by Dick Stivers
Gadgets completed the plan. “Take their transportation away, we can come back for the soldiers in the daylight. Or ambush them if they try to escape overland.”
Thomas shook his head. “Boats in village.”
“Could we swim?” Blancanales asked.
“Crocodiles!” Lyons answered.
“We call caimans.” Thomas told them. “And piranha. Snakes. Very dangerous. Sometimes caimans attack, like Ironman.”
“I’d like to avoid the river,” Lyons stressed.
“Hey, man,” Gadgets joked. “Me and the Politician could do it. We’re not wearing any of that lizard-attracting lotion.”
Blancanales and Gadgets laughed softly. Lyons didn’t think it was funny.
“All right,” Blancanales said finally. “Looks like we crawl. Thomas, you and me go in first. Then we’ll lead Gadgets and Ironman in…”
“We’ll use the Berettas,” Lyons continued the planning. “Maybe we can do it ourselves. But if shooting starts…”
“Only us?” Thomas asked, incredulous.
“Molomano and all the others can circle the camp and give us backup if we need it,” Lyons added.
“Against many soldiers?” Thomas questioned. “How can only four men attack many soldiers?”
Gadgets slipped out his Beretta 93-R and held it up against the last gray light of day. “With silence.”
6
Snaking through the darkness, Blancanales felt for trip lines with a length of dry river grass. The point men had said the soldiers set the claymores and trip lines at waist height, but Blancanales took no chances. He stayed low, crawling on his belly, sometimes turning over and waving the blade of grass above him. After each advance of a few feet, Thomas crawled up.
No clanking weapon or snagged bandolier would betray the men. Neither man carried a shotgun or rifle. Blancanales wore no web belt or holster; the Beretta rode in a thigh pocket, his radio in the other pocket, his knife in his boot. Thomas carried only a black-bladed machete.
Thirty yards from the camp, a fallen tree four feet in diameter blocked their approach. Blancanales did not want to risk hopping over. He felt along the trunk until he came to a gap. He moved infinitely slowly, carefully. This was a perfect position for a sentry or a booby trap. For a minute, he lay still, listening. He flicked a bit of wood into the ferns, listening for the click of a rifle safety or the noises of a soldier shifting his weight. He heard nothing.
He waved the blade of river grass across the gap, from the earth up. At knee height, it snagged. He pushed the dry grass against the snag, slid the grass from side to side. He reached out with his left hand, felt the slick monofilament.
“Hsst! Thomas!” Blancanales called him forward. The Indian moved silently. When Thomas touched him, Blancanales whispered, “Bomb here. Wait. Don’t move.”
Blancanales slithered under the trip line. Touching the monofilament with the grass blade, he followed it to the left. He found it knotted around a branch. He went to the other end. He found the claymore by the slightest touch, waved the blade of grass everywhere around it. A smart soldier would have put a second booby trap on the first to kill an intruder attempting to defuse the claymore. In fact, Blancanales thought, a smart soldier would have placed the claymore so that it killed not only the first man through the gap in the fallen tree, but any other men behind him.
In the darkness, he touched the outlines of the antipersonnel weapon, his fingers tracing the outlines of a thin rectangular block. He felt the convex face, the concave back. He touched the raised letters on the face, reading the words by memory: front toward enemy.
An M18A1 AntiPersonnel Mine. U.S. Army equipment. Blancanales found the fuse with his fingers. More American equipment — an M-l Pull-Firing Device.
This is a trip down memory lane, Blancanales thought as he worked. The soldier who placed this claymore wouldn’t have made it out of Fort Benning. He would have had his ass kicked up to his shirt collar. Leaving the safety pin hanging. Makes it just too easy.
Blancanales slipped the cotter pin through the striker housing, then cut the rope lashing the claymore to a branch. He took the claymore and wound up the monofilament, then placed the claymore in the gap in the fallen tree where he could find it later. He and Thomas continued forward.
Close now to the river and the soldiers, Blancanales and Thomas heard voices. They smelled burning wood and meat. Fragments of light broke through the trees and ferns screening them from the camp, smoke swirling in the light. Shafts of light flickered above them as they searched for the next booby trap.
They cut east, toward the riverbank. In the next hour, they zigzagged through the darkness and found and defused three more claymores.
Finally, Blancanales keyed his hand radio, whispered, “No real problems so far. Completed half circle. Will now check out village.”
Leaving the jungle behind, they crawled through tree stumps and low brush. The burned village still smoldered, cloaking the area in smoke. Blancanales and Thomas no longer had to find their way by touch. The smoke above them glowed with the lights from the boat and from the soldiers’ camp.
To their right, they saw the river. A fifty-foot patrol craft floated a few feet from shore, a gangplank extending from the boat’s side to the sand. The craft also served as a troop shuttle. Behind the cabin and bridge, a canvas awning roofed a deck. Blancanales spotted a soldier manning a forward machine gun. The soldier sat on the small deck in front of the cabin, his back to the village. He stared out at the shimmering water, smoked, raised a bottle to drink. No one manned the machine gun at the rear of the craft.
Two air-cushion boats were parked on the sand. Two soldiers sat on the snub bow of one boat, smoking and talking in loud voices. That boat carried a machine gun. The other boat, a few steps away, carried a blunt-muzzled heavy weapon that Blancanales did not recognize.
Again, the two silent, patient warriors slithered in zigzags, searching for claymores. They found two more trip lines, dismantled the booby traps. With the aid of the diffuse illumination, Blancanales gave Thomas a lesson in defusing the antipersonnel devices, silently demonstrating each detail in the deadly and meticulous work. When they finished with each claymore, they set it aside to be retrieved later.
Finally, they completed the second semicircle around the camp. They had swept the booby traps from the south end of the village. Lying still for minutes, they listened to the activity inside the camp. Piles of ash and smoking debris separated them from the soldiers.
Silhouetted against the lights, they saw rows of heads, shoulder to shoulder. The forms shifted and turned, but never stood. Soldiers with autorifles in their hands paced in front of the seated people. A baby wailed.
“Indians,” Thomas whispered. “Will be slaves.”
Soldiers walked to one of the forms, jerked a man to his feet. The man was not an Indian. He wore olive drab, the fatigue pants tucked into the tops of his boots. As the prisoner passed a light, Blancanales saw the man’s light skin, his mustache, his hands tied behind his back. His uniform shirt had unit patches on the sleeves.
“Army of Brazil!” Thomas whispered quickly.
“Interesting…” Blancanales said, keying his hand radio. “We’re twenty-five, thirty feet from them,” he reported. “I count thirteen captives. One of them is a Brazilian army officer.”
“No doubt about it?” Lyons asked.
“He’s got the uniform on. Stand by, we’re coming out.”
They continued the crawl, double-checking for booby traps. They left the lights and noise of the soldiers behind them and entered the darkness of the trees. The two men inched along a worn footpath, Blancanales waving the dry spine of a fern frond ahead of him. He found one more trip line and defused the claymore by touch.
A half hour passed before they rejoined the others. Blancanales gave his report in a whisper. “We cleared this trail straight into the village. You got intermittent jungle and logs, then a cut-and-cleared area around the village. The
huts are burned down. Clean lines of fire from the edge of the village to the soldiers.”
“How many soldiers?” Lyons asked.
“I counted eight in the open. But there must be more, maybe sleeping, maybe in the patrol boat.”
“So you got a plan, man?” Gadgets jived.
“Just like we talked. We three first. Thomas and all the other men deploy on the south side.”
Lyons turned to Thomas. “Tell your men no shooting unless we call for it. Understand? We’ll be in the camp. Your men shoot, they’ll hit us.”
“Understand.”
As Thomas instructed the other Indians, Blancanales slipped on his equipment. Then Able Team led the force into the village. The Indians crept to their positions. For minutes, Able Team watched the soldiers in the camp.
Lyons nodded toward the boats. “I’ll slip in along the riverbank, trying to get on the big boat.”
Gadgets pointed to Blancanales and himself, whispering, “We get those Indian people out of there…”
“And declare a free-fire zone,” Lyons concluded. Blancanales and Gadgets nodded. With a mock salute, Lyons crawled away.
They watched the soldiers. A fire burned in the center of the camp. A soldier held out a stick skewering a hot dog. He wore green fatigues without rank or unit identification. A Heckler & Koch G-3 automatic rifle hung from his shoulder.
A few steps from the fire, a gas lantern stood on the end of a ten-foot pole, its unnatural white light searing away the constellations and swirling galaxies of the southern hemisphere’s night. Another light on a pole was placed at the riverbank. The lanterns lit the camp like streetlights.
Two soldiers with G-3 rifles pulled a man from the cabin of the patrol boat. The prisoner staggered to the gangplank, steadied himself before descending. In the lights’ glare, Gadgets and Blancanales saw blood on the man’s face. Blood on tanned skin showed through rips in his uniform.
“That’s the officer I saw before,” Blancanales whispered to Gadgets.
Lurching down the spring aluminum gangplank, the bleeding officer staggered across the sand beach, then up the slight embankment. The two soldiers followed him.
A third slaver soldier left the patrol boat’s cabin. He carried no rifle. He wore an ascot at the throat of his permapress camouflage fatigues. No rank or unit identification marked his uniform. A military holster hung from a web belt.
A dark-featured Latin with curly hair, he strutted down the gangplank, one hand on his holster, surveying the scene. He followed the prisoner and the other soldiers to the line of captives.
Shouting instructions in Portuguese, he pointed at the bleeding officer, then to another captive. One soldier held the officer upright, another jerked a captured Brazilian soldier to his feet. The teenager wore a single stripe of rank on his sleeve.
The dandy in the ascot shouted at the captured officer. The officer shook his head. The dandy unholstered a black auto-pistol, put the muzzle at the head of the teenage prisoner. Again, he shouted his questions.
The captured officer spoke quickly, strained against the grip of the gunman behind him. He repeated his words over and over again.
A blast rocked back the boy’s head, threw him down. The captured officer stared at the dead teenager. He said nothing as the auto-pistol went to his head. The dandy shouted more questions.
“Is there anything we can try?” Gadgets whispered.
Blancanales shook his head. Keying his hand radio, Blancanales warned Lyons, “Don’t. There are twelve prisoners we’ve got to get out of there.”
“Pretty boy is on my shit list…” Lyons hissed.
They watched the bleeding, silent officer shake his head to more shouted questions. The dandy kicked the officer’s feet from under him, kicked him again and again. Finally, the slaver holstered the auto-pistol, strode away. He straightened the knot of his ascot.
Gadgets punched Blancanales in the shoulder. “Let’s go before pretty boy comes back.”
Blancanales led the way between the mounds of ashes that had been the shelter and possessions of the tribe. Checking ahead of him with a grass stem, he stayed on the footstep-trampled path. He kept his belly to the dirt, moved with slow caution. He saw the glistening monofilament of a booby trap. He didn’t pause to dismantle the weapon. He unscrewed the fuse and dropped it.
A shadow lay on the path. Even with the light from the lanterns, Blancanales could not make out the form. Was it a soldier flat on the path, watching for Indian raiders? Blancanales flicked a stone at the shadow, then lay without moving for the count of fifty. The form did not shift or turn.
He thumbed the fire selector of his Beretta to three-shot auto and crawled forward. Passing a knot of weeds singed by fire, he spotted the small rectangular outline of a claymore. There was no trip line. But he did see a wire trailing from the back. This one was command detonated. Not stopping, he continued to the form. Finally, he saw a face staring at him.
Blood crusted the child’s face. Blancanales saw no breathing. Crossing the last few feet quickly, he reached out to touch the child.
He stopped his hand. A fast wave of the dry grass stem found no wires or monofilament. Blancanales did not move the body as he felt for a pulse. Nothing moved under his fingertips. He raised himself up slowly and looked at the child. The opened lung and guts of the boy indicated a point-blank burst to the back.
As he crabbed backward over the path, a hand caught his boot top. Blancanales whipped the Beretta around.
“Pol! Be cool!” Gadgets spat. “What’s up there?”
“A dead kid.” Blancanales controlled his emotions. He started past Gadgets.
Gadgets grabbed him. “Why you going back?”
“Command-detonated claymore,” he whispered.
“Forget it. I pulled the fuse.”
Blancanales advanced again, skirting past the dead boy. Only ten feet separated them from the bound-back hands of the prisoners. Past the Brazilian army officer and the line of Indians, two green-fatigued slavers shouted Spanish obscenities at each other. A third gnawed on a roasted hot dog, watched the other men, grinning when the men shoved and grappled.
One man threw a punch. Blancanales slipped out his Beretta, waited an instant until the other man countered. A 9mm subsonic steel-cored slug punched into the first man’s temple as a fist hit his jaw. The gunman eating the hot dog went over to the fallen man, stood looking down at him. The other gunman rubbed his knuckles, laughed. Then both men stooped down to help the fallen man.
Rising to one knee, Blancanales shot them in the tops of their skulls. They fell on their faces, thrashed. Blancanales rushed to the captured Brazilian officer.
“Habla usted espanol? No hablo portugues. “
“No hablo espanol bien. Can we speak English?”
“Sure can. Keep these people quiet. Don’t let them move. My partner and I have to get all of you out of here before we can take care of these slavers.”
“You’re a gringo!” the bloodied officer exclaimed. “What are you doing in Bolivia?”
“Long story. Be still, we’ll try to get you out alive.”
*
At the other side of the burned village, Lyons stripped off his Atchisson, the bandoliers, the shoulder-holstered Python. He took off his shirt and spread it out on the mud. An Indian an arm’s distance away watched as Lyons laid out his equipment on the shirt. Then he took off his boots, smeared mud on the white tops of his feet.
Two layers of genipap black made Lyons’s face and body invisible in the night. He slipped his hand radio into his pants’ left thigh pocket. Taking only the silenced Beretta — no web belt, no extra magazines — Lyons started away.
The Indian hissed something in his own language. Lyons glanced back. The Indian held out his hand. Solemnly, they shook hands, then Lyons continued away.
Light from the pole-mounted lanterns shone on the river and the ripple-lapped sand. But the slight embankment above the beach cast a shadow that paralleled the water.
Lyons eased over the lip of the muddy riverbank and down to the shadowed bench.
Rocks and weed stubble scraped at his skin as he snaked closer to the two soldiers lounging against the windshield of the air-cushion boat. They laughed, argued. One man drained a beer bottle, threw it far into the river. Lyons crawled until only twenty feet of sand separated him from his targets. He took the Beretta in a two-handed grip and raised its luminescent night-sight dots to the head of a soldier.
Something tickled his nose. He reached to flick it away with his left hand, felt a slick, stretched strand of monofilament. Lyons backed up, squinted around him. A scratch of light crossed the shadow, continued ten feet into the river shallows. A large rock secured that end of the trip line.
One more inch forward and his nose would have triggered a blast of six hundred screaming lead pellets.
Scanning the shadows ahead of him, he saw the suggestion of a claymore’s rectangular outline aimed parallel to the embankment. At his nose.
He had no knife. Testing the tension of the trip line, he bet his life the detonator was not spring loaded, that is, set on fire if an intruder cuts the monofilament. He reached toward the river end of the monofilament and pulled it. He slowly dragged the rock from the shallows. He crawled over the slack line and unscrewed the fuse from the booby trap.
Now, one soldier sat on the air boat, the other stood in the lapping water, throwing rocks at the bottle floating in the river’s slow current. Lyons sighted on the heart of the sitting soldier. He squeezed off a single shot.
The soldier’s mouth opened, his hand rose to his chest as he slumped off the prow of the boat. The other soldier turned to see his companion in the sand, not moving. He went to one knee beside him and shook the dead man. Then a muffled pop and the second soldier fell dead.
Lyons waited, listening, watching what he could see of the camp and other boats. He heard no one call out. The soldier sitting on the forward deck of the patrol boat still watched the river and the stars.
Emerging from the shadow, Lyons stood upright and walked calmly to the airboat. He dropped into the shadow beside the boat to drag a dead soldier to him. Blood drained from the death wound in the soldier’s head as Lyons pulled off the man’s shirt.
