old citizens killed and legally taking over their land. When others come, they will receive high prices for land taken by blood. They have every reason to kill my parents.”

“And we have every reason to stop them, starting with Don Carlos.”

“You make the commands,” he said, smiling openly now, “and I will obey. Without question.”

The boy had grown up very fast, the hard way.

But I waited another hour before we slipped out of our hiding place. We did it carefully, replacing each bush and vine we had uprooted. We had no reason to conceal the hiding place now, but I wanted that vicious colonel to think we’d slipped through his fingers by some kind of magic, or genius. I wanted him to over-estimate my powers. An enemy that over-estimates is just as vulnerable as one that under-estimates.

Three hours later, at noon, the time Antonio and his friends had been slated for execution, we were on the small ledge far below his parents’ farm, where I had hidden my radio. I cranked up the batteries and tuned to the special frequency used by all AXE agents to make secret contacts from the field. As N3, the top Killmaster for AXE, a call on that frequency would clear the boards at the AXE office on DuPont Circle in Washington.

David Hawk, my boss, had never failed me. If a call came from me from the middle of the Pacific, there would be planes and/or nuclear submarines to my rescue within minutes. Once, Hawk had even commandeered a Navy aircraft carrier and all its planes to pluck me out of danger.

When I got the AXE office in Washington, I gave the coded response and asked for a direct link to David Hawk.

“Unavailable,” came the terse response. “What is your message, N3?”

I tried to hide the disappointment in my voice as I described the hopelessness of assaulting Mount Toro and Alto Arete. I provided details given to me by Luis Pequeno (and confirmed by Antonio Cortez) about the thousand Marines, the backup guerillas, the broken trails, the fact that the sides of the mountain were seeded with poison-laden bits of metal. I told of Don Carlos Italla’s plans for an all-out war in six days. I told of the anti-aircraft batteries operated by computers, of the minefields at the top and bottom of the mountain, of the electrified fence and the rabid guard dogs and armed monks. I told of Antonio’s small group of dissidents, a few of whom had apparently escaped the ambush, and of others Antonio knew about and with whom we hoped to make contact. I told of the group coming from Apalca to meet with Don Carlos to plan Apalcan support for his revolution. Finally, I told of how Don Carlos would annihilate the peace commission trying to work out a treaty between Nicarxa and Apalca.

“And what is it you want from AXE?” the anonymous voice responded.

The way he asked the question made my insides quiver. His tone implied that no matter what I asked I wouldn’t get it.

“The least I need is an airdrop of food, weapons and ammunition in a place I will designate,” I said. “What I’d really like is a small detachment of Blue Light Commandos to help me neutralize...”

“One moment, please, N3,” the curt voice said.

He was gone for a hell of a long time and I was beginning to understand Antonio’s hotheadedness, his lack of patience. I wanted to fling the damned radio off the mountain.

“Special message from the President,” the voice came back on. “There is to be no further involvement by this country. No airdrop. No detachment of commandos. You’re to accomplish this mission on your own, N3, with no connection whatsoever with your country of origin.”

“Dammit, man,” I snapped, “my cover is already blown. They know I’m an American and they know I’m here to stop Don Carlos. They know...”

“Your problems to solve,” the radio voice said. “You and you alone. Over and out, N3. Please do not contact us again on this frequency until your mission is completed and you wish to make your final report.”

The radio went dead, the connection broken. I almost did throw the thing off the mountain, but Antonio was watching me closely for my reaction. I smiled, in spite of myself. So much for Hawk’s readiness to pluck me out of trouble no matter where I was or how deep the trouble.

“You heard the man, Antonio. We’re on our own.”

He was about to say something when we heard the twig snap behind us. We had already loaded up the two Russian Volskas with the extra clips, but had thrown away the empty forty fives. They were too heavy to carry around, waiting to find extra clips. I had taped Wilhelmina to the small of my back, where she usually rested. I had stashed extra 9mm cartridges with the radio, but hadn’t yet reloaded the luger.

Antonio was the first to respond. He flopped to his stomach and poked the bulky Volska out ahead of him, aiming at the direction of the noise of the breaking twig. I shuttled the radio back into its niche between three rocks, snatched up and pocketed two extra clips for Wilhelmina, then went to the firing position.

We waited perhaps three minutes, listening to silence from the forest behind our secure ledge. Birds called. Wind whistled up from the lovely Reina Valley. There was, however, no sign of human or animal presence near us. Antonio was about to rise again when we heard the snapping again. Then came several snappings. Christ, there must be a whole battalion out there. How had they found us?

The drop from the far end of the ledge was more than twenty feet, with no slant. At the bottom was a bare area of gravel and sharp rocks, then the thick jungle below that. Even if we made it over the side without breaking any bones — more specifically, our necks — we’d have a few dozen feet of open terrain to cross before reaching the cover of the jungle.