Manus Xingue

by Jack Challis

  ‘His name is Luther Washington, signaller – the only black man in the twelve man team of US special force soldiers that came after Chevez three months ago. I cannot understand why they’re not body-bagging their dead and taking the dog-tags – it is not like the Yanks.’

  Dublin checks the skeleton. ‘Look, damage to two ribs – looks like a knife!’

  ‘And why has the CT set been smashed?’ Edwards adds.

  Kane notices a small, red, badly discoloured, signaller’s log book sticking through the rotten uniform. He reads the last entry, dated fourth of May 2006…

  “‘Peterson has sent me away to contact headquarters with an urgent coded message. It is sure nice to get away from the hillbilly rednecks… Those mountain-men make a lone, coloured boy like me feel a little jumpy.” The rest is unreadable,’ says Kane.

  Jack Lacy and Indian Joe return. ‘Nothing, Sarge – they’re legging it,’ announces Lacy.

  ‘We need to move, Jim,’ urges Edwards. ‘Can’t give Chevez too much of a start.’

  Chevez and his group reach a sluggish, hip-deep river. ‘Holy Mother!’ exclaims Mendoza, ‘this is the Jurua River – upstream – my boat is downstream. This way is better for you, Chevez, you mother–fucker, not for me!’

  ‘Walk downstream for a hundred metres,’ says Chevez, ‘then climb the bank. You will find a trail – you will soon reach your boat.’

  ‘You bring me all this way to walk in the river!’ answers Mendoza, shocked. ‘What about anacondas, piranhas?’

  ‘We will be watching you,’ Chevez answers, tapping his rifle.

  Mendoza studies Chevez – was that a subtle threat?’ A Kier Verde fits an arrow to his bow – his question is answered! Mendoza begins to take off his new combat boots. ‘Leave your boots on, Mendoza,’ says Chevez. ‘There maybe stingrays in the water!’ Mendoza reluctantly wades into the waist-deep river, awkwardly holding all his traded goods out of the water’s reach.

  Chevez asks Apari to go back along the trail and keep a lookout for the white soldiers’ approach. Chevez and the two remaining Kier Verde watch Mendoza struggling in the river with amusement.

  ‘Don’t piss in the water, Mendoza,’ shouts Rondo, ‘or you will find the little fish that would like to sleep in your fat cock!’

  Mendoza checks between his legs and swears. ‘Mother-fuckers! I should have gone the other way – they are using me to make a false trail.’

  Once Mendoza has found the trail and climbed back on the bank further down river, Yuma claps his hands and declares… ‘That will delay the white soldiers.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ says Chevez, ‘Apari will catch us up.’ Chevez and the Kier Verde indians then enter the river and walk upstream. The two wild indians walk in front of Chevez and deliberately kick up sediment that covers Chevez’s tracks, totally obliterating them, giving the impression that only the two Kier Verde warriors have gone upstream.

  Only minutes later, the SAS men, led by Indian Joe, reach the same river. ‘Fuck me gently,’ swears Kane, ‘it’s the Jurua, the same river we crossed yesterday, only we’re upstream.’

  ‘It’s a bloody good place for an ambush from across the river,’ Edwards adds.

  All the troopers hit the deck. ‘Chevez has led us in a half circle,’ says Kane. ‘Lacy, I want you to scan the opposite bank with your scope – study every leaf and stick that’s out of place, even by a gnat’s cock.’

  ‘I don’t think Chevez will chance an ambush until he’s desperate,’ Taffy Edwards muses. Kane tells Indian Joe to enter the river and find out which way Chevez is heading.

  Indian Joe enters the river, covered by the SAS men – he checks the sandy river-bed for tracks, using his hands to exclude the light. The trick, played by the Kier Verde fools Indian Joe – he wades back and reports to Sgt Jim Kane.

  ‘Two Kier Verde warriors go,’ Indian Joe points upstream. ‘Man with boots go this way,’ Indian Joe points downstream.

  ‘Chevez is heading back to the hut – it doesn’t make sense,’ says Kane. ‘Mendoza, wearing the home-made sandals, and a Kier Verde warrior have completely disappeared!’

  ‘Careful!’ warns the cautious Edwards, ‘they could be sneaking up behind us.’

  ‘Take up all-round defensive positions,’ orders Kane. ‘Joe and me will go after Chevez downstream – we might get lucky.’ Kane and Indian Joe enter the river and wade downstream. Edwards and Dublin lie together; Lacy is about six metres away.

  Edwards and Dublin talk in low voices. ‘It’s going to be difficult, getting a look at any dog-tags we find if Jim is there,’ says Dublin. ‘Shall we chance it – bring Jim in on what’s going on?’

  ‘Not bloody likely, mate,’ answers Edwards. ‘Jim follows orders to the letter and is as straight as a die. Remember that Iraqi 4-by-4, filled with money? Jim handed it straight back to the first stupid Rupert he saw.’

  ‘What about Lacy?’ Dublin asks.

  ‘Lacy is a Cockney – Cockneys are all crooks,’ replies Edwards. ‘Lacy is also a big-mouth Marine – six pints of lager and he’ll sing like a Cockney sparrow.’

  Instead of keeping alert, Lacy is looking at a large flock of colourful macaws circling overhead. The macaws dip and land on a tall tree, seventy yards in front of Lacy – the naive Lacy stands up to get a better view of the birds.

  ‘Look at that stupid prick!’ hisses Dublin. ‘He’s staring at that tree, like a cow stares at a new gate.’

  ‘Get your bloody head down, man,’ shouts Taffy Edwards, ‘before you get a round in it.’

  ‘It’s alright, Taffy,’ answers Lacy. ‘Those birds would not have landed if they saw anyone near the tree with a gun.’

  ‘Listen to Sherlock Homes,’ muses Dublin. ‘You are standing there with a gun, you prick!’

  Kane and Indian Joe reappear, also watching the flocks of macaws. Suddenly, the birds take off, screeching – Kane and Lacy hit the ground – Indian Joe takes a line of cocaine.

  All the SAS men focus on the area around the tree. Lacy crawls up to Kane. ‘Send Rumpleforeskin in there, Sarge–. Let him get shot!’

  ‘Don’t be such a prat,’ answers Kane. ‘If we lose our tracker, we have a snowball’s chance in hell of catching that crafty sod, Chevez.’

  ‘What do you reckon scared those birds, Sarge?’ Lacy asks.

  ‘Could be anything – definitely not Chevez. He would only ambush us from across the river,’ answers the Sergeant.

  ‘I agree’ says Edwards. ‘Chevez is too smart to try anything this side of the river.’ Sergeant Kane whispers to Edwards and Dublin, ‘We followed the person wearing the US combat boots. It was not Chevez but the trader, Mendoza – we found where he left his boat. Chevez is the one wearing the Goodyear sandals but he and one Kier Verde seem to have just vanished!’

  ‘I have a strange feeling Chevez wanted us to hang about here for some reason,’ says Edwards.

  ‘A penny to a pinch of snuff, Chevez went upstream, hiding his tracks somehow,’ Dublin adds.

  ‘I agree,’ replies Kane. ‘Chevez gave us something to work out, to keep us occupied.’

  ‘Why?’ Taffy Edwards muses.

  The four SAS troopers scan the surrounding jungle nervously. ‘Now I see through a light glass darkly!’ replies Kane.

  The SAS men enter the river, led by Indian Joe, and wade upstream. After a few hundred metres, their grotesque tracker finds where Chevez and the Kier Verde left the river. In the muddy bank, Chevez’s tracks suddenly reappear behind the bare footprints of the two Kier Verde indians. ‘Fuck me, they couldn’t have carried Chevez – their tracks weren’t deep enough.’ Kane exclaims. Soon they find two cheroot stubs.

  ‘Bloody Nora!’ says Edwards. ‘The two indians had time for a fag break – but where is Chevez?’

  ‘That’s what I am going to find out,’ replies Kane. ‘Wait here.’ Kane and Indian Joe follow Chevez’s tracks back downstream along the bank; Edwards, Dublin and Lacy form an all-round defence again.

  ‘Jim�
��s too cautious,’ quips Taffy Edwards. ‘He wastes time.’

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ says Dublin, ‘we should have pushed on – caught up with Chevez and nailed the bastard. He only has an old, bolt-action rifle – he’ll be lucky to get one round off.’ Jack Lacy’s mind, however, is on matters more serious. ‘Give us a packet of Yank fags, Taffy, and a swig from that bottle of gold watch.’

  ‘No and no,’ replies Edwards. ‘Good whiskey is wasted on anyone under thirty.’

  Kane and Indian Joe return. ‘What’s up, Jim?’ asks Edwards.

  ‘Well fuck me gently,’ replies the Sergeant. ‘Chevez has been playing with us! This is not going to be a quick operation. Henry was right – Chevez and the Kier Verde have more tricks than a cart-load of monkeys! While the two Kier Verde sat here and had a smoke, Chevez nipped back and took a look at us – while we were on the river-bank!’

  ‘What about the birds, Sarge?’ asks Lacy.

  ‘The birds only took flight when Chevez got up to leave.’

  ‘Gordon Bennett!’ Lacy exclaims. ‘Chevez could have drilled me straight through the head. Why didn’t he?’

  ‘I will tell you why,’ says Taffy Edwards, ‘because Chevez didn’t know who we were or who we were after.’

  ‘Well, he bloody well knows now!’ answers Dublin. ‘We best watch our backs!’

  Indian Joe, after scouting short way ahead, returns and snorts a line of coke. ‘Bloody hell, Sarge,’ whispers Lacy, ‘he’ll be through that lot like a dose of salts at this rate. What happens when he goes cold turkey?’

  ‘I have two more packets,’ says Kane.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ remarks Lacy. ‘What if you run out before we get Chevez?’

  ‘And now I see through a light glass darkly,’ replies the Sergeant.

  ‘What does that mean, Sarge?’ Lacy asks.

  ‘It means my crystal ball is covered in shit!’ Kane replies.

  CHAPTER SIX

  AN ANGRY BABA AMARILLO

  Indian Joe returns. ‘Chevez go this way,’ reports Indian Joe. ‘Not use trail.’ The SAS troopers follow Indian Joe towards the jungle. The tracks of Chevez and the Kier Verde are plainly visible in the soft riverbank mud. After a hundred metres, the tracks completely disappear! They meet a solid wall of jungle.

  ‘Bloody Nora!’ Edwards swears. ‘Chevez couldn’t have gone through this lot without disturbing it – it’s a false trail.’

  Indian Joe studies the tracks carefully, then gives a demonstration of what happened. The cocaine addict walks forward leaving his tracks. Then, carefully walking backwards while facing forwards, he skilfully places his feet in the exactly the same footprints. ‘It’s a simple trick Chevez knew we would solve,’ comments Kane, ‘but why did he want us here?’

  ‘I think we should back up, Jim,’ warns Taffy Edwards looking around concerned. ‘It could be a trap!’

  The SAS troopers slowly back away, covering their withdrawal. Edwards’ body brushes against a branch, chest-high….there’s a hiss – a snake strikes the Welshman in the chest!

  ‘Bloody Hell,’ gasps Edwards, turning pale and looking at the hissing snake. ‘It’s a Fer de Lance!’

  The four SAS troopers look in disbelief at the live, venomous snake. It had been deliberately attached to the branch with a vine pushed painfully through its body – a living, very angry, booby trap!

  ‘It’s got me good and proper, Frank! In the chest – the worst place,’ groans Edwards, sinking to the ground.

  ‘Keep calm, mate,’ advises Dublin. ‘It will slow the poison spreading.’

  ‘Fuck my poxy luck!’ swears Edwards. ‘I think a fang has punctured an artery!’

  ‘It could have been a dry bite mate,’ Dublin comforts.

  ‘Dry bite, my arse!’ Edwards replies. ‘I can feel the poison spreading!’

  Indian Joe kills the snake with his machete. Grinning, he exclaims, ‘Baba Amarillo – bad poison – Edwards morto – mucho rapido.’ The indian tracker then draws his hand over his throat.

  ‘Bloody Job’s comforter, you are,’ says Kane, who then motions Lacy over. ‘Taffy is a goner, Sarge,’ whispers Lacy. ‘The snake has bitten him right by his strawberry. I will give him a Bothrops polyvalent injection. Half round the puncture marks and the other half between the wound and the heart. I hate giving injections.’

  ‘You’re our medic,’ snaps the Sergeant. ‘Get the fuck on with it, you fairy.’

  Dublin tears Edwards’ tunic open and sees two deep fang marks already haemorrhaging. Lacy begins to inject the anti-venom. Kane motions Dublin over. ‘There’s still a chance, Jim,’ says the Irishman hopefully. ‘Maybe just a warning bite.’

  ‘Not this snake, Frank. It was in pain and angry, just waiting for someone to come into range. This was a live booby trap – we fell for it!’

  ‘The anti-venom could save him,’ says Dublin hopefully.

  ‘It won’t have time to work!’ Kane answers. ‘I think a fang has hit an artery – Taffy will know that!’

  ‘It’s going to hurt like hell,’ says the Irishman. ‘It’s a haematoxin – every organ will haemorrhage. Taffy will turn black and blue and bleed from every orifice and die of a heart attack!’ Dublin takes out a sealed medical kit and begins to fill a syringe watched by Kane. ‘That’s a lot of morphine, Frank,’ comments the Sergeant.

  ‘We have an understanding.’ Dublin replies, walking towards his mate, Edwards. Kane calls Lacy back so as not to implicate him with what is about to happen.

  ‘Stone the crows, Sarge!’ exclaims Lacy, seeing the syringe. ‘That’s a lethal dose Dublin’s got there!’

  ‘The dose looked fine to me,’ replies the Sergeant. ‘Indian Joe – find out where Chevez go.’ Indian Joe enters the jungle.

  ‘Taffy’s leaking claret like a sieve, Sarge… How will Dublin take it when Taffy passes away?’

  ‘Look, lad,’ answers Kane, ‘we die in the SAS! We do not pass away, pass out or pass over – Taffy will just die! When Taffy, Frank and me joined up, we joined up knowing we could be wounded, crippled, or killed – that is what being a soldier is about. We cannot become too sentimental or shocked about a soldier’s death, like the Yanks.’

  Frank Dublin kneels next to his mate. Edwards is now bleeding from his mouth, ears and eyes. Dublin carefully wipes them. ‘Come on, Taffy,’ encourages the Irishman, holding up the lethal dose of morphine for Edwards to see. ‘We still have our memoirs to write.’

  Edwards is conscious and can see the overloaded syringe! ‘I need your help to write that book,’ continues Dublin.

  ‘Only because you’re illiterate, you stupid Paddy,’ answers the Welshman painfully. Dublin holds up the overloaded syringe of morphine again for Edwards to see, as if for confirmation. Taffy Edwards nods. ‘Give me a pull of that Yank bourbon mate…. and a fag.’ Frank Dublin gently places the bottle to his best friend’s lips. Taffy Edwards takes several deep gulps. Dublin places a cigarette in Taffy’s mouth, but before he can light it, it falls to the ground. Taffy Edwards has died of haematoxin poison!

  That evening, the three SAS men sit around the fire. Indian Joe returns from his assigned scouting trip. ‘Chevez – go east,’ announces the indian.

  Dublin stands up holding a small entrenching shovel. ‘I’ll put Taffy underground now,’ declares the Irishman, walking into the gloom of the approaching jungle night.

  I only hope this liberal government of powdered-arse poofs doesn’t allow women into the regiment – there is talk of it,’ Kane ponders.

  ‘Yeah,’ agrees Lacy, ‘I bet the women would be some right ugly, hairy-arsed pipe-smoking dykes and fishmongers – with legs like sumo wrestlers.’

  Mumbled words of Latin float on the humid, jungle night air as Dublin holds a short requiem over his best mate. The Irishman returns – he then shares out Taffy’s kit, rations and medical supplies, as is the custom. Dublin keeps the bourbon and cigarettes for himself.

  Indian Joe takes a line of cocaine an
d stands up. ‘Indian Joe hunt now.’ Turning, the grotesque Shaman walks into the jungle night.

  ‘What does our venereal friend get up to, alone in the jungle at night?’ asks Dublin, suspiciously.

  ‘He’s not afraid of the man-eater,’ adds Lacy, ‘and there will be problems when he goes cold turkey!’

  ‘A Chinese parliament,’ announces Kane, ignoring the two troopers’ concerns about Indian Joe. ‘We have lost time and need to catch up with Chevez tomorrow.’

  ‘It could work in our favour,’ says Dublin. ‘Chevez will think he has shaken us off and relax – we can catch him around his camp-fire tomorrow night.’

  ‘It’s our only chance,’ agrees Kane. ‘He is now heading east, leading us into the malarial swamps of Boa Santos – same as he did the Yanks.’

  ‘He’s a tricky bastard all right,’ adds Dublin. ‘I have never come across the snake booby-trap before – remember, he mixes with the Kier Verde, and has picked up some of their tricks.’

  ‘We have to finish it tomorrow night,’ says Kane. ‘The longer the chase goes on, the more dangerous it will become!’

  Three miles away to the north, Chevez and the three Kier Verde indians sit around a small fire, smoking.

  ‘I will be happy when we cross the Japari River into our land – then our magic power will return,’ comments Yuma.

  ‘We can then become the Invisible People again,’ adds Rondo.

  ‘Your power is jungle knowledge,’ says Chevez. ‘You cannot lose it!’

  ‘You do not understand, Chevez,’ says Yuma. ‘Once we cross the Japari River, our power leaves us. Our green masks cannot make us the Invisible People!’ Chevez smiles at the Kier Verde superstitions and shakes his head.

  ‘I wonder if the long-nosed, white soldiers are still following us?’ Apari asks. ‘The jungle animals have given no sign, of us being followed,’ replies Yuma. ‘These soldiers are different from the Americanos,’ says Chevez. ‘They travel light and move quickly and quietly.’