“Yankee pig!” hissed the voice, and the boot swung again. This time it came straight for Nick’s head.
The sub was miles away, sliding silently through the black sea. Jean Pierre sat in his cramped quarters with his ear to a small black box and his mouth open in horror.
“Yankee pig!” the receiver whispered. Then there was a second thump, louder than the first, and a sound that began as a grunt and ended in a piercing scream.
Take Me to Your Leader
He struck again with savage fury. His head still reeled from the glancing kick and his ears were full of the animal howl, but it was his life or the other’s and he was damned if he was going to lose his life at this stage of the game. The first swift raking of his reaching hand had already torn a lower leg to shreds. Now he had an advantage and he was going to use it.
Nick lunged upward as he struck, driving the steel claws into the thick thigh and slashing them sideways across the lower abdomen. The scream now was one long continuous litany of frightful pain and the booted feet no longer kicked out but tried to back away. The claws caught deep into the flesh and held; there was no retreat for the welcomer with the unfriendly feet. Nick heaved himself up over the cliff edge, exhausted and half-dazed, still clutching his quarry. The big fellow made a handy anchor, with the hand-pitons sunk into the squirming body, and Nick had no qualms about using him as long as he was there. The scream rose and the man staggered backwards and fell. Nick landed heavily on top of him and wrenched his hand free of the oozing flesh. His welcoming committee squirmed under him, legs and arms jerking, obscenities babbling from his throat. For a moment they both lay there, writhing like a pair of unlikely lovers, and then the big man suddenly twisted his body and stumbled to his feet. Nick rolled over, exhausted beyond endurance. He could see the big shape looming over him, clothes torn open and hideous wounds deforming his lower body, and he could see the long knife that appeared in the other man’s hand, but he could not seem to make his muscles move.
The cliff edge was behind him. The big man came toward him, knife poised for a downward thrust and his face a maddened mask of pain and hatred.
For God’s sake do something, Nick told himself wearily, and felt like vomiting. The fellow’s guts were dribbling out.
The knife came downward in slow motion and the man staggered forward. Nick gathered strength and kicked out in a swift jack knifing movement that caught the man in the chest and clawed him up into the air. Again there was that horrible scream, and the man hung balanced in the air like a circus acrobat on his partner’s feet. Only these feet were hooked and deadly. Nick kicked up again, heard the ripping of cloth, and felt his burden fall free. He twisted sideways away from the thing that flew howling through the air, over the edge and off the cliff.
The scream ended with a sickening thud. Then there was a splash. Then — nothing.
Nick sat up wearily. So much for his silent arrival. He rose groggily to his feet and listened to the night sounds. There were shouts somewhere in the distance. He’d better get going.
He moved clumsily into the stand of trees and propped himself against a sturdy trunk while he removed the piton-claws from his hands and feet. They were sticky with blood. Handy little bastards you turned out to be, he congratulated them grimly, and thrust them into his back pack. He stood under the trees for a moment gathering breath and willing his heart to slow its galloping motion. A light flickered somewhere to the left of him. He could not tell how far away it was, but the sounds of men’s voices were still muted. A bird chirped anxiously close by, and he noted its sound absently as he moved on. No doubt disturbed by my stealthy arrival, he told himself sourly, and made for the narrow path between the trees that Jean Pierre had told him he would find.
He did find it, and he walked along it with silent care, listening and watching. Funny, that damned bird seemed to be following him.
Nick looked over his shoulder. Nothing there. And nothing moved in the trees. The bird chirped again… and the chirp wandered off-key.
Suddenly he remembered the small two-way radio in his inside underarm pocket Feeling slightly foolish, he bent his head and chirped into his armpit. Two chirps, and then he spoke.
“It’s okay, Jean Pierre,” he said, very softly but distinctly. “That was the other fellow.”
“Thank God!” His fellow AXEman’s voice came to him as a tiny, distant sound, but he could hear Jean Pierre’s relief. There was a pause. Then: “What other fellow?”
“Don’t know,” Nick said softly. “He didn’t mention his name. But he wasn’t friendly. Neither was he Chinese, nor Haitian. If a guess is any good, I’d say he could have been a Cuban.”
“Cuban!”
“Yeah.”
“But why—? What happened, anyway?”
The lights were coming closer, though not directly toward him. Nick put his lips closer to the tiny mike.
“Look, we’ll chat some other time, all right? If that wasn’t Paolo who just went over the cliff I still have to meet him, and these woods of yours are filling up with people. Tell Hawk I made it as far as the path on the cliff top. And next time don’t chirp me, I’ll chirp you. Okay?”
“Right.”
Nick moved on through the trees. His body felt as though it had been caught in a garbage grinder and he knew he was in no shape for any more heavy action tonight. So he trod softly, listened well, and hoped that it was not Paolo he had clawed to death. The thought that it might have been opened up a range of possibilities he did not care to think about, and most of them spelled t-r-a-p. And if it wasn’t Paolo of course it was somebody else, and that didn’t make for an any more pleasant picture.
He gave up thinking about it and concentrated on heading silently for the cave. Maybe there he’d find some sort of answer.
Lights were stabbing through the trees and voices passed him perhaps a quarter mile away. He stopped and flattened himself against a tree, listening. One of the voices came to him loud and clear in the swinging, lilting French of a native Haitian. It seemed to be giving some kind of order. A military order. Fine. The Haitian military were to be avoided, yes, but not feared as hidden enemies.
The ground began to slope upward beneath his feet and ahead of him he could see a huge and curiously gnarled tree that had been included in his briefing as a landmark. Another hundred yards, then, and he would be at the mouth of the mountain cave whistling to be let in. Damp moss cushioned his footfalls. Through years of practice in silent skulking he avoided twigs that might snap beneath his feet or branches that might brush and rustle against his body, and he came swiftly to the cave mouth like a tiger in the night.
He blended into the darkness of a leafy bush and looked at the narrow crevice in the rock. It was almost concealed by trailing vines and clumps of shrubbery, and if he had not known where to look the chances were he might not have noticed it. If it opened up into a cave of any size within the mountain it would be a good hiding place for a band of outlawed patriots. Just as good for a band of thieves. Or cell of Communist agents. It was too bad that AXE had so little information on this bunch that called itself The Terrible Ones. They could be anything but what they said they were. Dedicated Dominicans? Maybe. He hoped so. In his mind’s eye he saw a company of toughs, rebels of the Fidelista type but maybe a little more pro-West, hard as nails and very likely none too scrupulous, all armed to the teeth with submachine guns and machetes.
And also, apparently, invisible.
Nick slunk back further into the concealing bush and stared. intently into the darkness. His eyes roved over rock and crevice, foliage, tree trunks and branches, and saw nothing that could possibly be a man on silent watch. Insects scurried through the leaves and the distant shouts still rang out, yet there was no sound of a human presence nearby. Nevertheless he sensed that there was such a presence. And at the same time he did not feel that curious prickling at the back of the neck that was the sign of his danger-instinct at work. This was normal. Probably Paolo the Terrible was waiting in the cave as promised and would emerge on signal.