Escape from Nicaragua

by Stephen Mertz

Then Stone heard a whistle and a chorus of yells, sounding like fifteen men, and they were running, firing as they came—heading for a spot about forty yards to his right. Stone rolled onto his stomach and leveled the AK rifle, cradling it.

  To his left Hog said, "They're doin' a mighty dumb thing."

  A soldier came into view, and Stone fired a long burst.

  His bullets turned the man and smashed him, knocking him into the weeds. A second man, beyond him, tumbled.

  Hog and Loughlin were firing long bursts, and the machine gun opened up suddenly, and bullets slammed into trees and cut just above them.

  The charge was cut to pieces. Someone was moaning in the brush. The whistle sounded again, this time obviously a recall.

  The firing stopped. Stone reloaded hastily, peering toward the enemy.

  Loughlin said, in his drawling voice, "Think they had enough, mates?"

  Manuel said urgently, "Dis way—dese prisa! Hurry!" He moved to the left.

  Hog said, with satisfaction, "Got me three or four of them fuckheads. Imagine them buggers comin' at us that way, like they's on parade!"

  "Shut up and follow Manuel," Stone said. "You can count your scalps later."

  Loughlin growled, "Like to get me a shot at that fucker with the MG."

  The old man led them directly away from the enemy. The Sandinistas must be raging, Stone thought. They had lost at least six men in the stupid charge. Hog was right, it had been a stupid move.

  They were leaving a plain trail, as he could see glancing back. But nothing could be done about that now. A single shot came rapping into a tree only a foot from his head, and Stone ducked. He was the last in line; José had moved to his right. Peering at the back-trail, he could see no one.

  He turned, and in a moment another shot came, sizzling past his ear.

  Stone flopped on the ground, pulling the .44 Magnum. He pushed it out, holding it with both hands, waiting.

  A shadow moved, maybe fifty yards away, then moved again. He took up the trigger, slack.

  The shadow turned into a man carrying a rifle.

  Stone's pistol fired and recoiled. The man jerked, crumpled, the rifle flying from his grasp. He disappeared in the undergrowth.

  Jumping up, Stone ran after the others.

  They were in a broad, shallow stream, walking single file toward the right with Alberto and José out ahead. It was an old leatherstocking trick, wading in a stream to conceal footprints. But it might work. At least their pursuers would lose a bit of time trying to decide if they'd gone upstream or down. Time was important.

  In half an hour Manuel stepped out of the water onto solid rock, motioning them to follow in his tracks. They were in a valley, close by one side, a very steep, brush-covered slope.

  The ground under their feet was very rocky, and the immediate area held few trees and almost no cover. When they left the stream, they were in the open.

  Stone frowned at the old man's back. Where the hell was he taking them?

  And then he heard the beating sound of a helicopter, approaching fast.

  Chapter Four

  Stone glanced up at the chopper—two choppers! They were perhaps a mile away, making a gradual turn. The pilots had not yet seen them. They were doubtless in radio contact with the ground force that was tracking them.

  Manuel shouted, "Prisa, prisa! Hurry!" He pushed aside the brush. The two scouts ducked under his arm and disappeared.

  "Jesus! It must be a goddamn cave!" Hog said, running.

  Stone made up his mind. Maybe the old man knew what he was doing after all. He ran toward the others. A cave was better than the shelter of a few trees.

  Manuel ducked, seeing him approach, and Stone dashed into the brush—and was suddenly in a huge cave. The entrance was very small, but the cave was easily fifteen feet high and nearly round. And as he looked at it he realized what it was—a lava tube.

  Years ago he had seen them in Hawaii and California. They were to be found everywhere volcanoes erupted. Obviously this one had been kept secret from the Sandinistas.

  Manuel motioned. "We go—" He set out into the dark tube with a candle that had been waiting in a wooden box by the entrance.

  "What'll they think of next?" Loughlin said, wonderingly. "It looks like it was made by a goddamn worm . . . a real big worm."

  "A lava worm," Mark said. "Red-hot lava gouged this out."

  "Just for us," Hog said admiringly. "I ain't got a bad thing t'say about lava from now on. Saved our butts."

  So this was what old Manuel had been heading for from the first. Captain Vega had said they could trust him, and Vega had been proved right. He had saved their butts. If the gunships had caught them in a crossfire in a box canyon—that would have been all she wrote for sure.

  The tube curved to the right, a long, gentle curve. It had a sandy bottom and, in the flickering light of the candle, rugged sides from which water dripped here and there. It was cold, and the farther they walked into it, the colder it got. In half a mile they were all shivering.

  "Goddamn," Hog said, "I would'n mind if a little of that lava showed up t'take the chill off."

  "I don't believe this place," Loughlin said. "We got nothing like it in Britain."

  "How many volcanoes you got in Britain, neighbor?"

  "Damn few," the Brit growled. "Volcanoes aren't civilized."

  "Well, this one's damn friendly," Hog said. "I'm declaring this here volcano a honorary Texan, so you watch what you say, amigo."

  Loughlin rolled his eyes. "Honorary Texan . . . Jesus!"

  They came to a place where the earth had fallen and where another tube joined. With only one tiny source of light they took forever to crawl over the clumps of earth and stones and reach a sandy bottom again. The tube bent sharply to the right and seemed smaller than the other. It was also wetter—the floor was damp and there were puddles here and there. But Manuel never faltered. "Come, come . . ."

  The two young scouts ran ahead, apparently able to see in the pitch black.

  It took another hour to come to the end of the tube. It was concealed as the other had been, mostly by boulders and brush. They came out into a forest. Manuel led them straight for several miles before halting on a ridge. The two scouts reported to him and disappeared again like wraiths.

  Manuel said, "No Sandinistas close. We eat now."

  "All right!" Hog bellowed.

  Major Pedro Rosas was commandant of the Duodécimo, the 12th Battalion. He was a round little man with a red face and almost no hair. He had achieved his position through a dedication to Marxism—he had been to Moscow—and an equal dedication to those in very high places. It was said of him in secret that his big nose was very brown.

  But now he was furious. He had received a report that one of his patrols had been fired on by an irregular group, and had allowed that group to escape capture after killing nine of his men. They had found no enemy bodies.

  "How can this be!" he stormed at his staff. "Bring me the leader of this patrol!"

  "He is dead," they told him. "He was cut in two by Kalashnikov bullets. They steal our weapons and use them against us."

  "You are all idiots!" he screamed at them. "Send out more patrols! Where are our helicopters?" He ordered them out of his office and almost cried. What a terrible report to send to his superiors! They would ask him if he could not manage his district better—and what kind of a question was that? It had only one answer: He would crush all opposition or he would be replaced. There was no in-between.

  When he calmed down, he sent for Lieutenant Paco Suran. Paco was a Nicaraguan, one of the enlightened ones who knew the trend of the world, a Marxist, and a man with ice in his veins.

  It took an hour to find him and bring him to the commandant's office in greasy fatigues. He had been cleaning weapons, he said, and Rosas waved that aside.

  "I am putting you in charge of finding the irregular group who killed nine of our companions and comrades. You will start at once. Select what men you wish, as
many as you wish. All I ask is that you bring me proof of their deaths or the persons themselves. Do you have any questions?"

  "No, Major."

  "I will expect reports daily by radio." He waved the lieutenant out.

  Paco immediately called Sergeant Salvador Cortes to his quarters. As he stripped off the greasy clothes he gave the other his orders. "You will pick twenty men. I want no malingerers—I can trust you for that. Arm them properly, rations for at least eight days. Bring along a map case, flashlights, matches . . ." Paco motioned. "Put them in two BTR-60's with ammo and radios. I want them ready in an hour. Questions?"

  "No, sir."

  "Then wear out your socks."

  Cortes saluted and ran.

  Paco then called for the NCOs who had been on the patrol, ordering them to his quarters. He showered and dressed and came out to find one man, a corporal, waiting for him.

  "I am the only surviving NCO, sir," the man said.

  Paco lit a cigarette and sat, frowning at the man. "Tell me what happened."

  "We flushed a campesino—armed, sir—out of a village, and he led us to the group."

  "A group of what?"

  "Devils, Lieutenant. They fought like devils. We never got close to them—and they disappeared from under our noses!"

  The man began to sweat as Paco stared at him. "They disappeared? How is that possible? You had helicopter assistance!"

  "Yes, sir. But it's true all the same."

  "They disappeared without a trace?"

  "Without a trace, sir."

  Paco snubbed out the cigarette and stood. "Get out of here, Corporal."

  He paced the floor, lighting another cigarette. What the man had said didn't make sense—though the man obviously had not lied, probably hadn't the brains to lie. Something had happened, but what? It was possible the corporal was a fool.

  Well, he must get on with it. He crushed out the cigarette, strapped on a pistol, grabbed his cap, and went out to the personnel carriers.

  Stone walked behind Manuel when they left the ridge behind and came to a region of tilled fields surrounded by forest, with blue mountains on the horizon. In the shelter of the trees Manuel pointed. "Village dere , one, two kilómetros."

  It was a calm, peaceful scene, Stone thought. Shading his eyes, he could see a dozen or more workers in the furrows, all distant, some plowing with animals. The sky was a blue bowl with high golden and fleecy clouds as the afternoon waned. War seemed far away.

  "Purty as the ass-end of a Saigon hooker," Hog commented, picking his teeth with a fingernail.

  "Me, I like the tit-end better," Loughlin said. "Specially when they wiggle 'em."

  "You figure asses don't wiggle?"

  "Oh, I like an ass-wiggle, too, but there's nothing like a pair of tits . . . maybe with a little whipped cream on the nipples."

  "Goddamn pervert," Hog said.

  Stone laughed. "For crissakes. Will you two shut up?" He shook his head and followed Manuel along just inside the edge of the trees. He noticed that the old man had become very wary. He sent Alberto and José far ahead and constantly scanned the skies. He glanced back at Stone. "Many Sandinistas 'ere. Be much careful."

  He halted once, holding up his hand, standing motionless as a small biplane droned across the blue, several thousand feet up. When it disappeared, they went on.

  Loughlin asked, "Don't the rebels have any airplanes?"

  Manuel shrugged.

  As they approached the village Manuel led them deeper into the forest. In a while Alberto appeared and held a short meeting with the old man. Then he took off again.

  Manuel turned. "Sandinistas in village." He shook his head. "Malo. Very bad. Shoot two people. Goddamn bad."

  "Why'd they shoot them?"

  "Alberto say información." Manuel made a face. "People no talk." He pointed his finger. "Boom, boom." He sighed deeply. "Very bad."

  As darkness fell they went around the village, giving it a wide berth. They could hear music, wafting across the fields, as somebody played a radio. As the stars came out they crossed a cornfield, walking between the rows of rustling stalks to gain the forest again.

  "Reminds me of home," Hog said. " 'Ceptin' I don't hear no coyotes."

  They had come a long way toward Managua, Stone thought, as he consulted the map, but they had a long way yet to go. They made camp in a ravine with towering pines on every side. Hog pushed stones together and made a fire in a low spot, and they broiled meat and made coffee.

  When they had finished eating, Manuel said he would have to leave them the following day. He had come to the edge of the area he knew well. He was unfamiliar with the territory ahead.

  But he had a cousin in a village only a dozen miles distant. His name was Romiro, a good, honest man and a foe of the government. He would be their guide. He knew every pine tree and rock by their first names and knew exactly how to avoid the hated Sandinistas. Manuel assured them he would speak to Romiro himself.

  In the morning they ate cold breakfasts except for coffee, and as they were getting their gear together for the march, several choppers appeared a few miles to the east and seemed to be searching. As far as they could tell, the choppers were quartering the ground.

  "Probably looking for us," Stone said.

  "Yeh," Hog agreed. "We'uns is probably famous in certain circles."

  Those distant planes were almost their undoing. They had claimed the interest of the little group and lulled them into thinking they were safe because of the distance. But as soon as they started out, a gunship strafed them. It came roaring in at treetop level with guns blazing.

  An irrigation ditch was all that saved them. They piled into it, a five-foot deep, badly dug ditch with sheer sides. Manuel dived into it headfirst with the rest of them toppling like ninepins to escape the pounding shells. The two scouts were a mile ahead. Mark yelled, "Scatter—get as far apart as you can!"

  The ditch was not straight, or they might have been in big trouble. The gunship pilot tried desperately to shoot down the length of the ditch but could not.

  They dodged from side to side and took advantage of every fold and crease. And when one of them was safe from attack, he fired at the chopper. These distractions possibly saved them as much as anything else. Mark saw pieces of the chopper fly off now and then, and finally the pilot gave up a bad job before he was blasted out of the sky.

  They watched him swing about and head south, gaining altitude.

  And they knew he was using his radio to tell where they were. They were pinpointed exactly.

  "How'd he know it was us?" Hog demanded.

  "He didn't, but he saw armed men where there shouldn't be." Mark shook his head. "We were goddamn careless, and goddamn lucky. Let's just pray to all the better class of gods that the luck holds out."

  Manuel stopped the chatter. "We go," he said.

  They went quickly, jogging through the trees toward the village. Manuel was sure there was a highway only a few miles to their right. Soldiers might even now be piling into trucks to bring them here.

  The village was tiny, squatting in a wide valley with cultivated fields surrounding it on three sides. The fourth side was hilly and forested. They holed up there while Manuel walked alone into the village, trudging along like a campesino. The two young scouts left their weapons behind and followed him, each carrying a load of wood for disguise.

  He was gone more than an hour. Long shadows were stretching across the land when he returned alone. He had bad news. His cousin, Romiro, had died a month ago.

  Hog said, "We's screwed, neighbors."

  Mark said, "Is there no one else?" They would be lost without a guide.

  Manuel shrugged. "A man offers. He is called Raul."

  Mark said, "Do you know him?"

  "No, señor. But he is the only one."

  "And he knows this country well?"

  Manuel shrugged again. "One hopes."

  Loughlin sighed. "That's a hell of a reference, one hopes. Why can't
we go on just using the map?"

  "We could, in peacetime," Mark said. "There'd be buses running, too."

  "I vote we get that jasper," Hog said. "Looks like he's better'n nothing."

  "Hell's fire," the Brit said, "a hooker with the clap is better'n nothing."

  "So you vote no?" Stone demanded.

  Loughlin made a face. "All right. He blew out his breath. "Count me in."

  There were about forty Sandinista soldados stationed in the village, Manuel told them, but it had been easy to avoid them.

  Stone said, "Don't take any chances."

  "Sí, señor." Manuel walked back into the village in the gathering dark. He was gone a short time and returned with a slim young man he introduced as Raul.

  Raul was about thirty, Stone thought. He was slight and black-haired with a thin mustache and pipe-stem arms. He had been a schoolteacher in Managua, he told them, and wished he were back there. But he had lost the job because it became known to the authorities that he had talked against the government. He had been severely warned, and had come home to his village and was now working in the fields.

  "Can you guide us to Managua?"

  Raul smiled. "Sí, of course." He had family there, he told them, and would like to visit them and do the government a bad turn at the same time.

  Stone was eager to get away, but Raul had to return home to get a pack. He had not known, he said, that they wished to travel at once.

  There was nothing to do but wait while he went back into the village.

  Manuel said his good-byes. "I will stay tonight in the village. . . ." He wished them all success, and Hog embraced him.

  "Y'all done good, little neighbor. You watch yore backtrail."

  Loughlin grasped Manuel's hand. "I think Hog just made you an honorary Texan."

  Chapter Five

  To Lieutenant Paco Suran the radio was an extremely important tool. He received reports of every freedom fighter or Contra clash in northwest Nicaragua. It was difficult to sift among them to decide which was the group he sought . . . if any.

  But when the report came to him of a single helicopter battle with a group of armed men, he set out at once with his two personnel carriers for that location. The helicopter pilot had received severe arm and chest wounds in the clash and had broken off the engagement to fly back to his base for treatment. There were also forty-three bullet holes in his machine.