Bamboo Terror Page 5

  "Well, captain," said Chang as he looked through the glasses. "We are right on schedule. It shouldn't be very long now and we shall be leaving you."

  Chang handed the glasses to Hazzard. "Would you like to see, Mr. Hazzard. I am sure you will find the view interesting, if not a little exciting?"

  Taking the binoculars, Hazzard focused them on the distant land. Coming out from small lagoons among the rocks were fifteen to twenty small, low, fast fishing boats. Each one had a large sail ballooning from its mast, and the stiff offshore breeze was pushing them quickly toward the "Queen Wilhelmina III." Beneath the colorful sails Hazzard could make out the forms of four or five men in each boat. This, he mentally figured, would give Chang a force of more than sixty men when the small boats arrived. All of them armed to the teeth, and all of them ruthless, emotionless killers. If he was going to do anything, it must be done before the small boats reached the ship. At the most, he judged, there would be ten minutes left. No more, maybe less.

  He handed the glasses back to Chang. "Very pretty," he said, and leaned back against the window. "So what happens now?"

  "Now, you remain here and keep the captain company," said Chang. He nodded his head to the two guards and went out on the flying bridge to supervise the transfer of cargo. The hatches were open now, and lines trailed down into the hold of the ship from the loading booms.

  Hazzard shot a glance over his shoulder to make sure that Chang's back was toward the wheel house, then turned to study the guards. One of the Chinese had relaxed. He was peering through the forward windows at the activity on the deck below. The time to move could not be delayed much longer. The other guard was standing to Hazzard's left, his rifle hanging carelessly in the crook of his elbow.

  The captain seemed to sense the tenseness in Hazzard. "Mr. Hazzard," he said in a low voice. "Don't do anything foolish. To these men, life is nothing. Let them take what they want, and they will soon leave. Resist, and they will kill you as quickly as I would slap a mosquito."

  Hazzard smiled at this. He remembered the countless times he had slapped at mosquitoes himself. They usually got away. Slowly he began to inch his way toward the guard on his left. The distance between them began to narrow. Three feet. The sweat was running down his back and legs from the tensed muscles. Two feet.

  The guard jerked his head up. Hazzard reacted instantly. Feigning a look of surprise, he raised his arm and pointed behind the guard. As the guard spun around, Hazzard lunged, snatched the rifle from the man's hands and brought it up in a sweeping vertical butt stroke. The Chinese tried to dodge, but the stock of the rifle cut across his temple and snapped his head back to crash against the bulkhead.

  Hazzard did not wait for the man to hit the floor. He whirled around and leveled the Garand at the surprised guard behind him.

  "Shh . . .," said Hazzard. The meaning is the same in all languages, and the guard kept silent.

  Hazzard took the man's rifle, and handing it to the captain, he motioned the guard to squat on the floor. A glance through the window showed him that Chang had not moved.

  "Watch this one," he said to the captain. "I'm going out after Chang. You get ready to get this tub underway the second that anchor starts coming up."

  "But . . ."

  "No buts—do what I say!" Hazzard looked toward the shore and the small boats. "We've only got about four minutes left."

  Then leaning the Garand against the bulkhead, he put his hand inside of his shirt, quietly opened the door, and slipped out onto the flying bridge.

  Chang was leaning on the rail watching the approach of the fishing boats as Hazzard moved up beside him. Grabbing Chang's right arm at the elbow in a vicelike grip, he pushed Sam's muzzle into the rib cage of the tall Chinese.

  "Don't move, and be careful with your breathing," said Hazzard. "If I feel one tense muscle, I'll blow you in half." Chang relaxed. "Now, Mr. Chang, you do just what I say and we'll get along fine. Tell those flunkies of yours down there to haul up the anchor."

  Chang looked coldly into Hazzard's eyes, the hint of a cynical smile at the corners of his mouth. He could feel the revolver pressing against his side, but Chang felt no fear. To him fear was a luxury he had lost years before. This was just another problematic situation rising for a few moments in the path of his life. He had underestimated the resourcefulness and daring of Michael Hazzard. Here facing him were the cold slate blue eyes of unrelenting determination. Eyes that held the promise of death.

  Calmly Chang turned to look below him. "Take up the anchor," he called out loudly in English, then turned to stare once more into Hazzard's eyes.

  The men on the deck below stopped their work and looked up at the two figures on the flying bridge. Hazzard glanced down and then out over the water at the oncoming boats.

  "Tell them to hurry," said Hazzard.

  The cynical smile was more noticeable now as Chang called out to the deck below, "Take up the anchor and be quick about it."

  The men on the deck below remained motionless. Time was fast running out and Hazzard's patience was at its end.

  "What's the matter with those damn fools," Hazzard said angrily. "Don't they understand what you mean?"

  Chang smiled. "No, Mr. Hazzard, they do not. Now, give me your gun, before one of my men becomes overly nervous, and shoots you in the back."

  "Don't try that old gag on me."

  Chang looked behind Hazzard and nodded. The muzzle of a rifle came over Hazzard's shoulder and pressed against his temple.

  "As you see, Mr. Hazzard, this is not a gag. Now, slowly, give me your gun."

  Hazzard released Chang's arm and handed him the revolver. The time had come and gone. He should have taken the captain's advice and remained in the wheel house. Now, he would be lucky if they did not kill him.

  "You see, Mr. Hazzard, my men do not take orders from me in English. Now, turn very slowly."

  When Hazzard turned, he saw four of Chang's men standing behind him. Through the window of the wheel house he could see the captain. He was now firmly tied to the chair.

  "I am afraid you have become too much of a problem for me," said Chang, "and now I am forced to take rather drastic measures to ensure that you do not remain a problem." Then Chang spoke rapidly in Chinese to the guards.

  The man standing next to Hazzard brought his rifle up quickly and rapped the barrel across Hazzard's skull before he could move. Chang looked down at the unconscious form and shook his head.

  "Tie him up," he said in Chinese and went back to the rail as the fishing boats began to come alongside and tie up to the freighter.

  Soon the noise of the winches and the shouting voices of the men filled the ship as crate after crate was hoisted from the hold and lowered into the waiting boats.

  The unloading was almost finished when Chang went back into the wheel house. The captain sat red faced in the chair, fidgeting with the ropes.

  "Allow me," said Chang as he untied the knots and threw the rope to one side. "Sorry to have delayed you, captain, but now you may start on your voyage again. And to ensure that you will not do too much talking when you arrive in Saigon, we are taking the reckless Mr. Hazzard with us as a hostage."

  "What do you mean, talking?" snapped the captain. "How do you expect me to keep my crew quiet? Everyone of them will be jabbering like idiots when we reach port. You're making an impossible demand by taking Mr. Hazzard as a hostage."

  "My dear captain," smiled Chang. "I am not worried about your illiterate crew of wharf rats. It is you who must make out the written reports. It is you who will be interviewed by the police and newsmen. Of course you cannot keep this incident quiet. All I am asking you to do, is to say that it happened one hundred miles north of this actual spot. That is all. The rest you can tell. Who knows, you may even write a book about it some day and become rich."

  "And what becomes of Mr. Hazzard?" the captain asked.

  "In about thirty days," said Chang, "he will turn up in Saigon or Singapore, in excellent health." />
  The captain looked slyly at Chang. "And what's there to keep me from telling the correct location then?"

  "In thirty days, my dear captain, the location of today's little affair will not make the slightest difference to anyone."

  Chang walked to the door, then stopping, he turned around and bowed politely. "Good-by, captain. And if you should happen to write a book, I hope you will mention my name. People usually call me The Cobra."

  The captain stared for a long time at the door through which Chang had disappeared. A cold sweat formed on the palms of his hands. It was the reaction that comes after a man shakes hands with death and lives to tell of it. The captain had heard the name of The Cobra before, but always in hushed tones and whispers. No one wanted to talk long about The Cobra, and most people did not even want to listen. The less you knew about The Cobra, the better. The captain had never heard anything specific. Being a foreigner, the Orientals would never talk freely to him, or in his presence, about this mysterious figure that was fast becoming a legend throughout Southeast Asia. The only thing he did know was that the name of The Cobra was linked to one subject—sudden death.

  Chang stood on the bow of one of the small fishing boats watching the cargo net lower the bound form of Hazzard. The last crate had been loaded, and now they were ready to leave. Two well-muscled Chinese gently lifted Hazzard's limp body and placed it near the mast of the boat.

  "Cast off!" Chang bellowed in Chinese.

  Armed men heaved themselves over the side of the larger vessel and slid down ropes to the small sailboats. Hawsers were heaved off and ropes cut away as the tiny armada pushed away from the "Queen Wilhelmina III" and turned toward the shore.

  If Hazzard had been conscious, he would have been surprised to see six of the "Queen Wilhelmina's" crew join the armed guards at the last moment and slide down ropes to the waiting fishing boats.

  Halfway to shore, Hazzard opened his eyes. The side of his head was throbbing and it took a few minutes for him to regain his memory. Then, as his eyes began to focus, he saw the outlines of the "Queen Wilhelmina III" receding in the distance, and suddenly realized where he was. He jerked against the ropes and felt a strong hand on his shoulder. A flat-nosed Chinese with an ugly scar that cut diagonally across the full length of his face, was squatting next to him. The Chinese solemnly shook his head from side to side and pushed Hazzard down to the deck. The man showed no effort, and the strong firmness of the arm surprised Hazzard. He lay back on the deck and watched the bulging sail stretch against the handmade ropes of the boat.

  Suddenly the wind shifted, the sail popped like a cannon, and the rough-hewn boom slashed viciously across the boat above Hazzard's face. If Hazzard had been sitting up, it would have taken his head off. He stretched his head around and saw the flat-nosed Chinese looking at him from the other side of the mast. The man grinned at Hazzard and pointed to the boom. Hazzard grinned back. He understood now why he had been pushed flat on the deck. He pressed his lips together and gritted his teeth. How could he feel gratitude toward this Chinese, when later he might have to kill this same man in an effort to escape.

  The sail was brought down quickly and lashed to the boom. The crew then began to scull the boat through the now shallow water of a quiet lagoon that curved inland behind the high rocky coast. Hazzard felt the sand grate coarsely along the keel. The boat had stopped. He was dragged roughly to his feet, his ropes cut away, and his arms lashed tightly behind him at the wrists. Shoving him forward, the Chinese indicated that he was to jump into the water and wade to shore. He jumped, stumbled to his knees, and fell face forward in the water. He came up gasping for breath. Two guards stood over him, but no one offered him a hand, and no one laughed. He struggled to his feet, spit out a mouthful of water, and staggered through the rock-strewn shallows to the beach.

  The two guards pushed him forward to the edge of the jungle. All around him on the beach, the men were ripping the covers from the crates. They contained Garand rifles, and 30-caliber light machine guns. All were packed in cosmoline and encased in smaller boxes which bore the label: Property United States Army Ordnance Department.

  Hazzard saw Chang checking one of the machine guns, and when his guards showed no objection, he walked over to stand beside him.

  "Some cargo of merchandise," Hazzard said bitterly.

  "Yes, a very important cargo," replied Chang. "Twenty cases of rifles, ten machine guns, and five hundred thousand rounds of ammunition."

  "So, you're a gunrunner, or do you just happen to have a sporting goods store somewhere in the jungle?" said Hazzard, in a sarcastic mood.

  "I have been called many things, and the name 'gunrunner' is not new," Chang said calmly, and turned back to inspect the machine gun.

  Chang's calmness was eating into Hazzard's guts. He could not keep the hatred and bitterness down as his voice lashed out. "You're a real busy boy, Chang. What else do you do besides being a pirate, kidnapper, and gunrunner? Smuggling? Murder? Dope? Maybe a little white slavery, or do they call it something different down here?"

  Chang got slowly to his feet. His face was burning at the insults. His eyes blazed a warning as he stared at Hazzard. A warning that said—you are now nearer to death than you have ever been in your life. Then as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Chang relaxed, glanced around the beach, and spoke as if Hazzard had never uttered a word.

  "From here we must travel by foot. We break down the loads so they can be easily carried on the shoulders."

  "I'm not interested in how you run your band of cutthroats," Hazzard retorted.

  "But you will be, Mr. Hazzard," said Chang, and his dark piercing eyes flashed with secret amusement. "And by the way, let me caution you. Many of the men speak a little English, and I do not think they would take it kindly if they heard you call them cutthroats. Now if you will excuse me, there is much to be done. Gunrunning is not a simple business."

  5 The Gunrunning Business

  THE TRAIL through the jungle was a trail in name only. Four men had to proceed ahead of the column to clear away the fast-growing vines and undergrowth with machetes. Behind them a force of over seventy men labored under the combined weight of their own weapons and that of the new rifles, machine guns, and ammunition. Hazzard carried nothing, yet his bound arms caused him to stumble frequently, and prevented him from slapping at the swarms of insects that swooped down upon the sweat-salted bodies moving slowly through the jungle.

  The men about him walked in silence, the sweat streaming down their faces and soaking their clothes. These were men as accustomed to the jungle as the big city commuter is to the morning train. Even though they looked like a ragged band of down-at-the-heel pirates, Hazzard knew that they were dressed to protect themselves against the effects of both the heat and the insects, and that their clothing was carefully picked to blend with the jungle foliage. As he watched them move soundlessly through the jungle, Hazzard knew that these men were not pirates—they were experienced jungle fighters. A band of efficient, cold-blooded guerrillas. The thought was not pleasant. What would he find at the end of the journey?

  He slipped again and glanced down at his low-cut oxfords. The salt water and the constant slashing of the sharp roots had almost destroyed them completely. His shirt was slowly turning to rags, and his pants were mud caked and ripped.

  Every two hours they halted. The men rested by squatting down under the heavy loads on their backs. Hazzard had seen Orientals relax in this same position from Manchuria to Borneo, and never failed to wonder at the stamina of these people. He knew that in five minutes they would be ready to start out again, uncomplaining.

  Eight hours after leaving the beach they came to a slow-moving, muddy river. Canoes that had been hidden previously in the jungle were dragged to the water's edge and loaded with men and equipment.

  Just as Hazzard was trying to maneuver himself into one of the canoes, Chang came up to him and quickly drew a long, shiny dagger. Hazzard braced himself. Was this how he would di
e? Stuck like a pig in an unknown jungle?

  Chang smiled as he read the question in Hazzard's eyes. He grabbed Hazzard by the arm, swung him around and slashed the rope away from his wrists.

  "Just in case you fall in the water. You can swim better this way," and Chang waded into the river and lightly swung himself into the bow of a canoe.

  One of Hazzard's guards poked him in the back with a rifle and motioned him to climb into one of the long, narrow boats. The canoes were pushed out into the middle of the river, and they started down stream in single file. Each canoe had four paddlers, and two men scanning the jungle, automatic rifles at the ready.

  When night came they were camped in a clearing by the river. The canoes had been pulled ashore, camp fires were lit, and the men began to converse among themselves. From the relaxing of security, Hazzard guessed that they were now close to their own territory, and the danger of attack reduced to a minimum.

  His hands remained untied, but across the fire from him squatted the two never tiring, alert, poker-faced guards. They had given him a crudely made wooden bowl full of half-cooked rice, vegetables, and fish. It was smelly and sour tasting, but to Hazzard, who had tasted nothing since the night before on the ship, it was one of the best meals he had ever eaten.

  He had just shoved the last of it into his mouth with the well-worn chopsticks when Chang stepped into the light of the fire and squatted down beside him.

  "I hope you enjoyed your meal. It is not as tasty as chili con carne, but very nourishing," said Chang.

  Hazzard started. How could Chang possibly know that his favorite food was chili con carne? Was it just a lucky guess, or did Chang know more than he should about Michael Hazzard?

  "Now I must ask you to give me your parole, and not try to escape," continued Chang. "You could never make it through the jungle alone anyway, especially at night."

  "And if I refuse?" said Hazzard.

  "Then I am afraid we shall have to tie you up again," and Chang waited patiently for Hazzard's answer.