Manus Xingue (13 page)

The three SAS men discuss the next move.

‘We can’t go into the valley, Jim,’ warns Dublin. ‘Chevez will pick us off.’

‘Let’s do a detour,’ responds Kane, ‘swing around and reach Chevez’s position from behind.’

‘Ok,’ replies Dublin, lowering his voice. ‘Our
venereal
friend dropped you in it, Jim. He tried to get you killed!’

‘Yeah,’ adds Lacy, ‘he hung back from the opening and let you go forward, Sarge.’

‘Ok,’ replies Kane, ‘definitely tonight, soon as we bivvie. Remember – with a knife, Frank – I don’t want our position compromised with shooting. We’re now in the territory of the Invisible People!’

Dublin is angry – Kane has
warned
the queasy Lacy, who now may now give the game away!

‘Right,’ continues Kane, ‘we have two hours of daylight, enough to sneak up on Chevez. What do you think, Frank?’

‘Chevez will be weak and burning up with fever – he won’t move till the morning.’

The soldiers move out, followed by Manus Xingue, who is now hanging back. After a couple of kilometres, the three SAS troopers come to an old, flimsy, native swing-bridge made from vines twisted together.

‘Looks double dodgy to me, Sarge,’ says Lacy. ‘The bridge is swinging.’

‘So do a bull’s bollocks,’ replies Kane, ‘but they don’t drop off. Get your arse across.’

‘Send Rumpleforeskin over first,’ grumbles Lacy. ‘He has to be more expendable then me.’ Kane gives Lacy a look.

‘It’s a five hundred foot drop!’ Lacy complains.

‘Send us a postcard,’ replies Kane.

‘The drop won’t kill you,’ adds Dublin. ‘In fact it’s a good feeling, like free-falling before the ‘chute opens – it’s the sudden stop that hurts! Now move, your lazy, useless arse – you Cockney ponce.’

Lacy begins to cross tentatively, the vine bridge creaking under his weight. He finally makes it across and takes up a defensive position. Kane crosses next, then Dublin and finally Manus Xingue, who nimbly scampers over on all fours, spreading his weight, just like a big cat.

The SAS men descend into the valley and start to climb the hill from which Chevez had fired his shot. Suddenly, they hear the noise of a chopper and take cover quickly, especially Manus Xingue!

‘It’s that bloody Yank Black Hawk again,’ swears Dublin. ‘The same one. Looks like it has a heli-gimble camera hanging below the fuselage! They must be monitoring us.’

‘Or they think we are hostiles – always a danger with the Yanks. Lacy – come here, lad. Can you put a round in that camera?’

‘It’s maximum range, Sarge. I’ll give it a shot, allowing for the angle of dangle and the length of the lob.’

‘Just get the fuck on with it, today!’ says Kane.

‘After Lacy fires, keep your heads down,’ orders Kane, ‘in case they let go a couple of rockets.’ Lacy begins preparations for his shot.

In the American Black Hawk chopper, an intelligence officer sits next to the pilot. Both study a screen. ‘Goddamn sneaky Limeys, they’re down there somewhere–four tracking bugs are giving us a signal.’

‘The fifth bug on the Marpari tracker is still missing!’ the pilot points out. ‘We have a range of three miles on the heli-gimble camera.’

‘Move out of sound range – I need to see if our Marpari is still with them.’

‘Well, Sir, we have a long shot of their indian guide. He don’t look like no Marpari. I’ll have to get it blown up for definite ID,’ says the pilot.

Suddenly, there is a loud bang outside the Black Hawk! ‘Mother-fucker!’ swears the pilot, ‘someone has shot the heli-gimble camera to pieces!’

‘Jesus, get the fuck out of here!’ orders the intelligence officer.

Back on the ground….’Well done, lad,’ praises Kane. ‘Great shooting – let’s get the fuck away.’

The SAS troopers cautiously approach the hilltop and Chevez’s position. However, the bird has flown.

‘Bugger me!’ swears Kane, ‘Chevez has scarpered.’

‘There’s a good blood-trail to follow,’ says Dublin.

‘Look,’ points Lacy, ‘he’s forgotten his hat.’

‘This blood is fresh,’ says Dublin. ‘He must have only just heard or seen us.’

‘If Chevez survives the night,’ says Kane, ‘we’ll get him in the morning. When a poor man leaves his hat behind, he’s on his last legs.’

Manus Xingue dips his finger into a small pool of Chevez’s fresh blood and tastes it! The three SAS troopers watch in disgust.

‘I reckon, Sarge,’ says Lacy, ‘Rumpleforeskin fancies slipping Chevez’s bird woman a large portion of mutton dagger, after eating her old man!’

‘You could be right,’ replies Kane. ‘Let’s find out, humour the cowson, put him off guard, find out why he is sticking with us like shit to a blanket!’

Kane calls Manus Xingue over.

‘When we kill Chevez, we give Manus Xingue his woman,’ Kane announces.

Manus Xingue nods, grinning. ‘Chevez woman good fucking!’ the indian answers, making a rude gesture.

‘Horny little fucker, ain’t he,’ quips Lacy.

‘We
now
know his hidden agenda,’ announces Kane, still not sure of his decision to kill Manus Xingue that night. ‘His motives are purely sexual. Shall we give the
repulsive reptile
a reprieve ? You have always found it difficult to trust people, Frank.’

‘To me,’ answers Dublin, ‘the words “trust me” mean “
fuck you”
! You agreed, Jim.’

Kane looks at Lacy for his opinion; that’s how it works in the Regiment.

‘I’m with Frank on this one, Sarge – I wouldn’t trust Rumpleforeskin with my cat. He tried to get you topped this afternoon – I have a feeling that he wants something more than just getting his leg over!’

Manus Xingue approaches. ‘You give Manus Xingue more white powder, now!’ demands the Cat-man aggressively. The manner of the demand sways Kane, who now knows Manus Xingue’s confidence means he still has close back-up from his tribe – that they have already crossed the Japari River!

‘Tonight – I will give you white powder tonight,’ answers Kane, ‘when we camp. Right lads, we’ve just enough time to find a decent bivvie, down in the valley, before nightfall.’

Manus Xingue begins to walk away.

‘Where are you going?’ Kane asks.

‘Manus Xingue need meat,’ the indian answers.

‘You have meat in that basket,’ Kane replies.

‘Monkey head for tonight – need more meat for tomorrow – meat hard to find in hills. This land belong Invisible People – have big magic – hunting dangerous!’ Manus Xingue turns on his heels and walks away without further discussion, now well out of Dublin’s knife range.

‘Fuck it,’ swears Dublin, watching the indian walk away. ‘You should have let me kill that deformed troll at the river crossing, Jim! If that’s a monkey’s head in his basket, I am an orange Dutchman!’

‘Yeah,’ adds Lacy, ‘it
pen
and
inks
something rotten.’

‘We should have slit his throat before now, Jim – we don’t need him,’ continues Dublin, unable to forget the missed opportunity. ‘I think our venereal friend is now getting cautious – his
sixth
sense is kicking in.’

‘He’ll be back tonight,’ answers Kane confidently. ‘He now needs more white powder.’

The three SAS troopers make their way down into the sheltered valley and set up a bivouac; tropical night lingers, waiting to descend. The troopers sit around a fire. Dublin is sharpening his knife.

‘How you going to do it, Frank?’ asks Lacy, apprehensively.

‘From behind,’ answers the Irishman, ‘…ear to ear.’

‘Gordon Bennett, leave me out,’ replies Lacy. ‘There will be
claret
spraying everyway – I saw a pig’s throat cut once.’

‘You’d better get used to cutting a throat – it’s the best to silence and kill.’

‘It’s something we all have to do at some time,’ says Kane, ‘and sometimes even to innocent people – just to keep them quiet! Now lad, fill the canteens up from that small pool we just passed.’

‘What, on my Jack Jones?’ complains Lacy. ‘It’s nearly dark, Sarge, and there’s a man-eating, big jaguar around, and a
bent
coke-head on the loose!’

Kane studies Lacy; he
now
knows the happy-go-lucky Lacy will never learn, never be a good SAS trooper.

‘Go with him, Frank, hold his hand. When Manus Xingue appears, I’ll keep him occupied, get him to sit facing me, make him feel at ease. Do not try to approach silently – sneak up – if he is here when you get back. It won’t work.’

Dublin and Lacy walk back towards the stream in the weird half-light that appears before darkness in the tropics. Lacy is afraid and talks continually, much to Dublin’s annoyance.

‘There’s a viper here,’ continues Lacy, ‘that’s called a bushmaster – over twelve feet long. I’m not carrying any anti-venom for it….twelve foot long,’ repeats Lacy, looking around into the gloom nervously.

‘If it is twelve foot long, it won’t be hard to miss – a blind man could see it,’ replies Dublin.

‘I wonder if that man-eating jaguar is…?’

‘Shut your bloody gob!’ says Dublin. ‘Get a grip on those nerves or this big Irish fist is going to meet your little Cockney ear-hole.’

The two SAS troopers reach the stream which flows under the gloomy canopy of a large tree – water gurgles among its giant, gnarled roots. Lacy begins to fill the canteens – he is nervous! ‘Looks like someone dumped a pile of old lorry tyres over there, Frank,’ announces Lacy, squinting into the gloom-shrouded water. ‘Stone me, Frank – they’re moving!’

What Lacy did not realise was that he was watching a large anaconda’s body uncoiling as it moved underwater towards him – the giant snake had waited in the pool for over a fortnight in ambush! Lacy also failed to notice a large, scaly, rectangular head with glassy eyes surface by his legs!

Two rapid shots shatter the jungle silence!

‘Fuck you, Frank!’ swears Lacy, jumping back. ‘I meant over there, not by my poxy ear-hole.’

‘You prick!’ hisses Dublin, ‘you only saw the snake’s body uncoiling, and missed seeing the
head
right by you.’

The two SAS troopers step back and watch the giant snake’s death-throes.

‘We will come back tomorrow morning,’ says Dublin, ‘and cut a couple of big steaks off the fucker.’

‘You mean to eat?’ asks Lacy.

‘Bloody right,’ answers Dublin; ‘never waste fresh protein in the jungle.’

They make their way back, in silence. The squeamish Lacy is nervous – of having to watch Dublin cut Manus Xingue’s throat – Dublin senses this.

‘Now listen, Manus Xingue will have his back to us – I am right-handed – keep on my left side, but don’t restrict my movements. Walk up, giving it plenty of rabbit – which won’t be hard for you – understand. Jim should have let me do this a long time ago!’ Darkness now; tropical night had fallen.

The squeamish Jack Lacy swallows hard. ‘Can’t you just brain him, Frank – instead of cutting his
nanny-goat
?’

As they round a small bend, the flickering flames of the camp-fire illuminate a horrific sight!

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ exclaims Dublin, as he notices Sgt Kane leaning against a tree in an awkward sitting position.

‘Gordon Bennett – rip my reed!’ gasps Lacy, instantly throwing up.

Kane presents a grotesque sight – his head and right arm are missing – gouts of blood soak his uniform – a large, barbed arrow pins him to the tree. Transfixed and dying, the Sergeant’s left hand had desperately tried to reach for his nearby rifle!

‘Holy Mother of God! If only Jim had listened to me,’ Frank Dublin moans with grief. ‘No man should die like that – not a good soldier like Jim!’

Jack Lacy peers into the gloom clutching his rifle: eyes wide with fear.

Dublin searches Kane’s blood-covered Bergen.

‘Our venereal friend missed half the cocaine – my two shots by the pool must have unnerved the bastard.’

Dublin picks up Kane’s metal cup – it is still half full of un-drunk blood! Dublin discreetly drops the cup into the undergrowth without Lacy noticing.

‘What’s he going to do with the Sergeant’s head?’ Lacy asks.

‘What do you bloody well think?’ replies the Irishman, deep in thought.

‘But Kane had mousy hair, Frank – Rumpleforeskin is only interested in blonds and redheads.’

‘You heard him say hunting was dangerous in Kier Verde country – he is stocking his larder up!’ answers Dublin.

Jack Lacy throws up again. ‘What do we do now, Frank?’ asks Lacy, still holding his weak stomach – leg it?’

‘No - just eat our rations and then bury poor old Jim.’ Dublin answers.

‘I’ve gone off nosebag.’ Lacy replies.

‘Please yourself.’ Dublin begins eating. Once finished, he stands up. ‘Right, give me a hand - grab Jim’s legs.’

Lacy obeys but is instantly sick again. The powerful Dublin picks up the body of Sgt Kane and walks into the jungle ignoring the blood. The quivering Jack Lacy again hears a few mumbled words of Latin drifting on the humid night air - in between his own retching heaves!

Dublin returns, changes his jacket fatigues and checks his rifle. ‘Now if we get out of this alive – Jim died from a bullet in the head. I know his mother – she would not like the truth! ‘Manus Xingue won’t go far tonight,’ continues Dublin. ‘He is in a strange land. My guess is he will be on the other side of this wooded hill – to hide his camp-fire from us. You go to the left, I’ll take the right – keep to the high ground – makes it easier to spot his fire and get a whiff of smoke.’

Jack Lacy is horrified. ‘Not bloody likely!’ replies Lacy, in disbelief. ‘I am not going out on my tod, in the dark, with Rumpleforeskin lurking – adjacent!’

‘Then stay here!’ Dublin suggests.

‘No way, José – we go together Frank – or nothing.’

Frank Dublin, the experienced SAS trooper, shakes his head in disgust. ‘Now, cock your ears,’ orders Dublin, ‘we are trying to sneak up on a man who was born in the jungle, with the senses of an animal. Our only hope is that the cocaine he is throwing up his nose dulls our venereal friend’s senses.

Now, listen,’ continues Dublin, ‘as soon as we spot his fire, place your feet exactly where mine were, when we are stalking him. And when we crawl forward, stay directly behind me so the ground you are crawling over will have been checked by me – got it? If you fuck up, you Cockney Pikey, I will kill you! Understand?’