Jungle Hunt

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan glanced around to make sure no one else was creeping up on him, then sorted through what other items had been sent. Brognola had also included a small first-aid kit containing, among other things, sedatives, antiseptic cream and antidotes for some of the more exotic diseases and poisons he might encounter. Bolan hadn’t arrived in country without his immunizations being up-to-date, but these might come in handy for other people. The Huaorani used curare as a poison on their blowgun darts, and he didn’t want to get caught unprepared. The Farm had also included energy food, small, highly concentrated protein bars that would double his energy for approximately eight hours, without the letdown or crash that usually came after. On the other end of the spectrum, six Modafinil pills, small tablets that would enable him to stay awake—and alert—for up to seventy-two hours without loss of concentration. Bolan pocketed those, fighting the urge to take one right then and there. It all fit in a small included pack.

  He took down the parachute and concealed it beneath the underbrush, then checked the time—three hours to get back to the village before his absence would be noticed. He brought up the best route back to the game trail, then switched the vision sensor suite to night vision with an overlay of heat to alert him to anyone moving in the jungle. Threading the silencer onto the barrel of the SIG Sauer, he jacked a shell into the chamber and started creeping back through the jungle.

  Bolan plotted a route that would safely bypass the site where he had encountered the hunters, although he almost wanted to go back and track them to find out exactly what they were up to. But the more logical part of him prevailed, and he struck out for the trail and the village. There’d be time to find out what they were up to later, and also whether they were related to his primary mission.

  As he approached the village, his arm was sore from hacking his way through the jungle and he was covered in sweat as the morning heat rose. It had actually gotten to where he could see without the help of the NVGs, which he slipped off and stowed before going any farther. He also found a secure hiding place for the M-4, camouflaging it with palm leaves to ensure it was hidden. When he was finished, he found a hidden copse of trees and called in, getting Brognola himself.

  “Striker, good to hear your voice. How’s the jungle treating you?”

  “Oh, you know, Hal—you guys send me to some interesting places. I’ve been in the village since 1520 hours, getting the lay of the land and meeting the other volunteers in this group. Your intel was right, there’s some strange stuff going down here, although I don’t quite have a handle on it yet. I need background files on one Nancy Kelleson, SARE volunteer, and also Major Andrés Medina, part of the Rapid Deployment Force in the Colombian Army.”

  “Colombia?” Brognola broke in. “What the hell are they doing crossing the border like this? After that debacle in ’08, are they trying to escalate a full-scale border war again?”

  “I didn’t get the chance to ask him, but I will the next time I see him.” Bolan’s tone turned serious. “The best way to him might be through this Kelleson woman—I saw him trying to shake her down in private. It looked like he wanted more than money, so that might be useful leverage later. The natives haven’t been very forthcoming, either. I’ll keep poking around. Thanks for the care package, by the way—I have a feeling it’s gonna come in handy.”

  “No problem, Striker. Unless something comes up, let’s plan on reports every twelve hours.”

  “All right. Anything else for me?”

  “One other thing, you’ve got at least one PMC operator in the area, probably working for one of the oil surveying companies.”

  “That explains that—I’ve already got him pegged, Hal. The guy’s name is Elliot Morgan, an alias, I’m sure. I’m uploading pics of him and the other two right now. He didn’t sit right from the get-go and that’s probably why. The strange thing is, he came along as one of the volunteers, so he’s also working undercover.”

  “What, you think we’ve got a monopoly on the idea? You know the drill.”

  “Yeah, find out as much as I can without blowing my cover or getting killed—which, I’ve gotta say, looks pretty easy to do here, and not just from the natives or soldiers. Don’t worry, I’m on it.”

  “I know you are, Striker. Keep in contact and good luck. Stony Man out.”

  Smoothing his perspiration-slicked hair back, he then walked to within a few yards of the village clearing and paused to look around, scanning for anyone who might have been watching. When he didn’t see anyone, he stepped out, brushing off bits of leaf and muck he had accumulated during his nighttime trek.

  He had almost made it back to his tent when the flap of the second one pushed open and Morgan stepped out. “Hey, you’re up early.”

  “Yeah, darn mosquitoes were driving me crazy, so I thought I’d get up and take a walk around—head into the jungle a bit, see what’s around.”

  “Remember, you gotta be careful out there. Lots of animals and natives running around here. Either’d kill you without a second thought, take whatever you got—or eat you—and leave you to rot.”

  Bolan eyed him speculatively. “You seem to know a lot about the area. Have you been here before?”

  Morgan shook his head. “Nope, but I keep my eyes and ears open. They were talking at the airport about the increased violence in the jungles. Just thought I’d give you a friendly warning.”

  “Thanks for the tip. Hey, I’m starved, wanna go see what’s for breakfast?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Bolan wasn’t fooled for a moment by Morgan’s demeanor. He knew the man was here for something—but what? Even worse, he was pretty sure he hadn’t fooled the other man with his alibi about the early morning walk, either. If anything, he looked as if he knew exactly where Bolan had been and what he’d been up to.

  And that worried him most of all—not because Bolan was in any danger, but because he just might have to kill the other man before all of this was over.

  8

  Who does this guy think he’s kidding?

  Morgan watched Cooper out of the corner of his eye as they headed over to eat. Walk in the jungle, my ass, he thought. The fit, muscled freelance journalist, or whatever the hell he was, was sweating as though he’d just finished a 5K race, and his boots and pant legs were soaked to the knee—not like he had just brushed against some wet plants, but like he had been walking through a lot of them in a hurry. Morgan had also noticed the small carryall bag the other man was sporting, too. He was pretty sure the man hadn’t had it when he’d arrived yesterday and was itching to see what might be inside.

  All in all, Morgan thought, this guy was as fishy as a mackerel in the Sahara. The questions are—what’s he doing here and is he going to be a problem, or is he already part of the problem?

  The cooking fire was already hot as they approached, sending a tendril of white smoke into the air. Two women tended a large skillet over a blazing fire, its contents sizzling merrily. The smell of oil and what might have been fried green bananas filled the air.

  Kelleson stood to one side, arms crossed, deep in conversation with Etienne. When she noticed the two men, she smiled and nodded to them. “Hello, gentlemen.”

  They both greeted her in English. Elliot spoke fluent Portuguese and Spanish, but there was no need to let them know that just yet. Instead, he went with a classic opener. “What’s for breakfast?”

  “Glad you asked, the women are making a large batch of patacones, to eat with last night’s leftovers. Both of you can give them a hand, as the plantains are just about done.” She nodded at Etienne, who addressed the women, his words making them smile and nod vigorously.

  The men exchanged uneasy looks. “I think we just got volunteered for something,” Morgan muttered.

  Cooper grimaced. “Yeah, and it’s probably not a lot of fun, either.�
�� The two men watched as the woman removed the pan from the fire and swiftly flipped the fried slices of plantain onto a large plate.

  “All right, mash the slices to half their original height, then the pieces get fried a second time.”

  Morgan peered at the gleaming lumps of vegetable. “No disrespect intended, but isn’t this women’s work?”

  Kelleson handed him an empty glass soda bottle. “Use the bottom of this. Normally, yes, it is so-called women’s work, but in SARE, we like to have the volunteers experience every aspect of a villager’s life—it gives you a better appreciation of what these people do every day just to eat.”

  Morgan squashed the plate of plantain slices down, then slid them back into the oil. The women filled the plate again and Cooper took a turn at it, as well. The two men each did another full plate apiece, then the women signaled for them to stop, nodding in approval.

  Off their nod, Kelleson spoke up. “All right, gentlemen, you’re done—good work. The stew from last night is over there, as well as what’s left from the pig and tapirs, too. Before you eat, however, let’s all bow our heads as the elders say grace, shall we?”

  Although not a particularly religious man, Morgan lowered his head and listened as one of the older men, his beard heavily salt-and-pepper, led the village in prayer.

  He glanced over at Kelleson to see her mouthing different words, and made out enough of them to understand that she was reciting the Lord’s Prayer. He wasn’t surprised—a lot of the volunteers he saw in the Third World bush embraced Christianity to one degree or another. He’d found a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses down in South Africa last year, trying to spread the good word among all the violence erupting against the flood of refugees from strife-ridden Zimbabwe. They hadn’t been nearly as attractive as Kelleson, however.

  The prayer finished, the villagers lined up for breakfast. Each one took a few patacones, mashed the center of them with their thumb to create a small hollow and then used it as a makeshift bowl to fill with leftover meat and other food. Morgan followed suit, hanging back until Kelleson got in line, then came up behind her.

  “Mr. Morgan. Pretty good technique on those plantains.”

  “Call me Elliot, and yeah, it was kind of fun once you got the hang of it. I wouldn’t want to do that every morning, however, so I hope you’ve got something a little more challenging lined up for the rest of the day.”

  Kelleson reached into the pan and assembled her portion with ease. “I think we can find enough around here to keep you occupied. For example, if you know anything about mechanical devices, Etienne could use your help installing the new pump part. The water’s getting fairly low here, and I don’t like sending the villagers out to the river—it’s an hour-long round trip.”

  “Ouch. Yeah, I’d be glad to pitch in—after all, that’s what I’m here for. Say, is there anything else you need?”

  Kelleson’s head snapped up, and she turned on him so fast Elliot half raised his free hand in case he needed to ward her off. Then, as quickly as she had turned, the fierce expression on her face melted away, and she took a large bite of her patacones before replying. “Thanks, but just the fact that you’re here to help in the first place is plenty. If you’ll excuse me, I have a lot to attend to, including getting the other volunteers situated.” She strode away without a backward glance, leaving a slightly befuddled Morgan in her wake.

  What the hell was that all about? he wondered, glancing around to see if anyone had been watching. Sure enough, off to one side, Cooper met his gaze as he munched on his breakfast. Morgan saluted him with his own, then ate the surprisingly tasty meal—although the volunteer organization had said each person was guaranteed three meals a day, they’d never described the quality of the food.

  After eating, he cleaned off his hands as best as he could, then walked to the vented pit toilet that was set several yards away from the rest of the huts and tents. He stepped inside, both to relieve himself and to make a personal call.

  He made sure no one was around, then he seated himself on the simple wooden board above the pit, making sure to breathe through his mouth. He pulled out his satellite phone, turned it on and hit a speed-dial number.

  A calm voice answered in a Southern drawl. “Security.”

  “This is Elliot, I’m on site, and have been for the past sixteen hours.”

  “’Bout time you reported in. We were startin’ to think the bush got ya.”

  Morgan grinned in spite of his morning. “You’ll never be that lucky. So far, nothing out of the ordinary. This village is just like any one of a dozen within a hundred miles. One thing, though—the local army major dropped in himself to visit with the head volunteer here. They had what looked like an interesting conversation, and I think he’ll be coming back soon. There’s still the possibility he’s involved in local criminal activity.”

  Morgan’s contact chuckled. “You still worryin’ that one, even after we tol’ you that dog won’t hunt? Unless you learn otherwise, we’re treatin’ him as on the level—at least, as much as one of them soldiers can be—so enlist him, bribe him or pump him for info, whichever gits us answers the fastest. The board’s getting very antsy to move forward with the upcoming projects, we need to make sure that jungle is clear—there can’t be any unknown hazards.”

  “I hear you, and I’ll get to the bottom of this one way or the other. Hey, also, see what you can find out about Nancy Kelleson. She’s that lead volunteer I mentioned—might be an expatriate Brit, she’s got an accent. Also, pull anything you can find on a Major Andrés Medina of the Colombian Army. He seems to be the unofficial ‘protector’ of the area, and is putting pressure on the indigenous population. Let me know what you get as soon as you do—I could use some leverage on both of them.”

  “This Medina name sounds familiar.” Morgan heard computer keys click in the background. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, we picked up a last-minute addition to the group—some hotshot freelance journalist named Matt Cooper. I’m sending a picture of him now. Every time I’m near him, he sets off my bullshit detector. Also, he moves like an ex-military man. Lemme know what you find out on him, too.”

  “We’ll send you whatever we find out on any of them.”

  “Great. All right, I’d better go—I’m surprised half the village isn’t knocking down the toilet door yet. I’ll call back about the same time tomorrow.”

  “Right—and good luck.”

  Morgan hung up, finished his business and stepped out of the latrine. As he stowed his phone, he half expected to see Cooper spying on him from behind a tree. The area was deserted, however, and he trekked back to the village with ease, where he found the other man huddled with Etienne and a few other men around a three-meter-long plastic pipe that Morgan recognized immediately.

  “Hey, that’s a Feri pump, isn’t it?”

  Etienne’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “You’ve seen this before?”

  “Seen it, hell, I’ve installed them down south. You guys picked the right piece of equipment out here—it has only two moving parts, is durable as hell and can even run dry without getting damaged. Where’s your compressor and the bore? We can have this sucker up and running in less than thirty minutes if everything else is ready.”

  Etienne hefted one end of the tube and Morgan grabbed the other. “Nice and light, too. Lead the way, man.”

  The smaller man headed toward the other end of the village with Morgan in tow. Realizing this might be the opportunity he’d been waiting for, he searched for a reason to get the reporter out of his hair.

  As if in answer to his dilemma, Kelleson shouted from across the compound, making both men’s heads turn. “Mr. Cooper?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Time for you to get your hands dirty—come with me to the livestock.”

 
Morgan hid his jubilation. “Have a good time.”

  The dark-haired man took his comment at face value as he ambled off. “You, too.”

  All right, Elliot thought as he hefted his end of the pump again. Let’s get to work.

  Etienne led him to the side of the village farthest away from the pit toilet and, Morgan noted with approval, several feet higher than the latrine, although he supposed the pit could still contaminate the ground water. When he asked Etienne about the possibility, the Ecuadorian shook his head.

  “When SARE installed the toilet, they also put in a concrete sewer pit. Nancy’s been working with us to transform the waste into useful compost, eliminating the bacteria that might live in it so we can raise better crops. She calls it ‘humanure.’”

  “Sounds lovely.” Banishing the unpleasant thought from his mind, Morgan examined the setup Etienne’d be working with. The bore was a simple hole in the ground, but the villagers had scrounged up a tall length of HDPE pipe to serve as a sleeve to attach the hose to so it would stay in place. On a raised platform next to the hole was a diesel generator for power, with an air compressor to move the water. “How deep is your aquifer?”

  “A tributary of the Amazon flows through the region, so we only had to drill down about forty yards.” Etienne’s teeth flashed in the morning sun as he smiled. “A good thing, too, since the drill broke once it had gotten that far.”

  “Common problem, that?”

  Etienne shrugged. “Out here, things work until they don’t, and we fix what we can using parts from what we can’t.”

  “Sounds about right. All right, let’s get this set up.” Morgan hooked up the air compressor hose to the nozzle on the top of the pump and worked the flexible water hose onto the end next to it, spinning a plastic coupling on to lock the tube down. “Okay, let’s put it in. Why don’t you set up those guys to make sure the hose doesn’t kink as we drop it down?”