MAMista (39 page)

O'Brien opened the flight-deck door and stepped through. It was dark except for a control panel alive with flickering orange lights. The big windows gave a view of the moonlit jungle. He looked at where the pilot's pointed finger indicated the river snaking along the edge of the Serpiente mountains. Close above their heads the blades stropped the air with monotonous ferocity.

‘Can you spare an American butt?' O'Brien asked the co-pilot. That was another lousy thing about these covert jobs: no ID, no paper, no US Army weapons, not even American cigarettes and matches.

‘There you go, buddy,' said the co-pilot, looking up from the scope that would show them the best way home. He was a slightly built man with a tailored leather jacket, a Mephistophelean beard and a pearl-handled six-shooter strapped to his leg. He gave O'Brien a cigarette and lighted it from his own. He said, ‘Your other platoon is somewhere back in the Sombras, on a three-thousand-foot contour. The second chopper is having trouble finding them.'

‘We lost radio contact,' O'Brien said. ‘That thunderstorm took the radio out; just a mess of static … The other platoon never made contact with the guerrillas.'

‘These things never go exactly as planned.'

‘Operation Shanghai,' said O'Brien. ‘That must have seemed like a smart name to some desk jockey in Washington.'

The flyer shrugged. He wasn't a CIA man and could never understand what motivated these people. He was a highly experienced free-lance pilot. Twenty-five hundred a day; whether it was guns, dope, or World War Three.

The man blew smoke and turned back to his radar. They would soon be over the water. The ship would appear on the scope. Getting this big chopper down on that fantail called for the kind of skill that made such men worth their fee.

THE JUNGLE
.
‘My handgun is all I need.'

No one was immune to the torments of the jungle. They plodded on. The disappearance of the energetic Angel Paz, the loss of their friends, their weakened condition, all these things had brought on a wave of acute depression even amongst the most stoic of the Indians. That morning, at hourly intervals, they counted the party and searched out those men who wanted to creep into the bush and die. Some of them had developed the bright-eyed stare that comes from chewing the coca leaf. Soon no one any longer had the energy to search, or to count.

They halted early. The rain had stopped. The flies and mosquitoes renewed their onslaught but there was a chance to dry some clothing in the rays of sun that filtered through the trees.

They ate some berries the Indians said were edible. They wetted soya flour that had been in one of the emergency ration bags, and swallowed it down greedily. While the food was being shared out, Singer disappeared. It took them half an hour to find him. He'd fainted into his own bloodied excrement. They carried him back to where a fire was going. Lucas could do nothing to alleviate the pain, the stench or the humiliation of his condition. One of the Indians gave Singer a handful of coca leaves. Lucas watched and said nothing.

Perhaps it was the coca leaves, or the warmth of the fire, or some inner strength that Singer was able to conjure out of nowhere, that helped him recover. More likely it was the way in which the symptoms of such fevers came and went suddenly, leaving the sufferer ever weaker. But soon Singer was smiling and arguing. ‘Dying is easier for Catholics,' he told Lucas. ‘They have a life hereafter.'

‘They have to meet their maker. They have to show remorse.'

‘Touché!' said Singer.

‘Religion and politics have no place in a soldier's life,' said Lucas, who seemed as stolid and unemotional as ever.

‘They had no part in life when you were a soldier,' Singer told him. ‘Things have changed. Now men fight for their beliefs and for no other reason.'

‘Men were doing that in the Middle Ages,' said Lucas, ‘but what did they decide by their fighting?'

‘That you would not be born Catholic?'

‘How do you know I'm not a Catholic?'

‘That self-righteous air of impartial superiority.'

Lucas smiled wearily and got to his feet. He couldn't tear his mind away from Inez, no matter how he tried. Lucas had a cloth containing some Epsom salts. He'd dampened the cloth and was going the rounds, dabbing it upon the men's sores and ulcers. It was absurd: like fighting a typhoid epidemic with a packet of aspirin. But perhaps the ritual was good for morale. The man with septic teeth would die any time now, but Lucas went through the business of treating his sores with no less care than he treated those of the others.

Singer had sores too. He was treated last. Now that Angel Paz was lost, such details had established Singer as the man commanding the party. When Lucas was treating him he even disclosed some of the dealings he'd had with Ramón. ‘How soon did you guess?' Singer asked.

‘I realized that you weren't simply captured during the
attack on the survey camp: you were
chosen
. And Ramón chose you: someone who turned out to speak Spanish fluently. Then there were the radio signals from Rosario, and more from the camp. I noticed that Ramón operated the radio personally. He coded and decoded everything himself. And there were those long interrogations when you and Ramón talked together for hours. Does that hurt?'

‘You bet,' Singer said as he grimaced.

‘What was so secret about all that?'

‘The White House doesn't want to be seen talking to Marxists; Ramón doesn't want to be seen talking with the Yankees.' Singer chuckled.

‘Talking about what?' Lucas put the dirty dressing back into place.

‘When they burn the coca out of the valley, Ramón will move in and take over the Pekinista territory. Okay: he'll stamp on the coca but there will be money in the coffee crop. And he'll get a slice of the oil money too. And Washington will guarantee the price of his coffee. It will be cosy.'

‘Won't that make Ramón's force a bigger threat?'

‘You don't understand how the game is played, amigo. Aid is habit-forming. They'll start him off with cans of beans and wind up selling him colour TVs complete with “I Love Lucy” reruns. A guerrilla army can only exist through military action. If Ramón and his army sit on their fannies for another year or so, they will cease to be any kind of military force.'

‘Why doesn't Washington just leave them to die in the rain forest?'

‘The power-play, Lucas. They play him off against Benz and his bandits in Tepilo. They beat Admiral Benz over the head with him. Competition, see? Like capitalism.'

‘I've got to get some shut-eye.'

‘Sure. Got any ideas about what to do tomorrow?'

‘Maybe skiing?'

The stretchers they'd rigged from bamboo and creeper were crude. The sick and wounded were lashed to a couple of sticks and carried like fresh meat. The tight bindings made Inez wince, but over the mud patches and fallen trees – where the bearers stumbled – the springy poles saved her from extra pain. She did not complain, either when the humid jungle heat made the fever burn within her, or when they crossed the patches of swamp where heavy rain soaked her to the skin.

Food was very scarce, but no man went truly hungry, for the jungle would always provide something edible no matter how unappetizing. They'd calculated upon reaching the Sierra Serpiente in four days. This gave them a couple of ounces of soy and maize at morning and at night. If it took longer there would still be enough, for it was evident that more men would die.

Often, on the march, Lucas would touch Inez lightly and lovingly on the face or neck. Sometimes she was strong enough to talk. ‘Your body can find its own resources,' Lucas told her. ‘With plasma I would have you up and running inside half an hour. Fight it. Fight it.' He watched all the time for the stiff ‘trismus' of the lower jaw and neck. It was a positive sign that the tetanus poison was attacking the muscles. After that came the arching back and the agonizing pain.

‘Say you love me, Lucas.'

‘You know it.'

‘It was the man behind the tree. I didn't see him.'

‘There will be clean dressings and a chance to drain you. That will ease the pain.'

She stretched her hands under the bindings and pressed her belly to relieve the relentless ache. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep but the rain beat upon her face. ‘Is it an abscess, Lucas?' she whispered.

‘Try and rest.'

At noon they reached a place where the narrow river
split to make a triangle of mud. Singer went ahead to probe it. He sank suddenly, thigh-deep in the black morass. Three men were needed to get him out.

With the cliffs of the Serpiente getting nearer, it was exasperating to have the mud impose upon them a detour of over four miles. Even so, they were in ankle-deep swamp for most of the way. The men carrying Inez sank to their knees and stayed very still. Eyes closed, they sobbed silently in frustration and rage. When they halted for a rest, some men had to be bullied into removing the leeches. They were losing the will to do anything; losing the will to live. At first Singer changed the tasks around, hoping that bearing casualties would give men a purpose for living, but by the end of the day this device no longer helped.

Twice that afternoon Lucas pronounced death. The bodies were tipped into the swamp without being unlashed from their poles. At least two more would never reach the foothills of the Serpiente. Was it worth the delay that carrying them inflicted upon the party's progress? Shock had already killed more men than the bullets had. Lucas had expected that. The medical books predicted such delayed effects. But this didn't lessen the pain and dismay that such deaths caused him.

They were on the far side of the triangle, sunlight hitting the peaks ahead, when one of Inez's bearers walked off into the bush. Lucas had noticed him stumble several times. Then the man wobbled drunkenly, lurched against the man alongside him, and collided with a tree. Lucas grabbed the poles as the man collapsed. Heatstroke. There had been other such casualties but this man was otherwise healthy. They'd had enough for one day. They camped that night at a site not far from where the man had fallen.

They made a fire and boiled water. Sharing out the tiny rations of food had become a ritual now. They made cheroots and passed them round as they stared into the fire. Lucas moved Inez close to the blaze. He used the light of the
flames to look again at the wound under her ribs. The blood was brownish black and Lucas sniffed, fearing to detect the stink of gangrene. He probed to let air get into the tissue but it would do little good to such a deep wound. Inez winced and fainted. Lucas improvised a drain from his last sterile dressing and wedged it into place before she came round.

That night the rain started again. It was still drizzling in the early morning light. Every leaf shone like silver and hissed like a thousand adders. Lucas was up very early. He caught Singer and took him aside. ‘I think I'll stay here with Inez for another hour or two. I want to look at that wound again in good daylight.'

Singer looked at him for a moment before responding. ‘I'll tell the bearers. You'd better keep three of them.'

‘Don't leave anyone.'

‘How is she?'

‘She'll be all right.'

‘We can wait a couple of hours,' Singer offered.

‘Keep going. You'll be on the foothills of the Serpiente before dark, if you push along. After that you'll have harder ground all the way.'

‘Is it the climb?'

‘No, no, no. I'll catch you up.'

‘Sometimes these mountains are easier than they look.'

‘If it's anything like I think it will be, you'll have a hard climb,' Lucas said. ‘No carrying once you reach the rock. Dump everything except food. That might make all the difference. You might have to leave the ones who can't make it.'

‘I'll fish out some supplies for you.'

‘No. I'll catch you up,' said Lucas.

‘Take an AK-47.'

‘No, my handgun is all I need.'

Singer shouted to the rest of them to get moving. By now he'd learned some of the invective that the locals used and
– always a mimic – his accent was perfect. He even got a grin from one or two of them.

As they left, Singer said, ‘Don't hang around here too long, Lucas. You never know who might happen along.'

‘Thanks, Singer.'

‘I'll miss your happy laughing face, amigo.'

‘Tote that rod and lift that bale!' Lucas called.

 

Singer heard the shots. Two: one immediately after the other. They came about an hour and a half later, echoing across the valley and sending the birds clamouring into the air. Singer stopped in his tracks. Poor Lucas; poor Inez.

‘What was that?' one of the others asked, always fearful that another attack would come.

‘A bad prognosis,' said Singer. ‘Keep moving!'

It was an arduous march and the mountains seemed to recede farther from them at every step. It was impossible to forget that the Spanish word Serpiente also meant devil.

In the middle of the afternoon they came upon the fungi. Mushrooms crunched as they walked upon them, breaking into pieces that revealed white interiors and pink undersides. They dared to believe that the ground might have begun to slope slightly – ever so slightly – upwards. Singer heard the sound of a stream and insisted that they search until it was found. A stream meant a source in the hills ahead, and perhaps a passage through them. They walked in the water to take advantage of the path it made through the denser vegetation that they began to encounter. The sun came out and the heat made the jungle steamy. Suddenly the cicadas began their sawing.

Singer's attack of dizziness came without warning. He felt his guts give way and the next thing he knew he was slumped with his back propped against a tree. Two Indians were holding him to prevent him from falling over. He wondered how long he'd been unconscious. Befouled and stinking, he wiped himself and then got to his feet slowly.
He waved his hand in the air to get them started again. He went only about twenty paces before he had another dizzy spell. This time he had more trouble getting to his feet. He made no protest when they lashed him to a pole and carried him. The rhythm of the swaying poles tormented him and he could not remain conscious all the time. He told himself that if he conserved his energy he'd be able to walk the next day.

It was a gruelling day's march and they managed without Singer to lead them, without Paz and without Lucas either. It was the sight of the Serpiente that kept them going. They didn't need a compass and they didn't need anyone to tell them that getting there was their only chance of survival. Once or twice the swaying form of Singer was consulted by men who believed that he knew best. Sometimes he grunted. But Singer was past all that. He was just so much dead weight. He didn't even care any more.

It was twilight as they went uphill. Some of the men were able to see the marks and trails of game. At one stage they all stopped to sniff the air. There was the smell of scorched chilli. In that part of the world it was conclusive evidence of the presence of man.

It was soon after that that they found the carcass of a small jungle deer. It was still warm and there were cuts on its hide to show that hunters had been interrupted at their task. Everyone studied the half-skinned deer with disbelief. Soon two diminutive half-naked tribesmen appeared at the edge of the clearing. They looked in awe at the smelly festering giants who had come out of what they called ‘the lake'. No one in living memory had crossed the huge swampy basin.

One of the guerrillas found a tobacco leaf to hand over to the two little men as a gesture of friendship. They nodded their thanks. At the sight of Singer bound to a pole they showed no surprise. They watched to see him placed carefully on the ground, his eyes closed. Then, feeling secure,
the two hunters crouched down and continued the task of disembowelling the deer. They stripped off the skin and suspended it on a length of bamboo.