Escape from Nicaragua

by Stephen Mertz

  Hog asked. "How much one of them whirlybirds worth?"

  "Plenty," Loughlin said. "More'n the planes."

  "I don't see any soldiers," Stone remarked.

  "They drive around the fence," Fortun said. "Maybe they wait until dark."

  "We will, too," Stone said, nodding. "The fence looks easy to climb. In the meantime, let's take it easy." Two more lightplanes landed before dark and were lined up neatly with the others. At dusk a string of lights came on, illuminating the aircraft, creating deep shadows. There was no activity on the field at all. A half-dozen soldiers or workmen hung about the hangar door talking and smoking, but at full dark they too disappeared, and the big hangar door was pushed closed. Three men opened a door in one of the other buildings and drove a jeep out and fiddled with it a bit. Hog thought they were loading a machine gun on the car. It was difficult to see, even with the binoculars.

  Finally they got in and drove off to the north fence. "They think they are safe here," Fortun said, smiling. "We have not attacked this airstrip before."

  "Now's the day," Hog observed. "Got to be a first time for ever'thing."

  Loughlin asked, "What's the plan, chums? How's the best way t'do this?"

  Fortun surprised them. "Do you have grenades? I have only four."

  Stone laughed. "We have a few." They each had two in their packs, with the handles taped down. They were standard U.S. issue M-26s with eight-second fuses, fragmentation type.

  "We open the plane door, drop them inside—one ought to do for each plane—then run like hell. Fortun and I'll do the planes. We'll leapfrog. I'll do one and three, Fortun'll do two and four. And one of us will get the fifth while the other gets the chopper. All right?"

  Fortun nodded.

  "What about them lights?" Hog asked, scratching his chin. "Soon's we put 'em out, the guys on the jeep will come tearin' in to ask questions."

  "Terry will get the lights and you take out the jeep," Stone told him. "The jeep and anyone else who shows his nose. Can do?"

  "Piece of cake," Hog said, fondling the Uzi. He peered at the darkened field. "Where's the barracks, shorty? Where do the soldiers hang out?"

  Fortun said, "There's a barracks building behind the hangar. If they hear shooting, they will come around the end of the hangar."

  "Unless they don't."

  "Sí, unless they come some other way. But that is the quickest."

  Hog grinned. "I'll keep my eye on it."

  "All right," Stone told them. "Surprise in everything. We run across the field to the last building on the right. That's the first stop. From there we douse the lights. There may be a box on one of the walls. If not, Terrance will shoot them out."

  "Right-o, mate."

  "Then Fortun and I will dump grenades in the planes and chopper. Hog and Terrance will cover us." He looked at them. "Questions?"

  "Then we all chase off the field—where?"

  "It depends on where the jeep is. If we can keep the buildings between us and it."

  "Gotcha," Hog said.

  Chapter Eleven

  It took only moments to climb the fence. The jeep was on the far side of the field behind the buildings. With Fortun in the lead, they jogged across the dark field to the shelter of the last building. It was a good fifty yards from the string of lights, and they stood in deep shadow, listening.

  They could hear only the engine of the jeep as it made its monotonous rounds. Now and then one of the three in the car switched on a floodlight to illuminate something or other—maybe only from boredom.

  They let it make a round and go behind the buildings again. Then Mark touched Loughlin. "Do it."

  Loughlin stepped out casually, walked along the building to the next, his eyes on the wires. He stopped, and they saw him flick out his long knife. He glanced toward them and his arms jerked—and the lights went out.

  Stone and Fortun raced to the planes. Mark ran to the last plane and yanked at the door. It seemed to be fastened. He smashed the glass with the butt of his Uzi, tossed the grenade in, and ran to the third plane. Fortun waited till he passed, then tossed his bomb inside. He followed Mark, waited till Mark dropped the second grenade, then he tossed the fourth.

  The first grenade exploded, shattering the silence of the field. As Mark dropped the fifth grenade an alarm bell began to ring in one of the buildings. The second grenade exploded with a roar. The first plane was burning briskly—the third grenade exploded.

  Fortun tossed a grenade into the helicopter and ran into the dark field with Mark and Loughlin close behind. With his Uzi at the ready, Hog backed toward them, watching for the jeep . . . as the fourth grenade went up, tossing the lightplane like a rag doll. In a moment the jeep came into view, its floodlight on, and the grenade in the chopper went off with a smashing roar.

  Hog's Uzi stuttered and the jeep stewed at once, and the floodlight was doused.

  Fortun yelled, "Run—run!" He made for the fence.

  Men spilled from one of the buildings, and Loughlin went to one knee, firing a long burst as Hog dashed past him. A few shots came toward them as men fired wildly. Mark returned the fire as Fortun went over the fence. The men on the field scattered. No one fired at them as they climbed the fence and jumped into the drainage ditch. The planes were burning fiercely—no one would put them out. Fortun yelled at them to follow, climbed out of the ditch, and ran directly away from the field.

  Mark glanced back as they ran into the darkness. It was a marvelous success, and surprise had been the most important element. Surprise was worth a hundred men.

  In two hours they were deep in the hills. Fortun halted them in a cavelike area with sheltering trees, saying this was a refuge often used. The raid had gone like clockwork, all aircraft destroyed. The enemy would be raging.

  "It woulda cost them less iffen they'd give us a pass across Nicaragua," Hog said, grinning.

  Lieutenant Paco Suran was furious. The Ford truck with the green canvas sides could not be found. It was either hidden somewhere or it had been so changed it was unrecognizable. But every vehicle on the roads, especially those heading for Managua, was being stopped and searched.

  The norteamericanos were not to be found either. And he, Paco, was in trouble. The messages from Major Rosas were getting more and more biting. As a result, Paco's radio continually needed "repairs."

  When the report came to him concerning the raid on the airfield, Paco headed there immediately. The commandant was a retired colonel, impressed into service, named Bandini. They met in Bandini's Spartan office. The older man was lined and gray. He had lost six aircraft, he said, including a helicopter, and felt himself lucky that the entire group of buildings had not been fired.

  "What did your men see, sir?"

  "A group of raiders. Two of my men counted ten, all armed with submachine guns. They came from two directions, killed two men driving the jeep and wounded the third. Killed one man at the door of the building and wounded four. They were devils!"

  Paco had heard that term before. He said, "Ten raiders? Are you positive, sir?"

  The old man drew himself up. "My men do not lie, sir."

  "Of course not. I only thought—in the heat of battle —a man could be mistaken."

  The colonel stared at him. "Why do you doubt it?"

  "I am hunting three men, sir. And—"

  "Three!? Impossible! Three men could not have caused the damage!"

  Paco nodded. "It does not seem possible."

  "There are many rebels in the hills, Lieutenant. This raid was the work of one of them, I am positive. They come like shadows and they leave like shadows after their terrible work is finished. It is apparent this raid was planned for a long time. They struck at an opportune moment when we were very short-handed. You will have to look elsewhere for your three men."

  Paco was nearly convinced. He talked to several of the men of the base, but their colonel had declared the raid to be the work of at least ten men and no one contradicted him.

  It wa
s very frustrating. If there had been ten men involved, then Paco was sure the norteamericanos had joined up with a rebel group. He could smell their presence.

  But when he talked to Major Rosas on the radio, he told Rosas the airfield raid was definitely not the work of the men they sought. The three norteamericanos were obviously hiding somewhere underground like rabbits, afraid to show their noses.

  It mollified Rosas to some extent. For once he did not mention tacking Paco's skin to the wall.

  Fortun was delighted with the success of the raid. He confessed that it had gone better than he had expected, and he was most impressed with the accuracy of their shooting.

  But the enemy would increase his efforts. They must now travel at night to escape detection. "It will be slower," Fortun said, "but it will be safer. And we will not have to worry about helicopters."

  They moved a few miles early in the morning; then, when the aircraft began droning overhead, they laid up, resting, using the time to clean weapons.

  At dusk Fortun led out again, insisting they travel in single file, in silence. They were getting close to habitations, he told them, the city was not far. They crossed railroad tracks, approaching a siding where cars stood near brown buildings that might have been a machine shop. There was traffic on a highway nearby, but they got across it without being seen and into low hills. The lad led them around a sprawling village and across fields into a wooded area where a stream wandered.

  Just before dawn they found a wide ravine and Fortun said. "I have brought you almost as far as I can. The city is very near."

  Mark said, "I've been thinking about that. We are to contact a man named Jorge Mora at a café, the Copa de Leche. He has information we need."

  Loughlin spoke up. "You said you had a friend who knows the city and other rebels."

  "Sí. I will go into the city and find him."

  Hog said, "He could go to the café for us. Fortun."

  Mark nodded, studying Fortun. "That might be the best way all around. The fewer who know about us the better. What do you say, shortstop?"

  Fortun grinned. "Maybe so. What part of the city is the café in?"

  "We don't know."

  "No matter. I will ask. And when I find this Jorge Mora, what do I say to him?"

  "You bring him to us. The password is Colonel Bill Haskins."

  "Colonel Haskins? That is a password?"

  Mark nodded. "It will identify you. Mora is expecting someone."

  Fortun looked at the sky. "Then I will go into the city at midday. I should be back by night."

  They settled down to wait. They were on high ground, and when the sun came up they could see the city in the near distance. Smoke was rising from hundreds of chimneys and stacks and far off to the left they could see part of the lake shimmering in the early sun. Below them on the hills were homes and from somewhere a bell was tolling.

  Fortun unbuckled his revolver and tucked it into his waistband at his back, with the shirt hanging free over it. He would not go without it.

  When he was ready to go, Mark said, "Que le vaya bien."

  Fortun grinned. "Don't take any wooden—what is it you say?"

  "Nickels."

  "Sí. Nickels." He waved and was gone, climbing out of the ravine and hurrying across the field to a row of trees. He waved once more and disappeared.

  The day passed on leaden hours for Stone and his men. They kept a watch and slept, but no one came near. Aircraft landed somewhere near in the haze and now and then they could hear city noises, but very far off. Hog said a dozen times, "I wish to hell I'd gone with him."

  "You would be in jail by now, americano," Loughlin said, with a thick Spanish accent.

  Fortun looked exactly like a thousand others. No one paid him the slightest attention. He asked directions to the Copa de Leche and went there at once. It was in a poor section of the city on a street that was brave with new paint; it was all façade. Fortun walked past, then went around the block and made his way to the back of the café, where several cars were parked.

  A heavyset man was arguing with the driver of a truck. As Fortun came near the driver yelled something, put the truck in gear, and roared away as the heavyset man glared after him and shook his head. The man then scowled at Fortun. "What d'you want here? Go and scavenge somewhere else!"

  "I am not a beggar," Fortun said.

  The man grunted, turned on his heel, and walked to the back door of the café.

  Fortun said, "Wait!" The man halted and Fortun hurried to him. "Do you work here, señor?"

  "I am part owner. What do you want?"

  "I'm looking for Jorge Mora. Do you know him?"

  The man frowned. "I do not know him. Why do you come here for him? He is a very bad man and I want nothing to do with him! If you are his friend—go away and do not come back!"

  "But, I am told he is often here!"

  "That is not true!" The man's face was showing anger. "I do not allow him to come here!"

  Fortun was surprised but suddenly recalled the password. "Colonel Haskins," he said.

  The man's face changed in an instant. He grabbed Fortun's arm and walked with him away from the door.

  He glanced over his shoulder. "That is different." He shrugged. "One must be very careful of the police, you understand. They are everywhere!"

  "Then you know Mora?"

  "Of course I know him. But there is a price on his head. The police and the army want him badly—they will shoot him on sight. Where do you come from?"

  "I belong to Captain Ortega's group—you do not know them."

  "Why do you want Mora?"

  "I am only the go-between. I have friends who must meet with him." Did he dare say they were norteamericanos?

  The heavyset man's grip tightened on his arm. His voice was suddenly soft as he pulled Fortun closer. "And who are these friends, amigo?"

  "Can I trust you?"

  "It is good to be cautious. Colonel Haskins is a norteamericano who is a friend of the people, not the government. I am expecting to hear from him. Tell me, who are the friends?"

  "I do not know if I am allowed to say."

  The big man regarded him steadily, then glanced about the alley. "We cannot stand here all day. You must tell me."

  Fortun sighed. "What is your name?"

  "I am Roberto." He moved his head. "I can be found any day at this café."

  Fortun made up his mind. "They are norteamericanos." He saw the other relax. It was the right answer.

  "Bueno. I have been waiting for this message. Where are your friends?"

  "They are hidden on the outskirts of the city."

  "Ahhh. Do you know this section?"

  Fortun shook his head.

  "Then I will send someone with you. You will need a guide. She knows where Mora is hiding."

  "A woman?"

  Roberto looked at him coldly. "Do you have something against women? I assure you, she hates Sandinistas as much as you."

  "No, no, no, I was only surprised."

  "Very well." Roberto released him. "Wait here. I will send Eva out to you."

  "Eva?"

  "St. Her name is Eva Castelo." Roberto strode to the door of the café.

  Chapter Twelve

  Eva Castelo was a young, lithe, and beautiful girl, though she was dressed in shapeless clothes, her black hair drawn back severely, tied with a black ribbon.

  She asked him, "What is the name you told Roberto?"

  "Colonel Bill Haskins."

  She smiled. "Sí. Then we will go."

  She took him to a car, a very old VW beetle painted dark red with black designs by some fanciful artist with a penchant for dragons. She slid behind the wheel, and as she settled herself, Fortun saw that she was armed with a pistol.

  He said, "You do not live in the city?"

  "I live in the mountains—as you do."

  "What if we are stopped by the police?" He shrugged. "I have no papers."

  Her hand moved under her clothes a
nd came out with a pistol with a long barrel. "Then we will use this." Fortun grinned. The pistol had a silencer.

  She said, "You are no good to us in jail."

  "Very true."

  Eva drove with caution, constantly on the lookout for police, not wishing to draw attention to them. When she left the main street, they were in a section of poor red-tile-roofed houses and rutted dirt streets with no curbs. She made many turns, her eyes on the rearview mirror. "No one is following us."

  They passed into a district that was fast going to seed. It had been industrial, but the buildings were rusting, falling into decay, fences down, windows without glass and roofs disintegrating. No one lived in the district. She turned into a street that was little more than a wide gutter, and then into an alley. It was a tunnel-like affair but cleared of debris, and the little car ran to the end of it, stopping before a pair of garagelike doors that barred the way.

  "Open the doors," she told him.

  Fortun got out. The doors were secured by a large wooden pin. He drew it out, it hung by a rope, and pushed the doors open. He was surprised that they opened at once—the hinges were well oiled. Eva drove though and killed the engine. "Close them quickly."

  Fortun closed the doors and looked around. He was in a huge, cavernous room, littered with every kind of junk. The roof was open to the skies in many places and the walls at the far end were tumbling down. There was a dusty board floor and the place had the look of an ex-factory.

  Eva left the little car and walked to the end wall to the right of the double doors. Glancing around, she took up a stick and banged on a vertical pipe, three, then one, then two.

  Someone answered from above with the same raps.

  She said, "Come up, muchacho." She opened a door that he had not noticed, and he saw steps. They went up dark, creaking stairs and a door above them opened. A man stood there with a submachine gun pointed in their direction.

  He smiled, seeing Eva. "Ahhh, the most beautiful girl in all Nicaragua." He stared at Fortun. "And who is this one?"

  "My name is Fortun. I am from the country."