Escape from Nicaragua

by Stephen Mertz

  "Yes."

  "As the crow flies. But you will undoubtedly travel twice or three times that far because of the terrain." Hog asked, "Why can't we go by chopper?"

  Vega smiled politely. "Because our only aircraft is Honduran, and we cannot fly over Nicaragua."

  "No private choppers?"

  "None at all, to my knowledge, señores. I am afraid you must march."

  Or steal a car, Mark thought. If there were roads. He frowned at the map. Nicaragua was a damned mountainous country, especially in the central part. Managua was on a lake, the smaller of two lakes. Too bad there wasn't a river going their way.

  "I will take you in the morning to the border where you will meet Manuel. I will send a message to him tonight."

  "Does he speak English?"

  "Oh, yes. A great many people speak it or enough to understand. Manuel is not a young man, but he has lost all his family to the Sandinistas and has much reason to hate them. He knows every secret trail in this part of the land."

  "Good," Stone said. "May we have the map?"

  "It is yours, señores."

  The only hotel in the village, as De la Torre had told them, was not much. It was called La Joya, the jewel, but was not. It did have a brave front—someone had painted it recently—but the foyer was dusty and showed its age, and it had only five rooms on two floors. One room was occupied. It did not seem a going concern.

  It was run by a worried-looking man, his wife, and his teenage daughter, who did all the chores. The man, thin and stooped, was named Rutilio. He also had several acres outside of the village that he farmed because the hotel, which he had inherited, did not support them.

  They signed for two rooms, using names made up on the spur of the moment, and flipped coins to see who would sleep where. Rutilio was delighted to have them, rubbing his hands together, running to see that they had threadbare towels.

  The restaurant, a square tiled room, was run by a large black woman who spoke no English at all but who nodded and smiled at every word as if she did. The menu contained only one item, tortillas and frijoles, with raw sliced tomatoes, but they did not complain. They were the only customers, though Rutilio had told them the restaurant was often crowded at midday. And being norteamericanos, they were eating much too early for the native population. They sat around the table in the large empty room with echoes bouncing after every word, and after they had eaten, Captain Vega showed up.

  He had brought a bottle and poured drinks all around. It was impossible, he told them, to say who their attackers had been. There was nothing, not a scrap on the bodies, to identify them. All their arms were Russian made, not new and doubtless stolen, so Vega supposed they were part of some irregular band, maybe even guerrillas or bandits. He could not believe the men had been paid to intercept them. He spread his hands eloquently. "How would they know?"

  Stone asked the pointed question. "Did you know we were coming here?"

  Vega shook his handsome head. "I did not, señores, not until De la Torre told me. He had received a radio message, he said. It was in code and did not mention names. Three men would come this day. That was all. . . . Of course, he was to aid them in whatever way he could."

  "Then De la Torre was more than just a civilian agent in a small village?"

  "I believe so, señor. I must say that I am very annoyed this attack has come in my sector. I am sure they came across the border . . ."

  "You've had other raids?"

  "Not for many months. It is the first in a long time. I have only sixty men here, and we must watch too many miles of border. My superiors call this a quiet sector. It may be that you were simply unlucky."

  "Has there been much trouble along the border?"

  "Sí, it comes and goes. It is very possible that you were attacked because you were in an automobile."

  Stone nodded, reflecting that De la Torre had told them they were getting the red carpet treatment. In a poor country, people who owned automobiles could be considered rich . . . fair game for banditry.

  There had been such irregular bands in Indochina, men who would kill for a pair of shoes or less. Was this something the same?

  The night was uneventful. They locked the doors to the rooms and did not bother with keeping watch. They were all light sleepers, with weapons at hand.

  Chapter Three

  Their transportation was a small and well-used Toyota truck, painted a dull green. They saw no one on the street as they drove out of the village, heading south with Vega at the wheel, the following morning. They followed a very poor road, barely a path that wound in and out between the hills, bouncing them generously. They met no one.

  When the road petered out, Vega parked the car. "We will have to walk from here on."

  Stone asked, "How far is the border?"

  "A few miles." Vega shrugged. "Perhaps three."

  "How will we know when we reach it? Is it marked?"

  "Sí, there are markers at intervals. This is not a well-traveled road, as you will see presently. There is no fence at the border. There is no village close by in Nicaragua."

  "Do the Nicaraguans patrol it?"

  "Sí, but often by plane or helicopter."

  Hog said, "What the hell did the world do before there was helicopters?"

  "You could say that about Kleenex," Loughlin remarked.

  "It don't shoot at you."

  Stone said, "Let's move it."

  As Vega had hinted, the land quickly became gullied and harsh. Some of the gullies ran toward the south, steep-sided and deep, and there was no way to get around them. The guide, Manuel, would be waiting on the Nicaraguan side.

  They slipped and slid into the largest ravine and followed the agile Vega in single file, pushing through brush and ferns, climbing over boulders. It looked as if no one had ever, in the history of the earth, been this way before. He hoped Vega would not get lost.

  In fifteen minutes Vega halted, hissing at them. They stood motionless as a lightplane droned past a thousand feet up. It disappeared into the haze far to their right, and Vega motioned them on.

  It took an hour to traverse several miles. Then the rutted land gradually became forested. The gullies petered out into a rising plain, and as they entered the protecting trees they lost sight of the distant blue mountains.

  After another half mile Vega halted and blew a whistle. Almost at once there was an answer from somewhere off to the left. Then, in a few moments, a short, very dark, coarsely dressed man walked toward them, holding his hand up in the universal peace sign. He was followed by two much younger men, each of whom held an AK-47 vaguely pointed in their direction. When they recognized Captain Vega, they slung the weapons over their backs.

  "This is Manuel," Vega said in a pleased tone, embracing the older man. He introduced the three of them as Manuel nodded, looking at them curiously. The young men were José and Alberto. They merely nodded when their names were mentioned. They did not look as if they had ever smiled.

  Manuel asked, "You go Managua?"

  "Yes," Stone said. "Sí."

  "Den we go now," Manuel said. He looked at the two young men. "Vamos." They turned immediately.

  Stone shook hands with Captain Vega, thanking him. Hog and Loughlin did the same, and Vega gave them a smart salute. "May luck go with you, señores."

  Manuel was already far ahead, not bothering to look around.

  "He don't fool around," Hog said. "These jaspers ain't got no tea ceremony. Jus' get your ass in gear."

  They hurried to catch up, in single file again, and for several hours they marched steadily, the pace never slackening over easy ground. Manuel and his two led them a winding course, generally south, that ate up the miles. He seldom glanced about to see if they were coming.

  When they came to a stream, Manuel halted for a few moments, then went on, and in the middle of the morning he halted in a grove of trees, saying they would rest for half an hour. He did not look as if he needed it. He sat under a tree, took out a pipe, filled
it, and began to smoke.

  "He ain't much to look at," Hog confided softly to Stone, "but he's steel wire inside. I bet you that sombitch can walk us all into dust."

  Stone nodded. "No bet." He had already noted that Manuel and his two young companions were keeping a sharper lookout than previously.

  At his question Manuel said, "Sandinistas close by." He pointed with the pipe stem. "Dey have camp two, t'ree mile that way." He got up and stretched.

  Stone asked, "What kind of a camp?"

  "Dey patrol dis . . . dis . . ."

  "District?"

  "Sí, district. Got airplane, many truck . . ."

  "Let's go kick 'em in the ass," Hog said.

  To Stone's surprise Manuel broke out into cackling laughter. He poked Hog's big arm. "You good man! Damn good man!"

  Hog grinned. "Told you so."

  "Hell's fire," Loughlin said, to whoever would listen, "that goddamn Texan takes up with everybody—old ladies, cats—never fails."

  "Cats don't stand around shootin' off their mouths," Hog said complacently.

  When Manuel led out again, he seemed much more wary; he walked slower and stopped often to listen. There was almost no wind to rustle the pines, and the air was clear and sharp. At one point he sent José to the left and Alberto ahead, and they waited till both returned, nodding to the old man.

  They came to a wide area that had been burned over, and Manuel carefully skirted it, staying within the shelter of the trees. It would have saved them several miles of walking, but Manuel jabbed his finger upward with a glance at Stone. He feared aircraft.

  In an hour, as if the old man had conjured it up, they heard the familiar beating sound of an approaching helicopter. Manuel shouted and hugged a tree, standing motionless. Stone and the others followed suit, and the chopper roared by, close overhead. Were the Sandinistas looking for something? No, the iron bird did not stop or circle; it kept on going out of sight and hearing.

  "Much bird," Manuel said, circling his finger. "Many goddamn gun."

  "Just a patrol," Loughlin said, "using up the bloody petrol."

  They came to a road soon after, a two-track path that seemed well used. Stone touched Manuel's arm. "What are our chances of stealing a car?"

  Manuel studied him for a moment. "Mucho peligro. Dangerous. Many soldados." He shook his head. "No will stop."

  Mark frowned at the road. They could put up a barrier and damn well stop a car. Of course, if the soldiers saw a barrier, it would alert them, and if they had a radio, they'd call for backup . . . and that might mean choppers. Gunships.

  But what if they put up a barrier on a hairpin curve—if there were such a thing on the road. Then the driver would never see it till he was on top of it. Then there'd be a chance to knock them off. He drew such a curve in the dirt for Manuel, but the old man shook his head again. There was none close by.

  But there was a village not far ahead. Manuel held up his hand with fingers widespread. "Cinco kilómetros."

  "Five clicks," Loughlin said.

  The old man sent one of the young men ahead as a scout. They stayed off the road, in the tree shelter, moving slowly, and Manuel constantly scanned the sky.

  "He don't trust them choppers worth a goddamn," Hog said.

  The old man looked back at them. "No talk." He put his hand behind his ear in an obvious gesture.

  "Gotcha," whispered Hog.

  They walked slowly for another mile, then Manuel halted suddenly, both arms out to the side. Mark cocked his ear. Was that a shot from up ahead?

  In the next moment he heard a burst of automatic fire. Loughlin said, "Jesus!"

  Manuel moved away from the road, motioning them to follow. He pulled the Kalashnikov off his shoulder and chambered a round. The other young man unslung his weapon and started forward but halted at a sharp word from Manuel. They exchanged rapid Spanish, then the younger, José, turned and ran to the left.

  Several bursts of firing came from ahead, coming closer, and suddenly Alberto appeared, running hard. He shouted something to Manuel as he approached, and the older man instantly motioned and trotted to the left, calling to them, "Sandinistas!"

  There was a wide downslope heavily forested; it was impossible to see more than a dozen yards in any direction. A few stray shots sang overhead but came nowhere near them. Stone jogged easily. The ground began to turn upward very gradually, and he could hear sounds of the pursuit. How many? It sounded like a platoon.

  In another moment they came to a field, brown grass and weeds, and the ground sloped up steeply for a dozen feet. At the top, looking to Stone like nothing more than a row of jagged teeth, were rocks. An outcropping of rocks had been thrust upward ages ago in some forgotten earthquake. Manuel scrambled over it and turned, laying his rifle in a crevice pointing back.

  It was a natural breastwork. "This good place," Manuel called.

  Stone agreed. "Scatter out. If they come, we'll make them think we're a regiment." He turned to the old man. "How many Sandinistas?"

  Manuel spoke quickly to Alberto and turned back. "He say maybe twenty."

  Stone peered over the outcropping. The government troops had been fired on by Alberto and would be wild to chase him down, probably to execute him on the spot. They wouldn't know that Alberto had friends with him. It would be a deadly surprise. He noted that Manuel sent José to the left and Alberto to the right. They would signal if the enemy tried to flank them.

  The outcropping was a strong position. They should be able to stop a charge of only twenty men—if it came. He moved along behind the jumbled rocks. But they should not tarry here too long. If the enemy ran into heavy return fire, they'd call for help. They'd know they were up against force and would want choppers to even things out. Not good.

  He paused and looked through a crevice toward the oncoming Sandinistas, seeing no one. Where the hell were they? Did they know how many rifles were behind the outcropping?

  Minutes passed and the silence grew. Stone looked at the old man, who was complacently chewing his pipe stem. He saw Stone's look and shrugged lightly. "Dey come."

  Stone looked behind them; more forest and hills. Was this what Manuel intended, fire and fall back, fire and fall back? It could take days. Looking at the old man, he began to realize that Manuel wanted a crack at his enemies—now that he had support. Manuel had no urgency about him. To the old man, this was a private war.

  Stone swore under his breath. They could not allow themselves to get embroiled in a prolonged hit-and-run battle. He halted by the burly Texan.

  Hog said, "I can hear 'em floundenn' around out there. What if I discourage them a little bit?"

  "Don't waste ammo." Stone peered between the rocks. "You see a target?"

  "I see a feller now, a-stickin' his nosy head up." Hog squinted over the sights of the AK and squeezed off two shots, then chortled. "Right between the goddamn eyes."

  They both ducked as a burst of automatic fire smashed into the outcropping, spraying them with bits of rock and dust. "Touchy bastards," Hog commented.

  "We oughta keep 'em out of grenade range!" Loughlin called.

  Stone agreed. "Don't let 'em get into the field. They can't throw from the trees. Try some ranging shots. Let 'em know there's more than one of us."

  Loughlin fired a burst. Manuel opened up a dozen yards away.

  Sudden automatic fire pounded the outcropping, ricocheting off the rocks and screaming into the air. For several moments it was a furious fire, seeking every crevice, raising dust. But doing no harm at all.

  Loughlin answered with a burst, then ducked down, grinning. A hailstorm of high-velocity lead smashed and tore at the rocks.

  Stone found a crevice and sprayed the undergrowth along the line of trees. All along the line they were firing and ducking, moving, and firing again.

  The enemy was keeping up a steady fire, though much of it seemed unaimed. They must've known they couldn't punch through solid rock with bullets. . . .

  Stone looked toward
Manuel. Were the Sandinistas keeping up the fire while half of them moved around to the flank? In a moment he saw Alberto come in and speak to the old man.

  At once Manuel beckoned to him, and Stone nodded. The enemy was flanking them. Manuel called, "We go dis way." He pointed to the left.

  Loughlin led, behind Manuel, and they moved quickly with Alberto far out ahead of Manuel and José behind Stone. In moments the outcropping was far in the rear, still pounded by the enemy's fire.

  Alberto went, straight as an arrow, through the trees, setting a hard pace.

  In a few minutes the firing behind them stopped. Maybe the flanking party had discovered the defenders had gone. Probably. Now they would pursue.

  Stone swore again; they were heading east rather than south. Each step took them farther from Managua.

  There was a quick burst of fire from somewhere ahead and bullets rapped into trees nearby. He saw Manuel fall to the earth, motioning them down. The goddamn Sandinistas must have gotten ahead of them some way—or it was another force altogether. Shit!

  Manuel was crawling to the left again. Stone heard Hog say, "Somebody done run into somebody else."

  Stone crawled left and was surprised to hear an engine start up. They must be near a road. Another burst of fire came from somewhere ahead of him. The engine roared and two grenades exploded, one after the other in quick succession.

  Loughlin said, "What the fuck is going on?"

  A machine gun began firing from the direction of the road, bullets cutting through the trees waist high. When it stopped firing, Manuel got up and ran left, motioning them.

  The machine gun opened up again, firing behind them, and they heard the engine. The gun was probably on a car, maybe even an armored car. Maybe the people in the car had glimpsed Alberto and fired at him. . . .

  The ground became rutted, and they ran into more outcroppings. This must be a volcanic area, Stone thought. Nicaragua was lousy with volcanoes.

  Manuel was just ahead of him, glancing back and motioning left. The firing stopped and the silence was eerie.