by Lou Cameron
Von Linderhoff shrugged and said, “Naturally. But I assure you Siemens-Krupp is only digging mica at that quarry.”
“Don’t assure me. I believe you. I’ve been reading in my spare time. Emeralds occur in mica schist. So let’s think about assuring the Colombian government they don’t have a possible Muzo mine over in your diggings.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We are miles from Muzo. There are not even garnets in that German-owned quarry.”
“I’ll bet there are now! How many local workmen do you suppose British Intelligence has on its payroll.”
“Who knows? A few are doubtless working for every German firm. They are quite paranoid about us.”
“Okay, you’d better get some good men over there right now and search high and low for sparkle-sparkle. The Brits have salted you. I’m dead certain you’ll find enough gem-quality emeralds stuck here and there in a crack to make the search worth your while.”
“Was zum Teufel! How do you know this? How many emeralds are we talking about?”
Captain Gringo thought, held up his hands and said, “Oh, let’s say enough to fit in a rubber sock, say seven inches long by two in diameter. I really can’t picture it any bigger.”
“Mein Gott, that would be a month’s production at El Muzo! Gems are far apart, even in a highly productive mine.”
“Yeah, I read that, too. You haul out a couple of tons of mica schist for every garnet or emerald, but let one of those goodies show up on any local official’s desk and they’ll sure start moving rock. Not a crumb of it will go to Germany, either.”
Von Linderhoff picked up his desk phone and began to bark in German. The American didn’t know enough German to follow more than the general drift, but it sounded exciting as hell.
Von Linderhoff cradled the phone and said soberly, “If we find what you say is true, we are in your debt. If you have lied, you shall never leave these grounds alive.”
“Yeah, I figured as much. You know what’s wrong with you guys? You take yourselves too seriously. If only you could laugh a little, like the Brits, you wouldn’t make everyone so nervous.”
“I assure you that you have nothing to fear unless you have lied to me. I have enough to worry about, without troublemakers.”
“Yeah, everybody’s betting on a war between you and the Brits within twenty years. And those scare tactics of yours are going to mess you up. Hell, my country’s already had two wars with England, and I’ll still bet you we’ll wind up on the British side.”
“That’s absurd. Thanks to your casual immigration policy, every fourth American now has at least a German grandparent. There are more Americans of German descent than there are Americans of English descent. And your Irish Americans would never fight beside the British!”
“Not unless you make them. That’s why you should loosen up and stop yelling at everyone with a ramrod up your ass. I guess kaisers and kings are a lot alike. When King George gave us a hard time, most Americans were Englishmen. They got tired of being bullied and talked down to, anyway. If I were your Kaiser I’d kiss more babies and spend less time busting bottles on battleships. Old Victoria’s grabbed half the world since she’s been on the throne, but nobody cares, because she acts like a dotty old lady. You guys could learn a lot from the Brits.”
The phone rang. Von Linderhoff picked it up. His face went ashen, but his expression didn’t change as he listened. He put the phone back in its cradle, took a deep drag of smoke, let it out, and said, “You were not lying. We were, as you say, salted. They have sent the peon workmen out of the quarry and are making an inch-by-inch search. Since there is a limited number, we shall no doubt be able to save the situation.”
“Swell, when do I get my goodies?”
The Prussian drummed thoughtfully on his desk blotter with his fingers. Then he smiled crookedly, and said, “For a man who just lectured me on German manners, you seem very sure of my honor as an officer, nicht wahr?”
“Yeah, I think the ‘Von’ did it. I’m an ex-officer, too. I know you’d cut my heart out for your Kaiser. I’d be sort of disappointed if a field grade Prussian aristocrat acted like a two-bit bandito”
Von Linderhoff smiled quite boyishly, and said, “You should have been born a German, Captain Gringo.”
“No thanks. I have enough trouble. Do we have a deal?”
“Yes. On condition that you tell me how the British smuggled all those emeralds through customs.”
Captain Gringo sighed and said, “Okay, but I hope you don’t shock easy.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Captain Gringo faced his piratical crew in La Paloma’s cellar, with one foot up on a box of dynamite, and said, “We’re doing it tonight. First off, no girls allowed. Wait, I know you mujeres are brave. Your men are brave, too. No man with hair on his chest would leave a wounded woman behind. But we’re getting in and out muy pronto. Skirts could mess us up. It’s not as if we’re going far. So you girls will stay here and keep your encheladas warm until we get back, agreed?”
There was a lot of muttering, but nobody argued. In truth, nobody with any brains was all that anxious to go, and the girls were as smart as their men.
He held up a hand for silence and said, “That’s settled, then. This part is really important. We’re going to make a lot of noise. Soldados will be coming like angry hornets from every direction. I’m pretty sure some, uh, friends of mine have some, well, more experienced guerrillas ready to move as soon as the army is distracted by our play. Okay, that means they’ll knock out the power houses, the telephone exchange, probably every light they can draw a bead on. People will run out in the streets and yell a lot. Stores will be looted. Barricades will go up and the army will knock them down with field howitzers. In other words, it’s going to be very noisy around here for a few days.”
La Paloma grinned happily and said, “Si, this is what we have been planning for. We will tear Bogotá apart, no?”
He shook his head and said, “No. As your commander, I order you all to survive. Your country will need you, alive and dedicated, when it’s time to rebuild. I want you … No, I order you to lay low in your own barrio until the shooting fades away. We’re going to strike a real blow tonight. We’re going to start something terrible. Don’t argue with me, kids. I’ve been in a couple of these things. I agree it’s the only way you little guys have any chance to get a fair shake around here, but don’t get the idea that a civil war is fun. All wars are bloody messes. Civil wars are worse. It won’t be safe for a chicken to cross the road for at least a couple of weeks. So you’re to stay holed up and guard your women and children.”
A man shouted, “That seems like a funny way for to fight a war, Captain.”
Captain Gringo said, “It’s not funny. It’s smart. The objective in any war is to get your own way, true?”
There was a murmur of agreement, so he said, “Okay, what you want is to wind up alive under a decent government. You don’t need anything in a shop window bad enough to wind up hanging from a lamppost. After everyone goes crazy for a while, sensible men are going to start looking for other sensible men to help them put things back together. Keep this barrio peaceful and quiet. The new regime will notice. They’ll want to use a civilized part of town as a base from which to start. To do that, they’ll need, and ask, the help of the natural community leaders. Play your cards right and you could wind up part of the new power structure. Run through the streets shouting slogans and you’ll just draw fire. Anybody want to argue?”
There were no takers. He nodded and said, “All right. Leaders I appointed gather round. This is how we’re going to start your fucking little war.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As his forces lined up in the darkness outside, La Paloma clung to Captain Gringo and sobbed, “Oh, querido, if only I could come along. I would gladly die fighting at your side.”
He said, “I wouldn’t be glad about it. It’s been settled, kid. You’re the boss mujer. So keep the other women off t
he streets and quiet, no matter how much noise you hear, okay?”
“Si, I understand. When you return to me, we will hide together and make mad, mad love as the cannons roar, no?”
He bent, kissed her gently, and said, “Sure.” Then he turned and snapped, “Vamanos, muchachos.” And as they marched away, he didn’t look back. He knew he’d never see La Paloma again, no matter how things turned out. It helped to dull the natural fear he felt as he led his pathetic ragtag guerrilla band. Maybe that was why soldiers sang songs about the girl they’d left behind them as they marched into battle. It felt funny screaming with a hard on. Sex, food, shitty officers, all the things that soldiers talked about too much, kept men from asking the more important question on their minds: what does it feel like to die?
He wasn’t that much older than these kids he was leading. He just felt older. Older than Hannibal crossing the Alps. He wondered what kind of bullshit Hannibal had handed the kids in his army. War was easier on kids, in a way. They died more and screamed louder than old soldiers, but they didn’t know what they were getting into until they were there. He knew his plan was a good one and that he’d minimize casualties if they followed his instructions. But some poor asshole always fucked up and got his ticket punched, in even the best-run battle. He couldn’t help feeling like a butcher.
He wondered if Butcher Grant had felt like a butcher at Shiloh and decided he must have. That had probably been the reason Grant drank so much.
They came to the fork in the road he’d been expecting. Could they really have moved so far, so soon? He called a halt and ordered El Chisparo over. “Well, El Chisparo, this is where we part company. Are you sure your watch keeps good time?”
“Si, Captain Gringo. I understand the value of perfect timing.”
“Okay, take your detail out. If you can manage it at all, wait until you hear us attacking. If you can’t, try and do your end of the job as close to the prearranged time as possible. If things really go lousy, light your fuses and run like hell whenever you have to.”
“Only if we are detected as we move in, Captain Gringo. But what about you and these others?”
“Fuck me and these others. You’re not leading them, I am. I’m not going to worry about you, either. La Paloma says you’re good. Prove it. Move it on out, El Chisparo!”
He waited until the electrician and his detail got out of the way and told his remaining followers, “Okay, Montego, you’re out on point. You know the way. If you see them first, move back quietly. If you’re jumped, try to fire a shot on the way down.”
“Captain Gringo paints a grim picture, no?”
“Hey, you want to paint pretty pictures, go home and find a coloring book.”
Montego swallowed and moved up the trail. Captain Gringo knew how he felt. His own mouth was dry, too. He’d heard some guys liked this sort of thing. Some guys had to be crazy. But when a man has only one trade, he has to follow it.
It took them less than an hour to reach the canyon and roughly another twenty minutes to work their way to the cliff above the CCC compound. La Paloma had been wrong about their not posting a guard up there. But Montego was very good with a knife and the man walking the path along the top never knew what hit him. They dragged the body out of sight and gave his rifle to one of the younger boys who’d tagged along with a trapdoor Springfield left over from the ’70s. Montego of course got the pistol and snappy belt.
Captain Gringo positioned one of the three machine guns he’d wheedled out of Von Linderhoff to cover the south rim of the compound, aimed at the corner tower to the northwest. It was a Spandau. It couldn’t be helped. The two men he’d instructed to fire it would have been as green with any gun. He crouched and said, “Remember, no matter what you see down there, don’t try to swivel back and forth. I’ve locked the tripod and you’re zeroed to lay a line of fire at a forty-five-degree angle across the yard. You can move the muzzle up and down. Rake from the tower over there to the center of the open space, closer in. Don’t try to hose from side to side. Got it?”
“Si, señor, but what if we see somebody that is not in our line of fire?”
“I hope you do. We’ll have wasted a lot of effort bringing all these guns if the place is empty. You just concentrate on building a bullet fence for people to run into. Let the rest of us worry about anyone that’s not in your sights.”
Hoping he’d gotten through to them, he moved on, dropping off a rifleman every few yards with instructions to lay prone, their muzzles in line with the drop off, and not to fire before the signal, no matter what they saw down there.
In truth, there wasn’t much to see as he moved along the path toward the far end of the quarry. The Edison bulbs along the fence line were augmented by brighter sputtering arc lights on the tipple and over each tunnel entrance. The main work force had quit for the day, of course, and the better paid and more important blasters were down below, tamping charges. He knew they’d take most of the night. He and La Paloma had heard the final charges blow almost at sunrise. There was no way to spare the night crews. But things were tough all over. The muckers might have been indentured laborers. The technical crew were important to the power structure and probably with them politically. Some of them probably had wives and children. Some were probably nice guys. The same applied to the army guard down there. You couldn’t let things like that bother you in a war. All wars killed a lot of nice people. The kindest war was a short one. So the more people you killed in the beginning, the fewer would have to die in the end.
He dropped off his own German Maxim and led the men on to the end, where he positioned another Maxim, issuing opposite instructions to the crew he’d selected and trained in a couple of hours before sunset. The end Maxim was aimed to lay a crisscross with the Spandau. So it was zeroed on the southwest guard tower. He patted the appointed gunner and said, “Okay, when you get the signal, open up on the tower and rake down. Any questions?”
“No, Captain. We are as ready as we’ll ever be.”
That sounded reasonable. So Captain Gringo made his way back to his own machine gun, in the center position.
A nearby rifleman asked, “When do we get to shoot, señor?”
“When I tell you to. Montego’s supposed to signal when he cuts the telephone line. Meanwhile, what’s your rush? It’s early and nobody down there seems to be doing anything interesting.”
He took out his watch and held it sideways to catch the light from the pit below. They were right on schedule. The guard would be changing in a few minutes. He hunkered down behind the Maxim and trained the sights on the dark mass of the guardhouse. At the same time, he reached for the flare pistol tucked in his belt and made certain it was primed. He took the extra flares from his jacket pocket and laid them where he could get at them in a hurry. He’d given the other flare guns to, men to the right and left, but you never knew when a guy was going to fuck up and he was sure the first thing they’d do down there would be to douse the lights.
Off to the south, Montego fired his own flare gun. As it traced a line of red against the night sky, one of the guards near the gate pointed at it and shouted, “¡Mirar! Corporal of the guard, post number one!” and then Montego’s parachute flare burst like a nova in the sky above the canyon.
Captain Gringo fired his own flare and shouted, “Commence firing!” even before it blossomed.
All hell broke loose. As a guard on one of the towers ran out on the platform to swing a searchlight, a burst of machine-gun fire blew him to a bloody hash, sending him and a lot of glass off the far side to the ground.
The visible guards along the fence went down, surrounded by clouds of spouting dust as more than one rifleman picked the same obvious target.
Captain Gringo opened up on the guardhouse, pouring a stream of lead into the sheet metal structure as somewhere, someone who was thinking ahead threw a switch and all the compound lights winked out.
It didn’t help. The magnesium flares slowly descending in swinging arcs illumi
nated everything below in chalky light, save for where jet black shadows spread and contracted eerily, as if monsters in the earth were spewing bile and then sucking it back down their burrows. Men ran like ants down there: some in blind panic; others trying to find cover and fight back. Here and there a rifle flashed up at them like an orange firefly. One son of a bitch was good. A youth near Captain Gringo grunted and said, “My God, I just got shot,” in a conversational tone. Captain Gringo had spotted the flash, near the base of the tipple. He rose, yanking the Maxim from its mounting, and hosing from the hip. The effect must have been good. Nobody fired from that position again.
He yelled, “Hey, Guñez, what are you waiting for?” and another youth moved to the edge of the cliff holding a length of pipe like a javelin. It wasn’t a javelin, it was a water pipe packed with dynamite, and as Guñez threw it, it trailed sparks from its sputtering fuse. A rifleman’s shot from below folded Guñez around his own belly button as he stood illuminated near the edge. Guñez somersaulted into space and fell end over end down the rock face. But his aim had been true. The pipe bomb speared down through the powerhouse roof and exploded. It was a big explosion. The steam boiler went too, and the roof almost made it to the top of the cliff before it fluttered back down through the rising steam clouds. Nobody could see where Guñez had landed, but it hardly mattered now. If the bullet hadn’t bought him the farm, the fall had.
Captain Gringo shouted, “Cease fire!” not out of mercy, but simply because there wasn’t anything moving down there now, save for smoke and shadow. A guerrilla moved over to him and said, “Hernan is dead. Have we got them all down there?”
Captain Gringo said, “No. Most of them made it into the mine entrance. They can’t get us. We can’t get at them. Shove Hernan over the cliff.”
