War From The Clouds Page 11

  I crouched in the brush, my hand gripped tightly around Wilhelmina's butt. The thrashing became louder and it sounded as though a whole troop of Marines was making its way up the faint trail, knocking aside trees, vines and brush, kicking fallen logs.

  I saw a flash of cloth and raised the luger. I was sighting down the barrel, tightening my finger on the trigger, ready to fire as soon as I had a clear shot at the target. I would get the first in line and let the others concentrate on those behind.

  I had just about reached the point of no return on Wilhelmina's trigger when I saw who was coming. I damned near threw the luger away then.

  In another fraction of a second, I would have killed Elicia Cortez.

  She was alone and in a hurry. She had forgotten all I'd taught her about traveling in the jungle when there were enemy troops about. She had been in such a hurry to find us, to be with us, she had ignored danger. And she had almost paid for that ignoring with her life. I was trembling when I came out of the brush and saw her still plunging up the trail.

  "Senor Carter," she cried. "Oh, Nick, I thought you were dead. I thought you were all dead."

  She was crying as she lunged into my arms and began to shower my face, grizzly now with several days' growth of beard, with sweet, wet kisses. I held her loosely and glanced back over my shoulder at Purano, who had been smiling at her arrival. He was now scowling at us both. Jealousy. It can work wonders, even among the best of allies.

  Elicia saw him, too, but her response was quite different. She leaped back out of my arms and suddenly turned darker in a blush. She glanced at Purano's eyes, then her eyes fell and she looked at the ground near his feet.

  "I was fearful for you as well," she said. "It gives me pleasure to see you healthy and well."

  That was all the mush stuff Purano needed. His eyes gazed at the ground near Elicia's feet and he made the longest speech of his brief life.

  "It gives me pleasure that you are pleased that I am well. I fear for you, also, and am delighted to find you healthy and well."

  I stood back and watched Elicia Cortez turn into a rose in that moment, budding, blossoming, flowering — more than Purano knew.

  I had to break up the unusual courtship, though.

  "Why did you come looking for us, Elicia?"

  She tore her eyes away from the ground near Purano's feet and looked at me, steadily, without her usual shyness. "The hermit came to the Indian camp to warn Botussin," she said. "The Iman from Apalca has given his assent to a revolution in both Nicarxa and Apalca. The revolution is to begin at nightfall. No one else knows that agreement has been reached. Once the signal has been given from Alto Arete, a special contingent of guerillas, part of Don Carlos Italla's elite corps, is to attack the Ninca lands and kill every man, woman and child."

  "How does Pico know all this?" By then, Antonio and the others had formed a circle around us, all listening with keen ears and wide eyes.

  "He has a radio," Elicia said. "He took it with him when he went to the mountain to live away from man. He makes periodic trips to the capital, disguised as a monk, to buy parts and batteries. He has been listening to frequencies he has learned about in his listening. He has heard coded communications between Don Carlos and the Cubans. With so much time on his hand, old Pico has broken the code."

  A thought came. "I've been told that Don Carlos will signal the beginning of the revolution with a flare gun from the top of Alto Arete. If he has sophisticated radio equipment, why doesn't he spread the word that way?"

  "I can answer that," Antonio said. "We are still a poor country, Senor Carter. Not many people have radios. Not even Don Carlos has been able to equip all his revolutionary groups throughout the island with radio equipment. But a flare at dusk from Alto Arete can be seen from every point on the island, even in Apalca and far out at sea. Even, it is said, in Cuba."

  Good God, I thought. That flare has more significance than I had imagined. Somehow, I had to stop Don Carlos from shooting off that flare. Without it, he might radio a few of his contingents — the Cubans mostly — but not enough to make the revolution a total success. But how?

  I thought of old Pico sitting up there on his hidden plateau listening to all of Don Carlos Italla's radio communications. This man, who had sought a place away from the company of men. I recalled the sadness in his voice when he had told me about what had happened to his beautiful eleven-year-old daughter:

  I could tell by his eyes that he was lying. That was when I followed him and his friends and learned that he had indeed lied, and I came away a broken man.

  Thoughts began to tumble through my brain. I thought my head would explode trying to sort them out. They were a jumble of thoughts, leading everywhere and nowhere. In that jumble of thoughts was the answer I had been seeking. I grabbed Elicia by her slender arms.

  "Elicia, where is the hermit now? Where is Pico?"

  "With Chief Botussin. He will stay there and help fight the elite corps when they come to murder the Nincas."

  "Does he know where we are, what we're trying to do?"

  "I don't know. I only know what he told the chief. After that, they sat down to a big dinner, planning to discuss strategy later."

  It figured. Botussin's stomach came before everything. Pico didn't know that we were looking for the cave entrance. If he did…

  "Let's go," I said to Antonio and Purano. "Elicia, you stay with the others and come back to the Ninca camp. We'll go on ahead. I have to talk with Pico."

  "Why…"

  "Just do as I say. There isn't a minute to lose."

  As Antonio, Purano and I hurried down the trail, heading for the tribe's camp, I explained what I hoped to learn from Pico.

  Perhaps the old hermit couldn't remember a day thirty years ago when he had followed Ancio and his evil friends to a cave at the base of Alto Arete, in one of seven hollows.

  But there were other memories, other knowledges, that hadn't been concealed deep in his mind by tragedies. Remembering the one might open the door to the other.

  If I could tap those other memories, those other knowledges, there was a slim chance of saving the people of these two island countries.

  If not?

  I wouldn't think of that just yet.

  Chapter Seven

  My second meeting with Pico, the hermit, was a mixture of pleasures and disappointments. Or, as the comedians like to remind us somewhat monotonously, some good news and some bad news.

  First off, he was angry at me for having left his camp on my own.

  "I spent years, Senor Carter," he said, crouching among the short Indians to diminish the effect of his great height, "concealing the trail to my hermitage. No living man but you knows now how to come there. Besides, you weren't ready to leave. The poultice needed several more hours to do its work."

  We were in the square of the tribal encampment. The hot midday sun blazed down on the mixture of white and brown bodies. Flies the size of teacups buzzed around us. Some of them even attacked the bandages on my side and my right foot. Shooing them away was a dangerous activity, fraught with promise of reprisal.

  Antonio and Purano flanked the fat chief on one side of the circle. A little behind them were Elicia and the spearchuckers from the mission to the seven hollows. The body of the dead spearchucker was in a special burial hut, being prepared by the few remaining women of the tribe. I sat beside Pico on the other side of the circle. Filling in the circle, on either side of the hermit and I, were the village elders I had seen that first night in the council hut. Other spearchuckers, jealous that they hadn't gone on the mission to share in the glory, surrounded all of us, a circle outside a circle.

  "The poultice did its work well," I assured Pico, "If it had done much better, it would be like not having had a wound at all. But I do apologize for breaking your rule. Will you accept?"

  Pico grinned. It was all the acceptance I would receive. "You must promise never to tell another living soul how you left my camp."

  "I won't
." Actually, I couldn't. It had been darker than the inside of a pig the night I had left his camp. If I were given the chore of finding my way back there, I would probably wander in the jungle for the rest of my life.

  "Now, what is it you wish of me, Senor Carter?" he asked after the amenities and the chastizing were over. "What is the purpose of such hurrying back here to talk to me?"

  I refreshed his memory about our conversation, about his saying that he had followed Ancio and his friends, had learned that the man had indeed lied, and had seen his daughter and several others covered with oil and burned. I repeated as much as I could remember of what he had said, hoping to spark memories from him. Important memories.

  "I want to know everything you saw and heard that night," I told Pico. "I know it's painful remembering, but this is important. I want to know as much as you can possibly remember before I show you something of great importance."

  He looked puzzled. So did all the others. But everyone remained silent while Pico considered the request. I was conscious of the minutes ticking away, of the day and the mission being completely shattered, while this old hermit searched back through thirty years of memories.

  "I was there, as I have told you," he said, his voice sounding deep and hollow, his eyes starting to mist. "I remember so little, no more than what I told you. I saw the cave. I saw the seashell necklace that I had made for my daughter. It was on the body of a naked corpse. That is how I was able to tell that it was her."

  His voice cracked then and I wanted him to stop that particular line of thought. It wasn't necessary to recall details of the inside of the cave, of the grisly scene there. I wanted him to recall details of the outside, of how to get there. But I knew enough about idea association to let him ramble in his own way, as time slipped past, minute by minute.

  But he was finished with his grim recollections. He looked at me blankly, puzzled over what I was seeking. I didn't want to lead him. It was important that his mind be free of prejudice when he saw what I had to show him.

  "Do you recall any details of when you followed Ancio and his friends into the mountains?" I asked.

  He spent some time thinking. Precious time. My anxiety grew.

  "I was under great stress at the time," he said. "I had anticipated that my daughter was gone, but I had no idea…" He stopped, swept the circle of interested faces with deeply sad eyes, and said, "it was thirty years ago. I recall many scenes quite well. They are emblazoned on my soul. However…"

  That was the worst of the bad news. He had no idea whatsoever of where the cave entrance was. I wouldn't be able to jog his memory with further questions, and I was afraid of even more bad news when I sprang my one and only possibility. But there was no more time to waste. I turned to Antonio.

  "Would you get the map and show it to Pico."

  "The map?" Antonio asked, puzzled. "Senor Carter, it is in Indian hieroglyphics and, if the Indians can't read the symbols, how can you expect…"

  "Pico was a professor of anthropology at Nicarxa University," I said, looking at Pico to confirm that by memory of what he had told me that day at his hermitage was correct. "He was head of the department of Indian Culture when he became involved in a revolutionary activity that changed his life forever. Am I correct, Pico, in assuming that, as head of the department of Indian Culture, you would have been required to learn the various hieroglyphics used by all the tribes in this area?"

  Pico nodded. "You have a map? What kind of map?"

  I asked Chief Botussin to explain about the map. It was a mistake. The old chief wound himself up a tangled web of words that seemed to have no ending. It took five precious minutes for him to reach his point: that the map showed Ancio how to find the cave entrance and that his warriors took the map from Ancio and that it had been kept in a secret hiding place ever since and that he would be sorely tried if it fell into evil hands, etcetera.

  "May I see it?" Pico asked.

  Antonio had the map in a leather pouch strapped to the small of his back. He quickly undid the pouch and handed the fragile parchment over to Pico. The old man studied it for more time than I would have liked him to spend on it. The sun got hotter, the flies meaner and the day much, much shorter. Pico finally looked up and saw the worried looks on all our faces. He grinned at me.

  "Don't worry so much about the time, Senor Carter," he said. "I have good news about that. The signal will not be given before sundown. At this time of year, sundown will come shortly after 8:30. You have ample time."

  I looked at my watch, a digital creation that was a gift from David Hawk. It was full of lifetime batteries. And the numbers read 12:22. I breathed a small sigh of relief. I had estimated that we had perhaps six or seven hours to stop Don Carlos from sending the signal. We actually had more than eight hours. Yet, it was no great solace learning that piece of good news — we could use, I was sure, more than eight days and still be cutting it close.

  "The big concern is the map," I said, "and whether you can read the hieroglyphics. Can you?"

  "Oh yes. In my time on the mountainside, I had many hours to continue my studies. And I took along textbooks from anthropologists and sociologists, who have recorded the hieroglyphics of all the ancient tribes in Central and South America. I knew them by heart when I was actively teaching, but I could have forgotten them in thirty years, as I forgot the trail to the cave. Fortunately, I loved my work as a professor of anthropology, so I kept up. However…"

  We all sucked in breath, anticipating another round of bad news. We got it.

  "The critical area of the map is far too faint to be seen, even by the best of eyes. The map shows a trail leading from an ancient encampment over there…" he raised a long arm and pointed off to the west — "to a point near the mouths of seven valleys." He pointed to the northeast. "But that section concerning the hollows and the cave itself are so faded that — I'm sorry, but it's hopeless."

  Bad news — in spades. He could read the map, but seeing it hadn't lifted the veil that covered his memory, hadn't triggered any sharp or even faint details of the route to the cave entrance. And a vital part of the map was too faded to be read.

  "What I don't understand," I said, "is how Ancio — or Don Carlos — was able to use this map to find the cave entrance."

  "It was easy for him," Pico said. "As Chief Botussin said, he was coached by the old man who entrusted the map to him. And there's another thing. This fading is a recent thing, brought on by Ancio's careless handling of the map. Then, again, the man had all the time in the world to find that cave, while our time, you must admit, is sorely limited."

  There was a deep silence in the twin circles in the hot sun and the square of the Ninca village. Old Pico looked from face to face, then returned to a study of the map. More minutes passed. My watch read out at 12:36. Less than eight hours to go. If we had the answer this very minute, I calculated, it would take us two hours to get to the cave entrance, depending on which hollow it was in. That would give us six hours to make what had been calculated as a four-hour climb. We had, then, two hours to spare, two hours in which to learn the mystery of the map.

  It was obvious to all of us that we wouldn't be able to make out that damned map in two hours, two days, or even two years. Perhaps even two lifetimes. Fat old Botussin began to shift nervously on the stool his buttocks had swallowed up on the ground. He was anxious to end this fruitless confab and set up his defenses against Don Carlos Italla's elite corps. We could expect them just minutes after the 8:30 signal was given. I knew the old chief was considering moving the Indian village back to the ancient site shown on the map. That would give the Nincas more time, but we all knew that the elite corps would soon find that location. In a matter of days, perhaps even hours.

  By tomorrow at this time, there would be no more Ninca Indians in the country of Nicarxa. And, unless another miracle occurred, no more Nick Carter. After my killing of Col. Ramon Vasco, I could count on the fact that my name was high on the list of kills, probably higher than t
he names of the Nincas.

  Pico stirred on the ground, held the map up toward the sun to look at it from a new angle. We waited for Botussin to call an end to the meeting, to start preparing his final defenses. The chief opened his mouth to speak, but Pico held up his enormous hand for silence. He had a new thought. Good news or bad news?

  "High above my plateau," he said, more to himself than to the rest of us, "there is a certain herb I found that I boiled into a clear liquid. I coated the print on some of my books, print that was growing faint. Or perhaps it was only my eyes going faint. In any event, the print grew darker, more distinct. I could read it more easily."

  He paused again and we were all up on our toes, waiting for him to go on. Even old Botussin was leaning forward so far that I expected to hear the invisible legs of his stool snap like matchsticks. He wouldn't have much of a fall, his overflowing buttocks were almost touching the ground as it was. Behind me, Elicia had sucked in her breath and was holding it. I wondered if her brown skin would turn blue if the old hermit didn't continue talking soon.

  "Of course," Pico went on, "the liquid used on my books might destroy this old parchment altogether, or it may not work at all. In my opinion, it is worth a try."

  It was good news, or potentially good news.

  "How long will it take?" I asked, still clock-conscious.

  Pico shrugged. "Miracles must not be shackled to the schedules of man," he said. "It will take however long it takes. I will return when the task is done. If it is successful, I will return to help find the entrance to the cave. If it is not, I will return to help defend against the elite corps."

  He got up and started off alone. I knew that the elite corps was already taking up positions in the region, in anticipation of Don Carlos Italla's flare signal. I also knew that the guerillas guarding the mouths of the seven hollows would still be out searching for those who had killed so many of their number.

  "Some of us will go with you, Pico," I said, stopping the hermit. "Your journey is perhaps the most important ever taken in this country. We can't have you ambushed and killed on the trail."