Manus Xingue

by Jack Challis

  ‘But you are not the enemy, Frank,’ answers Lacy.

  Dublin’s mind races, not with fear but practicalities. He will have to kill Lacy now – self-preservation demands it.

  ‘You were the silent interrogator, Frank,’ accuses Lacy. ‘If it wasn’t for Sgt Kane, you would have killed me! My death certificate would read… “Accidental death during Selection – witnessed by Corporal Frank Dublin!”.’

  Maria takes advantage of this confrontation between the two soldiers and slowly backs away from the doorway towards the eves of the hut - and the hidden shotgun! She has a quick word with Tapia who squeezes into the hut past Lacy and carries the baby out, running into the jungle.

  ‘I heard you tell Sgt Kane that five died on the last Selection,’ says Lacy. ‘How many did you kill, Frank?’

  Dublin is not a man to plead for his life – pleading never stopped him killing anyone!

  ‘I hate loud-mouth Cockneys like you - who slip through the net,’ replies Dublin. ‘Your type are a disgrace to the Regiment!’

  ‘I have changed my mind,’ announces Lacy coldly, ‘about that dum-dum bullet you gave me to use on Chevez. It’s up the spout, Frank – you’ll get it in the guts. I want to see you in pain before I finish you off. Now drop that rifle, Frank - turn around slowly,’ orders Lacy.

  Dublin realises Jack Lacy is serious; still he is confident Lacy will drop his guard sooner or later – they always do. He lowers the rifle to the ground and slowly turns around. The experienced SAS trooper, Frank Dublin, has been in more dangerous situations. He was always full of tricks; there is still time - there always is!

  As Lacy backs out of the hut’s door, keeping his eyes on the tricky Dublin, Maria has reached the shotgun hidden under the eves of the hut. As Lacy reaches the hut’s courtyard and Dublin’s powerful frame fills the doorway, the distinctive sound of a rifle bolt and a cartridge being rammed home in the breach causes Dublin to freeze – Chevez had woken from his malarial stupor!

  Dublin slowly turns and looks down the barrel of a World War Two German Mauser rifle. He is furious.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done, you bloody twat,’ spits the Irishman. ‘I could’ve finished it by now – you useless Cockney cunt! Chevez’s left ear is worth a million dollars,’ continues Dublin. ‘We could have split the reward.’

  ‘It would be a cold day in Hell before you split anything with me,’ replies Lacy.

  ‘Drop your gun, Señor!’ Chevez orders Lacy, ‘or I will kill your compadre.’

  ‘No,’ replies Lacy, ‘your bullet would go straight through him and hit me - my bullet will also go through him and hit you.’

  ‘Lower your aim four inches,’ whispers Dublin to Lacy, ‘for a crippling spine shot. I’ll be watching your trigger finger and hit the deck a second before you squeeze it.’

  A short stalemate occurs – until Lacy feels Maria’s shotgun in his back. ‘Listen to Chevez, Señor!’ orders Maria, firmly.

  Lacy slowly places his rifle on the ground.

  ‘I knew you would be no good to the Regiment,’ shouts Dublin. ‘I should have kept the wet rag over your face – just five seconds longer!’

  Lacy and Dublin are prodded into the courtyard by Chevez and forced to kneel down.

  ‘No, Chevez,’ says Maria. ‘The young one saved your life - show him mercy, caro mio.’

  ‘We are even,’ explains Chevez. ‘I could have taken his life at the riverbank.’

  Chevez looks at Lacy, as if for confirmation. Lacy looks at Maria and nods, confirming Chevez’s statement.

  ‘But I also could have killed you,’ says Lacy, ‘when you stretched out for your spent cartridge. I could have shot you straight through the head.’ Chevez thinks for a moment.

  ‘What!’ exclaims the furious Dublin. ‘We could be on our way home by now – if you had pulled that trigger!’

  ‘Is this true, Chevez?’ Maria asks.

  Chevez nods.

  ‘Let him go, Chevez,’ repeats Maria firmly.

  With a jerk of his head, Chevez dismisses Lacy, who gives Chevez and Maria a grin - then looks at Dublin on his knees.

  ‘Sorry, Frank - I think I’ll give this one a miss.’

  ‘Useless bastard,’ swears the Irishman with an angry glare. Chevez indicates to Dublin to turn around. He shakes his head. Chevez, who is now becoming unsteady on his feet, offers Dublin a dirty handkerchief as a blindfold.

  Dublin refuses but watches Chevez’s every move – like a circus big cat that constantly watches its trainer – waiting for a slip. Chevez raises his rifle then blinks as sweat runs down his forehead into his eyes. This is all the tricky, experienced Dublin needs to make his move.

  In a flash, the Irishman produces a small but powerful Pit Bull handgun from somewhere. He is about to shoot Chevez when the blast of a shotgun shatters the late humid afternoon - and Dublin’s right hand!

  Dublin does not make a sound but stares at his shattered right hand - two fingers are now bloody stumps!

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph - would you look at that now, mother,’ Dublin mumbles sadly to himself. ‘My trigger-finger - gone!’

  Chevez tells Maria to tie the hands of the dangerous Irishman. Maria soon has Dublin’s hands tied behind his back, covering her own hands in his blood. The tough, cold, sadistic, SAS trooper, Frank Dublin, has now played his last card; he accepts his fate with dignity.

  Chevez raises his rifle; Maria notices a silver Madonna around Dublin’s thick neck.

  ‘Wait - Chevez!’ she shouts. ‘Let him make his peace with the Holy Virgin first.’

  Chevez lowers his rifle reluctantly. Dublin nods towards one of his pockets; Maria takes from it a rosary and places it in Dublin’s good, left hand behind his back. The Irishman mumbles a faint confession and a swift Hail Mary – then he seems at peace with his God.

  Frank Dublin looks Chevez straight in the eye. Chevez finds his unblinking stare unnerving. Taking a dirty cloth from his pocket he again offers the Irishman a blindfold.

  ‘Just get on with it!’ snaps Dublin.

  ‘I will kill you cleanly, Señor,’ responds Chevez.

  Jack Lacy’s hate for his interrogator during Selection turns to admiration at Dublin’s bravery before death. Dublin gives Lacy a look, then a wink – turning, he faces the barrel of Chevez’s rifle. Chevez places the rifle barrel close to Dublin’s beetle brow and pulls the trigger – the only result is a loud click as the firing pin falls on a dud round!

  ‘Bollocks – to you and your bloody home-made cartridges,’ swears Dublin. ‘Use my rifle – it works!’

  Chevez hurries to eject the dud and rams a fresh round home – he takes aim again.

  ‘No Chevez!’ Maria screams, ‘it was a sign – he prayed to the holy Madonna, the sacred Virgin – she saved his life – like she saved yours many times.’

  ‘You heard what the gringos said,’ argues Chevez. ‘A million dollars for my ear - others will come!’

  ‘If you kill him now,’ argues Maria, ‘you will lose the Madonna’s protection.’

  Chevez is in a quandary; his religious beliefs are not as strong as his newly converted wife’s. But maybe it was the Madonna’s protection that kept him alive all these years. Chevez cannot make his mind up as the malarial parasite has weakened his brain.

  Maria acts quickly behind Chevez.

  In a few steps, and with one quick action – she slices off her husbands left ear with a knife! Chevez cries out in pain and clutches the left side of his face, blood running through his fingers.

  Maria throws the bleeding ear in front of Dublin.

  ‘There, Señor - you have your million-dollar ear. Chevez is dead - you have his ear to prove it! Do you promise to leave us alone now?’

  ‘We promise,’ answers Lacy. But it is Dublin’s word Maria is seeking and she addresses the Irishman.

  ‘Do you promise, Señor?’ she asks again.

  Frank Dublin nods.

  ‘Swear it on the Holy Madonna,’ demands Maria
- her shotgun inches from Dublin’s temple.

  ‘Chevez is dead,’ answers Dublin.

  ‘Swear it on the Madonna,’ Maria insists.

  ‘I swear it on the Holy Virgin,’ says Dublin.

  Maria then holds up Dublin’s silver Madonna. The Irishman kisses the holy relic. Even for the ruthless SAS trooper, an oath on the Virgin Mary is no small undertaking.

  Maria cuts the Irishman’s bonds. Chevez lowers his rifle a fraction, but still watches Dublin. There is no reaction of gratitude on Dublin’s face; he grabs the severed ear and dusts the dirt off.

  Lacy takes out his medical kit and dresses Chevez’s wound. He notices Maria’s envious glances at the contents of his Bergen. He gets up and empties Dublin’s Bergen on the ground.

  ‘Take all you need,’ offers the soft-hearted Lacy.

  Maria takes medical supplies, mostly malarial tablets.

  ‘The fever,’ says Maria, ‘is killing my people and Chevez. We are poor and have no money to buy much medicine.’

  Lacy plunges his hand into Dublin’s Bergen and pulls out a wad of notes along with food and cigarettes and gives them to Maria; she quickly packs a cheap cotton bag.

  Chevez is still covering the kneeling Dublin but his malarial shakes have begun again. Dublin has noticed this and watches Chevez intently. Maria is aware of the danger; she covers the Irish SAS trooper with her shotgun while collecting their meagre belongings. Maria hands Chevez the SAS soldiers’ rifles.

  ‘I will leave your guns on the trail north, Señor, hanging from a branch… Adios.’ Chevez and Maria turn and leave.

  ‘Chevez,’ calls out Lacy. Chevez slowly turns – the grinning Lacy tosses him the empty brass cartridge shell he left behind on the hill. Chevez catches it and gives the faintest of nods - then leaves.

  Dublin, who is still heavily bleeding from his shattered right hand, is placing the severed ear in a self-sealing envelope, with great difficulty. He then jumps up and searches for the snub-nosed Pit Bull revolver, sent flying from the shotgun blast into the jungle. Lacy picks up a stout, wooden pounding implement.

  ‘Break your word, Frank, and go after them and I will brain you – you Irish cowson!’

  Dublin does not answer but quickly finds the revolver and checks it, unworried by the hollow threat.

  Lacy observes Dublin looking in the opposite direction to Maria and Chevez’s departure.

  ‘What’s up, Frank?’ Lacy asks.

  ‘Our venereal friend, Manus Xingue, is out there – I caught a fleeting glimpse of him – his face was not a pretty sight,’ says Dublin.

  ‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell Chevez? ‘ Lacy asks.

  ‘I was hoping Manus Xingue would put an arrow into Chevez,’ explains Dublin, looking at his hand. ‘Look, are you going to let me bleed to death – some medic you are.’ Lacy dresses the Irishman’s hand.

  ‘You are a cold-hearted bastard, Frank,’ says Lacy. ‘Maria saved your poxy life.’

  ‘Just one more widow,’ answers Dublin. ‘That’s why you won’t last three months in the Regiment. I killed my own cousin,’ continues Dublin. ‘We were once altar boys together!’

  ‘Why didn’t you join the fucking Irish army?’ Lacy asks.

  ‘Ireland has only one enemy - the English. The English have enough enemies to keep the British army in wars all over the world – forever! Just what a professional soldier like me needs.’

  ‘Rumpleforeskin is after killing and eating the pair of us,’ exclaims Lacy, ‘and we only have a poxy revolver between us.’

  ‘He wants to kill us, all right,’ replies Dublin, ‘but we are not a priority yet – it’s Chevez he wants to kill first!’

  ‘What for?’ asks Lacy.

  ‘Manus Xingue has more then one agenda - that’s why he’s stuck with us. He wants us to kill Chevez for him – because unlike us he did not underestimate Chevez.’

  ‘Then why did Manus Xingue do a runner?’ Lacy asks.

  ‘A sixth sense,’ replies Dublin, ‘something you have not got. Manus Xingue sensed his life was in danger that night!’

  ‘You reckon he’s gone after Chevez and Maria now?’ Lacy asks.

  ‘I would bet a penny to a pinch of snuff on it,’ answers Dublin. ‘He knows Chevez is now vulnerable with the malaria.’

  ‘Well, let’s go - we might be able to save their lives,’ urges Lacy.

  ‘I promised to confirm Chevez was dead - not to be his bloody guardian angel,’ argues Dublin. ‘All I’m interested in is getting that dog-tag off Manus Xingue - after I’ve killed him!’

  ‘Why do you need that dog-tag, Frank?’ Lacy asks. ‘I saw you write those co-ordinates down on a piece of paper – five minutes later!’

  Dublin’s attitude to Lacy suddenly changes. ‘Did you see those compass readings?’ Dublin asks.

  ‘Yes,’ answers Lacy! Unknown to Jack Lacy, he has just signed his own death warrant! The Irishman suspiciously studies Lacy. Dublin now has another good reason to kill the mouthy Cockney ex-marine – but not yet. Frank Dublin the Irish exile, once a capable and ruthless SAS trooper, is now incapacitated because of his missing trigger-finger. He can no longer handle weapons with skill and efficiency. He still needs the young and fit SAS trooper Lacy’s help to achieve his objective – to kill Manus Xingue for Lt Peterson’s dog-tags. He may even have to tell the young man he tried to kill in Selection the truth; the significance of the co-ordinates – to gain Lacy’s confidence.

  Killing is so much easier, Frank Dublin knew, when you have the victim’s trust. He tests the water.

  ‘I will give you a third share of that million dollar reward.’

  ‘I thought you were joking about the reward,’ answers Lacy, surprised. ‘One of your dodgy ways to distract Chevez and Maria.’

  ‘It’s no joke,’ replies Dublin.

  ‘A third of a million,’ repeats Lacy in wonderment. ‘Ok.’

  ‘On two conditions,’ insists Dublin.

  ‘Depends,’ replies Lacy cautiously.

  ‘You first help me kill Manus Xingue - get Peterson’s dogs-tags back.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind killing Rumpleforeskin myself,’ answers Lacy, ‘after what he did to Sgt Kane!’

  ‘And one last thing,’ continues Dublin, ‘you drop your grudge against me.’

  Dublin does not like the time Lacy takes to think about this.

  ‘Well, don’t take all bloody day,’ says the Irishman. ‘Look,’ he continues, ‘you need me to get out of here alive – there is a man-eating cat – and a wife-eating man out there.’

  ‘I have a better chance than you,’ replies Lacy. ‘You may think marines spend their time at sea tarring their pigtails – doing the sailor’s hornpipe and buggering each other while hanging from the rigging like monkeys – but we learn things like navigation. I know the southern skies well, even without a compass.’

  ‘But you are not lost at sea,’ points out Dublin. ‘You will have a job even seeing the night sky in the jungle. Apart from that, you are scared of the jungle, especially in the dark.’

  ‘I would kip in a tree at night and use my compass in the day,’ argues Lacy.

  Suddenly, the two SAS troopers hear the sound of an approaching helicopter.

  ‘Quick – into the hut,’ orders Dublin. Inside the hut, they listen to the circling chopper.

  ‘This is no coincidence,’ says Dublin angrily. ‘The bastard Yanks are monitoring our every move – for sure.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ Lacy asks.

  ‘I will explain later,’ answers Dublin. ‘Give me that gold Parker pen.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ swears Lacy. ‘I nicked it fair and square.’

  ‘I have a feeling everything the Yanks left lying about for us to nick was fitted with location detectors. This is the third time they’ve found us,’ explains Dublin. Lacy finds the pen.

  ‘Open it up,’ orders the Irishman. Lacy unscrews the pen and tips out a small, shirt-button-size bug. Dublin smashes it with the butt of his revolve
r.

  The American Black Hawk chopper soon leaves!

  ‘There will be more than one location detector,’ remarks Dublin. ‘The other one must be in our weapons Chevez and Maria have taken. That’s why the Black Hawk is confused – it was getting two different signals. You are in on this – whether you like it or not.’

  ‘In on what?’ asks Lacy. ‘And why are the Yanks keeping tabs on us?’

  ‘I will tell you later – there’s no time now – we need our weapons to stay alive,’ answers Dublin.

  ‘I also want to save Maria and Chevez from Rumpleforeskin, says Lacy. He must have seen them leave and is following them now – they have no chance!’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A MAN-EATING CAT AND A WIFE-EATING MAN

  The two SAS troopers follow Maria and Chevez up the track, hoping Maria has kept her word. They soon find their rifles hanging from a branch. Dublin curses as he finds it difficult to handle a rifle again with his missing fingers; he painfully checks his weapon for location-tracking bugs.

  ‘Nothing!’ Dublin says. ‘Check your telescopic sight.’ Lacy breaks down the sights, finds another tracer bug and destroys it. ‘That has to be the last one,’ says Dublin.

  Unknown to Dublin and Lacy, the pilot and intelligence officer monitoring their movements through the location detectors are totally confused by the different signals they are picking up – from the bugs in the discarded bottles of bourbon and a moving signal from Chevez and Maria who are carrying Lacy’s rifle.

  ‘We only have an hour’s daylight left,’ remarks Lacy, ‘and there’s a storm coming!’

  ‘Then look lively,’ answers Dublin. The two troopers continue up the trail. The tracks of Chevez and Maria are clear because Chevez is forced to use a stick again to support himself.

  Dublin stops. ‘Chevez is in a bad way now – I don’t give them much of a chance against Manus Xingue if he is following them!’

  They move on, quickening their pace. Dublin stops again, looking down at a big, splayed-out, bare footprint.

  ‘I would recognise those big plates anywhere,’ says Lacy. ‘How far is Rumpleforeskin behind them?’