by Jack Challis
‘Call it a day, Frank,’ suggests Lacy, feeling the situation was getting too dangerous.
‘Bollocks!’ answers the determined Dublin; ‘I’m getting those dog-tags if it kills me – and you – no pulling out now!’
Lacy, surprisingly, does not argue. ‘Ok, Frank,’ he replies. ‘You lead – I will follow.’
‘Now look,’ says Dublin. ‘the Yanks are now our enemies – they know we have destroyed those tracking bugs. If they guess we’ve seen the dog-tags, we’re dead – for sure. If they kill their own men, they will kill us!’
‘What about the one million reward? Will they still pay us?’ Lacy asks.
Dublin studies the naive Lacy for a moment, and smiles. ‘Yes, they will pay us – but money is no good to dead men!’ Lacy seems unsure again.
‘Take my hand on it – we’ll see this through,’ says the Irishman.
The two SAS troopers shake hands. It is possible the volatile Dublin is beginning to like the Cockney misfit he did his best to kill during Selection. Frank Dublin, the Irishman, takes off his medallion of the Holy Madonna.
‘Give this to Captain Price-Palmer if we are separated – you will get your share. But I want the Virgin Mary back – it was blessed at Lourdes, understand? It brings me luck.’
Further up the trail, Chevez and Maria are making good progress, unaware of the events and the danger behind them. Both hear the sound at the same time, and stop.
‘Americano helicopters to the west!’ Chevez tells Maria. Then, after listening, in a more urgent tone, ‘They are hovering in the air.’ Then the reality sinks home.
‘They are dropping men again, Chevez!’ Maria gasps. ‘If they see you alive, all our trouble will be wasted.’
‘We must leave this track,’ announces Chevez, ‘and head east, deeper into the jungle.’
‘But my baby!’ Maria protests.
‘Your tribe will look after our child – we must hurry before they encircle us.’
Chevez and Maria leave the track and head into the jungle – they soon disappear.
Back on the jungle track, the Shaman Kier Poa is leading Manus Xingue to the Rio Xingue; to kill him – allowing his blood and spirit to flow downstream back to the land of the Cat-people. They are also quick to hear the helicopters in the far distance! A Kier Verde warrior rushes down the jungle track.
‘White soldiers! Dropping from giant black dragonflies hovering in the sky – they are surrounding us – there is still a small gap – we can still escape if we hurry.’
The Kier Verde quickly lose interest in Manus Xingue and hurry away, leaving the Shaman of the Cat-people standing alone, senseless, on the track.
Dublin and Lacy observe the Kier Verde leaving and are puzzled as to why, lacking the Kier Verde’s sensitive hearing. They watch Manus Xingue standing on the track, head drooping, his back towards them. Dublin now hears the helicopters in the distance.
‘They’re on to us!’ he says. ‘We don’t have much time!’
The two SAS troopers rush forward, covering Manus Xingue with their weapons, but not wanting to attract attention by shooting him.
Dublin hits Manus Xingue a heavy, skull-shattering blow with the butt of his rifle – Manus Xingue drops. Both SAS men are soon kneeling by the body of the prone Cat-man. Dublin tears the jaguar’s head-dress from Manus Xingue. Lacy feels for a pulse and listens for a heart-beat. ‘He’s a goner – you’ve brained the cowson!’ whispers Lacy.
Dublin takes out a knife. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Frank?’ asks Lacy, looking around nervously. ‘We haven’t got the time.’
‘I’m cutting the fucker’s throat – make sure he’s dead,’ replies Dublin.
‘No point, Frank – you’ve killed him – he’s dead – we’ll end up covered in his claret!’ (Jack Lacy will have good reason to regret saying this.)
‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaims Dublin, robbed of his pleasure, ‘I should have cut his throat first – then brained him.’
Dublin soon finds Lt Peterson’s dog-tags on Manus Xingue. Using a leaf to hold the dog-tag to avoid leaving his DNA, he changes a zero of the hastily scratched co-ordinates on the dog-tag to a six with his knife.
‘That should do the trick - confuse the Yanks – buy us time,’ he says, rubbing dirt on the number six to hide its newness.
The sound of the helicopters is much louder now.
‘What do we do, Frank?’ Lacy asks, panicking.
‘Run like fuck!’ replies Dublin.
‘What about our tracks?’ asks Lacy. ‘They are everywhere!’
‘No time to hide them,’ says Dublin, looking up at the darkening sky. ‘There’s another heavy downpour on its way – that should do the trick – let’s go.’
The troopers dash into the jungle and keep up a fast pace. Dublin stops. ‘This will do; it’s going to piss down any minute now,’ he says, looking at a small dense patch of undergrowth. Dublin takes out his small entrenching tool and crawls into the undergrowth.
‘What are you doing, Frank?’ Lacy asks, feeling vulnerable on his own. ‘Just keep watch; I’ll show you what a Paddy can do with a shovel.’
In a short while, Dublin emerges from under the undergrowth.
‘Now, get your kit off – everything – jungle fatigues, socks and your boots – I want you bollock-naked,’ orders Dublin, ‘and put them all into your Bergen. I will do the same.’
‘What!’ exclaims Lacy. ‘If we are both caught naked together, the Yanks will think we are a couple of faggots and shoot us for certain!’
‘Listen, you dozy Cockney pimp,’ hisses Frank Dublin, ‘we have to keep our gear dry – it’s vital – do it today and shut your bloody gob, you bag of shite!’
The SAS troopers strip naked and place their clothes in their waterproof Bergens then enter the hide Dublin has prepared. With a camouflage waterproof covering them, the pair merge perfectly into their surroundings.
They have hidden themselves just in time for, within minutes, a heavy tropical downpour unleashes itself. The downpour quickly increases in intensity and completely obliterates their tracks. Not long afterwards, a dozen US Special Forces troops and their Marpari tracker pass by in extended line, sweeping the jungle. Even the tracker is fooled by the heavy rain. Sheet lightning and rolling rumbles of thunder cut through the dark, sullen sky while the storm still rages. After the American soldiers have passed, Dublin checks whether the coast is clear. ‘Let’s get moving,’ he announces.
‘It’s still pissing down, Frank, can’t we wear our waterproofs. We’re going to get soaked,’ moans Lacy. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Hide our waterproofs here – we head back to the hut – naked,’ replies Dublin. ‘We have to make out we never left the hut or carried waterproofs – our lives depend on it! We have to do it in heavy rain – it will hide our tracks – now move your useless arse!’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE GREEN FIELDS OF WEXFORD
The two naked SAS troopers emerge from their cover and run through the jungle, ‘starkers’, making for Chevez’s hut. Reaching it, Dublin rattles off some orders in an urgent tone.
‘Dry yourself and your rifle – put your dry gear and boots back on. Get the fire going – start a brew – the Yanks will be here anytime now – remember, we have never left the hut. I will do the talking – got it?’
While Lacy is busy carrying out his orders, Dublin takes out the Havana cigars from Lacy’s Bergen and, lighting two, hands one to Lacy.
‘I want this hut to smell like a Pox doctor’s surgery,’ orders Dublin.
Preparations finished, the two troopers settle around the fire.
Lacy re-dresses Dublin’s hand, then both men settle down to eat their rations before getting stuck into the rest of Major Bodeen’s Havana cigars and waiting for the inevitable.
‘This is our story,’ announces Dublin. ‘We shot Chevez yesterday afternoon as he crossed the river. We cut off his ear and let his body float downstream,’ continues the Irishman. ‘We
found his hut last night and have been here ever since – we have never heard of Manus Xingue…..understood?’
Back on the jungle track after the heavy rain, Manus Xingue still lies motionless. The poison from the Kier Verde dart has slowed down his heart rate to the bare minimum; his breathing is unnoticeable.
A group of US Special Forces coming down the jungle track, led by Major Ely Bodeen, soon find the body of the Cat-man. A sergeant with a strong southern drawl examines the prone body of Manus Xingue.
‘This is Manus Xingue, Sir; I can vouch for it. He was the guide that left with Lt Peterson – posing as a Marpari tracker!’
‘Goddamn – couldn’t that Yankee arse-hole, Peterson, tell the difference between a Marpari and a Cat-man – for Christ’s sake! Search him,’ orders Major Bodeen. ‘Turn the mother-fucker upside down, Sergeant – look up his arse – just find Peterson’s dog-tags.’
The soldiers search the body of Manus Xingue.
‘Give me a cigar, Sergeant,’ demands Major Bodeen. ‘Those Limey cock-suckers lifted my Havanas.’ Major Bodeen lights up but is not happy at the taste.
‘Here they are, Sir! Lt Peterson’s dog-tags.’ the Sergeant announces.
‘Hallelujah – Glory and Amen,’ responds Major Bodeen, delighted. ‘This has saved my southern hillbilly arse.’
Taking the dog-tag in his handkerchief, Bodeen studies the co-ordinates for the hidden money. ‘Now, all we have to do is find those thieving Limeys and find out if they have seen these co-ordinates!’
‘They were last traced at two different locations yesterday, Sir,’ says the Sergeant. ‘A kilometre south of here.’
‘Manus Xingue and the Limeys are too close for my liking – General Devereux is not going to like this,’ answers Major Bodeen. ‘Find them – and make it snappy. The Brazilians won’t take kindly to our presence over their border. Now hear this – we are pissing on a hornets’ nest here. Did I hear you use the word if, Sergeant McCoy?’
‘No, Sir, I did not’ Sgt McCoy answers.
‘Well, I heard you say if – now if is a word I do not favour –if my grandmother had balls she would be my grandfather!
The sergeant takes three men and heads south. Major Bodeen takes off the belt of Manus Xingue and studies the shrunken skulls. ‘Lieutenant, have these skulls DNA checked – I have a nasty feeling – I think I recognise those big crooked teeth!’
Three kilometres away, Chevez and Maria are making their way through heavy jungle. Reaching a small pool of water, they stop. Chevez takes a leaf and folds it into a cup, dipping it into the water and offering it to Maria; she drinks, then notices something.
‘Chevez, look!’ she exclaims, pointing to the edge of the pool. ‘Look, the pugmarks of the man-eater! I recognise them from the time it killed my cousin, Namo, a month ago.’
‘It probably drank here last night,’ says Chevez.
‘No,’ replies Maria, ‘the print is very fresh – insects and animals of the night have left no mark. Look – water has not yet seeped into the print – the man-eater was drinking here – till it heard us coming and moved into cover!’ Chevez is immediately on his guard; he scans the surrounding undergrowth; Maria tests the breeze.
‘The breeze is from the north – to your right,’ she says. Chevez immediately spins around and covers a patch of undergrowth near the pool. ‘We must now be very careful,’ he warns. ‘The man-eater is near and down-wind – we are in danger.’
Ten metres away, and watching their every move, is the man-eater. Head tilted back, only the unblinking, yellow eyes are visible, its ears pressed flat. This killer has taken the lives of over a hundred humans and knows the ways of man. However, like all man-eaters, it wrongly attributed man with a keen sense of smell just like its natural prey, so the danger always comes from downwind, behind or on either side.
The big cat is patient, like all cats – and waits. Even though the man-eater knows the physical weakness of humans, it prefers to avoid eye contact. Most animals find the human eye unnerving – even man-eaters! The hungry big cat could also sense these humans were aware of his presence; the advantage of surprise had gone.
Chevez slowly backs away from the pool, never taking his eyes away from the patch of undergrowth.
‘Chevez,’ whispers Maria, ‘we must move quicker – the Americanos are still near – I can hear them. I will show you what our warriors do.’
Maria places her back against Chevez’s. ‘Keep each leg close to mine,’ she orders, ‘and trust in my steps.’ Chevez complies; his wife is a Kier Verde and their bush-craft is second to none. Back to back, Maria and Chevez move forward at a quicker pace, Maria avoiding obstacles; Chevez, walking backwards, guards their rear against an attack from the man-eater.
Back at Chevez’s hut, the two SAS troopers are just finishing off the last of Major Ely Bodeen’s Havana cigars. ‘The best you can get,’ comments Dublin.
‘Over ninety quid apiece,’ says Lacy. ‘I bet Major Bodeen was as wild as a wild woodbine when he found out I’d nicked them.’
‘You were never around when wild Woodbine cigarettes were out,’ says Dublin.
‘I picked the saying up from my old man,’ explains Jack Lacy.
‘You never knew your old man – you were a foundling,’ accuses Dublin.
‘I know,’ admits Lacy without argument. ‘I just like saying that sometimes.’
Dublin smiles. Lacy the hated big-mouth Cockney. The recruit Dublin tried to kill during integration is beginning to grow on the volatile Irishman but sentimental emotions don’t trouble a man like Frank Dublin. On the blind side of Lacy, using his uninjured hand, he rolls up his right sleeve. Strapped to his upper arm is a small, broad-bladed knife, a weapon Lacy would have noticed if he hadn’t stopped at the Irishman’s shamrock tattoo back in the swamp. This was a specialised weapon, used many times before by a man who knew the layout of the human anatomy, like a butcher knows his way around the carcass of an animal. This knife, the last of the three hidden weapons Dublin carries on active service, was designed for a special and macabre use – to sever the spinal cord of a man!
‘Grab some of that wood behind you, Jack - for the fire,’ says Dublin in a friendly tone. Jack Lacy is taken aback; Frank Dublin had never once used his Christian name before! Could this be a sign of acceptance from the aggressive Irishman? Lacy grins, turns and stretches for the wood behind him, exposing the vertebrae of his spine to Dublin.
Dublin leans forward, knife poised for a quick thrust between the vertebrae joints. This would sever Lacy’s spinal cord! A movement in the doorway stops the Irishman, who quickly palms the small knife, swearing under his breath!
The big frame of Sergeant Mick McCoy of US Special Forces blocks the doorway frame.
‘Freeze, you sons-of-a-bitch!’ orders McCoy, covering the two SAS Troopers, ‘and raise your hands!’
The two SAS troopers raise their hands. Dublin turns around slowly and then grins, recognising an old drinking companion he served with in both Iraqi wars. ‘Mick McCoy - how she cutting?’ Dublin asks. ‘I could sure use a drop of the hard stuff, Michael.’
McCoy carefully hands Dublin a hip-flask, never taking his eyes off the tricky Irishman. As Dublin reaches for the flask, he feels Dublin’s sleeve to see if it is damp and takes a quick look at the two SAS troopers’ boots! Dublin drains the full flask and begins to hand it back – but drops it! McCoy instinctively begins to pick it up, stopping himself just in time. ‘Pick it up, Frank,’ orders McCoy, ‘you are one tricky Irish Mick!’
‘What’s up, Michael – what’s going on?’ Dublin enquires.
‘I have to take both of you back,’ announces McCoy. ‘Orders are orders – we are to treat everyone in this area as hostiles.’
Sgt McCoy takes the two SAS troopers’ weapons and motions them out of the hut where three other armed US soldiers are waiting.
McCoy runs his hands over Dublin and Lacy’s uniforms, feeling again for dampness. Dublin winks at Lacy. The two SAS men a
re searched. Dublin winces as McCoy touches the bandaging around his abdomen. McCoy apologises but knows exactly where to find Dublin’s small, hidden, specialised knife, which the Irishman had re-hidden while pretending to scratch his upper arm.
‘How’s the Major?’ asks Dublin, showing no concern at the situation.
‘Mad as hell at you, Frank, for lifting his Havanas.’
‘Not me,’ answers Dublin. ‘It was this thieving Cockney faggot.’ Dublin nods over to Lacy. The four American soldiers regard the grinning Lacy disapprovingly for a moment. That moment was enough for Dublin to move his small hidden revolver from his bandaged stomach to his left pocket.
‘You know what Cockneys are like, Michael,’ continues Dublin, ‘after your last visit to Soho!’
With Dublin and Lacy walking in front carrying only their kit, the group moves off. Reaching the Americans’ position, Sgt McCoy leaves the guarded Dublin and Lacy and reports to Major Bodeen.
‘I located the SAS troopers, Sir, in Chevez’s hut. They are now here, disarmed. They claim to have been in the hut since last night – there are only two left. Sergeant Kane and Corporal Edwards are dead – Frank Dublin is wounded.’
‘Well, son of a gun!’ responds Major Bodeen. ‘That Irish Mick, Dublin, is one tricky bastard – did you see their Marpari tracker?’
‘No Sir, but our Marpari tracker,’ answers McCoy, ‘circled the hut – he found no fresh tracks leaving, or returning. It looks like the SAS boys never left the hut. Sir. They could be telling the truth – they carried no waterproofs!’
‘Typical British army–always short on equipment,’ answers Major Bodeen. ‘Now McCoy, it rained heavily this morning. They could have left the hut, found the body of Manus Xingue, seen the co-ordinates and then high-tailed it back to the hut – letting the heavy rain wipe out their tracks.’
‘You could be right, Sir,’ answers Sgt McCoy, ‘but their uniforms and boots were bone dry. I checked myself – they just did not have enough time to dry their gear. Do we have to kill them, Sir? It is possible they never met up with Manus Xingue’
