Authors: Donald Hamilton
We made a cautious approach to the next vantage point I’d chosen. I left Gloria well below the top, in charge of my conspicuous hat, while I crawled up, bareheaded, to where I’d have a good view.
She whispered eagerly, “Can you see the road yet? Can you see the car?’’
“Yes and yes. You can move up here quietly if you want to.”
It was a fairly large valley with a brushy gully at the bottom. Beyond, the ground rose steeply to a high escarpment. Partway up the slope, the road we wanted was notched into the hillside like a narrow shelf. On it, partly screened by some roadside bushes and a couple of scrawny little trees, was parked a small silver-gray station wagon that I recognized, through the ’scope, as a four-wheel-drive Subaru of fairly recent vintage. In that rugged country, I’d expected to be given a jeep-type vehicle or maybe a husky four-wheel-drive pickup; but the Subaru had the reputation of being a fairly tough little beast that would do the job if you didn’t ask too much of it in the way of road clearance. To the right of the car, just as the aerial photo had indicated, the road disappeared around the hillside to the southwest, heading down toward the coastal plain. To the left it wound up the steep slope that was just touched by the rising sun and lost itself in the mountains to the southeast.
I passed the scope to Gloria and aimed her in approximately the right direction. Except for the motionless wagon over there, like a small, silvery beetle perched on a distant bookshelf, there wasn’t another vehicle in sight. We could no longer hear the rumble of traffic on the main highway behind us, and it was very quiet on our ridge: that early-morning hush you seldom experience unless you’re hunting something. Or something is hunting you.
“Have you got it focused for your eye? Okay, follow the road to the left from where it comes around the bluff. . . ."
She said irritably, ‘‘It’s like peeking through a keyhole; I can’t even find the road. . . . Oh. Yes, I see the car. It’s not very big, is it?”
“What did you expect on that goat-track, a stretch Mercedes?”
“Just so there’s a pair of jeans on board, that’s all I ask. And a pair of comfortable shoes.” She handed back the telescope. “Well, what are we waiting for?”
I took a small drink from the canteen, capped it, and gave it to her. I took off my jacket and laid that across her lap. Then I reached into my pocket, found the little compass and the folded aerial photograph, and placed them on top of the coat.
“You’re staying here while I scout things out,” I said.
She stared at me indignantly. For a moment she was Lady Gloria of the sculptured hairdo again: “My dear man, aren’t you overdoing the Dan’l Boone nonsense?”
I said, “Stay right here. I’m going to circle that station wagon and make sure nobody’s lying in wait over there. I’m leaving you the telescope, the water, the map, and the compass. If the coast is clear, you’ll see me come out on that road to the left of the Subaru and wave my arms for you to come on over. Give me two hours. Even if you hear shooting, wait out your two hours. If I come out
alone
and give you the signal, get over there. If there’s anybody with me, or if I don’t show up by . . . well, make it ten o’clock, head for the highway. Walk due north, just follow the little needle; it’s shorter that way than the slantwise way we came in, and it looks to be easier. With luck you can hitch a ride west to Hermosillo. The Hotel Gandara. Somebody’ll be watching for us. He’ll see that you’re taken care of.”
I moved off without waiting for her response, going wide to the right, the west. My choice of directions was dictated by the fact that the hostile forces had last been seen withdrawing to the east, towards Cananea. That meant that if anybody had explored that dirt track this morning, he’d probably picked it up east of us. But if he hoped to find a car awaiting us, he wouldn’t want to drive up to it or past it, leaving his fresh tire tracks in the dust to warn us. He’d therefore leave his vehicle to the east and scout ahead on foot. The area west of the Subaru was therefore the least promising, which was why I took it first. You want to check out all the unlikely spots for unpleasant surprises before you close in on the likely ones. . . .
An hour later I’d made my circle. I was tired, thirsty, dirty, ragged, and disgusted. Gloria was quite right, this Dan’l Boone business could be overdone. I’d found no sign of anything human, let alone hostile. But they brainwash you thoroughly at the Ranch in Arizona where agents are constructed and reconstructed as required; I made the last approach to the Subaru with infinite care, and it was a big waste of time. I even looked inside the car, gun in hand, to make certain nobody was lying in wait there. That is, I checked what I could see, but the space behind the rear seat was equipped with a kind of roller-blind cover to protect the luggage from larcenous eyes. A man could be hiding there waiting for the right moment to let the spring-loaded sheet of plastic snap back and come out shooting. I didn’t believe it for a minute, but old habit made me carry out the farce to the end. I found the key where I’d been told it would be, in a little magnetic box under the left front fender. Pistol at the ready, I flung open the tailgate and slipped the roller-cover from its catches; and of course the trunk was just as empty of people as the rest of the car. I drew a long breath and stood there for a moment taking inventory of the goodies that had been provided for us.
There were clothes and boots and weapons and a big plastic cooler that presumably held food, but at the moment I was particularly interested in the insulated gallon jug of water. It had been a long, dry hike. However, my conscience reminded me that Gloria was out there awaiting my signal fearfully. Before I indulged myself with drink and food and clean clothes, I’d better set her mind at rest and get her moving this way. I holstered the .38 and straightened up. . . .
“Please to make no sudden movements, Señor Cody.” The voice from behind me was soft and heavily accented. “Turn now,
por favor
, but slowly, maintaining the hands clearly in view.”
When they get the drop on you like that, you always ask yourself:
Is this the place?
I mean, if they intend to kill you, you may as well go for it while you still have a gun and your hands free, regardless of how much artillery they ’re pointing at you. You’ll take some lead, maybe too much lead, but you were scheduled anyway; and at least you’ve got a chance of taking some of the bastards with you on the long safari. So you wonder if you’ve finally found the spot for your George Armstrong Custer act, otherwise known as Helm’s Last Stand.
It’s always a tough call; but in this case I’ll admit that the politeness of the man behind me influenced my decision somewhat. Of course, I’ve known some very courteous human monsters; nevertheless, it’s easier to surrender to a man who’s nice about it than to a blustering blowhard who tells you how many gory pieces he’s going to blow you into if you move one finger wrong. There was also the fact that nobody was supposed to be there. I’d checked, hadn’t I? I’d scouted the area thoroughly. I would have said I couldn’t possibly have missed anybody. Now I had to live long enough to see what kind of invisible men they grew in this part of the world.
I said, “It’s your deal, señor.”
I turned slowly, hands at shoulder height. It didn’t make me feel any better to learn that I hadn’t just overlooked one man; there were four of them. There was one consolation, however; they bore little resemblance to the ragtag bunch that had tried to trap us the evening before. I hadn’t fallen into the hands of
El Jefe
and his machete freaks.
These were small, sturdy, brown men in identical camouflage suits. They were wearing cocky little berets, also in camo. Elite units of the Mexican Army, perhaps, but I seemed to recall that the Mexican military caliber is 7.62mm. These men were carrying U.S.-made 5.56mm M-16 assault rifles, the same kind of weapon that had probably punctured Gloria’s Mercedes, back when Buff Cody was working on scaring her into matrimony. All four men had broad Indian features and were either clean shaven or naturally beardless. Three had ropey black hair worn fairly long. The fourth man, the one who’d spoken, had a more civilized haircut. They all had badges on their berets, dull black so as not to reflect the light and betray the wearer’s location; but his was more elaborate than the others. It was presumably an indication of rank, as was the .45 automatic pistol he held—his assault rifle was slung across his back. The piece in his hand was a lightweight Colt Commander, a compact version of the old 1911 Army pistol. He holstered it and stepped forward to relieve me of my revolver.
He spoke in his careful English: “I am Lieutenant Ernesto Barraga, of the
Fuerza Especial
. My orders are to capture you alive, which I have done, and to convey you to
El Cacique
, which I will now do. We will use this vehicle since it is available. As you say in the U.S., it beats walking. I will drive. You will sit beside me. A man in the rear will have you covered at all times. Since it is a small automobile, we will leave the other two to follow on foot.” He stared at me hard for a moment. “Please do not try to escape. I would much prefer to deliver you intact according to my instructions. Even if you should get away without a bullet in you, which is very unlikely, these men would run you down in short order. In this country, with such men, one needs no bloodhounds; they are the best trackers on this continent.”
I said, “I can believe it. At least you all slipped up on me very competently. I usually hear people coming.” I hesitated. “If I may ask, who is
El Cacique
and what is the
Fuerza Especial?
”
‘‘Any questions you have, about the Special Force or other matters, will be answered by my superiors, if they choose. Please get into the car.’’
He spoke to his men in a language that meant nothing to me, except that it was neither English or Spanish. One continued to cover me as I climbed into the right-hand seat. One of the others seemed to be carrying some radio equipment; he paused to lower an antenna before placing his electronic backpack in the rear of the wagon; then he took his place in the back seat, behind me. Barraga stuffed his assault rifle into the rear and got behind the wheel and started out. Surprisingly he was a gentle and careful driver; there’s something about a vehicle with four-wheel drive that seems to turn most drivers into spring-busting madmen. It was a clear day with a cloudless sky and a very bright sun; I hoped Gloria was hoarding her water supply carefully, but she hadn’t impressed me as being strong on self-discipline. I wondered what she’d think when she saw the station wagon drive away, probably that I was deserting her. Since there was nothing else for her to do, she’d undoubtedly start limping angrily toward the main highway in her impractical shoes. I hoped she’d make it.
We proceeded downhill past the point where I’d crossed the road on foot earlier in the day and entered territory that was new to me. The road lost altitude rapidly and eventually crossed a wide wash where all four tires of the Subaru had to throw sand like paddle wheels to drag us through. We climbed around a shoulder of the ridge beyond and turned off the main road. An even smaller and rougher track brought us to a grassy meadow and an encampment composed of two wall tents, not very large, and a motor pool.
One of the tents was easy to identify. Apparently this was mealtime—late breakfast or early lunch—and men in camouflage suits were lined up at the door and walking away with trays of food. The field kitchen. A sentry in front of the other tent indicated that it probably served as headquarters for
La Fuerza Especial
or at least this part of it—maybe there were similar units elsewhere. If sleeping was done here, it was apparently done mostly on the ground. Well, as Gloria and I had learned, in this dry climate it wasn’t an unbearable hardship.
The motor pool consisted of four Chevrolet three-quarter-ton Suburbans, the big station wagons sometimes known as carryalls. They had auxiliary air-conditioning units on the roofs— with that long wheelbase, the dashboard cooler isn’t effective all the way back—and they had dark glass in the windows and four-wheel drive. Next to them stood a van that was identical except that it lacked the auxiliary AC and had two fewer doors and windows only in front. It was presumably the supply train for this miniature army. The vehicles were not painted in military camouflage or olive drab; instead they were civilian white, brown, blue, green, and tan.
Little groups of men were sitting cross-legged in the sunshine eating off their laps. I was pretty certain, although I couldn’t see them, that there were others out in the brush standing guard. Lieutenant Barraga was no Latin exhibitionist; he felt no need to call attention to his captured vehicle by gunning it through camp with wheels spinning and dirt flying. He just drove up sedately and parked. I’d played the docile-prisoner game before, so I sat still while everybody else disembarked.
‘‘Now we will see
El Cacique
,’’ Barraga said, after retrieving his assault rifle. He opened my door and motioned me out. “Walk ahead of me to the tent that is more near,
por favor
."
We passed a small bunch of men eating in the shade of one of the trucks, an exercise in optimism since with the sun almost overhead the shade didn’t amount to much. The food seemed to be tortillas and beans, not my favorite dish but it reminded me that I’d eaten nothing since the
carne asada
of the previous evening. There was also, it seemed, a choice between coffee and Coca-Cola. Beer would have gone better with that food, but I suppose you can’t serve beer to military personnel on duty; although as I recall the British Navy used to fight pretty well on rum.
“What have you there, Lieutenant?”
The contemptuous question was obviously spoken in English so I would understand it. The speaker, emerging from the tent ahead, was a tall man with Spanish features, a small black mustache, the usual camouflage uniform, and a beret badge that was even fancier than Barraga’s.
“This is Señor Horace Cody, Captain,” Barraga said. “Señnor, this is Captain Luis Aleman.”