The Ambushers Read Free Page A

Jiminez.
    “There’s your silica gel, Colonel,” I said.
    Then I took the big rifle out of the case. It was a heavy match barrel on the long Mauser action, shooting a hand-loaded version of the .300 Holland and Holland Magnum cartridge that I’d cooked up myself. I slipped off the rubber bands and removed the corrugated cardboard that gave additional protection to the scope, a twenty-power Herrlitz. We’d used European components for the same reason that I’d dyed my hair and called myself Hernandez. American interference is kind of unpopular down there and tends to bring unpopularity on the party that requests it. If we were killed or caught, there wasn’t supposed to be too much Yankee debris left lying around.
    The stock was a plain, straight-grained hunk of walnut without much sex appeal, but it was fitted to the barrel and action with artistry. A regular G.I. leather sling completed the outfit.
    It was quiet in the ravine as I got ready, except for an occasional murmur of conversation among the five men who remained with us, and an occasional rustle or scuffle from above, where the men who were to protect our retreat and lead off the pursuit were getting set for phase one of their suicide assignment. I was glad I wasn’t the one who’d had to give those orders; on the other hand, I couldn’t help remembering that I was the one who had to make all risks and losses worthwhile. If I fluffed my part, as my predecessor had done, a lot of men might die here for nothing. Well, that wasn’t anything it would help to think about.
    I saw the colonel pick up the case I’d dropped and slip the bag of silica gel back inside, closing the zipper. He looked at the gun I held.
    “It is an impressive firearm,” he said.
    “Let us hope the man we came to impress finds it so,” I said.
    He glanced at me sharply and started to speak, but checked himself and was silent, watching while I rigged the rifle sling for shooting, and dug one box of cartridges out of the pack. They were big, fat shells. They looked as if an ordinary service round had had a clandestine affair with some anti-aircraft ammo. I could only get four of them into the gun: three in the magazine and one in the chamber. I stuck the box in my pocket and closed up the pack.
    “Well, Colonel?” I said. “Let’s look the situation over.”
    He hesitated. “You do not seem very confident, Señor Helm. You have some reservations?”
    “What do you want me to do, claim the turkey before the target’s been scored? You want some shooting done, it says here. Or your president does. Let’s go.”
    He did not move at once. I could see what he was thinking. He had no faith in me, and he was thinking that he was still not fully committed. He could still pull out, or try. He might get away; he might even make it back to the coast undetected, with his task group intact. As for the inefficient Americano, he would of course have to die so that he could not tell what had happened—in a brush with El Fuerte’s men, the report would state regretfully. It would be a very fine report, full of heroism and courage, the kind you send in to excuse a failure. With the American dead, who could contradict it except General Jorge Santos, who wouldn’t be asked?
    All this went through his mind; then he shrugged and reached for my pack. “You want this brought, I suppose. I will carry it. Follow me.”
    With the big rifle heavy in my hand, I followed him up through the brush. Below us, in response to a signal he gave as he passed, the five men in the ravine were picking up their weapons and drifting up into cover after us. I guess they constituted our mobile reserve, or something. The little man trotted up the slope at a slant, and I made my long-legged way after him, until he flattened out near the top and waved me down. We crawled the rest of the way.
    A man lay behind the rock up there with a carbine. It was the NCO. He had several extra clips arranged in front of him. We crawled