"Whipsaw" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pendleton Don)

11

"It's not far," Colgan said, climbing into the front seat and nodding to the driver.

"What is it you want to show me?" Bolan asked.

"You know what they say about the picture and the thousand words?" Bolan acknowledged he knew the cliche, and Colgan went on. "Well, if that's what a picture's worth, I'd need a thousand pictures. It's easier if you just see for yourself." The driver sensed that the conversation had ended for the moment, and kicked the clutch. The jeep jolted, then the gears engaged and it settled into a steady roll.

The sun had burned through the mist, and Bolan was stunned by the beauty of the valley. Far to the east, the rugged Sierra Madre range looked like a silver ripsaw standing an the top edge of its blade. Beyond it, Bolan knew, the Pacific stretched for thousands of miles, its rolling swells barely disturbed by the occasional island.

To the west, the even more majestic Cordillera Central ran through the middle of the Luzon, as hard and unyielding as I spine in the back of a trout. In the lowlands the jungle was bigger than a universe. Mile after mile of green, broken by spectacular sprays of red and yellow, blue and orange, and purple so brilliant it seared the retina.

Everything in the vest seemed to move in a hurry.

Birds and butterflies, each trying to outdo the other with the extravagance of its colors, milled among the thick green leaves, flashing past and vanishing in an instant.

It was on this very island that a generation of young men, now slow, grey grandfathers, had fought the Japanese. It was on this same island that a younger generation of Filipinos fought against the remnants of colonial oppression with the passion and naivete so typical of young men. The first generation had won and the second had lost. And of the survivors, very few of either generation knew for certain what had been gained and how much it had cost.

That history was all around. Helmets rusted on the jungle floor, little more useful than the broken shells of coconuts. Ruined rifles lay buried in leaves, their wooden stocks long since crumbled away. The tangled growth even swallowed the ruins of Mustangs and Zeros, hardly more now than rusting skeletons.

Bolan stared into the trees as if looking for ghosts. If he looked hard enough and long enough, he knew they'd be there. Glancing at Colgan, he tried to read the man's mind, but the body language was confusing, contradictory. On the one hand, he looked as relaxed and confident as any man Bolan had ever seen. He seemed to be perfectly at home in his surroundings. But deep inside Colgan something was ticking away, second by second, some unknown number was approaching zero. Bolan didn't want to think what might happen then.

"Hang on," the driver said, derailing Bolan's train of thought. He spun the wheel and nudged the jeep into a narrow lane. The trees grew so close to either side of the passage that Bolan could have spread his arms and touched one with the fingers of each hand. The grass was yellowed ire twin stripes, the ground beneath it rutted, showing free quent, though not recent, passage.

Colgan turned to him, moved his lips twice, then shoot his head. He had wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words. Finally he settled for a pointing finger. "Up ahead, not far." The trees began to recede from the lane. Their branches still interlaced overhead, but the driver was able to relax a little with the added leeway. The lane widened farther, then vanished altogether as they broke into a wide, grassy meadow. Twin tracks of grassless clay ran straight as an arrow across the open field. The driver shifted down as the land began to climb at a steeper angle.

Colgan started to fidget. His shoulders kept squirming, and his head swiveled from side to side.

Over Colgan's shoulder, Bolan could see one knee jumping as Colgan tapped his foot restlessly on the floor of the jeep. They reached the top of the rise, and the jeep tilted forward as they began a shallow descent.

A rank of trees marched toward them, the advance guard of an army. Bugs swarmed in the air and buzzed angrily around their heads. Bolan slapped at something that stung his neck and brought his hand away with the pulped insect still quivering in his palm.

He looked at it with distaste, then scraped it off on the back wan and rubbed his palm clean on his pants.

This stand of trees was thinner, and Bolan could see the right sparkle of reflected light among them. The water tippled, sending slashes of white through the leaves. The jeep entered the trees again, and the driver eased off on the accelerator.

Colgan tapped the driver on the shoulder.

"Okay, Carlos. We'll walk now. You wait here."

Carlos killed the engine, and the jeep rolled to a halt. Colgan sat for a minute, as if holding an internal debate, teen climbed down. Bolan followed him, shifting the M-16 on his lap to his shoulder in the same motion.

Colgan headed downhill, toward the water.

Bolan fell in beside him. "You ready to tell me what this is all about?" he asked.

Colgan shook his head. "I already told you you'll see for yourself."

They were fifty yards from the water when they broke out of the trees. Close up, Bolan saw the sparkle for the lie it was. The water, like all tropical rivers, was greenish brown. It moved sluggishly. No more than two hundred feet wide, it swept past them in a broad, shallow arc. On the far shore a flight of wading birds took off with frightened squawks, their wings beating air and water, then just air as they lifted off, trailing their long, snakelike legs behind them.

Monkeys in the forest on the far side shrilled, frightening parrots, which erupted like colored clouds and disappeared. An abrupt silence descended on them. When Colgan spoke, he whispered. "This way," he said. He headed upriver. On the uneven slope, his stride was stiff and awkward, that of a man whose legs no longer bent the way they should.

Looking ahead, Bolan saw several charred black squares. He knew immediately what they were.

A village had been razed, the huts burned to nothing. The stumps of their stilts stuck up like black thumbs. Heaps of ashes marked the contours of the village. He had seen it a thousand times in Vietnam. It was almost humbling, how quickly a home could turn to dust. A year from now, there would be no trace of this place. Already plants had rooted in the ash. Thick clumps of greenish-silver grass had sprouted, pushing the ashes up into small cones like volcanoes spewing green lava.

Over the entire scene, something ominous and oppressive choked Bolan, constricting his throat. He could smell it, and he knew what it was. But Colgan pushed on, seemingly oblivious.

And Bolan followed.

Carefully Colgan avoided stepping on the first patch of ashes, drifting toward the waterline before advancing again There was something ceremonial in the action. It was the ad of a man visiting a sacred shrine. Colgan's head was slumped forward on his chest, almost as if he were praying.

Methodically he threaded his way among the rectangular smears. Each of them bled downward, where rain had washed some of the ash toward the river.

The smell got stronger. Against the tree line, on the far side of the ruined village, a long, low mound ran perpendicular to the river. It was already half-green, covered with snaking vines, and grass sprouted haphazardly. Even flowers had taken root in the overturned earth.

Colgan stepped ten feet from the mound. The smell was overpowering now, and both men pinched their noses to keep it at bay. "There," Colgan muttered, his voice strangely unaffected. "There it is. Seventy-three men, women and children. Practically the entire population of the village that used to stand right here." He turned his head slowly, in a dreamlike silence, to see if Bolan understood what he was being told.

Bolan nodded his head. "What happened?" he asked.

"The Leyte Brigade. That's what happened. Charles Harding's handiwork, if you will."

"How do you know?"

"I know, that's all. Never mind how." Colgan dropped to one knee and crossed himself.

Bolan watched quietly as Colgan's lips ran through a silent prayer. When he had finished, Colgan stood up. He started to back away from the mound, then snapped his head sharply and turned away.

Bolan noticed the tears, but said nothing.

Head down, Colgan picked his way back through the ashes. He walked down toward the water and sat on a patch f grass. Bolan followed and took a seat next to him.

"Want to tell me about it?" he asked.

Colgan nodded his head. He opened his mouth, gasping like a landed trout, then swallowed hard.

"Marisa was here when it happened. Her grandmother is buried back there." Colgan pointed toward the mound without turning to look.

"And you're certain Harding had something to do with this?"

"Not personally, at least as far as I can prove, but his organization, yes. Without a doubt. Marisa was here. She saw it all. Do you understand? She saw it happen. They shot her in the head, left her for dead. She survived, but..."

Bolan didn't know what to say. He stared at the water, watching the play of light on its sluggish surface.

Colgan sighed. "You know, I can't understand why it always has to be this way. I just can't understand it."

"It doesn't," Bolan said.

Colgan turned to look at him. "You think that Marcos was the problem here. You think since he's gone, it doesn't have to be this way, but you're dead wrong. Marcos was only part of the problem. Now Aquino is the problem. Not because she's corrupt like Marcos, but because the same corruption is still there. The body rots from the inside out. You don't cure cancer by changing skins. That's cosmetics, not medicine. And it sure as hell isn't a cure. Aquino is a puppet and doesn't know it. She'll learn, but not before it's too late. It's too late already." Colgan stood and turned his back to Bolan.

Staring out at the wriggling surface of the dark water, he knotted his fists, squeezing his fingers into his palms as if he wanted to kill a tiny insect in each hand.

"The mushrooms, Belasko. Do you understand?" He whirled suddenly, waving a wild hand in a broad arc toward the mounds of ashes. Then, one long trembling finger extended, he pointed to the burial mound. "The stink that will never leave me. Not as long as Charles Harding and men like him, are free to walk the earth like decent human beings."

Bolan watched Colgan's face. Veins bulged at his tempo pies, and his eyes seemed to pulse blue light as they bored into the big guy.

"Do you know what it's like to be me, Belasko? I take human life, and I'm a doctor, for Christ's sake. A doctor... and I would throttle that man until his head snapped off like a dead flower. Me. A doctor..." He turned away again.

But the trembling finger still pointed its accusation, as if calling a jury's attention to a crucial fact it had overlooked.

But there was only Bolan to see, hear, and come to a conclusion.