Bamboo Dragon td-108

by Warren Murphy

  "I follow you."

  "Then follow this," the hunter said. "We have no beaters, Doctor. There's the six of us, and no one else. Besides which, I'll remind you that we don't know where this bloody creature is—if he exists at all—and he's got several hundred square miles he can play in while we run around in circles, going nowhere."

  "You appear to think it's hopeless, Mr. Chalmers."

  "Bloody difficult, I'd say. You knew that going in."

  "And what is your advice, in that case?"

  "We should check around the lake for tracks, just like you said. That's first. If we get lucky, fine. If not, my guess would be that something really big will make its way down to the nearest water once a day at least. Good pickings by a jungle lake, if you're a hunter. All the grazers come to drink and have a snack some time or other. Big cats watch the water when they're on a hunt. Hyenas, too. No reason why your lizard shouldn't do the same, I'd say."

  Their guide returned just then, with nothing to report. They spent the next half hour fetching wood and water, stoking up a fire and laying out the kitchen gear. The evening's fare was freeze-dried stew, complete with stringy shreds of beef and vegetables the consistency of rubber. Remo would have settled for a bowl of rice, and gladly, but he didn't have the choice.

  The conversation lagged while they were eating, no one seeming anxious to prolong the meal. Their second day of marching through the jungle had exhausted Dr. Stockwell, and their Malay chaperon was equally fatigued. The trail had left its mark on Audrey Moreland, too, but from the hungry glances she gave Remo, it was evident that she retained a fair amount of restless energy. Pike Chalmers was his normal hulking self, apparently unfazed by roughing it, despite the sweat stains on his khaki shirt.

  They finished cleaning up the supper pots and pans in record time, an easy round-trip to the stream, and left the gear to drip-dry on its own for breakfast. Dr. Stockwell couldn't stop himself from yawning as they finished up the chores and sat around the fire. It was full dark now in the jungle, with the night sounds closing in.

  "We're getting closer," Stockwell said. "I know we are."

  "I hope so," Audrey said, her eyes on Remo.

  "If we reach the lake in decent time tomorrow, there's no reason why we can't start searching straightaway."

  "We are agreed, I think," said Sibu Sandakan, "that no new species shall be harmed in any way?"

  "Of course," Professor Stockwell said. "That's understood."

  "You make allowances for self-defense, I take it?" Chalmers asked.

  "Legitimate defense, of course," their Malay escort said.

  "Because I tend to take a dim view of an animal that tries to eat, me, if you get my drift."

  "That shouldn't be a problem," Audrey told him, "since you don't believe there is a dinosaur."

  "Nagaq is here," Kuching Kangar declared. "We find him soon, I think."

  "Whatever name the bugger goes by," Chalmers told the group at large, "I'm not his bloody appetizer. If we're clear on that, we've got no problem."

  "On that note," said Dr. Stockwell, "I believe it would be wise for us to get some sleep. We have another early day tomorrow, as you know."

  It was a repeat of the night before, retiring to their tents. Remo waited while the others fell asleep, Pike Chalmers taking longer than the rest, their Malay guide the last of all to pack it in. Before Kuching Kangar was wrapped up in his bedroll, Remo had begun to plan ahead, imagining what Audrey would expect of him, deciding on the steps that he would take to satisfy her quickly and leave enough time for himself to make a night search for the men who were pursuing them.

  He could avoid the scene with Audrey altogether, Remo knew, but slipping past her would create more problems than it solved. She would be wandering around the jungle, looking for him, maybe getting into trouble on her own, and she would almost surely check his tent if Remo stood her up. That would mean questions in the morning, and if she was pissed enough, the woman scorned, she might say something to the others.

  No, he thought, don't risk it. There were clearly worse chores in the world, and he was confident that he could have her ready for a good night's sleep in thirty minutes, tops. Once she was safely tucked into her sleeping bag and dreaming, Remo would be free to go about his business, prowling in the deep, dark woods.

  He gave it twenty minutes more, then slipped out of his tent and edged around the clearing, to the rough trail. Another moment brought him to the stream, where Remo waited in the shadows, dodging moonlight. He would wait ten minutes, give her ample time, and if she had not shown by then—

  A sound of cautious footsteps on the trail brought Remo into focus. Audrey came in view a moment later, stepping to the water's edge, briefly hesitating, then glancing left and right.

  "Renton?"

  "Right here."

  She turned to face him. "There you are. I didn't hear you leave the camp."

  "You weren't supposed to," Remo said. "I hope the others didn't hear me, either."

  "They're all sawing logs," she told him, moving closer. "Did you learn to move that way from hunting snakes?"

  "I've found that there are times it doesn't pay to make a lot of noise."

  "How right you are." She was unbuttoning her blouse, below the pastel scarf she wore. "I'll do my best to hold it down, if you can keep it up."

  His suave reply was interrupted by a tiny sound that emanated from the general direction of the camp. It wasn't loud, but it came to Remo's ears with great distinctness.

  A sharp, metallic sound, as of an automatic weapon being cocked.

  "Stay here," he said to Audrey.

  "What? Why?"

  "We have some uninvited company. Do as you're told and keep out of the way."

  Remo never heard the rest of it. He was already moving back along the trail at full speed, a flitting shadow in the jungle night. Before he reached the clearing, Remo veered off to his right and circled through the trees, his every sense alert to danger now. It only took a moment for his nostrils to detect the smell of unwashed human bodies, sweaty clothes and gun oil. From the shifting, rustling sounds, he estimated there were ten or fifteen men positioned in a ring around the camp.

  How had he missed them when he left the clearing? How had they missed Audrey Moreland? Remo guessed that it came down to timing, possibly a shifting breeze that had prevented him from picking up their scent, and his distraction at the thought of meeting Audrey for another one on one.

  Chiun would gleefully have kicked his ass for screwing up a practice exercise through simple negligence, but this was even worse. A blunder in the field put lives at risk, potentially endangered Remo's mission. He would have to make it right, and quickly, if he didn't want the whole damned game to fall apart.

  He reached out for the nearest prowler with his senses, found a target twenty feet away and closed the gap between them with long, silent strides. The gunman was a Malay, carrying an AK-47, with a pistol on his hip. He watched the sleeping camp and waited for the order that would send him forward into battle.

  Were they here to kill or merely watch?

  No matter. Remo couldn't take the chance.

  He came up on the gunner's blind side, snapped his neck before the dead man realized that he was not alone and caught the body as it sagged, collapsing toward the forest floor. He laid the corpse out carefully, as one might put a drowsy child to bed, and left the automatic rifle propped across its owner's chest.

  One down, and Remo went in search of number two. The second man he found was taller, slightly older, similarly armed. Because he huddled with his back against a tree, it was impossible for Remo to approach him from behind. He came in from the left instead, and used a floater strike to crush the gunman's skull, his free hand clutching fabric to prevent a noisy fall.

  How many left exactly? There was no way to be sure except—

  All hell broke loose. Someone was shouting from the far side of the clearing, and bodies crashed through the jungle. Remo didn't spea
k the language, but he recognized a signal to attack.

  No shots were fired until Pike Chalmers bolted from his tent and saw a gunman charging toward him from the west. The Weatherby .460 Magnum roared, his target crumpling like a rag doll by the fire, and Chalmers whooped in satisfaction at the kill.

  A scattering of automatic weapons opened up at that, and while it seemed to Remo that at least one Malay voice was calling for a cease-fire, those with itchy trigger fingers were in no mood to restrain themselves. Whatever their original intent, some members of the raiding party were content to kill these round-eyes on the spot.

  He met a third guerrilla coming through the trees and dropped him with a short jab that ruptured heart, lung, spleen. The dead man wriggled for a moment on the ground, and then lay still. Behind him, in the clearing, the staccato sounds of gunfire tore the night apart.

  Remo moved in that direction, caught a glimpse of Chalmers firing off into the trees. Professor Stockwell called out Audrey's name and got no answer as he peered briefly from his tent before a bullet kicked up dust mere inches from his face and drove him back to cover. Sibu Sandakan remained inside his tent, as if he thought the flimsy canvas could protect him from an armor-piercing round, but Remo couldn't spot their guide.

  Halfway back home by now, he thought, and wondered whether they would ever see Kuching Kangar again—or if there would be anyone alive to guide should he return.

  The sound of rapid firing close at hand led Remo to a Malay gunman who was pumping rounds into the camp without regard for where they went or who got hit. The surest, quickest way to stop him was a simple twist that left him facing backward while his lifeless body toppled forward, spinal column neatly severed at its juncture with the skull.

  And that made five, including one for Chalmers. Remo calculated that the hostile force had been reduced by thirty-odd percent in something like a minute, but the odds were still against his comrades coming out unscathed.

  He recognized the scream immediately, knew that it could only come from Audrey Moreland. In his mind's eye, Remo saw her waiting by the stream until the shooting started, drawn back toward the camp by curiosity and some part of the same fear that repelled her. Audrey on the narrow trail, advancing toward the sounds of battle, when a Malay gunman stepped across her path and—

  Remo made his choice and bolted through the trees, directly toward the clearing that had turned into a shooting gallery. It was the path of least resistance if he kept his wits about him and remembered not to zig when he should zag. If it was not too late for Audrey, he could get there.

  Pike Chalmers saw him coming, either failed to recognize him on the run or simply did not care whom he was firing at. The rifle swung around to cover Remo, Chalmers closing one eye as his other found the telescopic sight. It only took a gentle squeeze now, and the bullet that could drop a charging elephant would tear through Remo's chest.

  Or maybe not.

  In fact, he dodged the slug as he had done a hundred times before, anticipating Chalmers with a sidestep that did nothing to reduce forward momentum. By the time Pike understood that he had missed, began to work the rifle's heavy bolt, Remo was past him, reaching out to flick the weapon's muzzle with a fingertip and spin the Brit around, unceremoniously dumping him on his ass.

  At that, he saved the hunter's life, though it had not been part of Remo's plan. Another member of the hit team, rising from the undergrowth beyond the clearing, had been set to riddle Chalmers where he stood, but now his spray of bullets cut through empty air, the big man sprawled just below the line of fire.

  Another heartbeat put Remo in the startled gunner's face, an elbow rising at the speed of thought, connecting with the Malay's forehead, flesh and bone imploding into brain. The sweaty man went down without another sound, his useless weapon lost from lifeless fingers.

  Back in camp, the Weatherby boomed again, but Remo didn't hear the bullet pass his way. Perhaps the trigger-happy hulk had been disoriented by his fall, or maybe he had simply found another target in the firelight, going where the action was.

  Another scream came from Audrey, somewhere off the trail and to his right. Before he could correct and change directions, Remo was confronted with another gunman, this one a grim-faced Chinese. His AK-47 had been fitted with a bayonet, and now he made the critical mistake of thrusting with the blade instead of leaping back and firing from the hip. The man couldn't have saved himself in either case, but as it was, he made things easier.

  A simple grab and twist disarmed him, putting the Kalashnikov in Remo's hands, where it became a deadly bludgeon. Only one stroke was required to shatter the guerrilla's skull, but Remo spared another second as he passed. He turned the gun around and hurled it like a javelin, impaling his late adversary with the bayonet and pinning him against the nearest tree before he had a chance to fall.

  No sound from Audrey now, but Remo had fixed the general direction of her last outcry. Another ten or fifteen yards brought Remo to the place—he was convinced of it—but he had come too late.

  The ground beneath his feet was moist and spongy here, like peat, and it gave way to quicksand several paces farther on. A shallow film of stagnant water overlay the quagmire, insects flitting here and there across the scummy surface, and a flash of color in the moonlight caught his eye.

  A pale pastel.

  The scarf that she had worn around her neck.

  He grabbed a trailing vine and waded in, his free arm plunging deep into the mire, but he felt nothing underfoot, quicksand slithering around him like a vat of lukewarm oatmeal. There was no firm bottom to it, and suction dragged at his legs and buttocks, threatening to pull him down.

  He gave it up before the stagnant water reached his chin, clung to the vine and dragged himself hand over hand until he cleared the quicksand, settling back on solid ground.

  Sweet Jesus!

  She was gone.

  It took a moment for him to recover from the shock. He was accustomed to all forms of violent death, but Remo wasn't made of stone. Whatever he had felt for Audrey Moreland, simple lust or something more, it would demand a decent grieving period.

  Okay, time's up.

  He scrambled to his feet and turned back toward the clearing, suddenly aware that the Kalashnikovs had fallen silent. One more shot from Chalmers split the night, an exclamation point for the proceedings, telling Remo that at least one member of the party was alive.

  In fact, they all were.

  When he reached the clearing, Dr. Stockwell stood beside Pike Chalmers near the fire, and Sibu Sandakan was crawling from his tent. It took another moment for their guide to reappear from his concealment in the jungle, but he seemed to be unharmed.

  "Is everyone… ?"

  The question died on Stockwell's lips as he saw Audrey's pup tent, torn by bullets. Dropping to his hands and knees, he peered inside and found it empty.

  "Audrey? Audrey!" he called out to her but got no response. "Where is she?"

  "Where's the lizard man?" asked Chalmers, peering briefly into Remo's empty tent.

  "Who? Dr. Ward? You mean he's gone, as well?"

  "Seems so."

  "For God's sake, where? Will someone tell me what is happening?"

  Instead of stepping forward with an answer, Remo faded back into the darkness, silent as a falling leaf. A hasty body count informed him that a number of the enemy had managed to escape unharmed, and he wasn't content to let them go. It would be relatively simple to pick up their trail, despite the darkness, and pursue them till they stopped for rest.

  And then he would have answers—or at least a taste of vengeance. Either way, this gaggle of guerrillas had performed their last night ambush in the Tasek Bera.

  Remo left his traveling companions huddled near the fire, with Chalmers standing guard. As far as he could tell, from scouting out the area, they were at no risk of a new attack. The enemy had fled, perhaps to lick his wounds, but he would never get the chance.

  Chapter Twelve

  L
ai Man Yau was physically exhausted when he called a halt for his surviving troops to rest. A forced march in the jungle could be difficult, but running through the jungle in the dark was something else entirely. When he counted heads by moonlight, Yau discovered he had lost eight men. Precisely half his fighting force.

  The worst part of it was, he still had no clear fix on what had happened, why his plan had come apart like tissue paper in a weeping woman's hands.

  The plan itself was simple and direct, foolproof from all appearances. He had examined it from every angle he could think of in advance, deciding that it didn't matter if a couple of the Malays missed their cue or moved in prematurely. There were only four round-eyes to deal with, after all, and only one of them was armed with anything besides a knife. If he resisted, it would be no challenge for a force of seventeen trained soldiers to subdue him with a minimum of force.

  Yau sat and thought about the raid in detail, trying to pinpoint the moment when it fell apart, unraveling before his very eyes. It was impossible to say, of course, because he couldn't be with each one of his men every moment. Still, there had been no alarm before he gave the signal to attack, move in and seize the round-eyes while their minds were fogged with sleep.

  The big one with the gun had been a rude surprise; Yau could admit that to himself. The round-eyed bastard came out shooting, not at all the groggy fool they hoped for. Yau had seen him drop one member of the strike force, and he had fired several other rounds before the raiders turned and ran. With eight men missing, who could say how many he had killed or wounded in the brief engagement?

  Wounded?

  Lai Man Yau felt tension coiling in his stomach like a viper poised to strike. Suppose that one or more of his commandos had been captured, still alive? If they began to spill their guts—

  No, he wouldn't give in to that line of thought. They had all been trained, albeit briefly, to resist interrogation, and anyways, it really didn't matter if they cracked or not. Yau had been careful not to share the substance of their mission with the troops, withholding all the major details for himself and Sun Leo Ma, his second-in-command.