Manus Xingue (8 page)

The SAS men enter the river, led by Indian Joe, and wade upstream. After a few hundred metres, their grotesque tracker finds where Chevez and the Kier Verde left the river. In the muddy bank, Chevez's tracks suddenly reappear behind the bare footprints of the two Kier Verde indians. ‘Fuck me, they couldn't have carried Chevez – their tracks weren't deep enough.' Kane exclaims. Soon they find two cheroot stubs.

‘Bloody Nora!' says Edwards. ‘The two indians had time for a fag break – but where is Chevez?'

‘That's what I am going to find out,' replies Kane. ‘Wait here.' Kane and Indian Joe follow Chevez's tracks back downstream along the bank; Edwards, Dublin and Lacy form an all-round defence again.

‘Jim's too cautious,' quips Taffy Edwards. ‘He wastes time.'

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,' says Dublin, ‘we should have pushed on – caught up with Chevez and nailed the bastard. He only has an old, bolt-action rifle – he'll be lucky to get one round off.' Jack Lacy's mind, however, is on matters more serious. ‘Give us a packet of Yank fags, Taffy, and a swig from that bottle of
gold watch
.'

‘No and no,' replies Edwards. ‘Good whiskey is wasted on anyone under thirty.'

Kane and Indian Joe return. ‘What's up, Jim?' asks Edwards.

‘Well fuck me gently,' replies the Sergeant. ‘Chevez has been playing with us! This is
not
going to be a quick operation. Henry was right – Chevez and the Kier Verde have more tricks than a cart-load of monkeys! While the two Kier Verde sat here and had a smoke, Chevez nipped back and took a look at us – while we were on the river-bank!'

‘What about the
birds,
Sarge?' asks Lacy.

‘The birds only took flight when Chevez got up to
leave
.'

‘Gordon Bennett!' Lacy exclaims. ‘Chevez could have drilled me straight through the head. Why didn't he?'

‘I will tell you
why
,' says Taffy Edwards, ‘because Chevez didn't know who we were or who we were after.'

‘Well, he bloody well knows now!' answers Dublin. ‘We best watch our backs!'

Indian Joe, after scouting short way ahead, returns and snorts a line of coke. ‘Bloody hell, Sarge,' whispers Lacy, ‘he'll be through that lot like a dose of salts at this rate. What happens when he goes cold turkey?'

‘I have two more packets,' says Kane.

‘I don't like the sound of that,' remarks Lacy. ‘What if you run out before we get Chevez?'

‘And now I see through a light glass darkly,' replies the Sergeant.

‘What does that mean, Sarge?' Lacy asks.

‘It means my crystal ball is covered in shit!' Kane replies.

Indian Joe returns. ‘Chevez go this way,’ reports Indian Joe. ‘Not use trail.’ The SAS troopers follow Indian Joe towards the jungle. The tracks of Chevez and the Kier Verde are plainly visible in the soft riverbank mud. After a hundred metres, the tracks completely disappear! They meet a solid wall of jungle.

‘Bloody Nora!’ Edwards swears. ‘Chevez couldn’t have gone through this lot without disturbing it – it’s a false trail.’

Indian Joe studies the tracks carefully, then gives a demonstration of what happened. The cocaine addict walks forward leaving his tracks. Then, carefully walking backwards while facing forwards, he skilfully places his feet in the exactly the same footprints. ‘It’s a simple trick Chevez knew we would solve,’ comments Kane, ‘but why did he want us here?’

‘I think we should back up, Jim,’ warns Taffy Edwards looking around concerned. ‘It could be a trap!’

The SAS troopers slowly back away, covering their withdrawal. Edwards’ body brushes against a branch, chest-high….there’s a hiss – a snake strikes the Welshman in the chest!

‘Bloody Hell,’ gasps Edwards, turning pale and looking at the hissing snake. ‘It’s a Fer de Lance!’

The four SAS troopers look in disbelief at the live, venomous snake. It had been deliberately attached to the branch with a vine pushed painfully through its body – a living, very angry, booby trap!

‘It’s got me good and proper, Frank! In the chest – the worst place,’ groans Edwards, sinking to the ground.

‘Keep calm, mate,’ advises Dublin. ‘It will slow the poison spreading.’

‘Fuck my poxy luck!’ swears Edwards. ‘I think a fang has punctured an artery!’

‘It could have been a
dry
bite mate,’ Dublin comforts.

‘Dry bite, my arse!’ Edwards replies. ‘I can feel the poison spreading!’

Indian Joe kills the snake with his machete. Grinning, he exclaims, ‘Baba Amarillo – bad poison – Edwards morto – mucho rapido.’ The indian tracker then draws his hand over his throat.

‘Bloody Job’s comforter, you are,’ says Kane, who then motions Lacy over. ‘Taffy is a goner, Sarge,’ whispers Lacy. ‘The snake has bitten him right by his
strawberry
. I will give him a Bothrops polyvalent injection. Half round the puncture marks and the other half between the wound and the heart. I hate giving injections.’

‘You’re our medic,’ snaps the Sergeant. ‘Get the fuck on with it, you fairy.’

Dublin tears Edwards’ tunic open and sees two deep fang marks already haemorrhaging. Lacy begins to inject the anti-venom. Kane motions Dublin over. ‘There’s still a chance, Jim,’ says the Irishman hopefully. ‘Maybe just a warning bite.’

‘Not this snake, Frank. It was in pain and angry, just waiting for someone to come into range. This was a
live
booby trap – we fell for it!’

‘The anti-venom could save him,’ says Dublin hopefully.

‘It won’t have time to work!’ Kane answers. ‘I think a fang has hit an artery – Taffy will know that!’

‘It’s going to hurt like hell,’ says the Irishman. ‘It’s a haematoxin – every organ will haemorrhage. Taffy will turn black and blue and bleed from every orifice and die of a heart attack!’ Dublin takes out a sealed medical kit and begins to fill a syringe watched by Kane. ‘That’s a
lot
of morphine, Frank,’ comments the Sergeant.

‘We have an understanding.’ Dublin replies, walking towards his mate, Edwards. Kane calls Lacy back so as not to implicate him with what is about to happen.

‘Stone the crows, Sarge!’ exclaims Lacy, seeing the syringe. ‘That’s a
lethal
dose Dublin’s got there!’

‘The dose looked
fine
to me,’ replies the Sergeant. ‘Indian Joe – find out where Chevez go.’ Indian Joe enters the jungle.

‘Taffy’s leaking
claret
like a sieve, Sarge… How will Dublin take it when Taffy passes away?’

‘Look, lad,’ answers Kane, ‘we
die
in the SAS! We do not
pass
away,
pass
out or
pass
over – Taffy will just
die
! When Taffy, Frank and me joined up, we joined up knowing we could be wounded, crippled, or killed – that is what being a soldier is about. We cannot become too sentimental or shocked about a soldier’s death, like the Yanks.’

Frank Dublin kneels next to his mate. Edwards is now bleeding from his mouth, ears and eyes. Dublin carefully wipes them. ‘Come on, Taffy,’ encourages the Irishman, holding up the lethal dose of morphine for Edwards to see. ‘We still have our memoirs to write.’

Edwards is conscious and can see the overloaded syringe! ‘I need your help to write that book,’ continues Dublin.

‘Only because you’re illiterate, you stupid Paddy,’ answers the Welshman painfully. Dublin holds up the overloaded syringe of morphine
again
for Edwards to see, as if for
confirmation
. Taffy Edwards nods. ‘Give me a pull of that Yank bourbon mate…. and a fag.’ Frank Dublin gently places the bottle to his best friend’s lips. Taffy Edwards takes several deep gulps. Dublin places a cigarette in Taffy’s mouth, but before he can light it, it falls to the ground. Taffy Edwards has died of haematoxin poison!

That evening, the three SAS men sit around the fire. Indian Joe returns from his assigned scouting trip. ‘Chevez – go east,’ announces the indian.

Dublin stands up holding a small entrenching shovel. ‘I’ll put Taffy underground now,’ declares the Irishman, walking into the gloom of the approaching jungle night.

I only hope this liberal government of powdered-arse poofs doesn’t allow women into the regiment – there is talk of it,’ Kane ponders.

‘Yeah,’ agrees Lacy, ‘I bet the women would be some right ugly, hairy-arsed pipe-smoking dykes and fishmongers – with legs like sumo wrestlers.’

Mumbled words of Latin float on the humid, jungle night air as Dublin holds a short requiem over his best mate. The Irishman returns – he then shares out Taffy’s kit, rations and medical supplies, as is the custom. Dublin keeps the bourbon and cigarettes for himself.

Indian Joe takes a line of cocaine and stands up. ‘Indian Joe hunt now.’ Turning, the grotesque Shaman walks into the jungle night.

‘What does our
venereal
friend get up to, alone in the jungle at night?’ asks Dublin, suspiciously.

‘He’s not afraid of the man-eater,’ adds Lacy, ‘and there will be problems when he goes cold turkey!’

‘A Chinese parliament,’ announces Kane, ignoring the two troopers’ concerns about Indian Joe. ‘We have lost time and need to catch up with Chevez tomorrow.’

‘It could work in our favour,’ says Dublin. ‘Chevez will think he has shaken us off and relax – we can catch him around his camp-fire tomorrow night.’

‘It’s our only chance,’ agrees Kane. ‘He is now heading east, leading us into the malarial swamps of Boa Santos – same as he did the Yanks.’

‘He’s a tricky bastard all right,’ adds Dublin. ‘I have never come across the snake booby-trap before – remember, he mixes with the Kier Verde, and has picked up some of their tricks.’

‘We have to finish it tomorrow night,’ says Kane. ‘The longer the chase goes on, the more dangerous it will become!’

Three miles away to the north, Chevez and the three Kier Verde indians sit around a small fire, smoking.

‘I will be happy when we cross the Japari River into our land – then our magic power will return,’ comments Yuma.

‘We can then become the Invisible People again,’ adds Rondo.

‘Your power is jungle knowledge,’ says Chevez. ‘You cannot lose it!’

‘You do not understand, Chevez,’ says Yuma. ‘Once we cross the Japari River, our power leaves us. Our green masks cannot make us the Invisible People!’ Chevez smiles at the Kier Verde superstitions and shakes his head.

‘I wonder if the long-nosed, white soldiers are still following us?’ Apari asks. ‘The jungle animals have given no sign, of us being followed,’ replies Yuma. ‘These soldiers are different from the Americanos,’ says Chevez. ‘They travel light and move quickly and quietly.’

‘Yes – at the hut,’ agrees Rondo, ‘they avoided the mantrap and moved silently – I smelt them first!’

‘They must have been near the hut all night,’ remarks Chevez, cleaning his beloved rifle. ‘We must be extra careful tonight,’ warns Apari, ‘for we are now deep in the territory of the evil, Cat-spirit who craves man-meat.’

Chevez smiles. ‘It’s just a jaguar that has found out man is weak. My rifle will kill the Cat-spirit, amigos!’

‘If it was
just
a jaguar, we would have killed it ourselves,’ argues Apari, ‘It is a devil, and killed over a hundred people. Only magic can kill the evil Cat-spirit.’

The Catholic Chevez is unconvinced. ‘If the white soldiers are still following us tomorrow, I know a way, maybe, to kill them all! Yuma, tomorrow you go ahead – look out for the tracks of El Lobo!’ The three indians grin at the possible prospect.

At dawn the next morning, the three SAS troopers make an early start in order to regain contact with Chevez.

‘I’m just going to pay my last respects to Taffy,’ says Dublin.

A shout from the grave brings Kane and Lacy running.

‘Look – what that bastard Chevez has done to Taffy during the night!’ Dublin exclaims.

The three SAS troopers stare at Taffy Edwards’ grave. His body had been pulled from the grave and was grimly leaning on the edge. His left arm is missing! ‘Could be an animal?’ Lacy suggests. ‘The man-eater!’

‘That’s no animal – that’s the work of a machete,’ observes Dublin.

Sergeant Kane looks around for tracks. ‘Whoever, or whatever, it was has taken great care not to leave a single track. I don’t think it was Chevez, Frank. His strategy is to keep running.’

‘Besides,’ adds Lacy, ‘he could have easily taken one of us out. We all took turns on watch last night. That skeleton we saw yesterday had an arm missing. What do you think, Sarge?’

‘Now I see through a light glass darkly,’ replies the Sergeant.’

Dublin begins to rebury Edwards. Suddenly, Indian Joe appears from nowhere and snorts a line of cocaine. The three SAS troopers study the indian: who grins back at them.

The group moves off. A helicopter is heard in the distance. Indian Joe is the first to hear it and quickly takes cover. The SAS troopers follow suit. They glimpse the chopper through the foliage in the distance.

‘It’s a Yank Black Hawk combat chopper,’ says Kane.

‘What the fuck is it doing here?’ Dublin muses suspiciously.

‘Probably on exercise,’ answers Kane. ‘Always best to get your heads down when the Yanks are above.’ The Black Hawk chopper moves away.

As evening approaches, Chevez and the Kier Verde move casually along the jungle trail. They stop and listen to the jungle noises behind them. ‘I think the white soldiers are close again, Chevez!’ Rondo warns.

Yuma is a short way ahead. He stops, pointing into the jungle.

‘I have found El Lobo’s trail crossing this track – many mules.’

‘Good,’ answers Chevez ‘We leave the track here. I don’t want the white soldiers to see Lobo’s mule-tracks, only ours. I want to lead the soldiers into Lobo’s camp – when they are following our tracks.’ The three Kier Verde indians grin at the possible outcome of this manoeuvre.

A mile down the track, the SAS troopers are quickly closing in on Chevez again. Indian Joe stops and examines the ground.