Escape from Nicaragua

by Stephen Mertz

  As they came out of the valley Loughlin raised his hand and sank down silently. Stone crawled to him. "What?"

  "I saw someone—gone in a second—a blur of face."

  "What kind of face?"

  Loughlin grinned at him. "Like us, chum."

  "American?"

  "Well, probably Nicaraguan. That's American too, isn't it?"

  "How far away?"

  Loughlin pointed with the Uzi barrel. "Right along there, maybe forty feet, but gone in a second."

  "Not Indian, then?"

  "Definitely not a naked Indian, no. Wore a hat and shirt."

  "All right. Stay low." Stone crawled to the right and lay motionless. Was someone paralleling them? Leading them into a trap?

  This was a hell of a place to fight a battle, where a man could not see his enemy.

  Just like Nam . . .

  Chapter Eighteen

  To Stone's amazement Eva suddenly stood and started singing. She went on for several moments, then there were voices in the jungle, and someone called out.

  "It's my people!" Eva said, rushing forward, slinging her weapon across her back.

  There were twenty or more, all dressed roughly, with weapons slung, but smiling and embracing the girl. Among them was an uncle she called Xavier. He was an older man, grizzled and stringy, with a wide smile that exposed missing and crooked teeth. He spoke English badly, and Eva translated most of the welcomes.

  The group had tracked them, thinking at first they were Sandinistas, then deciding they must be rebels—but yet not sure.

  They had set up a camp in a clearing and invited the norteamericanos to come along. The group was traveling to meet with other rebels, Xavier told them. They hoped to cause the government some harm. Did they know of a place called Lerida? They had heard of it. None of them had been there.

  Xavier gestured vaguely toward the southeast. It was somewhere in that direction. "He says it is not a military objective," Eva explained.

  "Tell him we think there are prisoners there."

  The girl spoke to Xavier in rapid Spanish, and they discussed it till Xavier shook his head. Eva shrugged. "He says his group will first do what they intended. Then, later on, they will think about Lerida."

  "Damn if it ain't hard to argue with that," Hog said. "The man has made up his mind."

  Xavier put scouts out, and they built fires and cooked meat. There was no need for watches, so all three slept soundly. In the morning they were up at dawn, and Stone took Eva aside.

  "Are you going on with us?"

  She smiled at him. "Do you need me now?"

  "I never knew a woman who was a bigger asset to a group. As Hog would say, you done pulled yore load."

  "But I think from here on, I might be in the way." He shook his head. "I'll never agree to that."

  "Let's be serious. You no longer need me as a guide.

  I can tell you nothing of the land between here and Lerida. And I might be of service to Xavier."

  Stone nodded. "All right. I won't forget you very soon—none of us will."

  She stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "Our paths will cross again, amigo mío."

  "I hope so."

  Lerida was a collection of rude huts, shacks, and buildings in a wide clearing. It was surrounded by a high bamboo fence with barbed-wire coils along the top. There had been a tower, but termites had eaten away one post and it had fallen. The post commander had decided it was not worth rebuilding.

  There were four main buildings with stone foundations, and half a dozen smaller ones with none. The four had been whitewashed at some time in the past and were numbered front and back, one to four. Building number three was used as a barracks and prison. The norteamericanos were in the upper room in two of the cells, of which there were five. The other three were vacant at the moment.

  The walls, ceilings, and floors were of wood, but the bars were steel, brought from Managua. The jungle post, Lerida, had been used for several years as a high-level detention camp and interrogation base. Very few in the government even knew of its existence.

  As a general rule, those who were sent here remained. Along the south wall of the camp was a small cemetery.

  The two agents, Don Shepard and Jack Harris, were pale and looked underfed, which they were. Shepard was stocky, shorter than the rangy Harris.

  The post commander, Lieutenant Tarrago, was given a pittance each month for food for prisoners. He was not expected to fatten them up, as his superior in Managua was fond of saying. Every service has its jokes.

  Shepard and Harris were in separate cells, both on the same side of the room, so they could not see each other. They were able to converse—when the guard was out of the room. They were forbidden to talk to the guard or he to them, so that the guard could not be bribed.

  They had reluctantly agreed, soon after they were put into the cells, that escape was impossible. They had nothing but their fingernails to use on the walls, and most important of all, they had no idea where in Nicaragua they were being held. They had been brought to Lerida at night, blindfolded.

  The guards had stripped them at once, but allowed them to keep personal effects, combs, electric razors, wallets . . . Now and then one of them was taken out of the cell and allowed to plug into an electrical outlet to use his razor. Each man had been given a ragged cotton shirt and pants. No shoes. Each had also been given a collection of lice with the clothes.

  Once a day they were taken into a small board-walled yard and allowed to walk about, exercise, or talk with each other . . . under the sharp eyes of armed guards who patrolled the walls above them.

  When they had first arrived at the camp, they had protested their incarceration bitterly to Lieutenant Tarrago. He had only smiled and assured them their situation would change . . . very soon. He refused to elaborate on that. He also refused to allow them newspapers or current magazines.

  It was a wrench to part from Eva Castelo. All three of them had accepted her so fully. She had never asked for special treatment or balked at any task they set her . . . and she did decorate the landscape.

  When they parted, Xavier and his people went toward the west, and Eva followed. She turned back once, before the jungle swallowed her up, to stand for a moment and wave.

  Stone said, "Shit."

  Hog remarked to the area, "Hell, I'm glad she's gone. She was a big pain in the ass."

  "Yeh," Loughlin agreed. "Always whining and bitching. Got on your nerves."

  Stone rolled his eyes. "Get moving."

  He set a course using the compass, and Hog led out. The jungle was not as thick and impenetrable as it would be farther east, but it was difficult.

  What was ahead of them? Would there be troops at Lerida? Probably not many, the post hidden in the jungle. Perhaps there were patrols. A good commander would take precautions against a surprise raid.

  They paused every hour to check the compass, and in four hours they came up against cliffs and a huge area of landslides. They turned westward and the going was even more difficult, probably the result of earthquake action centuries ago. The jungle had swarmed over it, and it seemed to take forever to get onto more or less level ground again.

  They were bunched together, getting ready to climb out of a sharp depression, when Stone saw the reflection.

  He grabbed Hog's belt and hauled him down, yelling at Loughlin to duck. A hail of bullets pounded and shredded the lip of the depression—exactly where their heads had been a second before.

  "Thanks, neighbor," Hog said. "Damn if that ain't unfriendly."

  "Sandinista patrol, probably," Stone remarked. "Shoot first and go look later."

  "This's probably restricted territory." Loughlin said, sliding the Uzi off his back. He led toward the right as Stone pointed.

  The Sandinistas probably thought they were rebels. And if so, the enemy would do its best to eliminate them completely.

  They made their way to the right, keeping low. In a few moments Loughlin halted, lying on
his belly. He turned his head slowly and mouthed the word "grenade."

  They had two left that Jorge Mora had not taken after the fight in the old factory. Stone opened his pack and pulled one out, yanking off the tape. He handed it to the Briton, pointed to the right, and Loughlin nodded. He looked back at Hog, who nodded.

  Loughlin pulled the pin, let the handle up, and looped the grenade over his head in a high arc. It came down forty feet away and exploded. Then, all three got to their feet and dashed to the right a dozen yards. A burst of AK fire sprayed the ground.

  Loughlin grinned. "Got three of 'em in a bunch." He shook his head. "Too bad."

  They moved forward again with Stone in the lead, the silenced Walther in his hand. The jungle was suddenly quiet. He flattened himself on the earth and waited. Almost at his nose a drop of water ran down a broad green leaf and poised itself at the edge, growing fatter . . . till it dropped heavily. In another moment a second drop ran down.

  Something moved just beyond a tangle of roots thirty feet away. The movement became a brown face and neck.

  Stone aimed the Walther and squeezed the trigger—phut! The face jerked away and disappeared.

  Instantly AK fire smashed into trees to their left, and leaves and bits of wood showered down. Stone fired again, guessing where the shots came from.

  Loughlin and Hog crawled to the right, and Stone followed, keeping a wide interval. A grenade exploded suddenly some distance to their left, and a second grenade followed, slightly closer, then a third hit behind them. Somebody was a lousy guesser. Maybe the grenade tossers were hearing a frightened animal.

  The enemy had no way of knowing how many they faced and perhaps it kept them cautious. The jungle was silent once more, and they hugged the earth. Several minutes dragged by, then suddenly there was an uproar of sound.

  A dozen AKs were firing at once, pouring gouts of lead, all concentrating on an area of ground well to their left.

  Stone motioned, and they rapidly moved away from the sounds. The enemy would soon discover there were no bodies in front of them, and no return fire. They'd begin to look elsewhere.

  And it only took a short time. As they moved to the right, with Hog in the lead, shadows appeared not far in front of them and bullets raked the trees.

  Hog replied with the silenced pistol and the firing stopped.

  Then, as they continued toward the right, stray shots came seeking them. Stone fired at the sounds with the Walther. Loughlin did the same. Automatic rounds chattered over them, and someone yelled as Stone emptied the pistol.

  This was a nervous business, firing at an unseen enemy. They had to get away from these guys. Stone motioned and hissed at Hog, pointing left. If the Sandinistas thought they were moving to the right—they'd go left and double back. Fuck 'em.

  Following Loughlin, they crawled to the left with bullets spanging and tearing the jungle around them recklessly.

  Gradually the firing died out. There were a few sniping shots, then someone threw a grenade. Finally all was still. The enemy would move forward, discover no bodies, and it might all start, again.

  Stone led them south once more. They could hear the Sandinistas far to their right, wasting ammunition. It would be interesting to see the report their officer made, Stone thought. He could give his imagination free rein. . . .

  Nikol Volcheck was an important man, but he was in Nicaragua on a secret mission. The newspapers were not told of his arrival and he was not presented to the President. He did meet with Colonel Villela, then was driven to the airport, where a helicopter waited. He and two members of his staff were flown to Lerida.

  The norteamericano agents had been captured at a very opportune moment. Moscow needed information about American intentions in Nicaragua, indeed in Central America, and these agents were certain to have that knowledge.

  But reluctant to give it up. So Volcheck had been dispatched to squeeze it out of them.

  Nikol Volcheck's career was dotted with such missions. Because of an affair that western newsmen had uncovered despite K.G.B. camouflage and denials, a French newspaper had referred to him as the Beast of the Black Sea. Many would agree with the title. Volcheck was an uncomplicated man. He did not argue with or sidestep his orders. If he was told to get information, no matter how, he got it. If the victim did not recover, it was no skin off Volcheck's Soviet ass. His helicopter landed on the jungle pad, and he was taken at once to his quarters, which were air-conditioned. The generator was fickle, but it often worked most of the day and night.

  After a nap and a bath and dinner, he asked to see the two agents, to satisfy his curiosity. They were taken to a room that had a one-way mirror, and Volcheck stared at them for several moments, grunted, and walked out.

  He gave orders that he would begin his interrogations the next morning.

  General Perez, since the abduction, was difficult and irritable. The guards and the unlucky officer in charge at Antonio's residence had been jailed, charged with malingering and incompetence and other things. . . . The general lashed about in his anger.

  Antonio's wife had given birth to a girl child two days later, which had not helped. General Perez had wished for a boy.

  And, worst of all, the three damned norteamericanos who had kidnapped his son had not been captured. The grand search had gone nowhere. To be sure, the searchers had turned up a number of wanted persons, but not the kidnappers.

  Colonel Villela had quietly suggested that perhaps the three had taken Antonio out of the country. Villela told his wife that he would not bet a single centavo that Antonio was still alive. "They will squeeze information out of him, then kill him. Mark my words. We will find his body in a ditch one of these mornings."

  But to Perez, Villela had not dared suggest that Antonio might be buried somewhere in the city or the forest. Why keep him alive to be a hindrance? And, too, Antonio might be able to point out his abductors one day. No, Antonio was long dead.

  General Perez had only growled at the idea that Antonio might have been taken out of Nicaragua. "Why would they do that? They will send a ransom note soon —you will see."

  "Yes, of course," Villela replied, believing no word of it.

  When he got his mind off the abduction, General Perez was very interested in the Russian, Nikol Volcheck. He greatly deplored the man's reputation and despised Volcheck for it. Perez was a soldier, proud of his calling; he was a fighter, as aggressive and ruthless in battle as the next, but he was not a man to shoot an enemy in the back. He had his faults and they were legion, as his enemies could testify, but he was willing to stand and be counted.

  He had certain scruples, and as he had told his son once, he had to be concerned with public relations. Too often those deep, dark secrets one wished to conceal got out into the open and were dissected by the press. Nicaragua had enemies who would like nothing better than to defame her leaders.

  But especially if the Giant of the North, the Estados Unidos, discovered that two of its agents had been captured and tortured, Perez was convinced the Giant would invade Nicaragua.

  He would do the same if the positions were reversed. And if invasion came, then all was lost.

  However, to Perez's surprise, El Presidente did not agree with him. El Presidente was commander in chief, and he asserted that Volcheck was not a torturer. Did not the Russian Embassy deny it? In fact, the Russians were insulted that anyone would think it.

  General Perez stood in the palace, facing the marble portraits by the magnificent tinkling waterfall in the reception hail. "We must expect the Russians to say that, sir."

  "I am convinced they are telling the truth, Perez. Convinced. The man is nothing more than a skilled interrogator."

  "I cannot believe it, Excellency. The man's reputation is blacker than sin."

  El Presidente shrugged. "You listen to gossip, Perez. You know such things are not always true."

  "Perhaps. But I fear we are making a terrible mistake."

  El Presidente regarded him curiously. "W
hy do you defend the norteamericanos?"

  "Sir—I am defending Nicaragua!" Perez drew himself up.

  "Bueno. I am delighted to hear it."

  "What if the world press learns of the torture?"

  "There is no torture! I forbid you to say those things!

  Be careful, Perez, that you do not spread lies."

  Perez was silent a moment. "Then let me go to Lerida, Excellency. I will make a full report to you."

  "You will not go!" El Presidente took a step forward, fists clenched. There were white spots in his cheeks.

  "This matter does not concern you! I have given orders that Señor Volcheck is not to be interfered with. He has my full confidence." He pointed a shaking finger. "See that you obey those orders!"

  "But, Excellency! The three norteamericanos who kidnapped your son are possibly heading for Lerida."

  "Why should they?" El Presidente paused. "Three men? Just three? Do you panic over three men?"

  "They are—unusual men," Perez said stiffly.

  "You will return to Tela, General." El Presidente's tone was cold. "You will please remain there until I send for you."

  They had not escaped the Sandinistas. The patrol was larger than they'd thought, and they ran into another section of it as they moved to the south. They were challenged, could not give the proper countersign, and were fired on.

  Hitting the ground, Stone motioned them to the left. They had to move quickly or find themselves between two fires. Several men charged them, and Stone, lying on his stomach, fired the Walther, aiming deliberately. The silenced rounds cut them down.

  He reloaded, waiting for a response, and none came. Praise Allah for the silencers.

  But they left a trail; it was impossible not to. They had to cut their way. It could not be helped if they were to hurry at all. Hog and Stone brought up the rear, firing at every movement. It must be disconcerting to the pursuers to see men drop and not hear shots. The return fire was usually wide of the mark. There was no sound or muzzle flash to help.