But as it was he was simply set against the earth, and Speshnev, on top of his frozen ward, lay concentrating on his boot because he could look no other place. What he could hear sounded like an ax blade whizzing close by, hungry for his scrawny neck. But it was actually the blade of the machete the young soldier wielded as he probed and flicked and stabbed, searching for the bodies of hiding men, unaware utterly, for now, that those men were literally at his feet.
The whisper of the blade waved magically through the brush, and Speshnev felt its breeze, and particles of leaf and branch its edge liberated, as they drifted down upon him.
Then silence.
Then the sound of rush, as an artillery shell comes in, the one that gets you-he knew this, having been blown up twice, once in Spain, once outside Novograd-and the blade struck earth savagely but two inches from the end of his nose, and vibrated ever so gently. The soldier was stabbing randomly into the brush about his feet.
Beneath, the boy squirmed; but Speshnev had iron fingers about his mouth, crushing his lips to deadness, so he could not involuntarily give a coward's squeak and reveal them.
The blade probed, came closer, and withdrew.
"All right," the sergeant called. "Move forward another ten feet. He's got to be here somewhere."
"I think this greaseball has shit himself to nothingness," came a jeer, followed by laughter.
"If so, you'd smell the shit. I think he's somewhere down the hill and he's put a bullet in his greaseball head."
The soldiers moved onward. It would be another hour before they were far enough away for Speshnev to move, and then he'd only have a few minutes before the main body of troops got up here, with the dogs, and picked up the trail ahead.
"Are we safe?" muttered the boy, when at last Speshnev released his iron grip.
"Hardly," said the Russian.
"They're over," said Earl.
"How do you know? I didn't see a thing."
"The birds. A flock of 'em just blew out of the brush, fast and sudden."
"Earl, birds fly out of the jungle all the time."
"When they take off on their own, the head Johnny goes first, his lieutenants follow, then come the privates and then the gals. When they all blow out at once, they've been startled."
"Maybe it was a boar or a coyote."
"Ain't much moving about a forest during daylight, and with all them soldiers over there, there'd be even less. No, it's them."
Earl slipped the binoculars back into their case. He picked up the rifle, ran a last check over it, unlocking and easing back the bolt to double-check that a.30–06 nested comfortably in the chamber, then quietly relocked it, rechecked the safety. By this time, Frenchy had come over and kneeled next to him with his carbine at the ready.
"Okay," said Earl, "he's got to go left because it's thinnest there. He's got to get down fast because that boat is getting in close and his meet-up is probably scheduled for 1600 hours and that boat just can't linger there forever, not with all the naval activity this close to Gitmo. He'll go down left, there's a natural fold he'll be in, then they have to avoid that open field, so they'll have to detour around that before they reach a last line of trees. I'm betting there's a creek over that way, 'cause you can see the trees are greener, they're getting more water."
"I didn't see that."
"No, you didn't. Anyhow, I have no way of knowing which way they'll go around that field, but I do know they won't walk down the middle of it. I'm betting men racing down a hill ahead of dogs and troops are going to be hellish thirsty and the temptation of that water will be too much, since they have to go that way anyhows. So that's where they'll head. And that's why we have to be there first. He'll pick up we're on him if we're still moving into place as he gets there."
"Sounds good to me," Frenchy said sportily.
"It don't matter how it sounds to you," Earl replied. "That's how we'll do it."
In many ways, coming down is worse than going up, especially if speed is an issue.
Speed was an issue.
Speshnev could see the trawler just a few hundred yards off the beach, yet it was still half a mile away-downhill-and the craft couldn't linger there forever. He knew he had to move them quickly.
But that meant his muscles and the boy's had to work against gravity and momentum, always on the tippy, tippy edge of disaster, their legs buckling in pain as the fibers clenched in exactly the opposite way as they'd clenched when climbing.
He heard the boy huffing and puffing beneath, and there was an edge of panic to all that labored breath. Once, already, the boy had lost control, and gone shooting by him, hellbent on destruction, on a broken leg or shattered ankle, and Speshnev had grabbed him and a chunk of brush simultaneously and guided them to a slow-down and then a stop.
"I can't go any further."
"If you value your eyes, you'll stop complaining and start moving."
"Oh, Christ," said the boy.
"Yes, call to Christ, but whomever you call to, get going."
"I am so thirsty. I have dust in my throat."
"There's a whole ocean out there for you."
Speshnev looked back. As yet no dogs had crested the hill, but it could happen at any second, and here, where the forest was thin and rocky, where their feet kicked up puffs of dust and shale, they'd be easily spotted and brought under fire. And under fire, there'd be no escape. The Cubans weren't any kind of shooters, but there were enough of them, and their fusillade would either bring down the runners dead and wounded, or pin them for more leisurely fates.
"Go, go."
Off they ran, trying to control the wildness that built in their limbs as they rushed down, fast but not too fast, close to the edge but not over it.
The boy gasped in agony, and even the mighty Speshnev, escape artist and ambush master, assassin and agent, guerilla and infantry commander, had to admit this was the most difficult moment in his long war against the forces of darkness. His ankles ached in the effort and the body's fear undercut everything. He didn't think they'd make it, not without a bad fall and if the fall were bad enough, it could end them. And the boat was so close.
The boy collapsed, heaving.
"I can't go on. I'm spent. Leave me."
"Stop it. I don't have that choice."
"I'm gone, blown, finished. I have no―"
"Look, ahead, beyond the meadow. Do you see it?"
"The boat? It could be miles away, that's how little chance I have of―"
The dogs barked. Speshnev looked up and saw three of them, unleashed, against the crest. They howled to indicate they'd picked up the scent and waited patiently for their masters and permission to bound down the hill.
The boy was beyond caring.
"Not the boat," Speshnev said. "No, look down there, just beyond the field. See where the trees are so much greener? Water. There's a creek bed there. We'll head there, we can make it before the men get over the top. Water, Castro, it'll revive you. Once you get the water, you'll recover instantly. You're simply dehydrated, that's all. Come on―"
And he lifted the boy up, feeling the tremors of surrender in the lax musculature and the heart beating desperately, the lungs sucking over dried lips for oxygen, and never quite getting enough. "Come on, now, just fight it another two hundred yards, and there's salvation!"