by Lindsay McKenna - Course of Action: The Rescue: Jaguar NightAmazon Gold
Jack was all for mascots. He preferred the kind that didn’t root around inside his uniform, however. But as he watched the tiny monkey burrow into Dawson’s pocket, its movements generated a swift and completely inappropriate reaction. His belly tightened, and suddenly he was right there with the little critter, exploring the contours under Dawson’s layers of uniform, testing the shape and feel of her.
The intensity of his reaction both surprised and disgusted him. What the hell was he thinking? He was a professional. So was Dawson. He couldn’t allow himself to focus on her breasts. Or any other part of her anatomy!
Some of that disgust must have shown on his face. Dawson misinterpreted the reason for it, thank God, and drawled a reassurance. “Don’t worry, Sarge. We had the veterinarian at NMRU-6 check Snowball out. He’s not carrying any communicable diseases.”
“Good to know.”
The sound of footsteps diverted Jack’s attention from the still-wiggling bulge on Dawson’s breast. The briefing room door opened a moment later, and a Peruvian noncom ushered in a bruised and severely malnourished young girl. She was so emaciated it was hard to tell her age, but Jack guessed she couldn’t have been more than twelve or fourteen. Her black hair hung lank around her ravaged face, and her frame was skeletal under her shapeless cotton dress. Fear shadowed her eyes as she cowered against her escort.
Murmuring soft, soothing words, Charley took her hand and brought her over to meet Jack. “This is Maria. The docs say she was just a few hours away from death when we found her.”
“Hola, Maria.”
As gentle as Jack’s greeting was, it seemed to terrify the girl. She cringed against Charley, who once again gentled her with soft words before leading her to a chair at the table.
“Everyone, sit down. Maria will give you an idea of what you’ll be up against.”
Charley sat next to her, murmuring encouragement and translating as Maria stumbled through her tale. The girl didn’t embellish. Didn’t dwell on the brutal conditions she’d endured. But the bare facts were enough to ignite an ice-cold fire in her listeners.
Like her ancestors who’d been rounded up by the hundreds of thousands and forced to work as slaves on rubber plantations a century ago, Maria’s family had fallen victim to modern-day predators. About four months ago a band of heavily armed men descended on their village. They tagged everyone who looked even semihealthy and forced them on a long march through the rain forest. Their destination was a rough-and-tumble mining camp on the banks of the Amazon.
At first Maria was put to work washing dishes behind the kitchen tent. She slept in the open with other captives and lived off scraps stolen from the cook pots. It wasn’t long before she was forced into prostitution. Even then, she related in a broken, frightened voice, she had it better than the mine workers. Under the unrelenting eyes of gun-and machete-toting guards, the sweating, straining captives hacked down thousand-year-old trees. Burned others to clear swaths of the forest. Blasted pits in the cleared earth with water cannons. Struggled to operate the huge hoses sucking up the earthen slurry. Breathed in the deadly vapor from the mercury used to separate the gold. Few of them lasted more than six months. For those who did, their only defense against the constant pangs of starvation and exhaustion was to chew mind-numbing cocoa leaves.
In an act of sheer desperation, Maria had escaped in the dead of night. She lived off roots and grubs and slept in hollow tree trunks or on low branches as she made her way upriver. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she’d traveled twelve, maybe fifteen, days before she collapsed. All that had kept her going that long was her fear of Señor Master.
“That’s Señor McMasters,” Charley clarified. “Sean McMasters. Maria identified him from a warrant issued by the Peruvian authorities. He took over operation of the mining camp a couple of weeks before she escaped.”
Dawson’s voice hardened. Her brown eyes flicked from Jack to the other members of his team and back again.
“Apparently McMasters is more humane than the previous operator. He wouldn’t let the mine operators beat the workers to death when they dropped from exhaustion or starvation. He ordered them tossed in the Amazon instead...with a hunk of raw meat to attract the piranha.”
Halliday didn’t miss the underlying accusation. “Contrary to popular opinion,” he returned coolly, “we don’t train Delta Force operators to feed people to piranha.”
The big guy with the bushy black beard gave an angry huff. “McMasters isn’t Delta Force. Bastard stopped being one of us the minute he started thinking about going rogue. We catch up with him, he’s the one who’ll be feeding the fish.”
“You got that right, Bear.”
Amid the grim, macho promises that followed, Charley nodded to the noncom and had him escort Maria from the room. When the door closed behind them, she shared the knowledge she and her crew had learned the hard way during their months in Iquitos.
“As you may or may not know, these illegal gold mines are a major concern to both the Peruvian and Brazilian governments. No one knows for sure how much of the Amazon basin the miners have deforested since the price of gold started shooting up a decade ago. At least two thousand square miles in the Madre de Dios region alone. Estimates are that there may be as many as thirty thousand illegal gold mines operating in this area.”
“Damn,” Bear muttered. “Thirty thousand?”
“Most are small digs worked by garimpeiros—desperately poor villagers hoping to cash in on soaring gold prices. A few are so big whole mining towns have sprung up around them. Some, like the site we’re targeting, use floating dredges to keep on the move and under the radar. And the problem with all these mines is that they’re not only raping the earth, they’re poisoning it. The mercury used to extract the gold is seeping into the river in dangerous amounts and threatening every living organism in the Amazon’s food chain.”
She flicked a switch and illuminated one of the wall screens. A few clicks of a remote brought up a dramatic color photo. In the background was a patrol boat with its guns trained on a dredge platform. In the foreground was a combined squad of U.S. and Peruvian Special Forces with their guns trained on a gaggle of men wearing very unhappy expressions.
“My crew and I have helped take down six of these type operations since we’ve been here.”
Charley said it calmly, with no hint of the runaway adrenaline that juiced them every time they’d gone in hot. Bear and the two other members of Halliday’s team appeared suitably impressed. Their leader not so much. Judging by his impassive face, she guessed Halliday’s only interest in her crew’s record of takedowns was how well their previous ops prepared them for the next one.
She clicked the remote again and brought up a current satellite view of the Amazon’s four-thousand-plus miles of winding, snaking, life-giving flow. During the dry season, it widened in some places to six or more miles in some places. During the wet, it could reach thirty or more miles across.
Another click narrowed the image to the river’s upper reaches. Charley zoomed in yet again to display a sector that ran from Iquitos, where the Ucayali and Marañón converged to create the mighty Amazon, to a point a hundred miles downriver.
“Here’s where we found Maria.”
Using a laser pointer, she aimed a red dot at a wide tributary feeding into the river.
“Based on our best guesstimate of how far she walked in her weakened condition, we’ve narrowed the search area to the twenty-mile stretch of the tributary you see here. We used LIDAR—laser imaging and detection radar—to chart the channels feeding into the tributary. The canopy’s too thick to give us precise measurements, but we’ve confirmed this particular channel is wide enough to haul in a dredging platform.”
The laser dot moved again, tracing a series of sinuous switchbacks.
“We’ve also identified three areas along the river with significantly diminished vegetation under the canopy. Those areas are consistent with possible pit mining operations.” She aimed
the pointer. “Here, here and here.”
Halliday leaned forward, his gaze locked on the terrain map. His expression gave no clue to his thoughts as he studied his potential area of operations. Charley guessed he’d imprinted every twist and turn in his mind by the time he sat back.
“What intel did Maria give you on the number of people at her camp?” he asked.
“She says there are about twenty friendlies, although the number fluctuates daily as workers die and replacements are shuffled in. Half that many guards and patrones.”
“Did she describe how the guards are armed?”
“Not in specific detail, but the mine operators we’ve taken into custody so far have wielded everything from machetes to AK-47s.”
“We’ll need a diagram of the camp layout.”
“Already done.”
Charley brought a rough sketch up on the screen. It showed a rectangular oblong representing the dredge anchored on the bend of the river. Next to it was a series of hand-drawn pits. They pockmarked an area about the size and length of three football fields laid end to end. Hash marks indicated a row of small tents. A larger tent was labeled “kitchen.”
Charley caught what looked like a glint of approval in Halliday’s blue eyes as he took in the sketch’s detail. She guessed it was probably as close as Mr. Man of Few Words got to an outright attaboy.
“My crew and I will provide ingress, covering fire from the river and exfiltration. Sergeant Santos and his team will conduct the actual assault with you and yours.”
Halliday nodded to Santos. “You’ve done this before. You talk, we’ll listen, then we’ll finalize an assault plan.”
Sergeant Hernando Santos was a good man. Charley had worked several ops with him. She and her crew tuned in closely while he detailed what had worked—and hadn’t worked—in previous raids on mining camps. Then he and Halliday and the rest of the assault team put their heads together.
* * *
By the time all parties involved had worked out a plan that maximized the skills of each team member and minimized danger to the friendlies, it was past 7:00 p.m. Snowball had deserted Charley, trading her pocket for the stash of dried banana chips her gunner’s mate always carried. The steady crunch of the marmoset chowing down reminded Charley that she’d skipped lunch and alerted her stomach to start sending urgent feed-me messages. One particularly loud rumble caught the attention of the man closest to her.
Halliday glanced her way, a smile flickering across his face, and Charley almost did a double take. Sweet Jesus! Sergeant Jack Halliday all square jawed and remote was studly enough. With just a hint of a smile softening his chiseled features, he damned near made her forget how to breathe. She covered both the stomach noise and the hitch in her breath with a brisk comment.
“We’ve arranged for you and your team to draw whatever additional weapons and equipment you need from our armory. If you’re done here, we can raid the stores.”
Halliday looked a question at Bear, who’d flown in via military air with White Feather yesterday. Bear gave a quick shake of his head. “We’re covered, Hoss.”
“Good.” Halliday kept a straight face as he turned back to Charley. “But we could use some chow.”
“The food at the dining hall’s not bad. If you’re up for it, though, there’s a great little cebicheria just outside the main gate.”
He hooked a brow. “And a cebicheria is?”
“An eatery that specializes in cebiche,” she replied, deadpan.
His laugh broke out, rich and deep and even more potent than his half smile. The sight of those Viking blue eyes alight with laughter had Charley sucking some serious wind.
“Okay,” he told her. “I’m game if everyone else is.”
* * *
As it turned out, only Charley, Halliday, Bear and Sergeant Santos opted for the off-base excursion. The others dispersed to their quarters to ready their gear and prepare for an 0500 launch the next morning.
Santos drove, the windshield wipers on his jeep working furiously as the storm clouds that rolled up several times a day this time of year dumped another four or five inches. The jeep’s open sides provided little protection for his passengers, but Charley had become accustomed to getting drenched at least once or twice daily during the wet season. She’d given up wearing a poncho except on patrol, and then she covered up to protect her weapon and utility belt. Ashore, she depended on her rubberized boots and pant legs cinched tight at the ankle to keep her feet dry.
She’d considered wearing gloves and a hat flap when she’d first arrived to keep the mosquitoes from attacking her hands and the tender skin of her nape. She’d soon discovered a good dose of repellent on exposed areas kept all but the most persistent of the critters at bay. Didn’t make for a sweet scent, though, unless you were into eau de bug spray.
“Here we are,” she said when Santos pulled up some distance from a cluster of huts perched precariously on stilts.
The Amazon eddied around and under the huts. Canoes and dugouts were tied to the stilts, while kids scampered like monkeys over rickety elevated walkways made of rough-hewn planks.
“The cebicheria is that big hut with the music blasting,” Charley said cheerfully. “In dry season, you can drive right to the door. During the wet, the place gets a little waterlogged.”
Bear eyed the zigzagging planks dubiously. “You sure they’re up to my weight, Chief?”
“Guess we’ll find out,” she answered with a grin.
Jack noted the exchange with an inner frown. He’d known Bear Denton for more than a decade. The sniper came across as bluff and hearty, but he was quick to size up—and just as quick to dismiss—anyone he considered a lightweight. Yet he was already on easy terms with Dawson. Like one of her crew. Informal, respectful, affectionate.
Jack might not have questioned Bear’s ready acceptance if Dawson’s ex-husband hadn’t poured out all that crap about his wife sleeping around. He knew better than to take those bitter ramblings as gospel. Still, he couldn’t forget his own unexpected reaction to the woman. Nor the easy camaraderie between her and Bear. No doubt about it. Charley Dawson exerted a definite effect on the male of the species.
Masking his thoughts behind a bland expression, he hooked a leg over a wooden bench and joined the others at a scarred picnic-style table. They ordered beer all around and waited for the bottles capped with lime wedges to be delivered before ordering.
“There’s no menu,” Santos said, pitching his voice to be heard over the raucous music emanating from a battery-operated boom box. “You may choose either cebiche de pescado or langostinos.”
“White fish or shrimp,” Dawson interpreted.
“Is it cooked or raw?” Bear asked with a glance at the muddy water swirling around and under the huts.
“Raw,” she answered, her brown eyes dancing, “but marinated so long in lime juice, garlic, ginger and onions that you won’t taste the river.”
When he looked unconvinced, she offered an alternative.
“They also serve empanadas. Fried dough stuffed with chopped sweet potatoes and corn or meat.”
“What are you having?”
“The pescado.”
“Then I guess I’ll have it, too.”
Jack knew for a fact that the sniper usually stuck to MREs—meals ready to eat—when in the field. For a big man, Bear had a delicate stomach and had been wrung inside out too many times. Yet here he was, risking a case of the trots to impress Dawson. Hiding a scowl, Jack took a pull of warm beer. Bear damned well better not expect any sympathy if he had to hang his ass over the side of the boat all the way down the Amazon tomorrow.
* * *
Luckily, no one suffered any ill effects from their dinner on the river. Every member of the assault team looked healthy, whole and ready to rumble when they assembled on the dock at 0500 the next morning. The heavily armed Delta Force members wore jungle BDUs now, although their uniforms didn’t sport name tags or any insignia that would ide
ntify them as members of the U.S. military. Like their Peruvian counterparts, they also carried armor and helmets equipped with night vision goggles and radio headsets.
Charley Dawson and her crew were similarly outfitted. Already aboard their patrol boat, they had the communications and navigation systems up, the fuel topped off and the engine humming in idle while they completed their premission checklists. She sat in the cockpit, the throttles close at hand. Her Peruvian navigator worked a trackball and keyboard to input their course.
The other two members of her crew were waiting on the well deck. Boats escorted them down to the interior compartment and showed them where to stow their gear while gangly, towheaded Burke completed a final weapons check before radioing his skipper.
“Snowball One, this is Snowball Four. Weapons check complete. Ready to cast off when you are.”
“Roger that, Four. Stand by.”
Snowball! Christ!
Listening in on their comm, Jack hoped to hell they hadn’t brought their mascot aboard. He had enough to focus on without wondering if some little puff of fur was going to crawl up his pant leg or jump down his neck.
“Snowball One to Viper One. Do you read me?”
Jack responded to Dawson’s comm, glad that his team’s call sign at least had some bite to it. “This is Viper One. I read you loud and clear.”
“You and your guys can make yourself comfortable. It’s gonna be a long ride.”
Long, Jack soon discovered, but fascinating. It was still dark when the lights of Iquitos fell off astern. By the time dawn broke gray and hazy, they were miles downriver and deep in the heart of the Pacaya Samiria National Reserve.
With the temperatures outside still bearable, Jack and most of his team traded the air-conditioned interior for a view of the passing scenery. The Amazon flowed green and swift and several miles wide at this point. Human habitation was spotty at best. They passed a few villages on stilts, the huts indistinct shapes in the misty morning vapor. Some dugouts glided by on the fast-moving current. A tour boat hauled sleepy-eyed tourists deeper into the reserve for the adventure of a lifetime.