uniforms, and all their dead features were contorted from the hangman’s noose, whose deep-ridged marks could be seen on their throats. “Looks like the Maximum Leader is having army problems, too,” Erikson said. “The sergeant didn’t want you to see this because it would be bad for morale.” He snapped off the light. “I’m going to look at the radio, but you two get up front with Slater and let’s get moving.”
Wilson and I walked up to the cab, whose doors were high off the ground with handles at shoulder height and a running board to step up on. We swung ourselves aboard and settled down on the wide front seat. Slater was staring morosely at the dashboard while he tentatively manipulated the stick shift. “How’s the gas?” Wilson asked him.
“Three-quarters full. Man, is this thing for real?”
“Roll it an’ let’s find out.”
We started down the highway, slowly at first, then faster as Slater gained confidence. It was a rough-riding vehicle. “Shocks are gone,” Wilson observed.
“In a field ambulance, springs and shocks are designed as much for the preservation of the vehicle as for the comfort of the casualties,” Erikson said from three feet behind the front seat. “Stop at the first bridge over running water, Slater.”
I turned to look at the radio Erikson was examining. There was a small four-inch speaker behind an almost rusted-out wire-mesh aperture. Erikson moved a switch, but nothing happened. “I can see this unit needs first- echelon field maintenance,” he said, and slammed his fist into the side of the radio. There was a squawk, and as Erikson turned up the volume rapid-sounding but distorted Spanish flooded the ambulance. “Can you hear that, Chico?”
“Yeah. He’s talkin’ about the storm. The voice sounds kinda fuzzy, though.”
“The speaker diaphragm is probably cracked. Better get back here and monitor—”
“Here’s a bridge,” Wilson announced.
The ambulance shuddered to a stop. We all got out into the rain. Beneath the low stone walls of the bridge I could hear the sound of rushing water. Erikson opened the ambulance’s rear doors. He lifted a stretcher’s iron feet out of the indents in the floor that held it in place, then slid it out the opened doors. I took the front end and we carried the stretcher to the bridge.
“One, two, three!” Erikson counted. We swung the stretcher in a high arc, and a dark figure floated over the parapet and disappeared into the water below. Wilson and Slater with a stretcher suspended between them were waiting for us to step aside. The wind seemed to be blowing harder, slanting the rain in gusts. When we returned the stretcher to the ambulance, I noticed that its olive drab canvas was mottled with blood and urine stains.
Slater took the wheel again after we had disposed of the second pair of bodies. “These seat springs sag so bad my ass is right down on the frame,” he grumbled. He listened to the tattoo of the rain on the roof before he started up the engine. Both sounds were amplified by the metal shell of the ambulance. “Might as well be ridin’ inside a drum,” Slater complained.
I was in the front seat with him as we started down the road again. Rain sluiced the windshield as the Dodge thumped and banged its way from pothole to pothole. Erikson and Wilson knelt on a haversack behind the cab seat and fiddled with the radio. Our once-burdensome load of baggage had leaned itself down to the backpack radio and three haversacks. A good deal of Hazel’s money was scattered behind us in Oriente Province in the form of abandoned equipment. The remainder was still in my money belt.
“Only three channels in use on preset frequencies,” Erikson said from behind the front seat. “One strong and two weak. The strong one must be at the nearby checkpoint.”
“What’re they sayin'?” Slater asked over his shoulder.
I could understand his curiosity. Spanish is a language that sounds excited whether anything exciting is being done or not.
“The storm is causin’ some floodin',” Wilson said. He was silent for a moment. “Civilian as well as military vehicles are bein’ called in to assist. Hey! This could help.” He paused again while the cracked Spanish voice blared cadenced sentences. “All storm vehicles are to be marked with a red diamond on the windshield to assist them through difficult areas. If we had a red diamond to put on the windshield—”
“That’s easy,” Erikson responded at once. “Hand me that first aid kit on your belt, Chico.”
I turned on the seat to watch him. He used a knife to cut adhesive deftly and shape it into a good-sized diamond by using other tape as backing. Then he took a small bottle of Mercurochrome from the first aid kit. He covered the adhesive with it, working it in with a fingertip, studied it for a moment, and added another coat. He handed me the diamond with a roll of Scotch tape. “Tape it to the windshield,” he said.
“That might do it,” Wilson approved. “That’s a red diamond, right enough. It sure—”
The ambulance lurched sickeningly as it dropped off the macadam surface onto greasy mud. Slater swore luridly as he tamped the brake repeatedly to keep us from turning broadside. “Here’s your damn stretch of bad road!” he called sourly to Wilson.
“We’ll be hittin’ the checkpoint in a few miles,” Chico predicted. “When we see the lights, I’ll get outside on the runnin’ board to do the talkin'. Karl, you an’ Drake get in back on the stretchers. You don’t look
We rearranged ourselves. Erikson laid his gun on his chest. I drew my.38. Erikson raised himself on an elbow to look across at me. “When we reach Havana, Wilson will take you—”
“Lights!” Slater sang out. The ambulance slowed, then stopped. Wilson jumped down into the road, circled the front, and climbed up on the running board on Slater’s side. Chico’s body shielded Slater from full view.
The ambulance inched forward again. Two pillboxes narrowed the road to one-vehicle width. A strong light from the nearer pillbox beamed outward and played on the ambulance’s windshield. It picked up the red diamond there, then shifted to Chico on the running board as Slater braked at the checkpoint.
I held my breath as a pillbox window went up and there was a rapid exchange in Spanish. Then the ambulance moved forward again. A hundred yards down the road Slater stopped and Wilson ran around the front of the cab and climbed into the front seat again. “Nothin’ to it!” he proclaimed jubilantly. “I’d have given odds those guards weren’t gonna get their asses wet.”
After that the ride was just monotonously uncomfortable. The cracked voice on the radio echoed metallically with only an occasional silence. Even on the stretcher I couldn’t get used to the constant jolting caused by worn-out shock absorbers.
“Hey, listen!” Wilson exclaimed. Erikson and I sat up on our stretchers. A new note had entered the radio’s monolog. The torrent of wordage poured forth in a higher decibel content. “He’s sayin’ that the U.S. Navy notified Havana that three sailors broke out of Gitmo takin’ an officer along as a hostage,” Wilson translated. He listened again. “But the Cubans are sayin’ they found two of their men dead inside Cuban lines an’ that the U.S. story is a cover for a CIA sabotage team dropped into the interior.”
“What does it mean to us?” Slater asked.
“That Castro is invitin’ the populace, if it catches us before the military does, to tie us hand an’ foot to four horses goin’ in different directions.”
That ended the questions. Through the windshield I could see dirty gray daylight. The rain had slackened considerably. I didn’t think it was possible for me to fall asleep, but I must have. It was Slater’s voice that wakened me.
“When we gonna skoff?” he was asking.
“When we get to Havana,” Erikson replied. “Pull in your belt.”
“Where are we?” I asked him in a low tone.
“Almost to Holguin. That should be the last checkpoint.”
“We’re making good time?”
“Almost too good.” He raised his voice. “Remember that we don’t want to reach Havana until after dark, Chico.”
I saw that Slater and Wilson had changed places and that Chico was driving. I crawled up to the front of the ambulance and tapped the dozing Slater on the shoulder. “Want to try the stretcher for a while?” I asked him.
“I’d give a hundred-dollar bill for a beer,” he said morosely as he climbed over the seat. He had dark circles under his eyes.
I reversed Slater’s route and sat down beside Wilson. Through the windshield the highway looked to be in better condition. We were on a desolate-looking stretch of road with trees growing down to its edge and only an
