by John Benteen
Then von Cort, tall, sun bronzed, in his early forties, turned back to the map. “Six days,” he said. “The thirtieth. You are absolutely sure the operation will take place on time? You understand that my government’s long-range plans depend on it.”
“It’ll come off on the dot.”
“I can assure you,” the Colombian officer said, “that we’ll have our forces in position to help you withdraw into Colombia.”
The Japanese, shorter than the other two, spoke excellent English, without a trace of accent. “I wish it could be brought off even earlier.”
“No,” Buckner said. “We have to wait until the gold is where we can get at it. That’s why my men are willing to risk this. The pay they’re getting’s high, sure, but the prospect of nearly a million in gold to split up among ’em’s really what makes them tick.”
The Japanese sighed. ‘‘Very well. You are sure the Canal’s completion will be delayed for at least three months?”
“According to my engineer, closer to six.”
“Excellent!” Kobori rubbed his hands together. “We shall count on four, then, anyhow. The extra month will mean that we can assemble a much stronger force.”
Fargo looked from one to the other of them. Von Cort caught the question on his face. “General Fargo is not familiar with our plans?”
“Not until now,” said Buckner. “But he’s thoroughly reliable. I trust him completely.”
“We shall have to accept your recommendation,” von Cort said, but his eyes were suspicious. They ran over Fargo: the bandoliers, the shotgun, the holstered Colt. “Certainly he looks like a first-class fighting man. Well ... If he’s to be your number two, he should be briefed. May I undertake to do it?”
“Go ahead,” Buckner said.
Von Cort took out a pack of Camels, lit one, blew smoke. “As you know, General Fargo, His Majesty the Kaiser’s government, greater Germany, is continually threatened by the French, who are eager to revenge their defeat in the Franco-Prussian War. Meanwhile, we are also being threatened by the British, who will not allow us to become a first-class naval and trading power without a war to prevent it. Since war is inevitable, we have decided to strike first. Plans are being drawn even now for a surprise attack on France; England will undoubtedly come to French aid and we’ll fight her, too. Under the circumstances, when we strike, it is imperative that the Canal be closed, that the British Pacific Fleet be blocked off from quick entry into the Atlantic. Meanwhile, the Imperial Japanese Government has plans of its own.” He looked at Kobori.
“Yes,” Kobori said. “American rule of Hawaii and now the Philippines threatens the Emperor of Nippon’s desire to rule the Pacific. America should not be a Pacific power; there should be only one Pacific power—Nippon. We cannot tolerate the American bases there, especially in the Philippines, and at the appropriate time, when war in Europe creates a diversion, we, too, must strike. And it’s as important to us to block the American fleet from the Pacific as it is to Kaiser Wilhelm to keep the British fleet out of the Atlantic. You understand, General Fargo?”
“Yes,” Fargo said, feeling oddly cold despite the heat.
Valdez added: “The Colombian Government has its own stake in this. Your President Roosevelt robbed us of Panama in order to dig his Canal. When the Japanese strike, we’ll move back in. I think then there’ll be no American Marines available to block us. They’ll be too busy elsewhere. Also ... we may expect aid from the Japanese government, no es verdad, Commander Kobori?”
“You have my assurance of it,” the Japanese said.
Von Cort put in: “You see, then, General Fargo, the importance of this operation. All plans are being drawn based on the fact that our various governments can strike before the Canal is open. But such plans take time to put into operation. We need all the time we can get. Thus, completion of the Canal must be set back as far as possible.”
“I understand,” Fargo said. A great impatience was beating in him. He had to get out of here, and quick. Back to the Zone; there was no time to waste. His mind raced ...
Von Cort had begun on something else, his accented voice droning tediously in the heat when Fargo belched loudly. Everybody turned to look at him.
“Sorry,” Fargo said. “My gut’s been upset ever since breakfast.”
“Poor digestion, yes; a hazard of the tropics.” Von Cort looked sympathetic. Fargo sat on the edge of Buckner’s desk, rubbed his belly, belched once or twice more, as they went on, fleshing out the details of the scheme. It soon became apparent that he had the essence of it. The rest of it was just Buckner reporting to them, assuring them that all would go as planned. Then Buckner broke off, looked at his watch.
“Gentlemen, it’s time for lunch.”
“Good,” von Cort said. “I have very much hunger.” He looked at Fargo. “How is your stomach?”
Fargo shook his head. “I’d just as soon not have to look at food, now.”
“I think you’d better come with us,” Buckner said.
“General, I—”
“Come along,” Buckner said coldly.
Von Cort looked a little queasy himself. “If I may suggest, perhaps General Fargo would be better off lying down through lunch. I know how he feels, I’ve had the same thing myself. I don’t think, frankly, it would help my own digestion to watch someone become sick at table.”
Buckner looked disgusted, but he nodded. “Okay. Go to your quarters, Fargo, lie down. But meet us here again in an hour.”
Fargo hoped he looked pale beneath his tan. “Yeah. I’ll do that.” He stood up, saluted, shifted the shotgun a little on his shoulder and went out.
Well, he had got this far, he thought, untethering the horse. But he still had a long way to go. And there was no time to prepare for the journey. It was now or never. He stood by his stirrup, apparently tinkering with the cinch, while the four men filed out of headquarters and into the mess shack. No food, no mosquito net, no anything except the canteen of water on his saddle, his guns and ammunition. And four, five, maybe more hard days’ journey back to the Zone. The quicker started, he told himself, the quicker ended; then he swung up, just as the mess hall door closed behind the officers.
He reined the horse around, started toward his own quarters, then changed direction. At a trot, he put it across the parade ground, past the barracks, heading for the jungle, the main trail that led out toward the Zone. By leaving now, he’d have the advantage of the mess and siesta break; that might count for something. It would take Buckner time to mount a pursuit.
The line of jungle drew nearer; the guard at the trail’s mouth straightened up as Fargo approached. Fargo was keenly aware of the machine guns in the watchtower, but it was neither they nor this guard that worried him. It would be the other patrols, out there along the trail. Past a certain point, the one where he’d been picked up on his way in, no one was allowed without a specially signed pass from Buckner. Fargo had no such pass. But he was, after all, second in command and should be able to bluff his way through.
He touched the shotgun. If he couldn’t...
The guard at the mouth of the trail saluted. “I’m going out to inspect the pickets farther out,” Fargo said, returning the salute.
“Yes, sir.” Fargo rode past and the man eased off.
Immediately the jungle closed in on him on either side. Fifty yards and it was as if the clearing had never existed. The trail was a thin notch through a ferocious mass of greenery. And the insects were there at once; and this time Fargo had no mosquito net with which to fend them off. There was citronella in his pocket, and he rubbed his face with it, but to these voracious creatures, it was only the sauce on the meat.
Well, he had endured worse things than insects in his time. He kept the horse moving smartly. Soon he would come to the first guard post. That one would not be so bad; it would be the next that might give him trouble.
A quarter of a mile and he was challenged from the jungle. Four men, one with a Chauchat gun, crowded
the trail in front of him. Recognizing him, they were respectful, but: “You got a pass, General?”
“No,” Fargo said. “No, I’m only riding out as far as the next guard post.” Their noncom nodded, but he looked dubious. “Nobody ain’t supposed to come even this far without a pass.”
“Forget it,” Fargo said. “You’ll have no trouble.”
“I don’t want to be staked out on that damned anthill. But... Okay, General, go ahead.”
Fargo lifted rein, moved on. He adjusted the shotgun again; he wanted its hang just right. The next post was not much farther; and he knew now that he’d not talk his way past.
It was also the most heavily manned, though, and if he charged in, the two French machine guns, one on either side of the trail, would chop him down.
So he went forward slowly, cautiously, every muscle alert; and then, at last, the challenge came. “Who goes there?”
“Friend. General Fargo.”
The voice from the jungle, its owner totally hidden by the greenery, said: “Advance and be recognized.”
“I’m coming,” Fargo said, and the horse walked up the trail. Then Jerry and his black-bearded companion materialized out of the jungle, holding Krags trained on Fargo. There were, Fargo knew, at least eight more men in the brush, four on either side of the trail—plus those damned machine guns. He could not see them, but they could see him.
Then he was recognized and Jerry said, “What’s up, General?” He and Blackbeard lowered their rifles. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the trail ahead of Fargo.
Subtly, Fargo turned the horse a little. When he went into action, he did not want its head in the way. “I came out to inspect the guard.”
“Sure,” Jerry said. “We’re ready.”
“Fine,” Fargo said, and then, hooking his thumb in the shotgun sling, he jerked it. The muzzles came up under his armpit again and his hand lashed across his body, found the triggers, tripped them. In that position, the gun was upside-down; it made no difference. Eighteen buckshot sprayed down the trail, blasted into the two men. At that exact instant, Fargo rammed the horse with cavalry spurs, bent low.
He’d not even hesitated to see the effect of his shot; he knew. The horse leaped over two bodies still twitching. From behind Fargo there were startled yells. Then suddenly this stretch of trail, deadly straight, was alive with snarling lead as the machine guns chattered.
Only surprise kept them from chopping him to pieces. It had all happened in a matter of seconds. Its very suddenness had shaken them, thrown off their aim. Nevertheless, one bullet raked Fargo’s shoulder, another the horse’s haunch. A third slammed into his canteen, and he felt the spurt of tepid water on his thigh; for a moment he thought it was blood. He did not shoot back, only dropped over his mount’s neck Indian-style and rode hell for leather.
Behind him, someone yelled: “Mount up, dammit! Mount up!” Ahead, now, he saw the blind bend in the trail, the one where he’d been confronted riding in. He lashed his horse, the animal skittered around the corner; then it reared and snorted as Fargo jerked it up, and it turned around on its hind feet as he pulled it savagely to the left. The shotgun was un-slung; his deft hand punched shells from the bandolier, crammed them in the barrels. Then he rode out from behind the corner of jungle.
Four of them were in the trail, mounted, pounding after him. He saw the looks of surprise on their faces as he reappeared, saw them trying to rein in. One lifted a pistol. Fargo aimed the shotgun, pulled both triggers.
Coming hard as they were, they plowed into the lead almost as much as the lead plowed into them. Horses screamed, reared, plunged; a man gave a weird yell, pitched from the saddle. The empty rounds shot past Fargo’s wrist as the ejectors pitched them out; he stuck two more in, slammed shut the receiver, and fired again.
That completed the carnage. What was left in the trail now was a bloody, groaning wreck of flesh. Fargo jerked the horse around, spurred, galloped around the bend, reloading the shotgun as he went. The other guards would be after him in minutes; in a half hour, the jungle would be swarming with soldiers from the camp.
He kept the horse at a dead run, its hoof beats muffled by the deep forest mould. He had to get a good start; up ahead, the vines and creepers would have grown back across the trail. When he hit that stretch, he’d have to hack his way through, while the pursuers pounded up behind him. His lips peeled back in that wolfish grin. He was under no illusions, his ordeal had just begun. If he got back to the Zone alive, it would be a miracle. But at least he’d made a start.
It had been not quite two weeks since his passage along this trail. In that time, the jungle, seething with life, had indeed repaired the damage he’d done. Fargo reined in sharply, five miles farther on, just before the running horse charged head-on into a dangling vine that would have thrown it, probably broken its neck.
He had no machete. It was another piece of vital equipment he’d been forced to leave behind. He whipped out the Batangas knife, flipped it open. It was light for this work, but maybe its sharpness would make up for that. Anyhow, it would have to do.
Sweat poured off him as he hacked his way along. Already, his skin puffed and burned from a thousand insect bites and stings. He was as desperate as he’d ever been, cursing the vines, the undergrowth. They slowed him, while Buckner’s men would be coming at full tilt—and he was cutting a trail for them.
Wherever he could, he dismounted, dodged under or led the horse around the obstacles. But their machetes would make short work of them. From time to time, he stopped, held his breath, listened: but it would be hard to hear hoof beats in that soft, cushiony mould.
Thus, cutting where he had to, leaving as much behind him to slow pursuit as he could, he forged on. The heat boiled the water out of him, and he became acutely aware of the empty canteen. He made a mile, two, three, his progress agonizingly slow. Then, suddenly, the horse snorted and walled its eyes in sudden fear.
Mounted in that moment, Fargo pulled it up. He cocked his head, listened, and, at first, heard nothing. But then, he became gradually aware of the sound.
It was not unlike gentle rain falling, or stiff cloth rustling. It was a brush, a scrape, and yet it had a pattering quality, too. Hardly more than a whisper, it came from somewhere up ahead, not far, and whatever made it had sent the horse into utter terror. As Fargo listened, it went on and on, like the flow of a stream.
The horse sidled and went backward; Fargo, cursing, rammed it with the spurs and forced it on. Finally, though, it planted its feet solidly and would go no farther.
Fargo sat the saddle frowning, trying to pierce the afternoon gloom of the liana-draped jungle ahead. Then, after much staring, he saw it; and he felt a terror as cold, as primeval, as that of the horse.
It was a reddish-dark brown river that flowed out of the jungle on one side of the trail twenty yards ahead and into the jungle on the other. A solid stream, maybe thirty feet wide, coursing from one wall of greenery to the other, and the millions of feet that made it up generating that whispered sound as of muted water running.
“Christ,” Fargo whispered.
What he was looking at was a migration of army ants—driver ants, they were sometimes called. A colony of them had no permanent home, millions of insects, equipped with terrible stings and equally terrible jaws, they wandered the jungle ceaselessly, devouring anything that came into their path—anything living, anything made of flesh. They could engulf a horse, a cow, a man, and strip it clean in minutes; and they were the most feared of all the tropical creatures; nothing could stand against them. They would go blindly past, so long as he did not attract their attention, but he could not cross through them. The moment he tried, hundreds, thousands of them would swarm up the horse’s legs, be on him, and the whole river of them would be diverted to this new source of food; and in an hour he and horse alike would be stripped down to bare bones. It might as well be a stream of the hottest flame that rippled across the trail; and this migration could go on for hours
.
And meanwhile, Buckner must have already mounted pursuit against him.
No wonder the jungle-trained horse balked, would not move. It had encountered these ants before.
Fargo kept the reins tight in his left hand and shook out a cigarette with his right and tried to think what to do, as he drew smoke into his lungs. Vivid in his memory was the raw, agonized thing that had been Youngblood on the anthill outside of camp.
Then he heard another sound. It was far behind him, but in the hush that always fell over the jungle when the army ants passed through, it came to him clearly enough: riders coming, and shouted commands. Buckner was after him now.
Fargo made his decision. It was not one he liked. He pushed the horse forward a pace or two more; it would absolutely go no farther. Then, suddenly, brutally, he rammed it deep in the rump with the Batangas knife. It reared, fought; the voices were coming closer now. Fargo stabbed the horse again and again, and suddenly, unable to endure the pain, it bolted forward.
It plunged then into the river of ants. Immediately its hoofs, pasterns, hocks changed color, became clumps of stinging, agonizing, voracious insects ripping away flesh. The horse screamed terribly and charged on, with the ants climbing with incredible swiftness. Fargo raised his feet high. The river of ants changed direction, its stream bending to follow, mercilessly, the pain-maddened animal. Then the horse had outrun them—for the moment—was in the clear on the trail beyond. But all four legs were huge shapeless masses of swarming, devouring insects, and in an instant more, drawing his Winchester from the saddle scabbard, Fargo left the saddle in a leaping dive that carried him clear of the ants swarming up the horse. He hit the ground like a cat, running, levered a shell into the Winchester, and in one smooth, swift motion spun and fired. The horse, already dropping to its knees, quit screaming. Then, desperately, while the ants engulfed its carcass, Fargo ran.
Chapter Eight
Like a jaguar, Fargo loped through the jungle, dodging the vines and lianas that barred the trail. Burdened as he was with Winchester, shotgun, and bandoliers, the incredible, breezeless heat sweated all moisture out of his body; he dared not replace it by drinking from the occasional stagnant, scum-covered stream or depression near the path; but there were great vines that swung down in heavy loops which, slashed in two with the Batangas knife, almost poured pure, clear water from their cut ends. Fargo drank from these.
