The Balkan Assignment (29 page)

Finally Mikhail nodded. "I do not have any choice. I will help you. At least I will see that bastard Maher in jail . . . if I cannot kill him first."

"All right," I said, suddenly feeling very old. "Let's get to it." We rummaged around the go-down and found several bundles of rags and cans of kerosene for the marker lights and dashed out into the rain. It took fifteen minutes to drag four of the heavy oil drums into a rough square approximately one hundred yards across to mark out a landing grid for the helicopters. After the drums were in place, we laid kerosene soaked clothes on the wire screens welded to the insides of the barrels and fired them off with handfuls of soggy matches. Within minutes the rain and darkness were forced back by the brightly burning drums.

I reached the go-down just ahead of Mikhail. He came in more slowly, studying the night beyond the line of trees. I waited for him beneath the eaves and together we both watched the fire signals burning out on the landing strip. They were barely visible through the heavy rain.

"I hope your friends have sharp eyes," Mikhail observed. I said with considerably more confidence than I felt, "From the air the torches will be brighter. The pilot has the location down pretty close. All he will have to do is spot the barrels from around one hundred meters altitude."

Mikhail grunted and we both turned to re-enter the hut just as the telephone jangled sharply. We stopped just short of the door and glanced at each other.

"They've seen the fires, I'll bet. Whoever is on the other end of that line will want to know what's going on."

"If it is not answered, then they will send someone out to see what is happening," Mikhail pointed out. "And they will probably come with guns." I turned to stare into the rain at the fires. "You can bet your sweet life they'll come armed. And they won't wait to ask questions." I pointed to the line of trees. "A road runs along there. They will probably come by truck and stop about there." I pointed out a break in the cyclone fencing that served as a gate to the airfield. The phone rang several more times, then stopped. "Here they come," I muttered. Mikhail grasped me by the arm and pushed me around to the back of the go-down. "Stay here," he hissed, and ran for the other go-down. I saw what he was up to. No matter when they arrived, they would have to come through the opening in the fence, midway between two buildings. We had them in an effective cross fire as long as our ammunition held out.

The monsoon rains lashed down harder and harder. It did not seem that there could be that much water in all Asia. I was worried about the damned helicopters. If the weather was bad enough to keep them grounded, Mikhail and I were strictly out of luck. We would be long dead if the soldiers had to come by the road. I had already decided that if things got too bad and the helicopters had not arrived in the next thirty minutes, Mikhail and I would beat it; either try for the DC-3 or take to the hills. I looked at my watch. Twenty minutes had already passed since I had spoken to Ley on the radio. I paced back and forth for a moment, and finally chose a spot near the left-hand side of the go-down. It provided a good angle of fire and at the same time let me keep an eye on the burning oil drums and the landing area. With a sigh, I stretched full length in the soggy grass and waited.

Five long, cold minutes passed before a faint squeal of brakes told me that our playmates were arriving. I felt in my pockets for the spare ammunition clips and laid out three on the bag in front of me. I pulled the M-16 from under my chest, propped it on my left hand, cradled the stock against my cheek in approved military fashion and checked the indicator to make sure it was on semiautomatic. A moment later, I caught sight of the truck's parking lights as it turned and stopped. Then shadows detached themselves and milled about; the confusion lasted only a few seconds and the line of shadows straightened and began to move forward to the gate. The distance could not have been more than thirty yards yet it seemed like a thousand.

Two shots cracked out on my left as Mikhail fired. The shadows disappeared quickly, diving for cover. I dropped my sights slightly and fired twice. A few minutes later, someone shouted in German and I heard Mikhail answer back, also in German. Several shots rang out in his direction, so I assumed that Mikhail had told them in explicit terms what they could do with themselves.

From where I lay, I could, by turning my head see the airstrip and drums of kerosene. So far, they were continuing to burn in spite of the pounding rain. I found it hard to believe that it could rain so hard for so long. I had seen monsoon rains in Vietnam, but nothing like this. It had rained hard certainly, but never for more than five or ten minutes at a time.

I peered hard in the direction of the truck but the blackness and rain were impenetrable. For all I knew, they could have packed up and gone home—a most unlikely possibility. I glanced at my watch again; thirty minutes gone. I listened hard, straining to pick up the first faint drone of the helicopters; nothing. The minutes stretched on. No movement of any kind was to be seen around the truck and I began to wonder what the devil they were up to. My curiosity was satisfied moments later as a second truck drove up. Reinforcements; now we were in for it, I thought. The rain pounded down as steady as ever covering any movement around the two trucks. A beam of light stabbed out, blinding in its intensity and suddenness. Searchlight! Since I had fired last, they started in my direction. The beam swept in high, found the back wall of the go-down and steadied, then began a careful sweep waist high. The glare was so bright that it was impossible to see anything else and under its cover, I knew they would be moving forward. Mikhail began firing off to my left. The beam did not waver in its search for me confirming that they were not trying to spot but to use its glare to blind me. I supposed that I could consider that a tribute to my marksmanship. I grabbed the spare clips, shoved them into my pocket, wriggled quickly to the left, into the open, away from the wall of the go-down until I was out of the direct line of the searchlight beam. The glare was reduced, but not enough that I could see anyone approaching. I put the carbine to my shoulder again and sighted in carefully on the fiery center of searchlight, took a deep breath and fired once. Nothing. I resettled the carbine and fired again, shifted slightly and fired once more. Still nothing. I wiped the rain out of my eyes and tried a third time. On the fourth round, the reflector shattered and the light dwindled, hissing and sputtering, as the rain short-circuited the electric arc. Mikhail picked up the firing as I crawled rapidly to the left again and further away from the go-down. Rifle fire poured around the spot I had just vacated. Round one to us, I thought. And at almost the same time, a figure loomed out of the darkness, running straight for me. I don't know if he knew where he was going or not, and didn't wait to find out. I fired two rounds almost by reflex and whoever it was jackknifed backward and landed heavily yards off to my right. I waited for several seconds, my heart pounding like a jack hammer, temples throbbing so heavily that I thought they might burst.

I shoved a fresh clip of ammunition into the carbine and decided that I was getting a little too far away from the relative cover of the go-down and began to wriggle back. It felt as though the rain was finally beginning to slacken. It no longer pounded down with quite the same force. Several minutes more passed and it became possible to make out the dim shape of the trucks and occasionally a flicker of movement as someone crouching low, moved from one truck to another.

Points of light suddenly blossomed full grown into flowers of flame and landed hissing in the wet grass. Several more flares followed until the area between the road and the godowns was lit with smokey red fluorescence through which deathly pink rain slanted down. As the first flares landed, a concerted rush from the trucks began. I heard Mikhail'

s carbine start up and I followed suit. The running, crouching figures were hard to make out clearly in the wavering red light; they had us well spotted and intense fire began to tear up the ground around me.

I fired off one complete clip, sending at least one more man to the ground before I jumped up and dodged away around the corner of the go-down. I saw Mikhail break from the far side of his go-down and head for the fence alongside the airstrip. The same thought had occurred to both of us at once. Our positions had become untenable in the heavy concentration of gunfire There was only one place to go. I swore at Ley and the entire Interpol organization for getting me into this mess, at myself for letting Klaus talk me into it in the first place and at Klaus for talking me into it. Both of us went up and over the cyclone fencing like scalded cats. I know I hit the fence running, tossed my carbine over, vaulted the top and did not stop until I had covered at least twenty yards on the far side, grabbing up the carbine as I went, all without slowing once. A small channel ran along the side of the runway to carry off rainwater . . . as it was doing now. Both of us splashed down into it some forty yards apart. The water was cold but not deep, and the channel provided cover and however meager, it was better than nothing.

Our friends were right behind us. Mikhail shot at one as he tried to go over the fence and the rest, chastened, pulled back quickly to the cover of the go-downs.

"Chris . . . Chris," Mikhail's whisper was startling in the sudden silence. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm okay. How about you?"

Water and wet grass whispered as Mikhail crawled toward me.

"All right. But we must hold them here. There is nowhere for us to retreat until your friends come."

The fence was outlined by the dim light from the flood mounted on the go-down roof. Mikhail did not take his eyes from it and neither did I.

"I will kill that bastard Nazi before this night is through," he muttered, half to himself.

"Before this night is through?" I railed at him, suddenly angry and scared at the same time. "Before this night is through we'll both be dead." Any further argument that Mikhail might have had was cut off abruptly as firing resumed from the other side of the fence. Now they did have us at a distinct disadvantage. The burning oil drums were to our backs, silhouetting every move above the edge of the ditch that we made. Mikhail held his fire and I did likewise and for the moment they were content to probe, apparently not wishing to risk any more men until they figured out what was happening. After a few minutes the firing trickled away. I wondered if they might be interpreting our lack of response as a shortage of ammunition. If so, they were right. I had two clips left and the Smith & Wesson. Mikhail would have even less as he had done more shooting. I was beginning to wonder seriously whether or not we could hold out until Ley arrived when Mikhail shouted something unintelligible and swung around and fired past my ear. A heavy weight lunged across my back and slithered down into the drainage ditch. Mikhail fired again. The second burst of gunfire shocked me out of the temporary paralysis and I dove for the bottom of the ditch. Mikhail sprinted past as I floundered in the muddy water. I had the impression of a continuous muzzle flash as he sailed by, his carbine sputtering away on automatic. I came to my feet running in the opposite direction. Twenty paces up the ditch, I threw myself sideways and out into a prone position on the grassy lip. Mikhail was boldly outlined in the light of a newly ignited flare. As I brought my carbine up, he swung the butt of his into the chest of a rushing body with features carved in hard shadow. Almost in slow motion, the figure stooped, bent forward with the force of the blow and sprawled over his back and into the ditch. A fourth man was bearing down on him from above, rifle swinging to shoulder when I fired a long burst that hosed through the night to scatter tiny explosions of phosphorescent mist where the bullets went smashing home. Then it was silent again but for the sputtering of the flare in the wet grass and the muted drumming of the rain. Slowly, exhausted by the berserk reaction, I slid back down into the ditch until I was sitting with my back against one muddy side, too tired and cold to care any longer.

A moment later, Mikhail crawled up beside me and slumped horizontally against the other side, where he peered carefully over the edge. He was breathing hoarsely, gasping for breath.

"You . . . all right?" I managed to get out and found that I was gasping as well. He didn't answer, just nodded his head and stared toward the fence before he swung around to face me and slid down to the bottom into a sitting position where he ducked his head between his knees. Mikhail gagged several times and then sat motionless while he regained his strength. After a while, he sloshed down the ditch a few feet and scooped up several handfuls of muddy water to

rinse his mouth and he crawled back to where I was sitting, sank down heavily and leaned his head back against the muddy wall.

"I think . . . that . . . I am becoming . . . too old . . ."

"Yeah, ain't we both," I muttered and eased across the ditch and raised my head carefully until I could see over the edge. For a moment, I could make out nothing in the light of the dying flare. The fence was almost invisible in the darkness and rain, and at first I could spot no movement around the go-downs or along the base of the fence. I continued to peer into the semidarkness and then I saw the two men working near the fence . . . at work with long handled bolt cutters. The men who had hit us on the flanks had been a diversion to allow the two with the bolt cutters to rip a way through the fence. I hissed at Mikhail and shoved my carbine up and over the edge of the ditch. Mikhail changed clips and I waited a moment to give him time to get into position. I pointed out the two men working on the fence and whispered for him to take the man on the left.

"Now!" We opened fire simultaneously and the carbines rapped out sharply. Both men looked up in astonishment, one half rose as if to run and the other just stared for a soundless moment and then both thrashed backwards and disappeared. Mikhail swore feelingly, I grabbed his arm and swung him around.