Nick Carter
War From The Clouds
Dedicated to the men of the Secret Services of the United States of America
Chapter One
He was definitely a Cuban Marine. He had this particular swagger, this incredible poise, even when crabbing across volcanic banks or hacking through jungles or sweating out his guts on mountain trails.
I had followed him for six miles through the night. Across the volcanic bank of Mt. Toro, through a section of the Nicarxa Rain Forest; now he was resting, getting his breath in short, gasping snorts preparatory to making the climb to Alto Arete.
Home of Don Carlos Italla, the wizard of war, the vicious chieftain of guerilla forces that would not let peace come to this beautiful land.
Don Carlos, the monk, the man of God, the religious fanatic whose religion was the taking of lives, the shedding of blood, the stirring of maniacal passions in men who would be far better off at home screwing their wives, tilling their fields, drinking their vino, loving their children.
And the Cuban Marines were the left hand of this God, this humble monk who loved war above everything and who lived in ultimate protection and seclusion among his monk-brothers in the ancient abbey that occupied the flat top of Alto Arete, three thousand feet above the jungle floor.
It was my job to bring the man down from his mountain lair. To topple the man-God. To eliminate the Cuban Marines, to educate the monk's followers or to kill them, to bring peace once again to Alto Arete and peace to the Reina Valley below that lofty peak.
My name? Nick Carter. My job? For the moment, to topple the man-god named Don Carlos Italla.
"Nick," Hawk had said, "we have put the finishing touches on a peace treaty that will end the long war between Nicarxa and Apalca."
"Are they both willing to sign?" I asked.
In fact, I had not known that Nicarxa and Apalca, two island Republics south of Cuba, had even been at war. But there are, at any given time, perhaps fifteen small wars going on in various parts of the world. It's the big wars that get all the publicity.
"Everyone involved has agreed to it," Hawk said. "Except for Don Carlos Italla. He is a violent enemy of the Nicarxan power structure. Religious differences, mostly, but there's a rumor that someone in the country once did something rather atrocious to him or his family. I don't know the details. I do know that Don Carlos must be shown the light. Think you can handle it, Nick?"
"I certainly can, sir."
If I had known what I later learned, I probably wouldn't have said anything so abysmally foolish. I don't know what I would have told the man, but it would not have been a definite, foolish, braggadocio like that.
I also knew that I had a great deal more to learn, all of it bad for our side. All I knew for certain (which was more than I wanted to know once I had learned it) was that Don Carlos and his closest lieutenants were on top of Alto Arete, which I could now see in the distance, dark clouds hovering around its great, lumpy peak. They were armed to the teeth. The only way up was by a narrow, winding mountain trail that left enormous gaps missing from its path. The trail was guarded from bottom to top.
What I didn't know was how many guards were on location, top or bottom. I also didn't know if other defenses were on the mountain — minefields, electrified fences, snake pits, guard dogs, that sort of thing.
The Cuban Marine was going to tell me what I didn't know, only he didn't know yet that he was going to tell me.
He was only a hundred yards ahead of me now. We were still two miles from the base of Alto Arete, where the trail began its vertical climb to the top, still swathed in cumulus clouds.
I increased my pace, sweating like a eunuch with an erection, narrowing the distance between us. Ahead was a small farmhouse, nestled in the foothills, sheep grazing in a meadow beside a meandering stream. The Cuban, as cool as viewer reaction to a new sit-com television program, veered from the trail and walked with uncanny grace down toward the farmhouse.
I waited until he had crossed the stream, then I checked my weaponry. Strapped to the small of my back was Wilhelmina, the big, booming Luger that had no notches for kills. If I had begun to notch my pistol, Wilhelmina would have disappeared long ago in a mass of filings.
There was Pierre, my admittedly old-fashioned gas bomb, but effective as ever in this world of modern chemicals, potions, drugs and hallucinogens spurted from aerosol cans. He was cool and calm in his tiny lamb's wool pouch right behind my testicles. All three were precious to me.
Last, but sometimes first to be used, was Hugo, my razor-sharp stiletto that is always in a sheath on my wrist. Always, that is, except when in use. Sometimes, though, I have to use more primitive weapons. They are also quite effective, even in this modern world. I call them "hands."
I stood near the trail, behind a banana tree, keeping an eye out above for the massive scorpions that love green bananas, and watched the Cuban disappear into shadows beside the farmhouse. I knew where he was. When the door opened and mellow light streaked out into the softly-moonlit night, it was confirmed. He was standing on the farmer's porch and I figured he had stopped for a drink of water, or perhaps vino.
I was wrong.
The feminine scream that rent the quiet jungle night told me one thing, and one only. The farmer had a daughter. The Cuban knew about her. He had stopped for fun and frolic, and she was not really very interested.
The Cuban Marine's obvious poise had failed to charm the lass.
Even as I dashed noiselessly down the path toward the stream, I triggered the release to snap Hugo into my hand. Time was important, but silence was vital. There was a whole detachment of Cuban Marines two miles ahead. One bark from Wilhelmina and the sound would ricochet off Alto Arete, sending the whole damned detachment down the trail in quadruple time.
Screams, especially feminine ones, didn't send them crashing out of their tents. Feminine screams had been rather commonplace in this valley since Don Carlos Italla had brought in the Cubans.
They would never become commonplace with me.
My boss, David Hawk, once told me: "Nick, you'll never fall prey to the real enemy. No man, however monstrous, however vicious, however powerful, will ever best you. You'll get yours, my boy, on the trail of a lady's petticoat."
The ladies I fool around with — and occasionally save — haven't worn petticoats in fifty years, but Hawk is a bit old-fashioned.
I got over the stream without even getting my shoes wet. Another scream, muffled by the closed door, cracked into the night. A wild, frightened bird from a banana tree responded with a horrible shriek. Then silence. So silent that I could hear the husky trickling of the stream behind me.
I disappeared into the shadows, but avoided the front porch. The first three windows produced nothing of interest — an overturned chair, a smashed pitcher, a rumpled rug, all indicating signs of struggle in the family parlor. At the fourth window, I saw the farmer and his wife huddling on their bed. They had to huddle; they were tied together.
The fifth window said it all.
The Cuban had stripped the girl, who was one hell of a ripe-looking young thing, and she was cowering naked on her narrow cot. Her black hair fell in cascades about her tear-stained face, covering most of her nubile breasts. She was trying to cover herself, but her slender brown hands couldn't handle all the chores at once.
The Cuban Marine was slipping off his pants, his tongue out, his bulging eyes taking in the view of nipples, creamy breast, pubic hair, rounded little belly, the long expanses of thigh that glistened enticingly in light from a kerosene lamp.
As the Marine slung his trousers against a far wall and began unbuttoning his tunic, I edged my hands up to the window frame. Hugo was clamped tightly in my teeth. The window wouldn't budge from slight pressure, so I gave it a healthy shove. Nothing.