War From The Clouds (11 page)

It was, I learned, the customary position for Nuyan. He always brought up the rear. The monk directly in front of me turned occasionally to smile, as though he were giving encouragement to a dimwitted child. I bent my head and tried to pull it deeper into the hood.

The sun was up full when we reached the base camp. Ahead, I could see a group of Marine guards letting the oxcarts go past. Then, a group of officers came out of the main building to greet Intenday's carriage.

Leading the officers was my old nemesis: Col. Ramon Vasco. I checked my weapons under the robe. In spite of my heavy sweating, everything was in place. But I still felt a tremor of fear and excitement through my body. What if the man recognized me? No, he was paying no attention to the humble monks. All his attentions were centered on the holy man in the carriage.

As I waited at the end of the line for the officers and the religious leaders to observe the customary amenities, the chubby monk came back to stand alongside me. I sucked in my breath, and my head, and pretended to be watching something back down the road.

"You're quieter than usual, Nuyan," the gabby one said. "Did you lose your tongue during the long night tending the fires?"

I shook my head no, hoping that was another of Nuyan's habits. It apparently was. The fat monk went on jabbering about how sleepy he was, how slow I was, how hot the sun was, how high the mountain was, how glad he'd be when we reached the top and had decent food. He talked enough for eight monks and I was happy to let him ramble. Suddenly, I could feel him staring at me.

"Something is wrong, Nuyan," he said, stepping closer. "Come, turn and look at me. Tell me what's wrong."

Away from him, I twitched the muscles of my left forearm and popped Hugo into my hand. If this man discovered I wasn't Nuyan, I would have to kill him before he set up the alarm. With luck, I could be a hundred yards into the jungle before the others figured out what the hell had happened.

In that moment, as I felt the monk tugging at the sleeve of the robe and my hand was tightening on the stiletto's hilt, the Iman's wagon began to roll forward and the extenders let out a loud "Yo-ho, yo-ho."

"Come on, slowpoke," the fat monk said, tugging harder. "Try to keep up. The trail gets rough now."

Old chubby took his usual place near the head of the line of firetenders. I realized then that even these lowly monks had a pecking order and a kind of protocol of position. My position was last in line. Somehow, I wasn't offended or humbled by that.

After an hour, the oxcarts and the leader's carriage had to be left behind. Monks carried the I man on a chair attached to long poles until the trail got so steep that the wiry man had to actually walk. Even so, two of his lieutenants were right beside him, gripping his skinny arms and helping him up the narrow trail.

We reached the first gap in the trail about ten o'clock. The sun was hot above us and not even the stiff breeze from the ocean helped to dissipate the heat. Sweat was showing through the robes of the monks ahead of me, and through the uniforms of the Cuban Marine guards who manned the station ahead.

I spotted movement high above and saw that a basket on a rope was being lowered by monks in red robes and green hoods. These were the special monks, from the private order of Don Carlos Italla. There were four of them working a winch at a tiny building on a ledge a hundred feet above where the mountain trail ended. I held back, observing what was happening, watching the Cuban guards to see if they were searching anyone. There were no searches.

The Iman was taken up first, then his lieutenants. The Cuban guards observed the operations closely, looking into the face of each monk as he was taken aboard the basket and hoisted up by the rope and winch to the next level. I looked up again and saw that the Iman and the monks who had already been raised were already moving along a trail up there. This was only the first of several points where the trail had been blasted away and where we would be hoisted to a new level. It was also the first of several points where Cuban guards would get a good look at my face.

Well, it was nothing to worry about. They couldn't know me, couldn't know that I was not really Nuyan, the slowpoke, the slow-witted. If they wondered about the dirt on my face, they'd just have to accept the fact that Nuyan was also untidy.

When the others had been hoisted and the basket was being lowered for me — for the last monk in the procession — I held my breath and waited. There were six guards at this point in the trail. Two of them had already gotten a good look at my face and hadn't shown any suspicion. I had given them a beatific smile, befitting a humble monk. I waited, mentally checking the whereabouts of my luger, my gas bombs and, of course, Hugo. I had calmed all earlier tensions and felt quite at ease as the basket nudged the ground and a Cuban Marine signalled for me to sit in it.

The basket was actually part of an old wicker chair that had had the legs sawn off. An extra piece of wicker was hinged to fit across the front, to keep the occupant from tumbling out. The Marine guard latched the piece in place and signalled to the monks above. They began turning the crank on the winch and I felt myself being raised into space.

The view was incredible from this level. I could see the capital several miles to the south. I could see the ocean on either side of the island, east and west. When I had been raised fifty feet, I could also see the base camp of the Marine detachment at the foot of the mountain. The wind was higher now and it was flipping the robe and hood around with cracking sounds.

The winch worked with unsettling creaking sounds above me. I looked up through the web of ropes holding the chair and saw the green-hooded monks at the little station house on the upper trail. They were smiling down at me, knowing I was the last of this particular party, knowing that they could rest now, perhaps have a little wine and swap monk stories at their tiny station. I was only ten feet from the top.

At that moment, the wind caught my hood and whipped it back over my shoulders before I could catch it.

The winch stopped.

I snatched my hood back in place and looked up, wondering why the winch had stopped. The four monks were chattering agitatedly above me, pointing to my head, reaching under their own hoods. The wind was whipping me and the chair about. I was hanging suspended in mid-air, ninety feet from the watching Marines below, only ten feet from the winching station and safety.

Why had they stopped?

And then it hit me. They had seen my head and I had a full head of dark brown hair.

Only then did the significance of Nuyan's shaved head come to me. Only then did I recall more sharply the brown bald head of Intenday.

Monks in this part of the world, I knew then, had no hair. It had all been shaved off. I was obviously an imposter.

The monks above me were still chattering among themselves, trying to decide what to do next. They obviously weren't empowered to make many decisions on their own. I could hear them calling for the monks of Intenday's party, to come and identify me: With my luck, the fat monk would be the first one to show up, confirm that I was not Nuyan, and order the green-hooded monks to drop me like a hot potato.

I looked around wildly, inspecting the wall of the mountain not more than a few feet away. There were narrow ledges against the facing of the rock mountain. There were also shiny bits of metal and I remembered being told that those bits of metal were all over the mountainside, off the trails, and that they were coated with poison.

While the shouting continued above me, and the Cuban Marine guards below me were alerted that something was amiss, I began to arch my body back and forth, like a child in a harmless playground swing. If the winch gave way from the extra pressure, or if the green-hooded monks suddenly released the lock on the winch, it was all over for me. I kept arching my back, swinging in closer to the mountain.

On the fifth swing, I was nearing a ledge that was perhaps ten feet wide and about ten inches deep. Below that were other ledges at about ten and twenty-foot intervals.

On the sixth swing, my feet touched the ledge. On the seventh, I was able to make a slight purchase with my toes. To give myself a better chance, I kicked off Nuyan's sandals and heard them clatter down the rocky mountain, knocking loose pebbles down on the Marine guards.

"Bring him up," I heard the fat monk scream from above.

"Drop him down, drop him down," another monk yelled.

I had just pushed away from the mountain and was at the apex of another swing out into space when I looked down and saw the Cuban Marines aiming their rifles up at me. I had to make the ledge on this try or I wouldn't have another chance. Even so, where would I go from there? I tried not to think of that. I put everything I had into that swing, bearing down so hard on the wicker chair and tugging so hard on the ropes as I arched my body that I was certain something had to snap — the ropes, the lock on the winch, the winch itself.

Bullets were now plunking into the rocks. My feet landed on the ledge and I dug in my toes for maximum purchase. I felt the chair drop away behind me and knew that it was all between me, the ledge and gravity. And, of course, the poison-coated steel scraps on the ledge.

The wall above the ledge bulged out from the mountain, giving me little room. My feet had adequate purchase on the ledge, but I had to double over fast to keep from slamming my shoulders in the bulge of rock and being knocked back into space. In one swift, writhing movement, I curled my body and landed on the ledge on my right side. My hands and feet grasped for holds and, as the wind still ripped at my robe and hood, I felt myself settle onto the solid surface.

I had made it, just barely, but there were other problems. Bullets were smacking into the outcropping of rock above me, sending splinters of rock in a shower all over me. A ricochet could easily do me in. And I could feel the sharp pricks of the metal shreds beneath my body as I clung to the ledge. Fortunately, the two thicknesses of cloth — the robe and my own clothes — had so far kept the metal from puncturing my skin. So far.

The bulge of rock above me proved to be a salvation for now. The clustered monks above couldn't see me. Even if they had guns and would let down their religious tenets long enough to fire them, they had no clear line of vision. For the moment, if a ricochet didn't get me, I was safe.

Slowly, carefully, I moved about on the narrow ledge and plucked up the bits of sharp metal. I flung them over the side, hoping the wind would catch them and drive them into the Marines still firing from below. The Marines also had no clear line of vision, but their bullets were just as dangerous as if they had me as an easy target.

The firing ceased just about the time I had located and discarded the last chunk of poisoned metal. I stretched out on my stomach and gazed over the ledge. I could see the roof of the small station below, but couldn't see the Marines. I knew, though, that the guards had already sent word down the mountain via walkie-talkie that an imposter had made it this far. Marines would be coming up in force.

I spotted another ledge a dozen feet below me and to the left of the point where the winch stood above me. I worked my way to the extreme end of my ledge, tossing over metal scraps as I went, and prepared to drop down to that next ledge. The sunlight caught hunks of sharp metal down there and gave me fair warning. I had no sandals now; dropping down there barefoot would be certain suicide.

An idea came. I took off Nuyan's robe and hood, and began to tear them into strips. Working slowly and purposefully, wondering what the guards below and the monks above were plotting, I wrapped my feet, hands, buttocks, thighs and hands with the heavy garb of the monk. If I had had more material, I would have wrapped myself up like a mummy, but I didn't so I would have to take more risks with the sharp metal and the poison than I wanted to take, but there was no other way.

Sure enough, when I dropped to the next ledge, my left foot landed on a huge chunk of metal. I eased up quickly and the metal didn't make it through to skin. And I had made it to the ledge without being observed from above or below. I knew this because the guards were still firing sporadically, and their bullets were going to that outcropping of rock that had been above me on the first ledge.

This second, lower ledge was about thirty feet wide and a foot deep. I cleared it of metal and worked my way to the westernmost end where I dropped to a third ledge only six feet down. I was still more than seventy feet above the trail and was running out of ledges that would keep my momentum to the west, away from the guard station.

I found a small cave on the third ledge, but it would do no good to hide out in there. Even if they didn't find me, I would soon starve. I had already decided that I couldn't wait for darkness to cover my escape from this rock wall of a mountain. Darkness would not be my friend and ally up here. If I didn't miss my footing in the dark, I would certainly fall prey to the ubiquitous metal shards if I couldn't spot them ahead of time.

In fifteen minutes, though, I had worked my way down four more ledges, to a point about thirty feet above the trail and a hundred yards to the west of the Marine station. The Marines were still taking potshots at the first ledge and, above, the four green-hooded monks manning the winch had filled the wicker chair with an enormous rock and had lowered it ten feet. They were swinging it back and forth, trying to hit whoever might be hiding there. Of course, no one was.

Intenday and his group had apparently gone on up the trail, working their way to the top where plans of war would be discussed with Don Carlos Italla. Following this incident of the imposter and the killing of the real Nuyan, I had no doubts as to the outcome of that discussion. Don Carlos would get his support and he would signal from his cloud-ringed mountaintop in two days for the bloody sport to begin.