Manus Xingue

by Jack Challis

  Indian Joe lowers his bow but the other Cat-men keep their bowstrings taught, arrows still pointing at the SAS men’s chests.

  ‘So,’ says Kane, ‘you belong to the Cat-people, not the Marpari?’ Indian Joe grins. ‘I, Manus Xingue, big Shaman of Cat-people. You no more call Indian Joe – you call I Manus Xingue – me have power of officer. You now listen Manus Xingue, Ok?’

  Ok, Manus Xingue,’ replies Kane calmly. ‘You officer. How you get power of officer?’ From the small, grinning, shrunken skull with blond hair hanging on his belt, Manus Xingue takes a dog-tag ID and holds it up.

  ‘Show me,’ asks the Sergeant. Manus Xingue hands over the dog-tags proudly. Kane reads the inscription… ‘Lt Calum Peterson, blood group O-negative.’ Dublin takes a look; Lacy watches over Dublin’s shoulder. The Irishman takes no interest in the name but turns the dog-tag over and looks at the back!

  ‘What is it?’ Kane asks – he is already suspicious of Dublin’s presence on this operation.

  ‘Nothing,’ replies Dublin. ‘Just some scratches and a couple of letters.’ The sergeant looks at the dog-tags again. ‘It’s a compass bearing and the letters “F R”,’ says Kane.

  ‘Maybe,’ replies Dublin, ‘but it could be from any operation.’ Manus Xingue becomes suspicious, grabbing back the dogs-tags and placing it around his thick neck, believing the power of command lies in the dog-tags alone.

  Manus Xingue sends two scouts ahead to locate the Columbian soldiers’ camp.

  ‘We only want to kill your enemy, Chevez,’ says Kane. ‘Let us go.’

  ‘First, you work for Manus Xingue – now I officer!’

  ‘What do you want?’ the Sergeant asks.

  ‘Attack Columbian soldiers – get woman back – no woman, no tribe,’ answers Manus Xingue. ‘Attack tonight.’

  ‘What, in the dark?’ Dublin protests.

  ‘Cat-people like dark, can see in dark,’ Manus Xingue answers.

  ‘Looks like Hobson’s choice, boys,’ says Kane. ‘We will help you but we keep our weapons and leave tomorrow to hunt Chevez.’ Manus Xingue nods in agreement. ‘Manus Xingue also come – find – kill Chevez.’

  The three SAS troopers look at each in surprise. The grotesque Shaman turns and speaks to his people. They lower their bows and move away, leaving two guards to watch the SAS soldiers. The Cat-people begin to light large fires just out of sight of the SAS troopers. The warriors carry away the bodies of the two dead drug-runners, rejecting the body of the scrawny José.

  CHAPTER NINE

  OUR VENEREAL FRIEND

  ‘Give me the poster, Jim,’ says Dublin. ‘Look, Peterson has blond hair. Private Hagger and Private Murphy are redheads.’

  ‘What are you saying, Frank?’ Kane asks.

  ‘Two of the skulls on his belt have red hair and one is blond. He must have killed them, maybe eaten them! Those shrunken skulls are trophies.’

  ‘But Taffy’s head didn’t go AWOL,’ Lacy points out.

  ‘Taffy had mousy hair, you prick,’ says Dublin. ‘Our venereal friend prefers blonds and redheads, I am telling you,’ continues Dublin. ‘Manus Xingue took Taffy’s arm – a penny to a pinch of snuff on it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agrees Lacy. ‘What is Rumpleforeskin living on?’

  A smell of roasting meat drifts towards the three troopers.

  ‘Smells like pork to me,’ says Kane.

  ‘Yeah,’ agrees Lacy. ‘Pork chops – I could go a pork chop now.’

  ‘Pork chops, my arse. That’s bloody ‘long pig’ they are roasting, for sure,’ announces Dublin angrily.

  ‘I smelt a couple of bodies in a burning tank once,’ says Kane. ‘Didn’t smell like that.’

  ‘You smelt burnt bodies, Sarge,’ replies Lacy. ‘The Cat-men are not burning their chops – they are cooking them just right.’

  ‘Bollocks to you two and your pork chops,’ snaps Dublin. ‘I am telling you the Cat-people are cannibals and that means so is our venereal friend, Manus Xingue.’

  ‘I agree with Frank, Sarge,’ adds Lacy. ‘Rumpleforeskin was in the jungle that night when Taffy’s arm went missing – remember what he had in his fibre back-pack when we first met him? That looked like an arm!’

  ‘We can’t say that for certain,’ responds Kane, ‘till we know what they’re roasting on their fires.’

  ‘We also need those dog-tags back,’ pipes up Dublin.

  ‘Well, lads,’ says Kane. ‘We have to go along with it.’

  ‘I think we can shoot our way out of this,’ Dublin responds.

  ‘Not in the dark, Frank – they’ll hunt us down,’ replies Kane. ‘We cannot afford another casualty.’

  ‘I don’t fancy an arrow up the Khyber,’ adds Lacy.

  ‘The easy way out is to help get their women back, without taking any chances,’ suggests Kane.

  The two Cat-men scouts return later and report to Manus Xingue who approaches the three soldiers, wiping his greasy chops and grinning, showing off his long, pointed, filed canines. He beckons Sgt Kane over. With a stick, he draws in the ground and gives his strategy and plan of attack. Kane returns and explains to Dublin and Lacy.

  ‘We fire high into their camp – we don’t want to kill any Colombian soldiers – it will only complicate our operation. Just lob a few grenades into the jungle perimeter to cause a diversion while the Cat-men rescue their women. The signal to open fire is the second roar of a jaguar.’

  ‘What about the light machine-gun, Sarge?’ asks Jack Lacy.

  ‘We will have to be well gone before they set it up,’ Kane answers.

  ‘We go now!’ orders Manus Xingue.

  The Cat-men move out into the jungle night. The SAS troopers follow with two more Cat-men in the rear.

  ‘Gordon Bennett, Sarge, I can’t see for looking,’ Lacy exclaims.

  ‘Just place your hand on my Bergen, lad,’ replies Kane, ‘and pick your bloody feet up.’ The group set off in total darkness.

  An hour later, the Cat-men and the three SAS troopers are approaching the camp of the Columbian soldiers. The SAS troopers and the Cat-men split up. The soldiers’ camp is quiet – the captive women are still tied together, guarded by two Columbian soldiers who are teasing the terrified women with rude gestures.

  The SAS troopers get into position and wait. The two Columbian guards are drinking tequila – the roar of a jaguar shatters the quite night!

  The two Columbian guards stiffen, staring into the blackness, while the captured women’s faces light up with hope. On the second jaguar roar, several arrows transfix the guards – they fall dead! The SAS troopers open fire. Two Columbian soldiers try to set up the machine-gun.

  Captain de Silva rushes from his tent, pulling on his boots and screaming orders. The Columbian soldiers panic and fire blindly into the night. In the following confusion, the Cat-men release their women and disappear into the jungle night.

  Back at Lobo’s old camp that night, after the night’s raid, the SAS men sit around their own fire, watching the celebrations of the Cat-men, who sit in a circle chanting a dirge while their freed women perform a shuffling dance in the middle.

  Kane watches the indians and idly pokes the fire. Lacy cleans his sniper rifle and powerful telescope. The three SAS troopers talk in hushed tones.

  ‘I think our venereal friend is past his sell-by date,’ says Dublin. ‘We have to kill him – he is dangerous. He needs us and is using us for reasons of his own!’

  ‘We also need him, Frank,’ replies Kane. ‘We need another pair of eyes now Taffy is dead. Chevez and the Kier Verde are tricky bastards – we just can’t afford another casualty. He’s as keen as us to kill Chevez.’

  ‘Rumpleforeskin could have killed us, and taken everything,’ says Lacy.

  Our venereal friend is not ready to kill us yet,’ says Dublin, ‘because he has a hidden agenda and, by the time we find out what it is, it could be too bloody late for all of us!’

  Blimey!’ exclaims Lacy, touching his hair. ‘I hope Rum
pleforeskin is not looking for another blond barnet for his collection of shrunken skulls?

  ‘I wondered when you would notice he is shy one blond to make up matching pairs!’ quips Dublin.

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, lad,’ replies Kane. ‘Our main concern is to beat Chevez to that junction and ambush him. I don’t want to be side-tracked by other issues – we have to beat Chevez to the junction.

  ‘It’s a race and we have a head-start, say Dublin. But at the same time our venereal friend has to be dealt with, sooner rather than later. I believe he has more than just one agenda for sticking with us! We have to kill him at the first opportunity – get those dog-tags back.’

  Kane regards Dublin suspiciously. ‘Look Frank, I do not want a war on both fronts – let sleeping dogs lie. If the Cat-men are keeping tabs on us, they are not going to take our killing their Shaman kindly. We then have to watch out for Chevez in front and the Cat-men from behind! I say kill Chevez first, then worry about Manus Xingue.

  CHAPTER TEN

  HELP FROM A PARASITE

  At first light the following morning, the three SAS troopers march briskly along the jungle trail to reach the ambush position at the junction before Chevez. During the night, Manus Xingue and the Cat-men have silently melted away, unseen.

  The soldiers stop. At the side of the track is another bleached skeleton, in rotting US uniform. The right arm is missing! The skull grins at them. Kane gently lifts off the dead man’s dog-tags and reads the name: Corporal Hauser.

  ‘Another CT operator,’ says Dublin. ‘The CT set’s also been sabotaged! Why are the Yanks leaving the dog-tags, and their dead?’

  Kane searches the ragged pockets for the small, CT operator’s logbook. The last entry is dated 15 May 2006, and reads:

  “For Colonel Smith attention only: from Lt Peterson. It is my duty to report there is something wrong with this operation. Our CTs are being sabotaged. Our initial orders have been side-tracked by Captain Lamont who took six men away on an unscheduled operation. They suffered causalities. Capt Lamont was seriously wounded and died at O500 hrs. They brought back three laden mules – their loads are strictly guarded. Hauser is one of the few men I can still trust. Our Marpari tracker has disappeared. Thankfully, another indian appeared. I have sent him with Private Hauser out of camp to transmit this message. I request you send an armed unit to regain order.”

  ‘A penny to a pinch of snuff,’ says Dublin, ‘that “another indian” was our venereal friend, Manus Xingue. He killed Private Hauser and cut off his right arm – many cannibalistic tribes believe by eating the right arm of a man they take on the strength of the victim.’

  ‘But Taffy’s left arm was missing,’ pipes up Lacy.

  ‘Taffy was left-handed,’ Dublin says. ‘Something our venereal friend must have noticed. We have to kill him first chance we get, Jim!’

  ‘Something dodgy is going on here, alright,’ says Kane, looking at Dublin. ‘What do you know about all this, Frank?’

  ‘It’s not me you should be worried about – it’s that ugly gargoyle we have for a guide!’ answers Dublin.

  Kane is not convinced. He believes Dublin is using Manus Xingue as a smoke-screen to cover his own agenda.

  ‘Hang a trout,’ says Lacy. ‘Manus Xingue has latched on to us like he did to the Yanks – fuck that!’

  ‘Don’t you start as well,’ says Kane. ‘Ok, Manus Xingue is not a Marpari but a Cat-man. So what? He’s still a good tracker and wants Chevez dead. That’s good enough for me – I don’t want conflict with the Cat-men, Frank!’

  ‘Why not? That’s how you English got your empire – rifles against bows and arrows.’

  Kane ignores the remark and lifts the skull to looks at the back of it. ‘He’s been killed by a machete blow!’

  ‘That’s it, Jim,’ responds Dublin. ‘I will kill that deformed troll as soon as I set eyes on him – I owe that to Taffy. That ugly prick knows a lot more than we give him credit for.’

  ‘I doubt if we will ever see Manus Xingue again,’ Kane replies.

  The three SAS troopers move on. Several miles later, on turning a corner on the track, they are shocked to find Manus Xingue standing in front of them, grinning!

  ‘Well, fuck me gently!’ Kane swears.

  ‘Act friendly, get him off guard,’ whispers Dublin, taking out a small, hidden knife.

  ‘I agree with Frank, Sarge, on this one – Rumpleforeskin is bad news,’ says Lacy. Kane is now having second thoughts about their deformed tracker. ‘Kill him tonight – we can use his help until we ambush Chevez.’

  Manus Xingue acts totally unconcerned about his past deception. He points to the jungle track. ‘Chevez,’ he announces, ‘join track here – before you come.’

  ‘Fuck a duck!’ Lacy swears. ‘Chevez has stitched us up again, like a kipper.’

  Kane checks the tracks. It’s Chevez all right – Goodyear tread sandals.

  ‘How long?’ he asks Manus Xingue.

  Manus Xingue flashes all his fingers four times – forty minutes.

  ‘How the fuck did he manage it? exclaims Dublin. That means Chevez will now be waiting to ambush us at the junction, only a kilometre away.’

  ‘We can still turn this to our advantage,’ answers Kane. ‘At least we know where he’ll be. One of us can outflank him, another cut off his retreat to the north.’ The SAS troopers spread out the map.

  ‘He won’t be waiting here, at the most obvious place of ambush, at the T-junction,’ says Dublin.

  ‘I agree,’ replies Kane. ‘He’ll take the right fork, heading north, giving him a clear line of retreat after he has fired at us.’

  ‘Chevez will wait to ambush us at this bend, here,’ suggests Dublin.

  ‘I agree,’ answers Kane. ‘He will plan to kill one of us, then escape around the bend out of sight and continue north.’

  ‘Ok,’ replies Dublin, ‘I’ll take the left flank – Lacy do a right hook and cover Chevez’s escape route north.’

  ‘I’ll go straight down the middle,’ adds Kane; ‘get a shot in if I can. As soon you get in range, Frank, lob in a grenade. Lacy lad, crawl on your belly – don’t worry about spiders – a round from an old German Mauser is far more dangerous.’

  ‘Ok Sarge,’ answers Lacy, ‘but where’s Rumpleforeskin?’

  Manus Xingue has disappeared as usual, while the three SAS troopers were studying the map. ‘The bastard’s done a moody again,’ observes Kane. ‘We can’t worry about him now.’

  ‘Manus Xingue is up to something, Jim,’ whispers Dublin, taking Kane aside, out of Lacy’s earshot. ‘It must be done tonight – no more putting off what we should have done a long time ago. Don’t let on to Lacy – he may give the game away by his body language.’ Kane ponders.

  ‘You are the best tracker in the regiment, Jim. Manus Xingue will be the death of one of us if he’s not killed, immediately!’ Dublin urges.

  ‘Ok,’ answers Kane, ‘as soon as we stop to bivvie tonight. Bury him deep – do it quietly, silently – his tribe won’t be far off.’

  The SAS troopers move forward. After a short while, Kane stops again and points to Chevez’s tracks.

  ‘Look at the state of those tracks – they’re all over the place. What do you reckon, Frank?’ Kane asks.

  ‘Hard to say,’ replies Dublin. ‘He could be exhausted having knocked his pipe out in the effort to overtake us – exhausted recruits on a long tabs stagger around like that.’

  ‘Or he’s got Oliver Twist at that knocking shop you were on about, Sarge,’ suggests Lacy.

  ‘You hope,’ answers Kane.

  The three SAS troopers soon reach the junction and start to disperse to their agreed positions. Frank Dublin dashes across the track, working his way towards Chevez’s likely position – Lacy circles to the right – Kane waits and watches. The loud crump of a grenade exploding shatters the still humid jungle afternoon and launches flocks of screaming birds into the cloudless sky.

  All the SAS men ris
e, ready for a quick shot at Chevez. But there is no sign of their target. The soldiers close in.

  ‘Bollocks, he was not here,’ swears Dublin.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ says Kane. ‘We are missing something. Chevez is a master of jungle warfare – this was the only sensible place to ambush us and escape. We must get to the bottom of this.’

  The soldiers return to the junction and the most obvious spot for ambush.

  ‘Well, damn my eyes; he was here all right, minutes ago – look at the flattened grass,’ exclaims Dublin. ‘Then why the fuck didn’t he take a shot at me? And why did a master of jungle warfare pick a dangerous position like this?’

  ‘That’s what I must find out,’ answers Kane, getting on his hands and knees, and searching the ground intently. Dublin and Lacy look around nervously – is this another Chevez trick?

  ‘Here’s our answer,’ says Kane, holding up a small yellow twig with the bark missing. ‘Cinchona, the quinine plant – Chevez has malaria! That explains his erratic footprints back on the track.’

  ‘Malaria parasite fucks up the brain,’ adds Dublin. ‘You can’t think straight. That’s why Chevez is making mistakes and picked an ambush position he couldn’t escape from.’

  ‘He probably got the malarial shakes,’ answers Kane. ‘Couldn’t aim straight, so changed his mind and left before we arrived.’

  ‘Lucky for one of us,’ Dublin replies. ‘Chevez can’t have gone far, Jim.’

  ‘He must be well Tom and Dick. Do we have to kill him, Sarge?’ Lacy asks.

  Kane and Dublin ignore Lacy’s sentimental remark.

  ‘We can finish this today,’ announces Dublin. ‘Chevez cannot be more that half an hour ahead. He will be falling unconscious at intervals – we can catch up and finish it!’

  The three SAS troopers push on. Kane is now doing the tracking; every two or three hundred metres they find a spot where Chevez has fallen. Manus Xingue is still missing.

  ‘Chevez is on his last legs,’ comments Dublin; ‘we should find him unconscious…any time now.’

  ‘Watch points,’ whispers Kane. ‘Chevez still has the strength to pull a trigger!’