The Daisy Ducks (34 page)

"It sounds to me as if Bill still isn't out of
the woods," I said.

"What do you mean?" asked Desmond.

"I mean he's still feeling persecuted. I suppose
he was stable enough to be released . . . but I'd say he's far from
well. And the drugs—I'm guessing he's on heroin, or maybe coke and
speed—aren't helping either. Maybe if we could convince him that
we're really his friends . . ."

"I don't know, Doc," said Roantis. "I'm
thinking it's too late for that. And if it's true he's still a little
nuts, I sure want to get Daisy out of there. Quick."

We packed up the rig and headed out. It was three
hours into night now; time to set the kid free, the way we'd planned.
Roantis had a couple of pairs of thumbcuffs with him. These are
miniature handcuffs that fit over the thumbs. They're so small you
can fit several of them in your pocket. We rolled into town and
cruised around, looking for a likely spot to leave Royce's cousin.
Finally Kaunitz spotted a big playground with a jungle gym in the
center. Nobody was there, and the field was dark. We pulled over and
doused the lights.

"I'll take him over," said Kaunitz. "After
all, I caught him in the first place."

"Don't you want any help?" I asked.

"No. Besides, the more of us that go, the
greater the chance we'll be seen. Lieutenant, you got the note?"

Roantis handed Kaunitz the scrap of paper with his
message on it, which said:

To Mssrs. Penland and Hunnicutt:

This man was trying to snipe at us in the
mountains near Beech Creek. We are returning him to you unharmed, as
you requested. As soon as we have more information, we'll let you
know.

Sincerely,
Liatis
Roantis, Professional Soldier

Kaunitz folded the note twice and taped it to the
back of the kid's neck, where he couldn't pull it off and where
nobody would miss it. Then Kaunitz took the pair of thumbcuffs and
hustled the kid out of the car and down to the jungle gym in the
center of the dark field. The kid didn't say boo; he was probably
glad as hell we'd spared him and were letting him go. We saw the two
dim figures down there, but only when they moved. Kaunitz was back in
a flash, saying he had fastened the kid's hands around a corner pole
and gagged him with the bandanna again so he couldn't yell for help.
This meant he wouldn't be found until the next morning, which would
give us the head start we needed. On our way to find another base
camp, Kaunitz said he wanted us to drop him off at the airfield.

"I'll just be up about forty minutes," he
said. "I really want to go over the area in the dark. See if I
can see any lights."

"C'mon Freddie," said Roantis. "What
are your chances of seeing anything?"

"Almost nil. But we've got to do it. Anything at
all that'll help."

"How 'bout a spotter? Mike, you want to go too?"

Summers nodded. But Kaunitz said no, he'd go alone.

"I'm going to be doing some hairy stuff.
Treetop-level stuff, maybe, in these mountains. I'll go up alone."

And he did. He zoomed off into the wild black yonder
and was gone. While he was up, we decided to move the camper rig to a
new location. We also decided to leave it before dawn, carrying gear
for two nights in the bush. Thirty-five minutes later, the little
Mooney came back down and Kaunitz joined us in the truck; saying he
had seen no lights. As we drove up the old logging roads, looking for
a nighttime haven for our rig, I wondered if the others were thinking
the same thing I was.
 

23

 
IN THE DEAD QUIET of the predawn darkness, I
rolled out of my blankets onto the pine needle forest floor and
listened. Faint snoring came from inside the camper, where Summers,
Desmond, and Kaunitz were sleeping. The fire was down to a red glow.
Roantis was squatting by the fire, dressed only in bush pants and a
gray cutoff T-shirt. The blood vessels in his arms stuck out like
spaghetti. He was squinting into the faint red light, his Mongol eyes
and droopy mustache making him look like a Vietnamese village
chieftain. I crept close and he looked up. I put my linger to my lips
and squatted next to him, enjoying the warmth of the tiny fire. The
Indians are right: build a small fire and get close.

"What?" he asked in a barely audible
whisper.

"What are you thinking?"

"About Daisy. I love her more than any person
alive. If I have to die to get her safe, I will."

I nodded and waited.

"Can't sleep? Nervous?" he asked.

"Uh-huh. I'm thinking about Mary. How she'll
feel if something happens to me."

"It won't. If things get that hot, we'll hold
back and get more help. I've done this stuff all my life. Only reason
I'm still here is because I'm not reckless."

"I'm also thinking of something else. I'm
thinking about Freddie Kaunitz."

"Yeah?"

"I keep trying to put him out of my mind,
Liatis, but he keeps popping back in. Remember how he took the kid
out into the woods to question him, away from all of us? Why did he
do that?"

"Freddie knows how to make people talk."

"Uh-huh. But I was thinking something else. Just
suppose for a second, suppose he knew the kid. Suppose he's in on
this thing with Royce and knew the kid beforehand. So we capture him,
without hurting him, and take him back to camp. Kaunitz takes the kid
out alone and says, answer my questions like you're scared shitless
and we'll set you free. Okay, the kid answers the questions. But
maybe he gives us the wrong answers."

"Hell Doc, you could suppose anything. Suppose
Summers is in with Royce? So what?"

"We both know Mike never had the time, mobility,
or motive to be in it. Kaunitz has all three—and an airplane he can
land anywhere. And believe me, Liatis, he does need the money. I
visited his ranch and overheard some private conversation. I know.
Okay, next point: Kaunitz insisted on taking the kid down to the
playground alone. Who was there to see him cuff the kid around the
jungle gym pole? Nobody. What if he didn't cuff the kid and told him
to scoot after waiting ten minutes? Then the kid could make his way
back to Royce's camp and tell him we're on our way."

"You're driving yourself nuts, Doc. Sure, a lot
of things could happen, but usually they don't. Besides, Royce
already knows we're on our way—he just doesn't know how fast. He
took Daisy for a bargaining chip, thinking it would give him power to
keep us away for a while. I bet he's already sorry he did it. Listen
Doc, what I'm counting on is this: we get out there twelve hours
before he thinks we can, slip under his guard half a day early."

"Okay, the final thing: Kaunitz's solo night
flight over Royce's position. He refused to have anyone go with him.
Know why?"

He thought for only a second before answering.

"Radio. You're thinking he radioed Royce from
the plane."

"How powerful is the Mooney's radio?"

"Very. Much more reach than those backpackers we
got. Yeah, he could've done that. What would he say?"

"What do you think? Tell Royce about the kid,
about us. Our strengths and weaknesses. What to expect. The works.
I'm thinking there's a king-size surprise waiting for us out there.
And it'll be no fun."

Roantis thought hard, smoked half a cigarette, before
answering.

"Nah. I just don't think Freddie's a traitor,
Doc. The Ducks were close. We hadda be. Freddie's solid. I can't say
that for Jesus Jusuelo, though. He always had a mean streak, and some
hatred for Anglos, too. He's fierce, yeah, but not solid. Royce . . .
Well, he's had his problems. But I'd say Fred's as solid as they
come. As solid as you."

Somehow, his opinion of me
did not cheer me up. Yeah, Doc, admit it: you're scared. You bet I
am. That wired coffee can and the kid's sniper rifle had me going.
Jesus Jusuelo, blood in his dark eyes, riding that little flatcar on
the mountaintop spur—he had me going too. I would have about as
much chance against a guy like that as that poor pilot lying in
intensive care at Vance Memorial. To top it off I still had grave
doubts about Kaunitz. I crawled back into the bedroll and stared up
at the dark shadows of the big tree limbs overhead. Then I looked at
Roantis again, squatting in the red glow of the fire like a Stone Age
hunter or shaman priest. What crude gods were being summoned, what
atavistic powers invoked?

* * *

A little after five, Tommy Desmond poked me awake. It
was pitch black out under the trees; two hours until sunrise. We had
coffee and sweet rolls, locked the rig, slung on our packs, and
walked out. By the time we left the rig, there was barely enough
light to see where you were going if you looked at the ground
directly ahead of you. It was cold; our breath came in great clouds.
Roantis led the way, heading for the railroad spur he wanted to
follow. He reasoned that if they used the track, they wouldn't wire
it. We headed up a different way from our initial approach, having
guessed that we could make contact with the spur much sooner than
previously. We did, but it was a hell of a climb, and it was sunup
when we finally came to the old logging spur.

Walking on that level right of way, with no
undergrowth or dense cover to hide booby traps, made me feel much
better. We walked 60 feet apart, which meant that with five of us, we
were strung out over 240 feet. We walked at a good clip, making no
noise, for miles and miles. Men walking with rifles, I thought. Some
things remain unchanged through history. From Ethan Allen and his
Green Mountain Boys, to the Swamp Fox, the Gray Ghost, to Darby's
Rangers, the Chindits, the SAS in Africa, to the Vietcong and the
LRRP teams like the Daisy Ducks: you cannot stop men walking with
rifles, no matter how many men, ships, guns, and jets you have.

I hoped Royce and his mountain men wouldn't stop us.
We had a good field of vision off to our sides and some tree cover
overhead because the tall poplars and pines had grown back, leaning
in like a canopy. We walked with Roantis leading, followed by
Summers, Desmond, me, and Kaunitz bringing up the rear. We changed
now and then, but always with an experienced man at each end and
Desmond and Adams in the middle. It was Roantis's plan to move ahead
quickly, making more headway than Royce would expect and placing us
inside his defensive perimeter. This sounded like a great idea as
long as it hadn't occurred to Royce as well.

At eleven o'clock, the woods thinned out and we had a
better view of the high, narrow plateau we were walking on. Below us,
the ground fell away a great depth to a broad river valley to the
south. To the north, it descended in a series of rolling hills. The
railroad spur turned softly to the right, continuing westward across
the spine of the plateau. Then it crossed the deep river valley in a
descending swoop of track that went over the water on an ancient
metal trestle bridge and disappeared into the woods again in a lazy
curve of track on the other side of the valley.

The terrain here was rugged and steep, with many
outcrops of bare rock, sheer vertical cliffs, and castle-like
promontories overlooking wide vistas. It reminded me of the rugged
country of Auvergne, in central France. It was the perfect place for
a wilderness stronghold.

Creeping up to the edge of the woods, we lay on our
stomachs, holding binoculars braced by our elbows on the ground,
glassing the valley below us. It was the valley of Yellow Creek, and
from our spot on the mountaintop to the opposite summit was a
distance of a mile, maybe more. And a few miles beyond that was the
Tennessee state line. If what the kid, Darryl Royce, had told us was
true, Royce's wilderness retreat was on the mountaintop across the
river. We glassed the entire area, looking for any movement,
reflection, or signs of human presence. We saw none.

"Well lieutenant?" said Kaunitz, who was
now sitting upright, his back against a tree. "I think I see
something below that bare rock just below the ridge over there. What
do you say?"

We directed our search to a shiny white patch of bare
marble that protruded through the trees near the opposite summit. For
half a minute, I couldn't see anything. Then I noticed faint movement
on the hillside below it, a black upright line that moved. From a
mile away, a man walking against the rock. When viewing distant
people through lenses, it's hard to see them actually move. What you
notice, as in watching the sun set or a flower open, are distinct
stages of the occurrence but not the actual process. I saw the tiny
dark streak change position from one end of the white patch of rock
to the other. Then it was gone, obscured by the trees.

"Hey," whispered Desmond, "look above
that rock. Oh my Jesus!"

Right away, I saw four men up there on the ledge. Two
had glasses and were using them. Roantis had all of us go to earth a
little deeper. He also said we would do no glassing of the far,
mountain after noon, when the sun's rays would be pointed toward us.
As it was, there was no chance of a reflection giving us away. Not
yet. I switched back to the base of the white patch of rock, looking
for the lone walker again. I finally spotted him making his way much
farther to the right, which was in the general direction of the
track. I figured they must have some sort of supply depot there. But
where was the mine tunnel the kid had mentioned? So far, the kid's
description of the place fit. And I could guess there were plenty of
men up on that cliffside and summit. So how were the five of us going
to unseat them?