The Ambushers [antikvár]

I The natives call it the River of Goats, the Rio de las Cabras. In the time I was there I saw no goats, but that means nothing. I wasn't hunting goats, I was hunting a man. Anyway, we only ran up the stream a few miles, until the jungle started closing in on either side, overhanging the water blackly. Then the Navy coxswain, who seemed to know where he was in spite of the darkness, put the junior-grade landing craft, if that's what you call it, in to the bank, and that was as far as I got to travel sitting down. I had the gun case between my knees so it wouldn't get knocked around or stepped on. The little pack, less sensitive, was down on the floorboards somewhere. I rose, kicked around, found it, struggled into it, and slung the long, heavy plastic case over my shoulder by its strap. I stepped ashore in the dark, hoping there wouldn't be any snakes or alligators to greet me. Somebody said, "Good luck, sir. We'll be back the day after tomorrow." The ugly little boat backed off silently—they've done some good work on mufflers since World War II—and turned sharply and hissed and burbled away into the night, heading for open water and the ship waiting offshore. There'd be coffee ready when they got aboard, I reflected. There's always coffee when you're with the Navy, but I wasn't with the Navy any longer. There was nothing for me to do but stand and wait, so I stood and waited. I couldn't help thinking that there was a certain resemblance in names between the River of Goats, here in Costa Verde—well, let's call it Costa Verde—and the Bay of Pigs over in Cuba, where some other men had been put ashore not too long ago under somewhat similar 5 1 I •