Текст книги "A Time to Die"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

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Alphonso grinned and shook his head. "General China will be here in an hour. He followed us with five companies of his best troovs. He has never been more than an hour behind us, not since we lit the river."

"How do you know this?" Sean demanded.

Alphonso grinned again and patted the radio on the back of the trooper who stood beside him. "I spoke to the general ten minutes ago, as soon as we killed the last of the Russian hen shaw

"Why didn't you tell me before this, you bastard?" Sean growled.

"The general ordered me not to. But now he has ordered me to tell you that he is very pleased with the killing of the hen shaw and he says that you are like a son to him. When he arrives he will reward you."

"AB right." Sean changed his orders. "If we have to hold the laager, get your men into the perimeter defenses. We win use the 12.7-men heavy machine guns."

Sean broke off as a Shangane trooper came running up the hill toward him.

"Nkosi!" The man panted. As soon as he saw his face, Sean knew it was bad news.

"The woman?" he demanded, seizing the messenger's arm. "Is the white woman hurt?"

The Shangane shook his head. "She is safe. She sent me to you.

It's the Matabele, Captain Job. He is 4it."

"How bad?" Sean was already starting to run, and he shouted the question over his shoulder.

"He's dying," the Shangane called after him. "The Matabele is dying."

Sean knew where to look; he himself had selected the copse of knob-thorn acacia as Job's attack position. The first rays of the morning sun were turning the tops of the knob-thorns to gold as Sean ran down the hill. With the help of two Shanganes, Claudia had moved Job onto soft level ground beneath one of the trees. She had propped his head on one of the backpacks and had a field dressing over the wound.

She looked up and cried, "Oh, Sean, thank God!" Her shirt was drenched with drying blood, and she saw Sean's expression. "Not my blood," she assured him. "I'm all right."

Sean transferred all his attention to Job. His face was a sickly blue-gray color, and the flesh seemed to have melted from his skull like hot tar.

Sean touched his check, and his skin was cold as death. Frantically he searched for a pulse in the wrist of Job's good arm.

Although it was faint and rapid, his relief was intense.

"He's lost huge quantities of blood," Claudia whispered. "But I've contained the bleeding now."

"He's in shock," Sean muttered. "Let me have a look."

"Don't lift that dressing," Claudia warned him quickly. "It's ghastly.

He was hit on the point of the shoulder by a cannon shell.

It's just mangled flesh and bone chips. His arm is hanging by a shred of muscle and sinew."

"Take Matatu with you," Sean cut in brusquely. "Go up to the laager. Find where they had their first aid post. The Russians will have a decent stock. Find it. I want plasma and a drip set. Dressings and bandages, those are the most urgent. But if you can find antiseptic and painkillers-" Claudia scrambled to her feet. "Sean, I was so worried about you! I saw-" A

"You don't get ri4 of me that easy." He did not look up from Job's face. "Now off you go, and get back here as quick as you can.

Matatu, go with Donna, look after her."

The two of them went at a run. Until they returned with medical supplies, Sean was helpless. But for something to keep himself occupied he wet his bandanna from the water bottle and began to sponge the blood and dirt from Job's face. Job's eyelids fluttered open, and Sean saw that he was conscious.

"Okay, Job, I'm here. Don't try and talk."

Job closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he swiveled them downward. He was too weak to move his head, yet he was trying to look down at his body, trying to check the extent of his injuries. It was always the first reaction.

"Is it lung blood I'm losing? Are both my feet still here, both my hands-?"

"Right arm and shoulder," Sean told him. "Twelve-point-seven millimeter cannon nicked you. Just a little bitty scratch. You are going to make it, lad, written guarantee. Would I lie to you?"

A faint smile tugged up the corners of Job's mouth, and he lowered one eyelid in a conspiratorial wink. Sean felt his heart begin to break. He knew he had lied. Job wasn't going to make it.

"Relax," he ordered cheerfully. "Lie back and enjoy it, as the bishop said to the actress. I'm in charge here now."

And Job closed his eyes.

Claudia picked out the medical dugout by the Red Cross insignia at the entrance. There were two Shangane Renamo looting the interior, ransacking it for booty, but Claudia shrieked at them so violently that they slunk away guiltily.

The labels on the cartons of medical supplies were all in Russian Cyrillic script. Claudia had to rip the lids open and check the contents of each. She found boxes that contained a dozen plastic bags of clear plasma each and gave two of them to Matatu. The drip sets were on the shelf below. Field dressings and bandages were easy, but she was flummoxed by the tubes of ointments and pill bottles. However, the contents of one tube were yellow-brown and had the characteristic iodine aroma; she selected those, and then she found that some of the labels also had notations in French and Arabic. She had a smattering of both languages, enough to identify which were antibiotics and painkillers.

She found two field packs, obviously prepared for use by the Russian first aid teams, and included these in her selection; then she and Matatu, heavily laden, hurried out of the first aid post.

Before she reached the perimeter of the laager again, a dreadfully familiar figure loomed out of the banks of drifting smoke ahead of her-the very last person she had expected to see here.

"Miss Monterro," General China called. "What a fortunate encounter. I need your assistance." China was accompanied by half a dozen officers of his staff.

Claudia recovered swiftly from the shock of the unexpected meeting. "I'm busy," she snapped, trying to step around him. "Job is badly wounded. I have to get back to him."

"My need is greater than anybody else's, I'm afraid." China put out an arm.

"Forget it," Claudia flared at him. "Job needs this stuff, or he'll die."

"One of my men will take it to him," China replied. "You are coming with me, please. Or I'll have you carried. Not very dignified, Miss Monterro."

Claudia was still protesting as one of the Renamo officers relieved her of her load of medical supplies, but at last she shrugged with resignation.

"Go with him, Matatu." She pointed down the hill. The little man nodded brightly, and Claudia allowed China to escort her back into the laager.

They picked their way through the shambles of the battle, and Claudia shuddered as she stepped over the charred corpse of one of the Frehmo garrison.

"Colonel Courtney's attack has succeeded beyond even my wildest expectations." General China was affable and clearly delighted with what he saw around him. "He even managed to capture a Hind gunship completely intact, together with the Russian air crew and ground crew."

"I hope you won't keep me long. I have to get back."

"Captain Job will live or die without you, Miss Monterro. I need your services as a translator in talking to the pilot."

"I don't speak Russian," Claudia told him flatly.

"Fortunately the pilot seems to speak Italian. How he learned the language I cannot guess, but he keeps repeating, "Italiano, Italiano. "" China took her arm and led her down the steps of the sandbagged, camouflaged dugout.

Claudia glanced around the dugout and saw instantly that it was an engineering workshop. A long workbench ran down each wall.

Set up on one of these were a metal lathe and drill press. A wide selection of hand tools was racked in cupboards above the benches, and she recognized the electric and gas welding sets at the far end of the worksh4. Her father had had his own workshop in the cellar of their Dome in Anchorage, and she had spent many evenings watchinglim pottering around down there.

were at the far end of the The Russian prisoners, five of them underground room.

"Which one of you speaks Italian?" she asked.

A tall, thin man stepped forward. He wore gray flying overalls and his face was scarred with acne. His pale blue eyes were shifty and nervous.

"I do, signora.

"Where did you learn?" Claudia asked.

"My wife is a graduate student from Milan. I met her while she was doing her doctorate at Patrice Lumumba University in Moscow." His Italian was heavily accented and his grammar uncertain, but she understood him without difliculty.

"I am translating for General China," she told him, "but I must warn you that he is a savage and cruel man. I am neither his ally nor his friend. I cannot protect you."

"Thank you, signora. I understand, but I do not need protection. I am a prisoner of war under the Geneva Convention. I have certain rights. So do my men."

"What does he say?" China demanded.

"He says he is a prisoner of war, and he and his men are protected by the Geneva Convention."

"Tell him that Geneva is far away. This is Africa, and I was no signatory to any agreement in Switzerland. Here he has only such rights as I decide he should have. Tell him he will fly the helicopter under my command and that his ground crew will service and maintain the machine in flying condition."

As Claudia translated, she watched the pilot's jaw set and his pale blue eyes harden. He turned his head slightly and spoke to his men in Russian. Immediately they began to mutter and shake their heads.

"Tell this black monkey that we insist on our rights," the pilot spoke scornfully. Claudia had heard that many Russians were racists, and the derogatory term the pilot used suggested that for him at least this was true. "We refuse to fly or fight for him. That would be a traitorous act."

Ms refusal was so obvious that China did not wait for Claudia's translation.

"Tell him," he cut in brusquely, "that I have no time for argument or for subtle persuasion. I ask once more for his cooperation.

If he refuses, I will be forced to demonstrate my serious intentions."

"Signore, this man is very dangerous," Claudia told the Russian officer. "I have seen him commit the most unspeakable atrocities.

I myself have suffered torture by him."

"I am a Russian officer and a prisoner of war." The pilot drew himself to attention, his tone stern. "I know my duty."

China was watching the pilot's face as he replied. He smiled coldly as Claudia translated. "Another brave man," he murmured.

"We must now determine just how brave he is."

Without looking at his staff officers he gave them a quiet order in Shangane, and while they trundled forward the chariot that held the oxyacetylene gas cylinders, China smiled steadily at the Russian officer. The man returned his regard with a cold, pale stare as they matched wills.

China was the one who turned away. He went to the workbench and swiftly examined the tools and objects scattered on it. He gave a grunt of approval as he selected a thin steel rod and weighed it in his hand. It was the length and thickness of a rifle ramrod and was pierced at each end for a connecting screw, probably a control fink from the Hind helicopter.

"This will do very nicely," he said aloud. Then he picked up a discarded woven asbestos welding glove. He pulled it onto his right hand and turned his attention to the gas welding set. Claudia, who had watched her father work, realized that China was well versed in the use of the apparatus. He lit the welding flame on the torch and swiftly adjusted the flow of oxygen and acetylene from their separate cylinders until the flame was a brilliant blue feather, hot and unwavering. Then he took up the metal rod in his gloved hand and began to heat the tip of it in the blue flame.

All the Russians watched him uneasily. Claudia saw the pilot's hard stare flicker uncertainly as the shine of nervous sweat de wed on his upper lip.

"This man is an animal," Claudia said softly in Italian. "You must believe me when I tell you he is capable of the vilest acts.

Please, signore, I do not want to watch this."

The pilot shook his head, dismissing her appeal, but he was staring at the tip of the metal rod as it began to glow cherry red.

"I will not be intimidated by brutish threats," he said, but she detected the slightest catch and crack in his voice.

In China's gloved hand, the tip of the rod turned slowly to incandescent crimson and then to translucent white heat. China smiled and turned off the flame of the welding torch. He wove the glowing tip of the rod in a gentle flourish, like a conductor's baton, and smiled at the pilot. It was the humorless, reptilian smile of a cobra.

"I repeat my reqwest. Ask him if he will fly for me."

"Nyet. " Even ihough his voice cracked, the pilot's reply was decisive. In Russian he added, "Obezyana-monkey!"

China stood in front of him and made a slow pass with the tip of the rod a few inches in front of the Russian's eyes.

"Tell him, signora," the pilot whispered, "that without my eyes I cannot fly."

"Very true." China nodded as Claudia translated, and he left the pilot and walked on down the line of white prisoners, waving the glowing tip of the rod in each of their faces in a slow, mesmeric gesture, studying their reactions carefully. The plump mechanic in oil-stained overalls at the end of the line gave China his most satisfying response. He shrank away from the rod until the wall of the dugout stopped him, and sweat ran down his fat rosy cheeks and dripped from the end of his chin. In a squeaky voice he said something in Russian. The pilot answered him with a sharp, mono syllabic order."

"You don't like it, do you? My fat little white slug. China smiled thinly at him and let him feel the radiated heat on his cheek.

The back of the flight engineer's head was pressed against the wall, and he swiveled his eyes in their sockets to watch the rod.

The metal was cooling, and with a small frown of annoyance China left him, and turned back to the workbench, and relit the welding torch. While he carefully reheated the tip of the rod, the mechanic sagged against the sandbags. The sweat showed in dark patches through the cotton of his greasy overalls.

The pilot spoke softly to him in an encouraging tone, and the nodded and straightened up. He glanced at his superior engineer with an expression of patent gratitude, and watching this brief exchange between the two men, China smiled again, this time with satisfaction.

When Claudia saw that smile, she suddenly realized that China had just run a selection test. He had chosen his victim. The mechanic was the least courageous of the five Russians, and the pilot had inadvertently disclosed his concern and friendship for the man.

"Please," she whispered in Italian, "Your friend is in terrible danger.

You must do what this man asks if you wish to save him.

The pilot looked at her, and from his expression Claudia saw he was beginning to waver.

"Please, for my sake. I cannot bear to watch." With despair she saw the Russian's expression change as his resolve firmed once again. He shook his head. China saw that gesture.

He switched off the welding torch and blew softly on the white tip of the metal rod. He let the moment draw out agonizingly; every eye in the bunker was fixed on the point of glowing steel.

Abruptly he gave an order in Portuguese, and two of his men sprang forward and seized the mechanic by his arms. He gave a little squeal of protest, but they hustled him to the workbench and threw him facedown across its top. One of them jumped up and sat between his shoulder blades, pinning him down. He struggled ineffectually, kicking his legs. Swiftly and expertly, they strapped his ankles to the legs of the workbench, and he lay helplessly sprawled face downwards with his backside sticking up in the air, stretching the cotton seat of his overalls.

The Russian pilot shouted a protest and stepped forward, but one of the Renamo officers thrust a pistol into his belly and forced him back against the wall.

"I ask You again," China said, "will you fly for me?"

The pilot shouted at him in Russian. It was clearly an insult. His face was flushed now, the acne purple and shiny as buttons on his chin and cheeks.

China nodded at his men. One of them drew the trench knife from its sheath on his webbing belt and slit the waistband of the mechanic's overalls. Then he seized the severed edges of cotton and ripped them downward, tearing the cloth loose so it hung in tatters around the pinioned man's knees. Under the overalls, the engineer wore a pair of elasticized blue underpants. The Renamo pulled these down as far as they would go.

Claudia stared in fascinated horror at the mechanic's exposed buttocks. They were very white and fat and round, covered with a scraggle of dark curly reddish hair. From between his thighs, his wrinkled hairy scrotum protruded backward like that of a dog.

The pilot was shouting in Russian, and Claudia found herself pleading weakly. "Please, General China, please let me leave. I cannot bear this." She tried to turn her head away and cover her eyes, but the dreadful fascination of it compelled her to watch through her fingers despite herself.

China ignored both the pilot's and Claudia's pleas and spoke crisply to the officer who sat between the Russian's shoulder blades. Still pinning him to the bench, the Renarno reached over and seized one of his buttocks in each of his hands and drew them sharply apart. Claudia's protests dried in her throat, and she found herself staring dry-mouthed at the Russian's puckered rosy-brown anus as it nestled like a blind man's eye between his hairy cheeks.

China reached out toward it with the tip of the rod, then stopped three inches short of it. T4e mechanic felt the heat of it on his most intimate flesh and begani-to struggle so violently that two more of the Renamo officers bad to throw their combined weight onto his back to keep him -pinned down.

"Yes?" China looked across at the Russian pilot. He was raving like a madman, his face contorted with outrage, shouting threats and accusations.

"I regret the necessity," China said, and thrust the metal rod forward, his wrist cocked like that of a fencing master going on attack, a fl&he.

As the glowing metal touched the sensitive skin the Russian screamed, a shattering high-pitched shriek that made Claudia cry out pitifully in sympathy.

rotated The metal smoked and siuled and spluttered as China his wrist, twstmg the rod deeW and deqw into the Russian's body. Now his screams were great explosive gusts Of sound.

Claudia clapped her hands over her ears to shut them out and turned away, running into the corner of the dugout and pressing her face against the rough sandbags.

The smoke filled her nostrils, ha throat, and her hings, and the obscene odor of burning flesh, of charring fat, coated her tongue, and her gorge rose. She tried to contain it, but vomit shot up her throat and in a projectile stream splashed onto the earthen floor between her feet.

Behind her the screams dropped gradually in volume and became ghastly rattling groans. However, all the Russians were yenmg their protest and fury, and the din was confusing.

Another whiff of burned flesh and spilled feces made her retch again. Then she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and leaned her forehead against the sandbagged wall. She was trembring wildly, and wan and sweat streamed down her cheeks.

Slowly the uproar behind her subsided, and the only sounds in mechanic's groans and gurgles. They were the bunker were the weaker now but nonetheless harrowing. Claudia could tell without looking at him that the Russian was dying.

Miss Monterro." China's voice was level and calm. "Please get a grip on yourself. We still have work to do."

all" she blurted. "I hate you! Oh, God, how You are an animI hate you!"

"Your feelings are not of the slightest interest to me," China said. "Now you will tell the pilot that I await his full cooperation."

The flight engineer's groans distracted her. As she turned to face China, she saw they had released the stricken Man and allowed him to slump to the floor. China had made no effort to withdraw the metal rod from his body, and he was still transfixed. As he rolled weakly about on the earthen floor, he plucked ineffectually at the protruding end of the rod. The heated metal had adhered to his bowels as it cooled and was firmly rooted in his flesh. Every time he tugged at it, a trickle of liquid feces bubbled from the terrible wound.

"Speak to the pilot," China commanded.

Claudia dragged her eyes from the dying man and addressed the pilot. "Please do what he wants."

"I cannot, my duty!" the pilot cried.

"The devil with your duty!" Claudia shouted back furiously.

"You and all your men will end up like this!" She gestured to the floor without looking down again. "That's what will happen to you!" She turned to the other Russians, who were shaken and appalled, pale with horror and terror.

"Look at him!" she screamed in English. "Is that what you want?"

They did not understand the words, but her meaning was clear to all of them. They turned their faces toward the pilot.

The pilot resisted their entreaties for a minute. Then, at a word from China, the Renamo officers seized another one of the ground crew and threw him screaming and kicking facedown across the bench.

The Russian pilot threw up both hands in a gesture of resignation.

"Tell him to stop," he said wearily to Claudia. "We will do as he orders."

"Thank you, Miss Monterro." China smiled at her charmingly.

"You are now free to rejoin Colonel Courtney."

"How will you communicate with the pilot?" she asked uncertainly.

"Already he understands me." China transferred the benevolence of his smile to the Russian. "I assure you that he will learn to speak my language with the utmost fluency in a very short time indeed." He turned back to Claudia. "Please convey my respects to Colonel Courtney and ask him to join me at his earliest convenience. I would like to take my leave of him, to thank him and wish him lion voyage." He gave her a mocking bow. "So Godspeed, Miss Monterro. I hope you will remember all of us, your friends in Africa, with affection."

Claudia could find no words to reply. She turned to the door of the bunker, and her legs were shaky and rubbery beneath her. In a daze of horror she stumbled down the hill. The sights around her, which at another time might have sickened and appalled her, she hardly noticed.

At the foot of the hill, she paused and tried to get a grip on herself. She breathed dci$ly, trying to quell the intermittent sobs that still caught her.usawares, and she combed her hair back from her face with her flingers and retied the strip of cloth she was using as a headband. With the tail of her shirt she wiped the tears and sweat from her face, shocked at the grimy smear they left on the cloth.

"I must look like hell," she whispered, clenching her hands to hide her broken fingernails. But she braced her shoulders and lifted her chin. "Sean mustn't see me like this," she told herself fiercely.

"Pull yourself together, woman."

Sean looked up as she hurried to where he was still working over Job's blanket-wrapped body. "What happened?" he demanded.

"What kept you?"

"General China is here. He made me go with him."

"What did he want? What happened?"

"Nothing, not important. I'll tell you about it later. How is Job?"

"I've got a full liter of plasma into him," Sean replied. He had suspended the drip set from a branch above them. "His pulse is better.

Job is as tough as an old buffalo bull. Help me dress the wound.

"Is he consciousT"

"He comes and goes," Sean warned her.

Beneath the field dressing was such a terrible injury that neither of them could bring themselves to discuss it, especially as Job might be able to hear and understand them.

Sean smothered the entire area with iodine paste, then bound it up again with pressure pads and clean white bandages from the medical pack. The blood and iodine soaked through the white even as he worked.

Between them they had to roll Job on to his side to pass the bandages over his back. Claudia held the half-severed arm in place, bending the elbow across his chest, and Sean strapped it securely.

By the time they finished, Job's entire upper body was swathed in a cocoon of expertly applied bandage from which only his left arm protruded.

"His pulse is going again." Sean looked up from his wrist. "I'm going to give him another liter of plasma."

There was a scattered outbreak of machine-gun and mortar fire from the forest beyond the hill laager, and Claudia looked up apprehensively. "What's that?"

"Frelimo counterattack." Sean was still busy with the drip set.

"But China has three companies in there, and Frelimo are going to be less than enthusiastic now that they have lost their air support. China's lads should be able to hold them off with no trouble."

"Sean, where did China come from? I tho "Yes, Sean cut in. "I also thought he was back on the river. The crafty bastard was right on our heels, ready to rush in and grab the spoils." He finished adjusting the plasma flow in the drip set and squatted down beside Claudia, studying her face.

"AB right," he said. "Tell me what happened."

"Nothing." She smiled brightly.

"Don't bullshit me, beautiful," Sean said gently, and put an arm around her. Despite herself she choked on a sob.

"China," she whispered. "Right on top of what happened to Job. He made me translate for the Russian pilot. Oh, God, I hate him. He's an animal. He made me watch-" She broke off.

"Rough stuff?" Sean asked, and she nodded.

"He killed one of the Russians, in the foulest possible way." "He's a lovely lad, our China, but try and put it out of your mind. We've got enough troubles of our own. Let the Russkies worry about theirs."

"He forced the Russian pilot to agree to fly the helicopter. Sean stood up, lifting her to her feet beside him. Don think of China and the Russian anymore. All we have to worry about is getting out of here." He broke off as he saw Sergeant Alphonso and a half-dozen of his Shanganes trotting down the hill toward them. All of them were laden with loot.

"Nkosi!" Alphonso's broad, handsome face was wreathed in a beatific grin. "What a fight, what a victory!"

"You fought like an impi of lions," Sean agreed. "The battle is won, but now you must help us to get away to the border. Captain Job is badly hurt."

Alphonso's smile faded; despite their natural tribal emnity, both men had developed a grudging respect for each other. "How bad?"

He came to stand beside Sean and looked down at Job.

"There was a fiberglass stretcher in the first aid post," Claudia said.

"We can carry Job on that."

"It is two days" march to the border," Alphonso murmured dubiously. "Through Frelimo territory."

"Frelimo are running like dogs with a hot coal under their tails."

Sean's tone was hard. "Send two of your men to fetch the stretcher."

"General China calls for you. He is leaving in the Russian hen shaw He wants to speak to you before he goes," Alphonso said.

"AB right, but I wantiat stretcher here when I get back," Sean warned him. He glowed at his wristwatch. "We will march for the border in one hour from now."

"Nkosi!" Alphonso agreed cheerfully. "We will be ready."

Sean turned back to Claudia. "I'm going to see China. I'm going to try to talk him into flying Job out in the helicopter, but I don't think my chances are particularly rosy. Please stay with Job and keep an eye on his pulse rate. I've found a disposable syringe of adrenaline in the medic pack. Use it only as a last resort."

"Please don't be long," she whispered. "I'm only brave when you're here."

"Matatu will stay with you."

Sean climbed the hill swiftly, passing the first string of Renamo porters. Obviously China was taking everything he could carry, including boxes of helicopter spares and hundreds of jerry cans of avgas. The lines of porters were heading back into the wilderness toward the river, and Sean paid them scant attention. He had played his role. He was eager to get out, reach the border, get Job to where he could receive professional medical attention and get Claudia to safety. However, over all his urgency lay the nagging uncertainty: Was China really going to stand by his word and let them go? Was he not being just a trifle optimistic?

"We'll. see," he told himself grimly, and shouted at one of the Renamo officers who was supervising the loading of the porters.

"Where is General China?"

He found him with his staff and the captured Russians in the laager's command bunker. China looked up from the map he was consulting and smiled affably as Sean entered. "Colonel Courtney, my felicitations. You were magnificent. A famous victory."

"And now you owe me a favor."

"You and your party wish to leave," China agreed. "AD debts between us have been paid in full. You are free to go."

"No," Sean shook his head. "By my calculation you still owe me one. Captain Job has been badly wounded. Ms condition is crit iI want him flown out to Zimbabwe in the captured Hind."

cal.

"You jest, of course." China laughed lightly. "I cannot risk sending such a valuable asset on a nonproductive mission. No, Colonel, all debts are paid. Please don't persist in extravagant demands. With my defective hearing, it only annoys me, and I may be tempted to review my generous offer to allow you and yours to depart unhindered." He smiled and held out his hand. "Come now, Colonel. Let us part as friends. You have the services of Sergeant Alphonso and his men. You are a man of infinite resourcefulness. I am sure you will contrive to get yourself and all your party to safety without any further assistance from me."

Sean ignored the outstretched hand. China glanced at it and then lowered it to his side. "So we part, Colonel. Me to my little war and, who knows, perhaps one day a country of my very own.

You to the tender embraces of your very rich, very beautiful young American." His smile had a sly, foxy slant to it. "I wish YOU JOY, and I am sure you do the same for me." He turned back to his map, leaving Sean for an instant nonplussed and taken off balance. It was incomplete, it couldn't end like this. Sean wondered if there was more to come, but General China began dictating orders to one of his officers in Portuguese, leaving Sean standing uncertainly at the door of the bunker.