The Adventurers (98 page)

They were silent for a moment. Then George looked up. "What's the situation this morning?"

"Not good," I replied. "Government troops are taking up a stand at Santa Clara, just beyond the airport. Eighteen miles to the south lies Curatu. Thank you, gentlemen, for your consideration."

The senator walked me to the door. "I'm sorry, Dax. But what you are asking is impossible, and you know it. We wouldn't dare send troops into your country, even if requested to do so by your government. The whole world would damn us for an imperialistic action."

"Someday you will," I said, looking at him directly. "You'll have to face up to the fact that you really are responsible for what happens in your sphere of influence. You won't do it this time, perhaps not even the next time. But let one country fall to the Communists and you'll have to."

"I hope not," the senator replied seriously. "I wouldn't like to have to make a decision like that."

"One of the responsibilities of power is the obligation to make decisions."

An embarrassed look came into his eyes. "I personally made a mistake, Dax. I'm sorry for it."

"My father said to me once that mistakes were the beginnings of experience, and that experience was the beginning of wisdom."

We shook hands silently and I went back to the turmoil of the consulate. When I got there I found a message on my desk. The plane had arrived safely in Florida.

There was a faint polite smattering of applause after my speech but it seemed to be coming from the public galleries overhead rather than from the delegates gathered on the floor. Slowly I came down from the podium and walked down the long aisle to my desk. Behind me I heard the crisp rap of the gavel announcing the close of the assembly.

I looked neither to the right nor to the left as I took my seat. I had no desire to embarrass any of the delegates by seeming to seek their approval. Already many of them were on their way out of the great chamber. There was a strange silence in place of the normal chatter that usually attended their departure. Occasionally one or another of them would stop at my desk for a moment and murmur a kind word. But most went by silently, avoiding my eyes. I sank wearily into my chair. It was no good, nothing was. I had failed again.

What could I have told these men who already knew so much that would have altered the opinions they already had formed? I was not a speechmaker, a man of glib phrases and flaming oratory. Half the time I spoke words that were not even convincing to my own ears. Slowly I began to gather my papers together and put them into my attach6 case.

The news that afternoon before I came to the assembly had not been good. That is, what news I could get, which was mostly from radio or television bulletins. I had not been able to get through to el Presidente all day. And just before I had left the consulate, the networks had reported that heavy fighting was taking place around Santa Clara, and that the government forces were falling back.

"It was a good speech," a voice said.

I looked up. It was Jeremy Hadley. There was an expression of sympathy in his eyes.

"You heard it?"

Jeremy nodded. "Every word. I was in the gallery. It was very good."

"But not good enough." I gestured toward the departing delegates. "They didn't seem to think it was much."

"They sensed it," he said. "It was the first time I ever saw them leave so quietly. There isn't one of them who doesn't feel in his secret heart a sense of shame because of it."

I laughed bitterly. "Fat lot of good that will do. By tomorrow they will have forgotten all about it. It will be nothing but a few thousand words buried among the millions already stored in the archives."

"You're wrong," Jeremy said quietly. "Years from now men will remember what you said here today."

"But not today, and for Corteguay today is what counts. There may be no tomorrow."

I finished putting the last of my papers in the attach^ case and closed it with a snap of finality. I got to my feet. Together we began to walk up the aisle.

"What are your plans now?"

I stopped and looked at him. "Go home."

"To Corteguay?"

"Yes, I have done everything I could here. Now there is no place else for me to go."

"It will be dangerous."

I didn't answer.

"What good can you do there?" he asked in a concerned voice. "It's almost over."

"I don't know. But there is one thing I do know. I cannot remain here, or anywhere else, for that matter. I cannot live with the realization that this time, this one time, I may not have done all I could."

There was a strange respect in his eyes. "The better I think I know you, the less I do know you."

I didn't answer for a moment. Instead I turned and looked around the great empty chamber. So many hopes of men had been born here. And so many, like mine, would die.

Something of what I thought must have been in Jeremy's mind too, because when I turned back to him his face was sad. He held out his hand and I took it.

"In your own words, Dax," he said earnestly, "vaya con Dios."

CHAPTER
29

It was about four in the morning and still dark when we swung in over the shores of Corteguay. We were a little over four hours out of Panama City. I looked down, straining my eyes to pierce the darkness, but I could see nothing. Whatever lights there usually were were not on tonight.

I glanced down at the fuel gauge. It registered slightly more than half full, and the reserve tank had not been touched. I nodded in satisfaction. At least we had enough gas to get back if we had to.

"Turn on the radio," I said to Giraldo. "Let's see if we can pick up anything."

He nodded, his face an odd green from the cockpit lighting. He reached over and flipped the toggle switch. Samba music flooded the cabin.

"You've got Brazil."

Giraldo began to turn the dial. He stopped it at 120 megacycles. "That's Curatu," he said. "They're not on the air."

I waited a moment. Usually Curatu was on all night. But there was nothing. "Try the military and police bands."

Quickly Giraldo whirled the dial. First one, then the other. Still nothing.

"If I had some light," I said, "I'd try for a landing in a field. But I can't see." "We could circle a little," Giraldo said. "It will not be long until dawn."

"No, we can't spare the fuel. We have to reserve enough to get back on."

"What are you going to do then?" Fat Cat asked from behind me.

I thought for a moment. "Try for the airport."

"And if Santa Clara has fallen? The airport is probably in their hands."

"We don't know that," I said. "Maybe we'll be able to tell when we come down. I won't cut the engines and if anything looks suspicious we'll cut out."

"Sweet Mother of God!" Fat Cat murmured.

I swung north over the sea. We wouldn't come inland until the last possible moment. "Turn to the air band."

Giraldo leaned forward and spun the dial. "All set."

Three minutes later I turned west toward land. The voice coming over the radio seemed suddenly to roar through the cabin. Whoever it was was speaking English but he seemed very nervous. His accent was so pronounced as to be almost unintelligible.

"Let me answer," I said quickly. My English was good enough to convince the average Corteguayan that I was foreign. At least over the telephone or radio.

I pressed down the button on the microphone. "This is private aircraft United States license number C310395 requesting permission to land at Curatu Airport. Please give us landing instructions. Over."

The voice was still nervous. "Would you identify yourself again, please?"

I repeated my request, speaking more slowly this time.

There was a second's silence, then a question: "How many on board your aircraft? Please state the purpose of your visit."

"Three aboard. Pilot, co-pilot, and one passenger. Aircraft chartered by American news service."

This time there was almost a full minute's wait. "You are on our radar screen about five miles west and three miles south of airport, heading north. You will continue until we give you the signal to turn south and take up your landing pattern. Acknowledge and repeat. Over."

I acknowledged and repeated.

"What do you think?" Fat Cat asked.

"Sounds O.K.," I said, "unless the army has gone over to the rebels." I adjusted my airspeed just as the radio came back on. "Anyway, we'll know in a few minutes."

They gave us the minimum lights necessary to land. As soon as our wheels touched the ground, they went off, and we taxied by our own landing lights toward the dimly lit terminal.

"Do you see anything?" Fat Cat asked.

"Not yet," Giraldo answered.

A moment later we reached the loading apron. Slowly I turned the plane around, keeping the motor running so we could get out the way we had come in if we had to.

Suddenly soldiers came running from all sides, surrounding the plane. There seemed to be at least forty of them, all with rifles.

"Are they ours or theirs?" Fat Cat's voice was puzzled.

I peered down at our landing beams. A short man marched pompously forward, dressed in a captain's uniform. I laughed suddenly and cut the engines. "Ours!"

"How do you know?"

"Look!" I said, pointing.

There was no mistaking the man. Prieto. All dressed up in an officer's uniform. I smiled to myself. Never in my life had I ever thought I would be glad to see Prieto again.

"How is it going?" I asked after we got into the terminal.

The single light on Prieto's desk glowed weakly as he poured coffee for us. "There is still fighting at Santa Clara."

I picked up the cup and sipped the coffee gratefully. "We had heard that Santa Clara had fallen."

"No, the rebels are a mile or so outside the town. They are dug in, waiting for the forces from the south to join them."

There was noise outside, then the sound of a shot and a man shouting. Silence. I looked at Prieto questioningly.

"The men here are nervous," he said with a slight smile. "They shoot at anything that moves, even shadows. Afterward they shout."

"Have any of the rebels tried to get through to here?"

"A few," Prieto said. "They are all dead." He reached for a cigarette, and I noticed the faint trembling of his fingers.

"We picked you up on our radar about fifty miles out. We thought it might be you but couldn't be sure until you had identified yourself."

"You expected me?"

"We had word from New York that you were on your way. It was el Presidente who figured that you might be coming in your own plane. He's had a car waiting for you since late this afternoon."

I finished the coffee and put down the cup. "Good," I said. "I am ready."

Prieto got to his feet slowly. "You thought I killed Guayanos, didn't you?"

I looked at him and nodded silently.

"You should have known better. If I had, I'd have made sure we got Mendoza, too. He was far more important."

I told Giraldo to stay with the plane until he had further orders from me, then Fat Cat and I got into the army jeep and went barreling off to the city. It was a six-place job and Fat Cat and I occupied the middle seats, with the driver and another soldier in front. Two more soldiers were on the seat behind us and all of them, except the driver, held their rifles at the alert.

We drove without headlights until we were within a mile of the city. There were times when I wondered how the driver could see but apparently he knew the road. By the time we did turn on the lights we really didn't need them. A faint hint of dawn was breaking in the east.

Twice, just outside the city and once at the entrance to the city itself, we were stopped by roadblocks. Each time the soldiers merely glanced in our car and waved us on. They had apparently been alerted to my arrival. It was daylight by the time the car turned into the courtyard of the Palacio del Presidente. We piled out and went inside.

An army captain was waiting at the door. "Senor Xenos," he said, waving us past the guards. "El Presidente has asked that you be brought to him immediately."

I followed him down the corridor to the presidential office. The captain knocked on the door politely, then without waiting for an answer opened it and stood aside.

El Presidente was standing in the center of a group of officers gathered around his desk. A sudden smile came to his face as he looked up. He came quickly around the desk, throwing his arms wide to embrace me.

"Dax, my boy," he called warmly, "I'm so glad you got here in time for the finish!"

I stood there frozen in numbed surprise as I felt his lips kiss me on either cheek. I had not expected to find him like this. Cheerful, almost gay.

It was no way for a man to act at his own funeral.

CHAPTER
30

I stood next to el Presidente looking down at the map spread out on the desk. It was covered with crosses and checkmarks, each in a different color. It made no sense to me until he explained it.

"The only chance they had was to win quickly. Speed. Three days, four days at the most, then, poof!" El Presidente snapped his fingers. "It would be gone like that."

A murmur of agreement came up from the officers around us.

"I realized that right away," he continued, a satisfied note in his voice. "They had just so many guns, so much ammunition. That was fine if they were merely to continue their raids, but it was nowhere near enough for a war. I made my decision immediately. Fall back from the mountains. Let them stretch their supply lines and use up their ammunition. Let them think they were winning so they would outrun their ability to supply themselves. And they did. They moved two hundred and forty miles from the mountains, leaving nothing behind them to maintain their supply lines. No trucks, only a few automobiles, and horses and donkeys." El Presidente laughed. "Think of it. Horses and donkeys in this age!"

Almost like a chorus, the officers behind us laughed, and were silent as soon as he began to speak again.