Manus Xingue (11 page)

Kane takes the cocaine back. ‘Frank’s in killing mood. He’s very handy with a blade – he’ll do it quickly and argue about it later.’

‘Let the poor sod do a runner, Sarge,’ suggests Lacy. ‘He’s done a good
Solomon
with the information, besides, the poor cowson looks well
tom
and
dick
.’

‘I agree,’ Kane answers. Dublin
quickly
returns with only a few sticks of firewood.

‘Gordon Bennett!’ says Lacy, never one to keep his big Cockney mouth shut. ‘That won’t keep the
Jeremiah
going five minutes.’

‘Shut your big gob,’ Dublin hisses.

‘What’s up, Frank?’ Kane asks, sensing something is very amiss.

‘Seen a ghost, Frank?’ Lacy quips.

Dublin casually places a few sticks onto the fire.

‘More than one ghost. We are surrounded, Jim…. by a good codgel of some of the queerest-looking indians I have ever seen. Their bows are drawn and aiming straight at our backs – they have us by the short and curlies!’

‘What do we do, Sarge?’ Lacy asks, becoming agitated and looking as if he were getting ready to bolt.

‘Stay calm, lad – don’t move a muscle – don’t show fear,’ replies the Sergeant. ‘We have no quarrel with the indians.’

‘They are getting horrible close, Sarge!’ Lacy panics.

‘Stay still, lad,’ whispers Kane. ‘Just in case,’ he instructs, ‘I have a grenade in my right hand, on their blind side. Just pull the pin with your left hand on the QT.’ Lacy complies.

‘Frank, build up the
Jeremiah,’
orders Kane.’

Dublin builds up the fire adding more light to the scene. The strange indians slowly close the circle, their six-foot bows drawn taught, their barbed arrows pointing straight at the SAS troopers’ chests. ‘Sarge,’ whispers Lacy, ‘I think I am going to shit myself!’

‘You do, lad, and I will bloody kill you myself!’ Kane hisses.

The circle of warriors now closes to within a yard of the troopers. José Lopez grins crazily at the indians without fear.

The firelight clearly shows up the cat-like appearance of the indians. Long whiskers protrude from their upper lips, sharp canines hang from snarling mouths. The masks of jaguars half cover the tops of the indians’ heads, their bloodshot eyes stare through the cats’ empty sockets. Many of the warriors growl angrily. ‘Well fuck me gently!’ Kane swears. ‘It is the Cat-people. If I had known, we could have made a fight of it – they are bad news – I didn’t realise they came this far north.’

‘We can still make a fight of it, Jim, ‘Dublin whispers.

‘Ok,’ replies the sergeant, ‘I’ll throw the grenade – we grab our weapons and roll – their arrows should hit the fire.’

However, it is too late! One of the Cat-men seems to have understood every word said. Bending down, the Cat-man prises the hand-grenade from the sergeant’s hand; he is careful to keep the lever depressed. He then he takes the pin from Lacy’s hand and replaces it in the grenade!

‘Fuck my old boots!’ swears Kane. ‘How did he know that?’

Straightening up, the same Cat-man pulls his bowstring taught, right by Lacy’s ear, and then fires. José Lopez, cocaine addict par-excellence, falls backwards transfixed. José first grimaces, grins, then gives up the ghost!

‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaims Dublin. ‘It’s Indian Joe with whiskers. So that’s where the bastard disappeared to.’

‘Shut it,’ orders Kane. ‘Appear friendly, humour the cowson – they have us by the bollocks.’

‘José Lopez… bad man,’ announces Indian Joe.

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.

‘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 Rumpleforeskin 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.

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.’