Manus Xingue (2 page)

Sometimes a man wiggles through the fine net of Selection. Such a man was the happy-go-lucky young cockney, Jack Lacy, an ex-Petticoat Lane barrow boy and marine with plenty of rabbit. ‘Jolly Jack Tar ashore’ was Lacy’s attitude to life.

Lacy’s priorities were simple; strong lager with rum chasers, tits, tarts, tall tales and a spot of tea-leafing – when the opportunity occurred. Lacy’s sole ambition was to go through life avoiding a dose of siff, his biggest dread being the ‘Venus-Mercury syndrome’ –
five minutes’ pleasure with Venus: two years’ agony with Mercury.

Lacy had heard about the agony of the dreaded ‘umbrella’ up the one-eyed trouser-snake from the older marines on the wind-up.

Lacy also suffered from arachnophobia. The sight of a spider, especially the big E-type variety, made Jack Lacy feel ‘Tom and Dick’.

Jack Lacy’s answer to all forms of personal danger that his big Cockney mouth and sticky fingers got him into was to leg it! As Redcaps and enraged brothel-keepers around the world soon realised, Lacy’s ability to leap over obstacles in frightened flight made him extremely difficult to apprehend!

Jack Lacy did not take soldiering or life seriously; he could not kill a man, it was not in his nature. Yet Lacy possessed qualities highly valued in the regiment. He was a top marksman, with rare twenty-
ten
vision. What a man with twenty-twenty vision could see clearly at a hundred yards, Jack Lacy could see clearly at two hundred.

No man could better him in the water – or on a long distance march.

At the end of a hard day, when other soldiers were knackered and silent, Jack Lacy would still have plenty of gob. This did not endear him to his peers.

Big mouthed Cockneys, surprisingly, are not the most numerous or popular breed in the Regiment, especially with the Celts and the northerners.

Being an ex-marine did not help either. A marine, to a soldier, can only be summed up in one way: rum bum, baccy and full of bullshit!

Many soldiers chose to believe (it provides excellent wind-up material) that sailors and marines are rum-sodden golden-riveters who tell more lies than Tom Pepper! Sailors and marines also tend to outgun soldiers when it comes to drinking. It would be harder to find a teetotal marine or sailor than a pig’s trotter in Golders Green!

The regiment looks for the X-factor, comprising intelligence, initiative and imagination. Young Jack Lacy possessed all three qualities a-plenty. He had the intelligence to know when to leg it – before a big knuckle sandwich connected! He had the initiative to nick anything that took his fancy and the imagination to undress any female at thirty yards!

One of the interrogators from 21 SAS felt Lacy might wiggle through the fine net of Selection. The interrogator was determined to stop him being badged, even if it meant killing him during interrogation. He nearly succeeded! Although Lacy was slow to anger and quick to flight; he swore revenge. He was an excellent sniper. His only clue to the identity of his silent, murderous interrogator – a tattoo!

Three months before the present events: Major Ely Bodeen sits in his office, fancy cowboy boots on the desk, at the US Special Forces jungle base in Columbia, near the Brazilian border. He idly thumbs through a porno magazine. The phone rings – the Major answers – ‘Yeah?’

On the phone is General Devereux, a typical Southern gentleman, at Special Forces Headquarters Missouri.

‘Ely, you incompetent son-of-a-bitch – I wanted this operation to go as quickly as shit through a goose! The chopper was at the rendezvous to pick up the money – none of your boys showed up!’

Major Ely Bodeen quickly takes his cowboy boots off the desk and does up his top button.

‘There were complications, Sir,’ Major Bodeen answers in a strong Southern drawl. ‘One of the Mafia paymasters escaped. He returned with a superior number of Columbians – Capt. Lamont and Lt Dupont, the only two officers who knew the pick-up rendezvous, were killed! That son-of-a-bitch Yankee Lt Peterson got wind of the money and contacted Col Smith. Peterson took off yesterday, taking a CT operator with him – the money was loaded onto mules. I reckon he’s looking for a suitable site for a chopper to land and take the money back to
Washington
!’

‘Ely – that money means a lot to the South and our candidate for the White House. Now hear this – find the money. Where was Lt Peterson heading?’

‘South, Sir – into the Matto Grosso.’

‘Hell fire! The Matto Grosso is an area of thousands of square miles of jungle.’ the General exclaims. ‘The money could be lost forever!’

‘Don’t worry, Sir – Lt Peterson has three of
our
men with him.’

‘Who?’ General Devereux asks.

‘Sergeant Jubel Hogger and the two Hagger boys, Sir.’

‘What!’ replies the General. ‘Those three interbred, sister-kissing morons don’t have a dozen brain cells between them. Holy hog-shit, those three
hillbillies
have barely gotten used to indoor plumbing – they could never find their way out of
Central Park
!’

‘They have a Marpari guide, Sir.’ answers Bodeen.

‘How come? I
heard
the platoon’s regular Marpari tracker vanished.’ replies General Devereux in a surprised tone.

‘Correct, Sir,’ answers Major Bodeen. ‘Luckily another
strange
Marpari just showed up soon after!’

‘Jesus – hellfire!’ General Devereux exclaims. ‘
Tame
Marparis don’t just show up in
wild
indian country. Damn it man!’

‘Don’t worry, General, my boys will be back with the money – they will deal with Lt Peterson.’

‘I want that
strange
Marpari guide found – you understand? He knows too much. Get this business done quickly, Ely, or I will personally kick your stupid hillbilly arse!’

‘Yes Sir,’ answers Major Bodeen, ‘but what if….?’

The General cuts him short. ‘Ely, “
If
” is a word I do not favour.
If
my grandmother had balls she would be my grandfather! I want that money brought back south to my headquarters – no outside witnesses!’ The General hangs up.

Major Ely Bodeen wipes the sweat from his brow and muses, ‘Mother-fucker – as quickly as shit through a goose, eh,’ he repeats. ‘I kinda like it.’

Three days after General Devereux’s phone call to Major Ely Bodeen, five US Special Force soldiers are emerging from a jungle trail onto a sandy riverbank dominated by a large flat rock. Guiding them is a grotesque-looking, naked indian wearing only a penis-sheath! The indian grins constantly, exposing blackened, sharp-filed teeth!

It is plain to see by the soldiers’ condition. They have been in the jungle many weeks. It is also obvious that discipline has broken down. The young
blond
Peterson and his
red
-haired Satcom operator, Private Murphy, the only man he can trust, walk at the rear of the column, hanging back, rifles at port, fingers on triggers. Ahead are three enlisted soldiers; two are walking in single file, each leads two mules. One mule carries a heavy load, the other is unladen.

The third and last soldier, with long, flame-red hair, sits back-to-front astride his unladen mule! He is watching Peterson and the CT operator – this soldier is wearing a white gimp-mask! He holds his rifle in the upright position – ready!

Reaching the riverbank, Peterson and Private Murphy begin immediately to set up the satellite communications set, closely watched by the grotesque indian guide known to the Americans as ‘Indian Joe’. The colour of the two men’s hair and eyes fascinates the indian.

Also watching are the three other soldiers – they sit in the shade with the mules, fifty yards away – an uneasy atmosphere prevails!

‘Peterson – hair colour – moon, Murphy – hair colour – fire, eyes blue like sky,’ says the indian. His barrel-chest, overlarge head, ceremonial scars and short legs makes him look like a character out of a
Grimm Brothers’
tale!

‘When we hunt – kill Chevez?’ the indian asks.

‘As soon as we finish here, Joe, I guess,’ answers Peterson.

‘When Chevez dead – Indian Joe want Chevez’
Kier Verde
woman!’

‘Sorry Joe, that’s not in my power,’ answers Peterson.

‘You call
Sky-God
now?’ Indian Joe inquires.

‘I guess so Joe,’ the lieutenant replies.

‘Indian Joe also call Sky–God – from sacred rock.’ The indian points to the large flat rock near the river. Indian Joe then holds out his hand expectantly. Peterson hands him a small packet. Indian Joe expertly tips some of its contents on the back of his hand and snorts it. He then walks towards the large flat rock.

‘I am not happy giving the indians cocaine as payment,’ says Peterson, ‘but it seems to be the only currency here. I also think our new indian guide thinks the satellite is his Sky-God – and I can speak to it!’

‘A satellite could seem like a God to a primitive mind,’ replies Private Murphy. ‘He is sure taken by the colour of our hair and eyes, Sir.’

‘I guess redheads and blonds are
rare
in the jungle,’ Peterson replies.

‘It is unusual for a Marpari to want to see Chevez dead,’ muses Private Murphy.

‘Indian Joe is no
Marpari
!’ Peterson answers. ‘He is a
wild
indian who has somehow picked up English. However, I am sure glad he just appeared when our Marpari tracker vanished – he has led us to the perfect pick-up site.’

‘I think
they
suspect we know about the money, Sir,’ Murphy whispers.

‘They suspect something Murphy. They have been guarding the mule loads and watching us very closely!’

Private Murphy stops his work. ‘Look, Sir – someone has sabotaged the Satcom CT set – looks like the work of a knife!’

‘Can you fix it Murphy?’ Lt Peterson asks looking worried. ‘It’s our only chance!’

‘I guess so, but it will be a weak signal, Sir,’ says Murphy.

‘That Mordicai Hagger is pretty handy with a knife,’ comments Peterson. ‘Sometimes I think he’s not
right
in the head – wearing that gimp-mask!’

‘They are planning something, Sir – I can feel it,’ Murphy warns.

The three other soldiers are closely watching their officer and Private Murphy. They speak in a slow, nasal, Appalachian Mountain drawl.

Their leader is Sgt Jubel Hogger. The other two are Private Elmer Hagger and his cousin, Mordicai Hagger – still wearing the gimp-mask. All three are related.

These three soldiers are fine examples of the Appalachian Mountains interbreeding programme!

Indian Joe walks by, stopping to admire Mordicai Hagger’s
flame-red
hair.

‘Hagger hair – like fire,’ says the grinning indian, walking away.

‘Well, I do declare,’ says Mordicai, the least intelligent of the trio, ‘that Indian Joe is one ugly sister-fucker!’

‘Hell – he reminds me of a circus freak,’ replies Elmer Hagger. ‘Strange how he just showed up, Jubel – when our regular Marpari disappeared. He sure don’t look like any Marpari I know – with his filed teeth and all.’

‘I ain’t never seen a naked Marpari – with his pecker hitched up to his waist,’ pipes up Mordicai, grinning. ‘He looks like he is always packing
wood
.’

‘Indian Joe sure as hell got a hard on for you, Mordicai.’ says a grinning Elmer Hagger.

‘Hell, it don’t matter none, boys,’ adds Sgt Jubel Hogger. ‘When we have done with Peterson and Murphy, Indian Joe can guide them to the Promised Land!’

‘What do we do now Jubel?’ Mordicai asks, fingering a small knife.

‘Just hang loose boys,’ replies Hogger. ‘They will never get that Satcom set to work. You did a dandy job, Mordicai.’

‘I don’t know Jubel,’ says Elmer Hagger. ‘That son-of-a-bitch Murphy is awful handy at fixing things.’

‘Then we fix Murphy – split him from the Lieutenant,’ answers Jubel.

‘How are we gonna do that, Jubel?’ Mordicai asks.

‘Just keep a short rope on ‘em – while I think about it,’ answers Jubel, ‘and take that Goddamn gimp-mask off!’

‘I’m only wearing it to
rile
the lieutenant, Jubel,’ answers Mordicai.

‘It’s beginning to
rile
me cousin,’ says Jubel.

‘Hell – it’s only a bit of fun, Jubel,’ Mordicai answers.

‘I’ve seen you sleeping in it – take it off, that’s an order!’

Mordicai complies, grinning, exposing a big mouthful of crooked teeth.

Goddamn, Jubel,’ says Elmer, ‘if Captain Lamont and Lt Dupont were not dead, this money would be back in Dixieland.’

‘Well, it’s all our doing now,’ answers Jubel, ‘to get the money back Deep South. Now unload and water the mules Mordicai.

‘I recall your sister, Susie Lee, used to ride a mule when she came a-sparking.’

‘Susie Lee is sure a fine looking gal,’ declares Elmer Hagger.

‘She sure is,’ adds the grinning Mordicai Hagger.

Sgt Jubel Hogger regards his two relatives suspiciously.

‘Hell… no… Jubel! exclaims Elmer.

‘We swear it on the Good Book,’ adds Mordicai.

‘How is my good sister?’ asks Elmer, quickly changing the subject.

‘Don’t remind me,’ replies Jubel. ‘She’s teaching my daughters to cuss and spit.’ Mordicai takes the mules to the river.

‘Do you think the lieutenant knows about the money, Jubel?’ Elmer asks.

‘That son-of-a-bitch
Yankee
knows something – he took our Goddamn compasses away, didn’t he! This trouble is all
his
doing – it was there for the seeing but I didn’t cotton on. I reckon this is no Supply Drop. The chopper is coming for the money and it’s going to Washington, not over the Mason-Dixon line!’

‘The lieutenant may have done us a favour, Jubel,’ says Elmer. ‘All we have to do is kill the lieutenant and Murphy and use the chopper to lift the money out back to Missouri.’

‘What about the armed troops aboard?’ says Jubel, ‘and who’s going to pilot the chopper – Mordicai?’

‘Have you fixed the set yet, Murphy?’ Peterson asks.

‘Kind-a, Sir,’ says Murphy. ‘You should get a couple of short-range transmissions – that is all – the batteries have been drained!’

‘I need to send an urgent signal to base,’ says Peterson, ‘direct to Col Smith. I have a feeling Major Bodeen is in on this. All
Southerners
are not to be trusted – they seem to have powerful backing from the very top. When is the satellite due, Murphy?’