Cyborg 03 - High Crystal

by Martin Caidin

  They ate lightly of rations, drank some water, and bundled up in their netting. Steve was awake an hour before first light, waiting. The moment they had enough light to start, he started down the slope. It was steep but with plenty of handholds. Two hours after getting under way they reached the edge of the valley floor. From this point on it was a matter of moving southwest until they picked up their old trail. If they made it before Fossengen realized they were gone, they’d have a lead of seven or eight miles.

  Steve cinched his pack tighter, grasped the machete in his left hand. “Let’s go,” he said.

  They made good time. At this altitude the floor beneath the trees was still comparatively free of the fierce, tangling growth they’d had to deal with on their way out of the Chalhuanca Plateau. Speed at this moment was essential; fortunately they were still rested and fresh. Steve set a vicious pace, his machete flashing back and forth whenever they encountered rough going. Mostly it was a matter of moving as fast as a steady pace would permit, ducking under branches, weaving around heavy brush. For the first three hours they drove ahead without a rest. From then on Steve gave them a ten-minute break every hour, then pushed them on. Every hour now could count for three later. They also had the advantage of being hardened from what they had already done in managing the longer trip from the Chalhuanca to Temple Mountain. Rudy Wells was down twenty pounds from what he’d been when he began the expedition. Wayne was toughened, too. Carla had behind her the experience of years working in the field.

  Rudy knew what to expect from Steve—he knew the bionics capabilities of the man better than Steve himself knew—and he trusted Steve to estimate correctly the capabilities of the others. Carla had come to trust Steve totally. She had begun to be drawn to him before her father’s death, and that tragedy had left her instinctively seeking the warmth of a relationship already developing. They heard no complaints from her as she kept pace with the rest of them, driving steadily across the cruel land. As for Phil Wayne, it seemed he had adopted the attitude of Mueller and Viejo before him toward this strange man Steve Austin. What he had ignored before—especially that time when Steve turned into a fury as he slashed through the high grass they’d encountered on their way to the mountain—now came home to him with sudden impact. Several times he meant to question Rudy Wells about the extraordinary person leading them, but there was never really the chance—and when they broke from their hammering pace, the need simply to rest those precious minutes overshadowed any desire for answers. Time enough later.

  They were still working their way along a far-running, gentle slope. Whatever additional stamina they derived from descending into thicker air from the high point of the mountain was demanded by Steve as he took note and increased the pace. Finally they reached the long section of high grass, the last one through which they’d struggled just before reaching the slopes leading to Temple Mountain. No need now to slash and cut. Not enough time had passed for the grass to grow back. Steve took them through relentlessly and never eased off the pressure until they did begin to stumble. He had deliberately stretched their endurance to the breaking point. They would falter, he knew, but rest and food should bring them out of it, and then he would drive them just as hard until a numbness set in and they no longer would feel the stabbing aches and pains the protesting muscles would bring to them.

  He gave them a break of forty-five minutes. While the others ate and drank, sprawled where they were, he prowled like an angry cat, nervous, impatient to be on his way. Carla stared at him with disbelief, and several times he caught her eyes on him and returned her frank gaze, but whatever communication she needed from him was met in this silent understanding. They were, she accepted, drawn to each other, but it was an emotion she could hardly indulge at this moment. Later, a world awaited them beyond this jungle, beyond the Chalhuanca, beyond the reach of the men no doubt coming after them from the great temple.

  They were ready to move out again, on their feet, adjusting once again their pack straps. “Everyone ready?” Steve asked. They nodded or grunted in reply. Steve started to turn, to lead them on, when back in the distance he saw a sudden brilliant flash from the top of Temple Mountain.

  “Look,” he said quietly, pointing. They turned, the flash gone, but a huge flare of yellow-orange light was sweeping outward from the peak of the temple, from the domed chamber where they had discovered the crystal. They stared, each with his special feelings, as thick smoke boiled outward—seemingly, at this distance, at an agonizingly slow pace. They knew that what appeared to be minuscule pieces of debris to their eyes were actually massive blocks of stone. The smoke shredded before the wind. Where there had been the domed chamber, there was now empty space.

  “Well, now we know,” Steve said. “Move out.”

  Relentless, an unbroken pace, he led them into the deeper jungle, out of the sudden dips into another long section of high grass. He drove them until their eyes were glazed, let them break to eat and for an hour’s rest, then dragged them again to their feet. Phil Wayne shook his head in disbelief. “Aren’t we going to camp now? For tonight?”

  Steve pointed at the sun near the horizon. “There’s an hour, hour and a half, left of daylight. When it’s light, we move. On your feet.”

  He turned and started off and they had no choice except to follow, supported only by the knowledge that he couldn’t drag them more than another hour or so before the night would come. When finally he relented because of nightfall, they were grateful only for the rest. Steve watched as they dropped where they were. No one mentioned standing guard. They were too tired; they had passed all this to him. Steve went to Carla, curled up on the ground. He placed a pack under her head, covered her securely with mosquito netting. He checked the two men, then prowled around the area. He wondered about local wildlife. He felt the weariness seep through his own body, regretted his harsh treatment of the others, knew there really was no choice. Better blisters and sore muscles than a bullet through the head like Carla’s father.

  He knew he couldn’t sleep until one of the others was awake. He grinned as Rudy snored fitfully. It was a long way from his office or the medical laboratories, but he was proving himself here too. For the first time since they’d known each other, Rudy was being pushed to the ultimate and making it fine. Complaining, to be sure, but not faltering. Besides, he’d been talking for years about reducing the size of that bay window he carried around. Well, he’d never get a better weight-reducing program than this one.

  He thought about Carla . . . not deliberately, but now that he was sitting alone, his back to a tree, the rifle across his lap and the machete nearby, his thought just went to her. He knew they were being attracted to each other as man and woman, and that if the circumstances had been different they’d have been together long before now. Carla was breaking down the walls his subconscious had thrown up against involvement. Only time would—

  A deep cough came from thick growth to his left. A mountain puma. So far they’d been fortunate to have avoided one of the big cats. He remembered they were fiercely defensive about their territory. The puma had a long memory. It had probably picked up their scent when they went through here the first time and now it recognized it. Once could be ignored . . . creatures simply passing through. A second time—a possible threat to be investigated.

  Steve reached for the rifle, replaced it on the ground. Too dangerous. A shot could be heard for many miles at night. Possibly, if the wind were right, all the way across the valley to Fossengen. If Fossengen still was fairly sure they’d been killed in that explosion, he might not be pressing too hard in pursuit. But if he heard shots there would be no doubt and he’d be after them full speed. Fossengen surely had with him experienced, hardened trackers, men who’d spent their lives in the field. They could move with a steady, relentless pace to run down their quarry, and Steve wanted nothing to do with a firefight against professional mercenaries. The whole rationale for his punishment of these people was to avoid just that.

 
; Again the puma coughed, a warning sound to the intruders on its hunting grounds. Steve took up the machete in his left hand and came quietly to his feet. He knew the big cat would be coming slowly toward them from downwind. It might quarter its approach at the last, but at least Steve could judge its direction. With the blade poised in his hand, he went into a fighting crouch, the steel moving slowly before him, ready for instant striking.

  Then he saw it—barely. The animal stood on a sloping rock at the edge of their camp area. It was in a partial crouch, growling softly. Steve turned slowly, his arms spreading, the machete still low but poised. Animal and man stared at one another, and by some communication the puma knew this creature would not yield its territory either without a fight. Glowing eyes studied Steve. The cat remembered. This other animal had been here before. It had stayed briefly, then moved away. There had been no threat to the cat’s territory, no danger. The creature would go off again. No wild animal fights when it isn’t necessary. If it’s not threatened it will take the way of least resistance. There was no threat. The puma went off into the night.

  Steve let out a long breath. The machete lowered slowly toward the ground, and he turned to replace the weapon by his pack. A sound stopped him and he quickly turned about.

  “Carla! What—”

  “I watched.”

  The sound he’d just heard was the safety catch going back on her rifle. She’d been ready to cut down the puma if Steve were in danger . . .

  He smiled ruefully at her. “You got me covered, pardner—an old American saying.” What he was feeling was old, and universal.

  They awoke to a steady drizzle. All the better, thought Steve. There’d be no desire to sit on the ground and get soaked. They had no tents, no canvas covers for a windbreak or rain shelter. They ate their rations silently, drank water and were prodded to their feet. Steve waited for them, studied each in turn and then started into thickening jungle.

  The world blurred for them. They were back into the vicious bog. Step-by-step they fought their way through at Steve’s merciless pace. If someone slipped or faltered, a powerful arm hauled them to better footing. There was no rest. They sucked in air, ignored the insects swarming about them, numb in body and mind. Forty-five minutes rest; no more.

  That night, their second, he saw what he had feared all along. He pointed it out to Rudy. Far behind them, but definitely on their trail, a tiny pinpoint of light. A fire. Fossengen and his men . . . or at least a group of the men that had trapped them for a while in the temple . . . they’d picked up their trail and were hard after them.

  Steve brooded while the others slept. It had taken them five days to get from the Chalhuanca Plateau to Temple Mountain. They would need to make it back in three. They had to stay well ahead. They still had the long western slope to climb to reach the airplanes. That would slow them dangerously. None of the three with him had the energy to stand guard while Steve slept. They needed all their strength; their sleep was critical. Steve put his back to a tree, rifle cradled in his lap, and slept like an animal . . . ready at any instant to come awake, fighting.

  Something woke him while it was still dark. No rain. Heavy low clouds. He scoured their camp. Nothing. He tried to rest but couldn’t with his oppressive sense of foreboding. He climbed to a slope nearby, looked back along the trail they’d just traveled. And then he saw it and he understood the intimation.

  A tiny gleam in darkness. Then another. Light flickering. There; again. It could be only one thing. Flashlights. Fossengen was really driving his men. Now they were tracking at night, and catching up.

  Steve decided to let Rudy, Carla and Phil sleep. If he could drive them enough in the morning they could still finish the trek in the three days he’d planned. That would bring them up the slope to the plateau at nightfall. It was their only chance. He was surprised that he fell asleep. Deep, enormously refreshing. He opened his eyes as a thin sliver of gray in the eastern sky began the new day.

  He woke the others. While they ate he told them about the lights he’d seen during the night. They stared at one another in disbelief. “We haven’t any choice,” he warned them. “We’ve got to make the plateau before night. If we don’t . . .” He shrugged.

  The unseen but known force behind helped drive them. The immediate presence of Steve lashing at them kept them going when they would have fallen. The last three hours were the worst. They were climbing now, up to higher altitude—and thinner air.

  They crawled and scraped their way up the last slope to the plateau, collapsed in high grass, hearts pounding. Rudy insisted they stop briefly to eat. Their bodies called out for a chance to recoup. Steve fidgeted. He thought he’d seen movement on the trail behind them, no more than two or three miles at the most. They still had to get to one of the planes, fire it up and get off this place in the dark. It wasn’t going to be easy.

  They climbed wearily to their feet, moving in blackness. Steve planned to move along the northern edge of the plateau, within cover of grass and brush.

  They were so close . . . when Carla stopped them and pointed out the guards between them and the two planes.

  CHAPTER 22

  So close, and now guards—not one or two but more like six or seven. Fossengen must have kept in contact by radio with the people he’d left behind. They were alert, carrying their rifles almost as if anticipating the chance to cut down the four who were trying to reach the airplanes.

  Phil Wayne came to his side, staying low. “What do you think, Steve? We’ve got no cover.”

  Steve looked at Wayne, nodded, not answering for the moment, trying to think.

  “We could get off the plateau, Steve.” That from Rudy on one knee, his rifle ready. Steve wanted to laugh. The old boy was ready for a banzai charge if anyone out there made a move. But Rudy was doing some corrective thinking on his own. True, in front of them was a grim risk at best. If they backed off, they could try living off the country. Except it would take them weeks, maybe a month or more to walk out. That meant living off whatever fish they could catch or animals they might shoot. It also meant being out in the damndest jungle one could imagine while the weather around them was going to hell. And overriding all other considerations—to get off the plateau they’d have to avoid the group coming after them. No, it was here, now, that they would have to settle it.

  Carla put her hand on Steve’s arm. “A diversion, Steve?”

  He turned to her, surprised. She was right. The guards were camped in the middle of the grass strip, not by the planes. Their position wasn’t a bad choice, Steve realized. Whoever wanted to reach the planes after climbing the western slope, they’d figured, would have to go through them.

  Except maybe not.

  “Carla, those men,” Steve said, gesturing to the guards, “I can’t tell clearly but it seems to me they’re natives. Are they?”

  Wayne handed her a small pair of binoculars and she studied the scene. Reflected firelight was her only illumination but it was enough. “Yes,” she told him. “Like Colonel Viejo told us. Natives, from the north country.”

  He thought on that, had the first glimmer of an idea. Then he slipped off his pack, began stripping to the waist. They looked at him with amazement. As he undressed he turned to Wayne. “Phil, you remember how to start that thing?”

  Wayne ran through his mind the starting procedures on the C-47. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “There’s no room for mistakes. We may have only one chance,” Steve said. “You’ve got to do it right the first time.”

  “I said I remember. But why not the Helio? I mean, only one engine and—”

  Steve cut him short. “The Gooney takes a lot more punishment than the Helio,” Steve said, “and I’m not counting on getting out of here without those people taking a few shots at us. It may take a bit longer to get started, but our odds are better. Now just forget everything else and please stay with what I’m saying. You go along the perimeter of the field, Phil. Stay low and move fast. You’ve got good co
ver with the grass. Go around to the other side of the Gooney. You can see how the Helio should block their view when you come in that way, right?” Wayne nodded. “Now, don’t use the cabin door. Drop the belly hatch and get in that way. You’ve got to ignore anything going on around you. Just get into that cockpit and start firing up. That’s all. Get those engines running. The trick is priming them right the first time.” He looked at Wayne. “You may not get a second. When you’ve got her running, taxi out of there. Swing her around to the south and then to the other end of the strip, to the east. Come around in a wide circle and stop. If things work out, we’ll be coming scared into the ship. Any questions?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Steve clapped Wayne on the shoulder. “Vaya con Dias, or something.”

  Wayne grinned and disappeared into the night.

  “Steve, would you mind telling me what you’re doing?”

  Steve turned to Rudy and stuffed a small package into one pants pocket before he answered. “I’m trying to think like our friends out there,” he said, meaning the guards. “The only way we can hack this is, as the saying goes, to blow their minds.”

  “Blowing their heads off would be more like it.”

  “But not much chance of getting them all. There’s seven of them, at least. Carla, can you see any more?”

  She went back to studying the guards through the binoculars. “No, I only see seven but it’s possible—”

  “Okay. Now, Carla, where’s that lipstick of yours?”

  Timing would be everything. They could, as Rudy suggested, have decided to shoot it out . . . four automatic rifles against seven. True, they would have had the element of surprise, but it likely wouldn’t have been enough in itself to even up the odds. They’d be shooting at night into at best dim light. If even one guard survived, he could probably shoot into and destroy the planes. That they were still undamaged meant only that Fossengen had planned to use them himself. A guard trying to survive would hardly worry about Fossengen’s plans. And as Carla had started to stay when he’d cut her off, there was the chance there were more guards than the seven they’d seen. Some might be asleep nearby out of sight. They needed to flush out every last one of them.