Manus Xingue (4 page)

‘A team of twelve US Special Force soldiers went after Chevez three months ago. Chevez totally outwitted them – only four US soldiers returned – the jungle killed the rest. Chevez associates with the Kier Verde tribe, known as the ‘
Invisible People’
– they kill strangers. His woman is Kier Verde.’

‘What’s it to us Henry? Kane asks.

‘I know you don’t like the Americans, Jim – it’s an opinion I do not share. Most of their Special Forces are still operating in Iraq – looking for the weapons of mass destruction!’

‘If they exist,’ Kane answers. ‘Why do we always have our heads up the Yanks’ arses – are we still paying lend-lease?’

The Captain smiles, ignoring the question. ‘They want us to target Chevez.’

Kane regards the Captain suspiciously. ‘Off the record Henry – this is not one of your moonlighting jobs, is it? I heard you and your lads did well in Iraq Two, working with the Yanks.’

‘We handed all the money we found back,’ answers the Captain. ‘I heard your team shot down an American Black Hawk gunship.’

‘They opened up with a Gatling-gun – I lost two men!’

‘Not to worry, Jim,’ replies the Captain with a knowing smile. ‘I must tell you this is a ‘
deniable operation’
- any causalities must be stripped of ID – any seriously wounded….’ The Captain stops, not wishing to commit himself.’

‘Is this mission going in the 22 Squadron’s operations logbook?’ asks Kane.

Captain Price-Palmer takes the logbook from the desk.

‘Every commander has a right to refuse an operation,’ says Sgt Kane. ‘I’ll give this one a miss, Henry.’

The Captain hands Kane a letter. ‘Read this, Jim – before you decide.’

Kane reads the letter; he is visually taken aback!

‘In two days,’ says the Captain ‘you will be promoted to Staff Sergeant – this is your last chance for active service. Chevez’s jungle skills will be a match, even for
you,
Jim!’

Kane takes a longer look at the photograph, with renewed interest.

‘Ok Henry – I’ll do it.’

‘Good man, Jim,’ says a delighted Price-Palmer. ‘The Americans have especially asked for you to command this operation.

‘I will need my usual team sent out from Credenhill.’

‘No can do, Jim - there is no time – a chopper is waiting to take off. US intelligence knows Chevez is leaving his jungle hideout tonight to meet a Portuguese trader called Mendoza.’

‘Well, give me the bad news then, Henry,’ Sgt Kane asks. ‘Who have I got?’

‘Trooper Lacy,’ replies the Captain.

‘What!’ explodes Kane, ‘that noisy useless twat!’

‘He’s a fine marksman, Jim – and extremely fit.’

‘Lacy’s also afraid of spiders and the dark!’ replies Kane.

‘He passed Selection – you were there,’ says the Captain.

‘Lacy could have died during interrogation,’ Kane adds.

‘Yes, I know one of my men was a little too enthusiastic. It won’t happen again – you have my word, Jim!’

‘Who else have I got ?’ asks Kane.

‘Corporals Bill Edwards and Frank Dublin, two of my best men.’

‘Well, fuck me gently!’ exclaims Kane. You have given me a right tote-double there! One is a Welsh barrack-room lawyer – with the brain of a fully grown ferret – the other is a brawling Irish piss-artist. Both are Anglophobes–. and also the biggest shit-stirrers and tea-leaves in the regiment!’

‘Edwards and Dublin are good, experienced soldiers,’ defends the Captain. ‘They served with you in the Paras.’

‘Don’t remind me,’ replies Kane.

‘They are also excellent navigators – with good jungle skills. There are alternatives, Jim – you can take three new recruits - or I could ask the other commanders to release their best men,’ suggests the Captain, with a dry smile.

‘That is like offering me the choice between
syphilis
and
gonorrhoea
,’ Kane replies. ‘All commanders love to be asked for their
best men,
Henry – it’s a good chance to unload the wankers. I will stick with the devil I know.’

Price-Palmer points to a wall map. ‘Chevez and his Kier Verde woman live somewhere here in these hills, over the Japari River. Chevez will meet Mendoza in a hut – here.’ Kane studies the map.

‘I did a search and rescue near there once – thick jungle – flat as a witch’s tit.’

‘The chopper will fly you to the US Special Force base. The Americans will drive you across the border into the Matto Grosso in Brazil, and will drop you off twenty-five kilometres from the hut where Chevez meets Mendoza. A vetted,
reliable,
Marpari guide will meet you.’

‘What about fire-power – equipment?’ Kane asks.

‘The Americans will supply you with weapons that the local Brazilian troops use – we cannot leave any trace of the Regiment behind. You won’t need much – Chevez only has an old, bolt-action Mauser – he makes his own ammunition.’

‘What about communications?’ Kane asks.

‘Too risky, Jim,’ Price-Palmer answers. ‘We do not want the Brazilians picking up signals. The Americans will provide air support.’

‘Not bloody likely,’ replies Kane. ‘The US Air Force bombed the fuck out of me in both Gulf Wars and Afghanistan.’

‘Mistakes happen,’ replies Capt Price-Palmer. ‘The American Air Force and Army are the best equipped and trained in the world.’

‘In WW 2,’ says Sgt Kane, ‘when American GIs saw their
own
air force approaching, they shouted, “Look out boys – here comes the
American Luftwaffe
!” – nothing has changed, Henry.’

‘As you wish, Jim,’ answers the Captain. ‘The Americans only need Chevez’s left ear – it has a piece missing – they have his DNA. Here are photographs and descriptions of the missing US soldiers – just in case some are still lost in the jungle. Good luck.’

Captain Price-Palmer opens the 22 SAS operational logbook as
if
about to log the operation. Kane turns to leave.

‘Oh, be nice to the Americans, Jim,’ adds the Major.

‘Bollocks!’ Kane replies.

Price-Palmer then closes the logbook without entering the operation and smiles. Lighting a cigarette, he picks up the phone.

‘Major Ely Bodeen’s office? Ely, it’s Henry – Operation Chevez Two is on – a four-man team led by Sgt Kane will be with you tonight. Two of my men, Edwards and Dublin, are in the team – the only two who know about the million dollar reward on Chevez.’

Major Ely Bodeen sits his cowboy boots on the desk. ‘Well done Henry –
now hear this
–
I want this operation to go as quickly as shit through a goose!’

‘Ok to speak?’ Captain Price-Palmer asks.

‘Go ahead, Henry – this line is as pure and clean as Mary Poppins’ gusset!’

‘Regarding our arrangement – Iraq Two – we need to reach a conclusion soon!’

‘The money has to be moved around first – patience, Henry – just a few more weeks. Now take care, Henry.’

Major Ely Bodeen hangs up. He immediately makes another call. ‘Special Forces Headquarters, Missouri, Colonel Clay.’ Major Bodeen takes out a box of Havana cigars and smells it appreciatively but, before he can open it, his call is through. ‘Homer – the Limeys will be in the field tomorrow!’

Colonel Clay speaks with a deep southern accent. ‘Listen Ely, I want at least four tracking devices on those sons-of-bitch Limeys. Limeys are stupid – but cunning – they
must not
see the bigger picture – understand!’

‘My opinion is ….’

‘Listen Ely – an opinion is like an arsehole – everybody has one! I want this finished before the rains, and before those Italian grease-balls send out some of their people to find out what happened to their missing money.’

‘Don’t worry, Homer. Sgt Kane is as honest and as straight as Captain Price-Palmer, Frank Dublin and Bill Edwards are dishonest and crooked. We should have Peterson’s dog-tags with the co-ordinates of the missing money in a few days – these SAS Limeys are real good in the jungle. I have ordered Sgt Kane to personally collect all dog-tags – saying I did not want the other SAS boys contaminating any DNA evidence.’

A jungle logging road in Brazil’s Matto Grosso; a tame Marpari indian guide awaits the arrival of the SAS troopers. The indian stands at the track’s edge; he often looks at his cheap watch. The Marpari is uneasy, nervously looking over his shoulder into the jungle behind. From a small packet, he tips a line of white powder onto the back of his hand – and snorts it.

Suddenly, the Marpari turns, hearing a noise from behind. He sees a gruesome-looking, wild, naked indian with black-filed teeth and a ceremonial-scarred face – it is Manus Xingue!

Attached to Manus Xingue’s fibre belt are three grinning, shrunken skulls complete with hair – two redheads and a blond – all with blue eyes!

The Marpari is terrified; a long barbed arrow pulled taught in a bow is pointing at his chest. Manus Xingue rapidly questions the Marpari in a native tongue – the only recognisable words, ‘Chevez and Mendoza’, are often heard.

The terrified Marpari draws in the damp earth with a stick, explaining something. Satisfied, Manus Xingue dismisses the Marpari – after snatching the small packet of white powder from him. The Marpari leaves with nervous backward glances – as he passes a tree, a long barbed arrow transfixes him to its trunk!

Manus Xingue tips some white powder on the back of his hand, snorts it and grins. Drawing his machete, he walks up to the transfixed Marpari and lifts the helpless tracker’s right arm!

One kilometre down the logging road, a US Humvee speeds along. The rising clouds of dust caused by the vehicle almost conceal the fact that men and packs are dropping from it at intervals.

The first out is Sgt Kane; rolling, he quickly picks up his Bergen and disappears into the jungle edge. Under cover, Kane hears something crashing noisily towards him. He covers the movement with his rifle; it is vital the many tree fellers do not see the SAS men and alert the Brazilian troops, jeopardizing the whole operation. In such instances, any intruder has to be killed! Jack Lacy appears through the foliage, bright eyed and bushy tailed, smiling and rubbing his arse.

‘You stupid, noisy cowson,’ hisses Kane, ‘I could hear you a bloody mile off – didn’t you learn anything?’

Jack Lacy ignores the rebuff. ‘Gordon Bennett, Sarge! I think I’ve broken my poxy tailbone!’

‘The only sympathy you will find in the SAS, lad, is in a dictionary, between
shit
and
syphilis
,’ replies Kane.

‘It’s all right for you ex-Paras, dropping from moving vehicles,’ grumbles Lacy, sitting on his Bergen and rolling a cigarette. ‘I am sure that bastard Yank put his foot down when I jumped!’

Jack Lacy is a good-looking Cockney, a six-foot tall, blue-eyed
blond
– lithely, muscular. ‘Where are Taffy and the Turk?’ Lacy asks.

‘Don’t let Dublin hear you call him a Turk – he’ll knock your railings out! Dublin doesn’t like Cockneys – especially mouthy ones like you.’

‘He’ll have to catch me first,’ replies Lacy, grinning.

‘Don’t make enemies – a lot of old scores can be settled in action.’

‘I hope so!’ answers Lacy, the grin gone.

‘What!’ Kane exclaims.

‘If I ever find my interrogator, the silent one,’ says Lacy, ‘I will kill him!’

‘Forget it, lad,’ counsels Sgt Kane, ‘interrogation is part of Selection.’

‘He was killing me, Sarge!’ Lacy answers.

‘Look – forget it. That’s an order!’

Lacy cheers up. ‘One good thing, Sarge, we don’t have a Jock in our team.’

‘What’s wrong with the Scots?’

‘They scare me, Sarge,’ Lacy replies, ‘especially when they have been on the
turps
. There should be a sign as you enter Scotland – “
Englishmen – beware! Beyond here – there be aggressive alcoholics”.’

‘The Jocks are bloody great soldiers. They got us English out of many a tight corner,’ says Kane. ‘Now shut your bloody gob – I can’t hear myself think!’

Edwards and Dublin, 21 SAS, silently appear. Edwards, the more intelligent of the two, is a tall, thin Welshman with sharp features and coal scars. Dublin, a Wexford man, is dark and hairy, powerfully built with the bone structure and the patience of a Neanderthal. Both are good, experienced troopers; calm in battle and good tacticians.

Dublin is a violent man – especially in his cups. He is passionately loyal to 21 SAS. Unable to return to the Republic – 21 SAS Sabre Squadron was now his only family. Both Celts dislike the English, and are heavy drinkers and gamblers.

The two old mates immediately begin to share stolen American loot. Dublin has two bottles of Bourbon, Edwards four cartons of PX Chesterfields. Sgt Jim Kane looks on disapprovingly; Lacy watches enviously.

‘Give us a pack, boys,’ Lacy pleads.

‘Piss off, you useless Cockney cunt!’ Dublin answers in a strong Southern Irish accent.

‘Now then, Frank,’ corrects Taffy Edwards, ‘a cunt can be useful – that’s more than Lacy is.’

‘Don’t look so innocent, Lacy,’ says Kane, ‘I saw you lift that Parker pen off Major Bodeen’s desk and dip his drawer for those Havana cigars.’

‘Well, rip my reed,’ answers Lacy, ‘they have so much, they won’t miss it.’

‘You bloody
tea-leaves
make me ashamed of the British army,’ says Kane.

Back at the US Special Force jungle base over the Columbian border, Major Bodeen reports to Colonel Homer Clay at Headquarters. ‘Homer – Operation Chevez Two is on!’

‘Did the Limeys
steal
all the items containing the tracking bugs, Ely?’

‘Every Goddamn one, Homer. I placed a tracking bug in a Parker pen, a telescopic sight, the corks of two bottles of bourbon and a grenade launcher–five in all.’ Major Bodeen reaches for his box of Havanas – they are missing! ‘Goddamn it – those cock-sucking, mother-fucking, sons-of-bitch Limeys have lifted my cigars, for Christ’s sakes!’

‘Did you bug them, Ely?

‘No, Sir! Goddamn – they were my month’s supply! That’s the thanks we get for saving their Limey arses in
two
world wars – if it wasn’t for the US, those cock-sucking Limeys would now be speaking German and wearing Japanese kimonos. Limeys would rob their own grandmother, and steal her teeth when she hollered.’ ‘Now listen, Ely, forget your cigars,’ says Colonel Clay. ‘I want a chopper with a heli-gimble camera trailing their Limey arses. I want to know their every move – they must
never
meet up with Manus Xingue. I want that indian in a body-bag. If the Limeys get wise – kill them!’