Robert Jones - Blood Tide

Kasim slowed the Blue Thunder and idled by the edge of the reef, just off the boat basin. Miranda had changed the drum on her Lewis gun and was leaning back against the cockpit’s after coaming. The sound of gunfire from the boat basin had at first frightened the gulls and shorebirds into loud, wheeling flight. But now she saw that the gulls at least had returned. They circled and screamed near the mouth of the channel. She watched one land in the water, peck cautiously at first, then with rapid gluttony, at something floating on the waves. Her stomach heaved.

Kasim handed her a cup of cold, tart fruit juice. She took only a swallow and set it aside.

Well, she’d made her own decision. Now she’d have to live with it. She thought of radioing Venganza on the small Japanese-built handset Sôbô had given them, but the thought of having to talk that stupid military jargon was too much for her. Anyway, they were busy down there. She could hear dull, thudding explosions and the occasional rattle of machine-gun fire on the weakening northwest wind. To the west she noticed big anvil clouds shaping up on the horizon. Mares’ tails preceded them like silver-gray banners. Battle flags torn by some war in the sky. Weather on the way.

More gulls were on the water now, tearing at long, limp hunks of red and khaki-colored meat, screaming and slashing at one another with their beaks whenever intruders came too near. Her stomach heaved again, and she had to put her head between her legs. What had Culdee said? Too much adrenaline on an empty stomach? That’s not the half of it, she thought.

“Okay Kasim,” she said when she’d gained control of herself, “we might as well get on out to Seamark .”

He looked at her with concern in his eyes, then nodded and pushed the throttles forward.

Crouching, the commodore led them up a gully overhung with spiny lianas. Two Tausuqs were out front on point. Curt could hear the stutter of machine guns ahead to his right, and the quicker chatter of other weapons from where the wall ran across the rear of the base. They were moving toward the slower guns. Moss-covered rocks filled the gully’s bottom, and twice he turned his ankle. Brillo padded beside him, his coat stiff with blood. It looked as though the dog had been nicked across the left shoulder. Christ, not one of those poison arrows I hope, Curt thought. But Brillo showed no signs of poisoning. His eyes burned hot yellow through the green gloom.

Millikan raised his right arm behind him, palm toward them—stop. Then he signaled Curt to come up beside him.

“Okay, we’re right on their flank now,” he whispered. “The guns can’t be fifty yards from us. I think there’s a clearing ahead—see how the light brightens out there? Maybe another ten yards. I want you to take half the men and spread out along the lip of the gully. I’m going to take the rest and cup them in to your left. Give me five minutes, and then move out when you hear my first shots. Get in on them, keep low, and lay it on ’em. We’ll push these bastards to the wall. Let’s synchronize our watches.”

“I don’t wear a watch,” Curt said. “No use for ’em.”

“Christ,” the commo moaned. He banged his head lightly against the barrel of his Armalite. “Hippies. Okay, just wait for my shots and then open up. If they start pushing you back, make your stand here in the gully. It’s good cover, and you can stop them.” He sniffed and wrinkled his nose. Brillo was breathing in his face. “What a breath on him,” the commo said, pulling back. Then his eyes lit up. “Say, can he retrieve?”

“Damned fine retriever, sir,” Curt said. “Everyone says so.”

“Well, we’ll take him with us next time we go out to pop some birds. I saw three coveys running ahead of us back there a ways. Ought to be a good season.”

He got back into his crouch and moved out, up the gully, with his six men.

Curt called Abdul over to him and explained what the commo had said. Abdul nodded and began dispersing the men. Curt looked at the M16. All the Filipinos called it an Armalite. How did you work the son of a bitch? He’d had one down in Colombia, in the boat, but he’d never fired it. He began fiddling with levers. He was still fiddling when he heard a burst of shots from the jungle to his left.

Abdul and the others were up and moving, crouched low, weapons pointing ahead. Brillo whined eagerly and glared at Curt. No, he thought in a flash of panic. I’ll just stay here in the gully, back them up. . . . Then he thought, What if those pygmies are circling us? If they’ve gotten behind us, like we did to them? Visions of swinging bolos. He got up and followed the others.

The jungle ended abruptly a short way ahead. The light in the clearing was blinding after the gloom. Bullets slashed through the greenery, twigs flew and fell, whole branches sagged, twisted by the fire. Curt saw muzzle flashes at the far end of the clearing, more flashes from the jungle to his left. A grenade whirled their way and exploded, throwing dirt and moss over them. Two Tausuqs were down, groaning. He saw Negritos running toward them, dodging, crouched nearly to the ground. Arrows whizzed up from their bows, traveling among the winking muzzles, and whipped close to Curt’s head. He tried to raise the Armalite, but its front sight was caught in a vine. The vine stuck him with thorns when he tried to clear it.

He saw the commo, kneeling beside a tree stump, rifle to his shoulder, blasting away, reloading, blasting again. Negritos screamed and charged, then fell to the commo’s volley. More grenades, from both sides. Gouts of black and green with fire at their heart.

The commo was up and running forward, his men with him, four of them, anyway, firing as they ran, kneeling to reload, then running forward again. Then Curt heard a weird drumming sound. The ground under his belly started to shake. An earthquake? No. Those Phantom jets again? He looked up at the cloud-ripped sky.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of something black and wide and spewing dust. Turning to look, he saw them coming—Christ! Stampede!

The jungle at the far side of the clearing erupted into a herd of charging cattle, small black wiry animals with steeply veed horns. They pounded into the clearing at full speed, bellowing and screaming and tossing their heads. Pygmies came behind them, firing long, broom-shaped rifles into the air, whooping like tiny buckaroos. Curt saw a thick-necked little bull catch a Tausuq on its horns. The horns punched through the man’s chest and stuck out his back, red and jerking. Other Tausuqs were knocked down and disappeared under the slashing hoofs. The commo stood his ground, firing single shots into the arrow-shaped phalanx of the stampede, well-aimed shots, dropping an animal with each one. Then his Armalite must have gone empty. Curt saw him fumble for another magazine. The herd was coming fast, it was on him, he disappeared in the dust cloud that swelled from the racing hoofs.

Abdul and the others were gone.

Curt turned and ran.

Behind him the charging tamarau herd swung left under Negrito control and headed straight for the gap in the tall, pockmarked adobe wall. Sergeant Grande let them pass, then ran, with his men in their wake, through the gates of the fort.

Curt found a pump boat beached on the shore, far south of the fighting. He saw other boats pulled up and hidden in the jungle’s edge. The tracks of many barefoot men led away from them, toward the base. This boat would do. He ordered Brillo aboard—the damned dog wanted to go back and fight some more, at least take on one of those goddamn cows. They must have been those buffalo the commo talked about, Curt thought. Tamaracks? No, those were some kind of trees.

The outboard started at the first pull. The housing was still warm. Curt swung the boat seaward and ran back toward San Lázaro. No more commo, he thought. Billy would be happy. The commo wasn’t such a bad guy. He sure was brave enough. But no more commo—not if one of those tamaracks skewered him the way they skewered those others. Tausuq shish kebab. He shuddered.