Chapter 35

NEWLY ENSCONCED in the comandante’s office at the ancient Inca fortress, Smith looked at his new headquarters. The lacy white curtains on the barred windows did a nice job of softening Bellanova’s stark stone walls.

He had changed out of his bark-stained uniform into a crisp khaki with officer’s insignia and a big red star on the cap. Yaquita had found the clothes in a closet, and she said he looked very dashing in them. To Smith, it felt good to be in a formal uniform again . . . even if it was the wrong uniform.

He thumped his feet on the desk and poured himself a drink of rum; Yaquita had given him a fresh bottle, and he had grown to find it tolerable after all. In fact, it was far safer to drink the rum than the local water. Pedrito Miraflores must have done some things right. Smith held the glass up to the light that seeped through the frilly curtains, then downed the drink. His entire body shuddered, then he sighed. He wondered if the locals made rum differently here below the equator, since he had never been able to tolerate alcohol before. But then, a lot of things about Lieutenant Tom Smith had changed in the past couple of weeks. . . .

Bolo marched in wearing a sergeant’s uniform. He snapped off a brisk military salute, and Smith acknowledged him without looking up, or recognizing him. “Have you seen to the antiaircraft and ground defenses, Sergeant?” Smith asked. “We can’t let this fortress fall back into the proper hands . . . er, I mean into enemy hands.”

“No need for those defenses, sir,” Bolo said. “All governmental forces in the province have surrendered, or they’re lost somewhere out in the mountain trails. No one knows where the comandante of Bellanova has gone, but quite often troops vanish without a trace, unable to find their way through Colodor’s many roads and passes.”

Smith poured himself another shot of rum, raised it cursorily to Bolo and gulped it down. “That’s what happens when there are no official maps available. This country really needs to resolve that strike.”

Bolo produced a slip of paper from the breast pocket of his uniform. “I just received orders for you personally, New Comandante, by express pigeon.” Brushing the wrinkled paper flat, he set the sheet on the desk and stepped back, clicking his heels together. “Since you have resolved your differences with Commander José after the bandana duel, you are instructed to put him in charge here at Bellanova.”

Smith swung his feet down to the floor and tilted his cap as he read the orders. “Leave here? Well, what am I supposed to do then?” His brow furrowed in puzzlement. “And who exactly do we work for, anyway?”

Bolo stared straight ahead and delivered his answer stiffly. “Sir, you are to proceed at once to our local missile site. We have its precise location here in the Andes.”

“A missile site?” Smith perked up. “Well, I guess I do know a little bit about missiles. I’ve approved enough blueprints. But are you sure these orders are right?”

“Absolutely, sir,” Bolo said, standing smartly at attention. “I wrote them myself!”

* * *

Leaving Bellanova behind, Smith and Yaquita rode their horses down a narrow mountain road in the high Andes, followed by two pack horses. Yaquita wore Bonita’s riding habit and top hat, and smiled a satisfied smile; Smith wore his jungle combat jumpsuit.

“It seems strange to me,” Smith said, with a steam of cold breath drifting up from his words. Black vultures wheeled overhead, as if hoping Smith or one of the pack horses would fall off a cliff. “Who’d suspect a hidden missile site up here in the Andes?”

Yaquita nodded. “I can take you there, though it isn’t on any map.”

“Nothing around here is on a map,” Smith groaned.

By high noon, Smith and Yaquita were riding through a rocky gorge, picking their way along a rugged path. During their morning coffee break, Smith and Yaquita had changed into thick sheepskin coats.

“This is such an important assignment. It shows that Colonel Enrique and Colonel Ivan must trust you,” Yaquita said. “I’ve never been in love with a man assigned to infiltrate a missile site before.”

“Who is Colonel Enrique? And Ivan?” he asked. Yaquita just laughed.

In the late afternoon Yaquita and Smith reached a lush valley sprinkled with colorful alpine meadow flowers. “This is the place,” Yaquita said. They dismounted, holding the horses’ reins. Smith shaded his eyes.

The grassy valley held a forest of what looked to be grain silos interspersed with a few tin-roofed buildings. Three old pickup trucks were parked next to rickety sheds; a brand-new tractor and wheat thresher sat near a barn, like props for a movie set.

“Well, look at that!” Smith said. “Wheat silos to disguise missile launching pads. Devilishly clever.” He looked at his complex Russian wristwatch, then marched forward, leading his horse. He remembered his orders, though he still didn’t know who the two colonels were. He hoped they were good, honest men. “Come on, we’ve got an appointment to keep.”

A steel gate barred the entrance to the concrete silo area, providing far more security than a wheat field should ever require. Three guards dressed in white peon clothes and Cuban military caps stood holding their automatic rifles, very alert. They slung their weapons down, taking aim as the strangers approached.

Then one of the guards cracked a broad smile, elbowing his partner in the ribs as he recognized the redhead. “Ai! Pedrito!” both shouted. They hastily opened the gate for him.

Sighing with relief, Smith and Yaquita passed through, waving to the guards. Yaquita even strummed her guitar. They went deeper into the silo compound. Smith tilted his head up to gawk at the nearest concrete silo. A big sign hung over the door, Compañia de Trigo Bocahambre. Silo no. 1. Se Prohibe Entrar.

“Hmmm,” Smith said. “The Hungry Mouth Wheat Company. Interesting cover.”

“Remember to do like the real Pedrito would do, my love,” Yaquita whispered to him. “Just complete the inspection and boost morale. You’re their hero. I’ve got to go and report to my superiors here.”

She spurred off, leaving him behind. Shrugging, Smith tied his horse to a coolant pipe that protruded from the side of the missile silo, then walked confidently up to the red-painted steel door. He ducked under the low entrance and stood on a metal platform. A catwalk staircase led down to a cleared machinery bay where an immense gleaming missile stood surrounded by scaffolding.

A dark-haired engineer in a white jumpsuit raced up the metal stairs from the base of the missile, waving his hands to stop Smith. “No entrance!” he shouted. “Get out!”

Smiling, Smith started down the staircase anyway, as if he belonged there. The engineer yelled, “We have an intruder! Sound the alarm!” Three technicians wearing gun belts sprinted around the bottom of the missile, drawing their weapons.

Smith came to a halt, waving cheerfully at the armed technicians as well as the main engineer. Snatching off his red-star cap to reveal his distinctive hair, he said, “Don’t you know me? I’m Pedrito Miraflores!”

They stared at Smith’s face, and then the technicians applauded. The engineer suddenly slapped his forehead. “Ah, the military genius who just captured Bellanova!”

Smith nodded. “That’s me.”

“The one who destroyed the Meta River Patrol!”

“Ai! Pedrito!” the guards and the engineer cheered.