Escape from Nicaragua

by Stephen Mertz

  Out of sight of them he got to his feet and dived into a huge area of jungle grass, swearing a blue streak.

  He heard men running, it sounded like two or three, and then shots were fired as they aimed at random into the growth where they thought he had gone. None of the shots came near.

  He continued to crawl, unable to see his attackers, but he heard them exploring the area, hacking with machetes, firing now and then suspiciously.

  When he was far enough away, he rose and quickly crossed the road. No shots came seeking him.

  He was now on the north side of the parked trucks and would have to get by them to join up with Hog and Stone. It was in his favor that all the pursuers' attentions were directed to the other side of the road. But it was not to his advantage that there were large open areas in front of him. He would have to make his way around then, taking up time.

  He swore mightily. It would take too goddamn much time. But he set out.

  Hog Wiley rested for a bit, watching the road; no one appeared. Maybe Stone and Loughlin were far down the road waiting for him. Well, it wouldn't hurt to find out.

  He was about to get to his feet when he heard engines. He ducked into the grass and in a few moments two BTR-60s came roaring past and disappeared in the distance.

  He said aloud, "Hell of a lot of traffic for a dime's worth of road." He slung his weapons over his back and started out.

  He met Stone in about fifteen minutes. Stone was sitting by the road, eyes half closed, taking it easy. He had not seen Loughlin, he said, but he'd heard the shots and wondered about them. "He could have met up with someone. What d'you think?"

  "I think that Limey can take care of hisself. He's tough as Clancy's nuts. And damn near as smart."

  Stone said, "Then let's move up to that hill. I like to be on high ground." He paused, turning his head.

  Someone was firing a pistol. Maybe a recall.

  The dirt road curved slightly, following the contours of the rounded hill, and they trudged up, keeping to the shoulder, ready to dash for cover in an instant. The countryside seemed very peaceful and calm. There were layers of high clouds overhead, thin as gossamer, and their boots crunched on the gravelly dirt. A few birds twittered and quarreled in the jungle just off the road, and Mark turned his head, hearing the sounds of a light-plane far in the distance.

  They moved on quickly and came out on top of the hill into the open. A large area had been cleared of undergrowth and it looked as if an earthmover had been at work to level part of the ground.

  Mark halted suddenly. Far to the right a Ford truck with canvas sides was parked.

  Hog said, "What you figure—"

  "Do not move, señores."

  Looking over his shoulder, Mark saw a line of rifles pointing at them. He put his arms up.

  Shit. A trap.

  A slim young lieutenant moved around in front of them, a Walther pistol in his hand. "So—you are the americanos! But we were told there were three of you. Where is the other one?"

  "What other one?" Hog asked. "Never was but two of us. Somebody can't count."

  The officer's eyes narrowed. "You are lying. You were counted a number of times."

  Hog said amiably, "Folks never calls me a liar less'n they got a gun in their hands."

  "We know there are three of you. Where is the other?"

  Mark shrugged. "If there were three of us, he'd be here."

  The lieutenant motioned with the pistol. "Take their weapons and tie them up."

  Terrance Loughlin made a necessary wide swing to the north, skirting a huge open area where there was no cover unless he crawled, and he was tired of that. He rounded the fields and finally worked his way back to the road again, finding he was far to the southwest. The parked trucks were well behind him. When they were out of sight, he jogged along the deserted road, pausing now and then to listen.

  The road curved and approached a rounded hill. He must have been more than a mile from the trucks. He should have made contact with Hog and Stone long before this. They both should easily have avoided the troops sent to flush them out. He had heard several troop carriers go past on the road—had something happened?

  But he'd heard no firing except a few stray pistol shots. If any group had gotten into a firefight with Hog and Stone, it certainly would have sounded like the battle of Gettysburg.

  He had taken a lot more time than they to reach the road. Something must have happened. He looked at the sky, peered down the road, and suddenly felt very open and exposed. He moved into the tangle of jungle growth and rubbed his chin. It was damned curious.

  Was it possible he had passed them? Could they both be back nearer the trucks? Not very bloody likely. He was sure the two would want to put distance between themselves and the soldiers.

  He stepped out to the shoulder of the road, frowning at the hard-packed dirt, looking for telltale tracks, and seeing none. Scratching his chin, he looked up at the rounded hill where the road vanished. The two were probably up there waiting for him. But still, the silence was very suspicious.

  Something had happened. He had a gut feeling that something was very wrong.

  He crossed to the north side of the road and moved into the jungle, working his way up to the hill as silently as he could.

  Maybe he was dead wrong and they'd smile at him for his caution. And maybe not.

  It took forever. The growth was a thick tangle and even using his long-bladed knife he moved slowly. He'd have made short work of it all with a machete. . . .

  When he knew by the feel of the ground that he had reached a position opposite the crown of the hill, he moved toward it, crawling the last hundred feet with extreme caution. He reached a place where he could see the cleared area atop the hill. There was a dark green canvas-draped truck standing there and a man inside with headphones, fiddling with a radio. Five or six men were sitting smoking in the shade of the truck.

  Off to his right was a group of trees. Hog and Stone were standing there, hands tied behind their backs, facing two rifle-armed soldiers and an officer.

  They had been captured.

  Chapter Nine

  The lieutenant's men disarmed Stone and Hog, frisking them thoroughly, taking every firearm, knife, and cartridge. Their wrists were tied together behind them with leather thongs and they were then roped to trees several feet apart.

  The slim officer, whose name was Avila, holstered his pistol and smiled at them. "You are worth a good deal of money to me. I thank you for falling into my hands."

  "How much is the reward?" Stone asked.

  "Enough to make it important. But my superiors will want to know where your friend is."

  "There was a young man with us a few days ago—"

  "One of your countrymen?"

  "Then he is not the one I seek. Where is your friend?"

  Mark shook his head.

  "Tell me, then, what is your business in Nicaragua?"

  "We was thinking of raisin' goats," Hog said. "This looks like good goat country."

  Avila's cheeks began to redden. His lips pressed together. "I must insist that you answer my questions. I am not a man to fool with."

  "It looks like good weasel country, too," Hog continued. "I can see a lot of weasels right here."

  The lieutenant moved suddenly and a leather quirt lashed out, snapping Hog's face around, leaving a white mark along one cheek that slowly turned red.

  "Are you always this brave?" Stone asked. "Hitting men who are tied up?"

  The officer's hand jerked and the quirt left a mark on Stone's cheek. Behind the lieutenant one of the soldiers snickered.

  "Where is the other one?"

  Stone shook his head again and the quirt lashed across his chest, tearing at his throat.

  The officer screamed at him, "Where is the other one?" He lashed Hog. "Why are you in Nicaragua?"

  Hog drawled, "We heard there was an asshole here that growed up to be a lootinant, and damn if that rumor wasn't right."

 
Avila shouted, assaulting them both with the quirt. Hog bowed his big shoulders and suffered the attack. Mark hauled on the ropes and blood streamed down their faces. The officer was a goddamned psycho!

  But he tired in a few moments and stepped back, breathing hard, glaring at them. He snapped orders in Spanish, and the two men with rifles straightened. The lieutenant walked to the truck and climbed in. There was a tall aerial atop the cab. The man was doubtless reporting their capture.

  Mark said, "You're ugly enough without getting yourself all cut to pieces."

  "Can't help it," Hog replied. "A asshole is a asshole, no matter what uniform it wears."

  "You're not put on earth to tell him so."

  Hog sighed. "Guess I'm jus' impulsive."

  "No speak," one of the guards said.

  "Dumb is another word," Mark said. "His time will come."

  Hog nodded. "Where the hell is that Limey?"

  The guard growled. "No speak!"

  Hog smiled at the man. "Go fuck yourself." The man nodded.

  An hour passed as slowly as ever it had in this world. The soldiers cooked food, no one gave them any, and after a bit the officer came out to smoke a cigarette and glare at them as if wondering what would make them talk. Mark could imagine that if Avila had reported their capture, his superiors had asked where the third man was—and Avila could not tell them. The reward might even be withheld, which would not increase Avila's consideration for them.

  They saw him look at the glowing end of the cigarette, then he walked to them, smiling.

  He halted in front of Stone. "Why are you in Nicaragua?"

  "Everybody's got to be somewhere."

  Avila had regained his composure. He smiled as the lion might, on meeting the lamb. "That is the wrong answer, my friend." He puffed on the cigarette. "I ask you once again. Why are you in Nicaragua?"

  Hog said loudly, "Tell him the truth. We're here as part of the Anti-Asshole Society of the world."

  Avila's face changed. He pressed the glowing end of the cigarette to Stone's cheek.

  He smelled burning flesh. Mark jerked his head away and kicked out at Avila, but the slim man had been ready for it and easily sidestepped, laughing. Mark groaned, gritting his teeth. He heard Hog shout something, but the pain was a fire, consuming his head.

  In that moment, while everyone was looking at Mark, Loughlin jumped into the open with a great yell.

  The Uzi in his hands spat fire, cutting down the two guards behind Avila. He rushed at the lieutenant, who tugged at his pistol and slumped with three shots in his chest, his face white, eyes staring.

  The Uzi scattered the men at the truck, toppling four like ninepins. The radioman scrambled to get into the truck and slid down, crumpled in the dirt. Three men dived into the jungle, screaming in terror, smashing their way . . . and the Uzi clicked empty.

  Loughlin yanked out the magazine and replaced it, running toward the jungle. He fired several bursts in the direction of the sounds, then ran back to Hog and Mark and quickly sliced the ropes that bound them to the trees. "Where the hell you been?" Hog said. "You missed all the goddamn fun!"

  "I had a date at the club. Couldn't get away. Sorry." He gave the knife to Hog and jogged to the truck.

  One of the soldiers rolled onto his belly and snapped a shot at Loughlin, who blasted him and the other three. He went close, kicking them to make sure. The radioman had a slug through his forehead.

  When he went back to the others, Avila was still alive, gasping and coughing, his eyes wide and scared. He tried to talk, but Loughlin nudged him with the Uzi. "Shut up, asshole."

  Hog said, "Ask him what he's doin' in Nicaragua."

  It had all happened seemingly in the wink of an eye. Nothing like surprise. Loughlin had picked exactly the right moment to come charging in, screaming like a mad thing, firing the submachine gun with deadly accuracy. The soldiers had had no time to think and could only react by running. Three men had gotten away.

  Hog brought Mark the first aid kit from the truck's glove compartment. There was a tube of salve for burns. He smeared his cheek with it and the pain began to recede.

  Hog stood over Avila. The man was dying. He took the officer's pistol, and Avila's lips moved. He wanted to say something, but Hog walked away, looking the pistol over. It had not been fired. He put it in his belt.

  They investigated the Ford truck. It was in fair condition. The gas tank was more than half full and there was a spare can in the back holding two gallons. There was a cardboard box of rations, some ammo, and a stack of dark blue blankets. The radio was in working order, and Loughlin quickly tuned to a station with music.

  When Mark went back to look at Avila, the man was dead. Tough shit. They dragged the other bodies into the jungle and got out, with Hog driving the truck. All in all, it had been a busy day.

  It was close to evening when they came to the railroad tracks. Hog pulled up and they consulted the map, deciding they must be about here. Loughlin drew a circle with a pencil. A road of sorts paralleled the tracks.

  "What you think . . . the railroad probably goes to Managua, huh?"

  "Sounds logical," Mark agreed. "Let's try it."

  Hog fired up the engine and they crossed the tracks and turned left. It was an even worse road than the one they had just followed. The railroad curved through the hills, the road crossed it, then crossed back, and after a half hour Hog said, "Village up ahead. The road goes smack through it, amigos. You want we should stop and have a look or go on through?"

  "It's getting dark," Mark said. "We could go through, waving like tourists . . ."

  "That gets my vote," Loughlin said. "But lemme get in the back in case there's a welcoming committee." He slipped out the door and climbed into the back end. Mark checked his Uzi.

  As they came close they could see a jeep and a small Japanese-made pickup truck in the street. Two soldiers were sitting in the jeep. Hog never slowed but drove through at a steady pace as Mark waved from the side window. A few people stared at them and a man ran into the road, shouting something. They ignored him.

  It took only a few moments to leave the village behind, then they were in open country again. Stone fiddled with the radio, but all they got was music or too-rapid Spanish, so he settled for the music. Loughlin climbed back into the cab to say he was getting hungry.

  "Hell," Hog said, slapping the wheel, "we're in tall corn. Iffen we had some gals, we could have us a party."

  "If we had some wings and tail feathers, we could be in Managua in an hour," Mark said, feeling his cheek.

  "If we had some—" Loughlin began.

  "Enough," Mark said wearily. "Let's look for a spot t'stop."

  "Why don't we keep agoin'?"

  "Because we could run into God knows what. Those guys at that last village probably phoned ahead."

  Loughlin shrugged. "How could they know it was us?"

  "They don't, but we didn't stop. That in itself is suspicious to the locals. Maybe they have a rule or something—or a password."

  Hog said glumly, "We shoulda squeezed it outa the asshole—whatever his name was." He glanced at Loughlin. "Damn you, I was figgerin' to get my hands on him."

  Mark laughed. "Yeah, Terrance, I would have loved to see that, too. You're a spoilsport."

  Loughlin sighed deeply. "I should know better than to rescue you guys. Especially when you're having all that fun."

  Hog said, slowing down, "I think that's a spot up ahead. Let's check it out." He turned off the road and stopped the truck in a grove of trees.

  Mark said, "I'll take a look." He walked back toward the road and turned. It was remarkable how the green canvas sides of the truck blended in. The bulky thing could not be seen at all in the darkness.

  He cocked his head, hearing engines, and got down to lie flat. The jeep and the Japanese-made pickup passed by on the road, and he thought they were loaded with men. It was hard to tell in the gloom. It was impossible to know if they were headed that way anyhow, or were chasi
ng norteamericanos. He got up, watching the headlights fade away in the distance, then shrugged and went back to the truck. They might have to leave the vehicle and walk the rest of the way. . .

  Managua could not be far now.

  His thoughts wandered to the two C.I.A. men held by the Sandinistas. The chances were they were not being harmed; but they were probably undergoing intensive interrogation. And that might be extremely uncomfortable.

  He shook his head. How in the world would they get to General Romero Perez? It could easily prove the most difficult feat in Nicaragua. For norteamericanos. Well, best not to worry about it now. There were immediate things—save that worry for later.

  First they had to get into the capital. That alone was proving hard enough. Every soul in the country seemed to know about them, and since there was a reward—so the Asshole had told them—people would shoot to kill on sight. He could think of more pleasant things.

  Paco hurried his two carriers to the road and set up an ambush—but the fugitives did not appear. He had guessed wrong again. They must have taken another road—unless they had gone over the hills on foot. What a task he had been given—to find three wily men in hundreds of square miles!

  His radio was now "repaired," and Major Rosas had calmed down. Paco did his best diplomatically to explain that, with the few men he had at his disposal, it was impossible to cover all the roads and trails.

  Rosas countered that no more men were available. There was a civil war to fight, after all, and his superiors were beginning to ask pointed questions. Rosas strongly suggested that Paco show some results, or he would be replaced.

  When the one-sided conversation was over, Paco shouted at the passing scenery that he was not God! He did not have the ability to see through walls or into men's minds! How could any sensible person think like a fucking norteamericano anyhow? If he was so smart, let Major Rosas come into the field and show his brilliance!

  But of course it did little good.

  Sergeant Cortes brought him a report about a squad of men who had mysteriously disappeared, along with a