Escape from Nicaragua

by Stephen Mertz

  Mark said, "I think they're Contras." Hog confirmed it, peering through the glasses.

  They saw no one else the rest of the day and, after a rest in the evening, moved to the road and continued the march till the lights of a village came into view. They left the road then and circled through the fields to come up to the village from the side. It was a tiny place, straddling the dusty road, and there were no vehicles in sight.

  Low hills loomed up to the west of the village, and they retreated to them, finding a place to bed down but posting watches. Hog was on watch near midnight and woke Mark, shaking his shoulder.

  "What is it?"

  "There's a Russki armored car in the village. One of them old six-wheelers."

  "How d'you know?"

  Hog grinned in the night. "I went over and looked at it. Heard it come in."

  Mark sat up. "An armored car . . ." He smiled. "How many other vehicles?"

  "None. That's it. Watched 'em dump petrol into it, then they posted two guards."

  "How many of them altogether?"

  "I only seen four."

  Loughlin woke at the sound of their whispers.

  "What're you yakking about?"

  "Russki armored car in the village."

  Loughlin smiled. "We need an armored car. What is it?"

  "One of them six-wheelers."

  Loughlin nodded. "Probably a BA-10. They made about a million of 'em. It's got two 7.62 machine guns."

  Mark asked, "Can you drive it?"

  "I drove one in Britain years ago. It belonged to the Imperial War Museum. Think I can remember . . ." He reached for his AK. "The one I drove had a 45mm gun too."

  "Let's go," Mark said. "Lead out, Hog. Show us the car."

  They went across the dark fields to the village, walking softly, weapons ready. The car crew had undoubtedly stopped for the night and would not move out till at least dawn. As they reached the first houses Hog stopped and went to one knee. Mark came up beside him and looked into the shadowy street. One of the guards was walking slowly toward them, a cigarette in his mouth, a rifle slung over his shoulder. He looked anything but alert.

  Hog whispered, "Other one's in the car."

  Mark whispered back, "Let's take this one out."

  Hog nodded.

  The guard stopped near them, opposite the last house, and stared into the countryside, finishing the cigarette. Hog rose silently, drew his Walther pistol, took four steps, and brought the barrel down on the man's head. The guard fell like a stone, and Hog caught him and dragged him off the street.

  There was no outcry from the armored car.

  Quickly Mark put on the guard's cap, slung the man's rifle over his shoulder, and stepped out to the street. Hog and Loughlin would circle the village and meet him at the car. He imitated the guard's slow pace and started back toward the car. It would take him five minutes to reach it.

  He drew the .44 Magnum and held it down at his side so that no one in front could see it. Where were the rest of the armored car crew? Doubtless in one of the buildings opposite where the car had halted. But which one? Probably they would soon find out.

  As he approached the car he could easily make out the guard's head and shoulders. The man did not move; he might be dozing. But as Mark came closer he stretched and said in Spanish, "It is time to change?"

  Mark grunted. The man was too far to reach. He'd have to go around the other side of the car. He started around the back of the car, and two men came out of the house on the car's right. Mark halted; they had not seen him. Where the hell were Hog and Loughlin?

  The three men of the car's crew were talking as the guard stepped out—then one of them noticed him, and Mark saw the man's eyes widen.

  The man went for his pistol.

  Mark brought the .44 up and the shot blasted the night.

  Hog's Uzi spat bullets and two men were down—but the third ran back into the house, shouting in Spanish.

  Mark yelled to Loughlin, "Start the car." He followed the crewman into the house. It was pitch black inside. He heard Hog say, "I'll go around . . ." Then he heard a smashing sound.

  Damn, he wished he had a flashlight. Someone screamed to his right, a woman's voice. And then Hog yelled, "He's out here!"

  Mark went back to the street. Loughlin had the car's engine running. He grinned from the driver's seat. In a moment Hog appeared, shaking his head. "Sombitch got out through a window and run into the field. Too fuckin' dark."

  "Let 'im go. Let's get the hell outa here." They piled in, and Loughlin put the car in gear.

  Dawn found them miles from the village on a dirt road with a dust cloud following. They seemed to be moving through a jungle that threatened to close in on them any moment. It was the dry season, verano, or the road would have been a quagmire. The heat was oppressive, and in the first fifteen miles after daybreak they were fired on twice. One burst went over and single shots hit the rear of the car, doing no damage.

  "We're targets for any rebel with a gun," Stone said. "They think we're government guys. Let's hope they're lousy shots. Keep your heads down."

  They pulled over under the trees and consulted the map. They could only guess where they were. The map did not delineate the small back-country roads and villages. It was almost useless. As Hog said, "With this here map and a good match you could start a fire anywhere."

  They made coffee and checked weapons, distributing ammo among them. Loughlin asked, "How big is this country, anyway?"

  "You could lose it anywheres in Texas," Hog said, yawning.

  Stone folded up the map. "I read somewhere it's about the size of Louisiana."

  "Wasn't there a lot of talk about putting a canal across it? I mean, instead of in Panama?"

  Stone shrugged. "Yeah. Don't know what happened to that idea. It'd be a hellova ditch, I guess." He stretched. "Shall we bug out?"

  With Loughlin driving, they came around a curve just before midday and found three big trucks in the road before them. Men were sprawled under roadside trees, obviously taking a noontime break.

  "Don't stop," Stone growled. "Steady as she goes. They'll think we're one of them—until the last minute."

  An officer walked casually into the road with his hand up.

  "Give 'er the gun!" Hog yelled.

  Loughlin pushed the pedal to the floor, speeding up. The officer yelled and jumped back in alarm. There was barely room to pass the trucks, half on the road and half on the rutted shoulder.

  The car skidded and swerved, gaining the road again as someone fired into the air. The sprawled men suddenly came to life, scattering as Hog and Stone fired short bursts to get their attention.

  An assault rifle sprayed them with bullets that spanged off the side of the car and ricocheted away.

  Stone fired at the truck engines but could not see if the fire took effect. In seconds they were past, careening down the road.

  But men ran into the roadway, kneeling to fire after them, and for a moment bullets ripped and slashed the air and rapped into the hull.

  The heavy six-wheeler rocked and skidded, but Loughlin fought it and managed to keep it under control, shouting that some of the slugs had hit the rear tires.

  Then, as they rounded a curve, the firing stopped.

  "Sheeeit," Hog said, changing magazines. "They didn't even have scouts out. What the fuck kinda army they got anyways?"

  "We got troubles," Loughlin growled, struggling with the wheel. The car was slowing, the rear end bumping and clattering. Both rear tires were shredded, flinging off chunks of rubber.

  Loughlin stopped in another mile, shaking his head in disgust. "If they chase us with those lorries, we're sitting ducks, chums."

  "We can't outrun them?"

  "Hell, no. This heap wouldn't outrun a one-legged chicken. I can hardly hold it on the goddamn road."

  Mark sighed. "Then we'll have to abandon it." He glanced around. "Where's those petrol cans?"

  "Right here," Hog said. He pulled one from a metal hold
er and unscrewed the cap. As they jumped from the car he poured the gasoline over the interior, climbed out, and poured the rest over the engine.

  Loughlin tossed a match and the car went up like a Fourth of July rocket. It became a huge orange torch, crackling and roaring as it consumed the vehicle.

  It was still burning as they looked back from half a mile away. With the binocs they could see the trucks arriving, spilling men. But the armored car was finished.

  And pursuit was sure. They were leaving a trail—it could not be helped. And after an hour's march, as they moved along a rounded hill, Mark halted them. "Why don't we try an old Indian trick?"

  "What's that?" Hog asked. "Smoke a peace pipe?"

  "Nothing that clever. Why don't we split up, each man go a different way . . . let 'em decide what to do then."

  "And meet later somewhere?"

  "Right."

  Loughlin protested, "We'll lose firepower—in case we need it. In a good position we can stand off forty of those guys."

  "Yes, while they radio for choppers."

  Hog said, "Where'll we meet later? We don't know this country."

  "We can all circle back to the road where we burned the armored car. We know where that is. We were heading southwest, so when each of us reaches the road again, he goes southwest. Sooner or later we'll join up."

  "I don't like it," Loughlin said.

  "One man leaves fewer tracks than three," Hog said. "We might just disappear into thin air."

  "All right, but I still don't like it."

  "Let's move out," Stone said.

  Chapter Eight

  When Major Rosas received the radio report concerning the stolen armored car, he went into a rage, throwing things and screaming. He shouted for his staff to find Paco Suran and haul him to headquarters to be skinned alive.

  The staff scattered, sending wires, radioing, using the telephone, but no one could reach Paco. He was somewhere in the field; that was all Rosas could learn. And Paco's radio was out.

  The radio was out because Paco's radioman was a cousin of a sergeant in the major's message center. At the first scream from Rosas, the sergeant had contacted Paco: "Get off the air and stay off."

  Paco received messages but could not transmit. Until the major cooled down.

  However, Paco went at once to the village where the armored car had been captured. Soldiers were still there, under a corporal, and Paco was told that three men had been killed by automatic fire; a fourth man had gotten away, and he reported that half a dozen rebels had attacked them as they were changing guard.

  Paco had the man brought to him, a skinny, raggedlooking specimen, nervous and jumpy. Paco said nothing for a moment, walking around the man, silently examining him from every angle. Was he lying? Paco thought so. Half a dozen rebels? Very likely. It had to be the three norteamericanos. They would know how to drive an armored car. The average campesino could only drive an ox.

  Paco barked to the man, "You say you actually saw six rebels?"

  The man trembled. He cleared his throat and hesitated. "I—I thought—I, um, thought I saw them, sir."

  Paco shoved his face close to the other's. "How many did you see?"

  "I—I saw. . ." The man hung his head.

  "Go on!"

  "I—I saw—one, sir."

  Paco grunted. He stepped back, glaring at the man. "So you saw one. Tell me about it."

  "We—were changing the guard, sir. These men—there must have been many, sir! They came from nowhere. I heard many voices."

  "They came from nowhere?" Paco rocked on his heels. "They were born without mothers? Is that what you are saying?" He slapped the man's face. "Tell me!"

  The man shivered. "I—I mean—they were suddenly there, sir . . . firing at us. I was lucky to get away. I don't know how I got away!"

  "I see," Paco said sarcastically. "Some men dropped from the skies and fired at you—so you ran."

  The man said nothing.

  "Well—is that all?"

  In a very small voice, "Yes, sir."

  "Get out." Paco motioned. The man hurried to the door and paused. He turned, looking at Paco.

  Paco lit a cigarette, puffed and examined some papers, and deigned to notice the man. Finally, "Well?"

  "There was one thing, sir."

  "What?"

  "The rebels—they shouted to each other in English." Paco smiled. He waved the man out, nodding.

  So it was the same gang of norteamericanos! But Cristo! Now they had an armored car! He had to report it—because he knew the report would get to Major Rosas anyway. And he knew the storm it would arouse.

  He strode up and down the hut, slapping his leg in annoyance. What would the damned americanos do next? With an armored car mounting several machine guns they could shoot up every truck and jeep they met and cause immense damage. Rosas would probably try to charge him with every centavo of it.

  He went out to the carriers and motioned. He would go south, too. If they stayed in the armored car, he should easily be able to trace them . . . and sooner or later he would overtake them.

  Very soon he ran into the three trucks that were lined up along the road with guards posted. Just beyond the trucks was the armored car in a ditch, burned and still smoking. He could see at a glance that it was a total loss.

  A sergeant told him that forty men were in the hills, chasing the criminals who had stolen the armored car.

  Paco gazed at the car, paced up and down the dusty road, and considered his next move. What he knew about the norteamericanos convinced him that forty men moving about the undergrowth on the hills were far too few to effect a capture. The man in charge, whoever he was, had made a foolish mistake. He should have brought in more men, surrounded the area, and used choppers to flush them out.

  The fugitives had been heading for Managua. Why not go there and intercept them? As it was, he seemed always to be a jump or two behind and might never catch up. The americanos were damned resourceful and dangerous.

  But—on the other hand, there were dozens of ways to get into the city, and he could not hope to watch but a few. No, that course was impossible. If they once got into the city . . . He shrugged. He was reduced to following.

  He went back to the carriers and got out a map, calling Sergeant Cortes to look. Where would the fugitives go next? The sergeant was sure they could continue generally south, since their progress, as Paco had recorded it on the map, had shown no great deviation.

  Also, south of the jumbled hills now being searched was a highway that led to Managua. Paco was certain the americanos were heading for it, and Cortes had to agree. It seemed logical.

  So, Paco decided, instead of joining the search in the hills, he and his men would travel as quickly as possible to that highway.

  And lie in wait for their prey.

  Stone took the middle route when they split up. Hog went to the right, Loughlin to the left.

  The pursuers were close behind them.

  The hills were a jungle with patches of tall grass everywhere and forward progress was slow. Especially if one tried to leave no trail.

  Stone moved into the undergrowth at a crawl, looking for a place to hole up. It was difficult to see three feet ahead.

  He could hear the men coming up the hill, slashing with bayonets, talking. They were coming very slowly, forcing their way through the tropical growth, swearing. . . .

  Mark smiled, feeling more confident every moment. The jungle was advantageous to the pursued. His clothes were almost camouflage enough, but he found a depression and covered himself with leaves and grass and lay still.

  The soldiers were grumbling among themselves as they passed by him. They well knew the reputations of the men they were after and none wanted to face them alone. Out of sight of their officers, they bunched up; there was safety in numbers. So, in effect, they searched only part of the hills.

  Mark shook the leaves off when they passed and worked his way back toward the road. A piece of cake. He coul
d hear no helicopters. Had the government suffered too many chopper crashes? They were damned expensive, after all. But in this kind of a search nothing would do the job as well. Whoever was in command had used poor judgment, he thought. Maybe the excitement of the chase . . .

  He moved constantly westward, not wishing to come out onto the road near the parked trucks.

  After a half hour had passed he heard a quick rattle of firearms from somewhere off to his right. The shots came and went over a period of five or six minutes.

  Then silence.

  Loughlin was somewhere in that direction.

  When Mark finally poked his head out cautiously and looked up and down the road, there was no one and no vehicle in sight in either direction. He set out, walking on the shoulder, moving to the southwest at an easy pace. He ought to meet Hog any moment.

  Hog Wiley went to the right, moving quickly. If he was fast enough, he'd outflank the men coming up from the road and be in the clear.

  He knew soldiers—they would bitch and gripe about this kind of duty and probably make a half-assed job of it unless under the eye of an officer or stiff-necked N.C.O. And this search was a marvelous chance for goldbricking.

  However, the pursuers were spread farther than he anticipated and he barely avoided them. A group of three came smashing through, one man in the lead with a machete, and passed by him almost close enough to touch. Hog lay in a tangle of weeds and grass, motionless as a stick, only his eyes moving.

  When they had gone by, he got up and made his way back, following the path they had hacked. He found he was far along the road to the southwest, the trucks not in sight, so he made himself comfortable and waited.

  Loughlin moved to the left, finding the going easier. He came across a game trail and followed it, bending half over, sometimes worming along on his belly but generally making good time. He heard the searchers come up the hill, but he easily avoided them; they were not spread far enough to the left.

  But when he reached the road, he was seen.

  One of the truck guards fired an AK at him as he jumped and rolled into a roadside ditch. He crawled away from the shooter at once, hearing shouts.