by Lindsay McKenna - Course of Action: The Rescue: Jaguar NightAmazon Gold
The river was too wide to hear more than the softly muted sounds of the rain forest creatures greeting the day. Except for one species. Sounding like a phantom rising from the dead, the cry of a howler monkey rolled through the mist and across the water. Eerie and tentative at first. Louder and stronger with each repetition. The answering roars raised the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck. As the sun rose and burned off some of the morning haze, the air vibrated with their earsplitting cries.
Soon toucans joined in, adding their raucous calls to the chorus. Then Jack caught a movement off to the starboard. He glanced around just in time to see one of the Amazon’s rare pink dolphins leap out of the water. A half second later, another arced beside it. Water sluiced off their pale skin in brilliant, sunlit sparkles.
Jack had never been much for the arts. Football was his salvation. Football, and the tight bond he’d formed with the other Sidewinders. Yet those dolphins leaping and cutting so cleanly back into the river were as graceful as any high, spiraling pass. When they soared out of the water again, Jack rested his back against a gun mount and admired their synchronized water ballet.
* * *
The next water creature Jack got up close and personal with didn’t generate the same aesthetic appreciation. The encounter came after a five-hour transit of the rain-swollen Amazon and another half hour cruising up a wide tributary.
Once in the tributary, they soon located the small feeder river pinpointed by LADIR imaging. Anticipation gripped Jack as Charley Dawson nosed her craft toward the mouth of the narrow waterway. She came up on the well deck, leaving Boats and her navigator below to man the controls. The RCB’s navigational systems indicated it could transit the channel, but Dawson was sailor enough to want a visual.
As the boat nosed in at a careful five knots, the rain forest seemed to swallow it. Macaws screeched and shot through the trees in brilliant flashes of color. Spider monkeys chattered overhead. Vegetation lined the banks. It was a different kind of vegetation from the rain forest’s interior, where the canopy was so thick that little light penetrated and only the tallest trees survived. Here the narrow slice of sun at the channel’s mouth produced a tangle of red-and-silver-barked trees. Their slender trunks rose from beds of giant ferns. Wild orchids grew in profusion. Creeper vines hung from the branches like green dreadlocks.
Except one of those dreadlocks wasn’t a vine. Suddenly, without warning, it came alive. Charley heard a muffled cry and whirled, her hand going instinctively to her sidearm, and saw a fat, gray-green rope wrapping around Hernando Santos’s face and neck.
Chapter 3
“Anaconda!”
Charley’s shout exploded the same instant Jack Halliday lunged across the deck. He got the snake’s head in an iron grip and was fighting to wrestle it away from Santos when Charley radioed an urgent command.
“Full astern!”
She had to halt the boat’s forward momentum, had to keep Santos and Halliday from being dragged over the stern by the thick, glistening rope anchored to the tree branch. Her boat’s powerful engine responded with the speed of a thoroughbred, thank God. As soon as it had reversed engines, Charley bit out a second command.
“Full stop.”
By now the other members of the assault team had joined the fray. Two men added their muscle to Jack Halliday’s in a desperate attempt to unwrap the constricting coils. Two others tried to drag the giant reptile’s tail free of the overhanging branch, but it was wrapped too tight. Cursing, they whipped out their combat knives. Blades flashing, they hacked at the gray-green rope.
In those few seconds, everything Charley had learned about anacondas during her months in the Amazon flashed through her mind. They weren’t the longest snakes in the world, but they were the biggest, often weighing four hundred pounds or more. The good news was that they weren’t venomous. The bad... They moved with astonishing speed given their massive size and killed their prey by squeezing and suffocating it. Then they dislocated their jaws and swallowed their victim whole.
This particular specimen looked as if it weighed at least four hundred! Its body was twice as thick as a man’s arm. Even hacked in half, the anaconda wouldn’t release its prey. If anything, the snake’s death throes made it convulse even tighter, defeating all attempts to free Sergeant Santos.
The Peruvian’s face was turning blue. His eyes rolled back in his head. Swearing, Halliday whipped out his KA-BAR.
“We have to cut him loose.”
The others joined him in attacking the constricting coils. Charley didn’t see how they could keep from slicing into Santos as well, but somehow they managed to inflict only superficial cuts. While the others kicked aside still rippling and writhing sections of anaconda, Halliday gently lowered Santos to the deck.
Every person on the boat had received medical training equivalent to that of an EMT, Charley included. As she knelt beside Halliday to render assistance, one glance at the bloody froth now bubbling through the sergeant’s lips told her Santos was in bad shape. Halliday confirmed as much with a swift examination.
“His larynx is crushed and blocking the trachea,” he said grimly. “He can’t breathe. We’ll have to insert a Combitube, and fast.”
Nodding, she keyed her radio. “I need the trauma kit topside. Now!”
All U.S. troops operating in hostile environments carried individual survival kits with basic first-aid supplies. If they were going into direct combat, they packed a more extensive kit with enough supplies and equipment to treat their own injuries if necessary. And when a team moved by boat or other large vehicle, the transport included a mass casualty kit.
The RCB’s trauma kit contained all items required for emergency insertion of a breathing tube. In most cases, the Combitube would go in through the mouth. A crushed larynx meant it had to go in through a slit in the trachea. Charley had seen the procedure performed in training films. Also in a number of TV episodes and movies. Never in real life. On an open deck. Surrounded by hunks of dead reptile.
She could have done it, though. Would have, if Halliday hadn’t taken the lead. With a swift economy of motion, he snapped on protective gloves before swabbing a scalpel and Sergeant Santos’s bruised throat with antiseptic. Jaw set, he made a vertical incision just below the Adam’s apple. A second, transverse incision cut through the tough cricothyroid membrane.
“Tube,” he said brusquely, tossing the scalpel aside.
Charley already had the cuffed, double-lumen tube out of its protective wrapping. As soon as she clamped off tube number one, Halliday inserted number two and inflated the cuff to pump air into Santos’s starved lungs.
Still on her knees, Charley quickly weighed her options. One was to reverse course and rip back up to Iquitos at the RCB’s max speed of forty-five knots. That would mean a long, spine-jarring trip for the injured sergeant. Her other option was to call for a helo and a medical evacuation.
It didn’t occur to Charley to consult with Halliday. She was in command of the boat. The responsibility for everyone aboard the riverine craft was hers, and hers alone. Decision made, she got on the comm again.
“Boats, radio Iquitos Base. Tell them Sergeant Santos has a crushed larynx. We’ve inserted a Combitube, but he requires emergency evac. Request they launch a helo ASAP.”
“Aye, aye, Chief.”
She rolled off her knees and signaled to Bear to take her place. “Help Halliday. I’ve got to take the helm and get us into position for a transfer.”
* * *
While Charley navigated the RCB back down the tributary and into the wide Amazon, Jack and the other members of his squad took turns pumping air into Santos’s lungs. The trip seemed to take forever but the Peruvian was tough. His vitals held steady, if weak, while they waited forty minutes for the evac chopper from Iquitos.
Jack had seen enough battlefield injuries to know Dawson had made the right call. The placement of the air tube was too delicate for an open-throttle race back up the river. Santos needed the at
tention of a doc, and one was on the way.
With Santos being tended to by others on the crew, Jack joined Dawson. She was standing beside the entrance to the cockpit, hips braced against the bulkhead, monitoring radio transmission to and from the inbound chopper. A few damp tendrils straggled beneath her helmet. Sweat beaded her cheeks and chin. Her narrowed eyes swept the sky ahead.
“ETA ten minutes,” she muttered, as much to herself as to Jack.
She skimmed her gaze over the Amazon, mentally preparing for the transfer. The rain-swollen river was as wide as a lake, its distant banks more gray than green in the hazy afternoon heat. Away from the dense rain forest canopy, this vast stretch of open water would allow the helo crew to lower a basket and winch Santos up. A tricky maneuver at the best of times. The storm clouds piling up made it even dicier.
“Think we’ll get him aboard the chopper before the rain breaks?” Jack asked as lightning shot out of the huge gray domes. Thunder followed a few seconds later, booming and reverberating in percussive waves.
“It’ll be close,” Charley spoke into her helmet’s headset. “What’s the reading on the river current?”
“Six point nine knots.”
“Maintain present heading and increase speed to twelve knots.”
“Aye, aye, Chief.”
Jack braced himself as the RCB kicked up speed and cut through wet-season debris. Stalks of fan-shaped palms swept past, along with uprooted trees and clumps of saw grass the size of small islands.
At one point Dawson called in a quick course adjustment to dodge the bloated carcass of a tapir. The pig-like animal was huge, probably close to six hundred pounds and five feet or more in length. It wouldn’t have dented the RCB’s reinforced hull. The dead animal might, however, have exploded on impact and sprayed everyone aboard with decaying guts. Not something Jack contemplated with any degree of enjoyment. Didn’t look as though the prospect had worried Dawson, though. She barely gave the tapir a glance as the swift current carried it by.
She had grit. Jack would give her that. She also had the self-confidence to make quick command decisions. He respected that decisiveness, felt a reluctant admiration for the woman beside him.
He didn’t like the turn his admiration took when she swatted a mosquito buzzing her cheek. Without thinking, Jack reached up to brush away the smashed bug. Her skin was streaked with sweat but dewy soft under his fingertips. So soft, his hand lingered until she jerked away.
Surprise colored her brown eyes, followed swiftly by suspicion. Jack anticipated a terse admonition to keep his hands to himself. When it didn’t come, he couldn’t help remembering her ex’s bitter ramblings.
Dammit! He hadn’t swallowed all the poison the man had spewed. Certainly not enough to believe Charley Dawson invited men to paw her. And even if those accusations had held some grains of truth, even if she had snared the attention of other men, her past was her own business.
She’d proved herself today. Knew the Amazon with all its dangers and could take swift, decisive action when required. That’s all that mattered. Or so Jack tried to convince himself.
“Mosquito,” he said coolly before flicking away the bug’s remains.
Charley started to reply, but a radio transmission from the incoming chopper preempted her.
“Snowball One, we’re three minutes to rendezvous.”
“Copy that.”
Frowning, she searched the thin slice of horizon still visible under the roiling storm clouds. Jack did the same. He was the first to spot the small black speck skimming just under the clouds.
“Chopper at two o’clock.”
“Got it.” Swiftly, she relayed a command to keep the boat as stable as possible in the swift-moving current. “Reduce speed to eight knots and maintain present heading. All deckhands stand by to assist in transfer.”
* * *
His breathing tube taped in place, Sergeant Santos was eased into the basket. Once he’d been secured, the helo crew winched him up and in through the side hatch. Then the chopper came out of its hover and banked sharply. It had barely revved to full power for the return flight to Iquitos before the towering black clouds dumped their load.
A solid wall of rain pounded down, hammering the river and everything on it. Charley had pulled on her poncho to shield her weapon and equipment belt but went below before getting totally soaked. Unfortunately, the rubberized poncho trapped the heat and humidity. She was almost as drenched with sweat wearing it as she would have been with rain without it.
They reentered the tributary and made for the target feeder channel. It was late afternoon now, with only an hour or so of light left when Charley decided to anchor for the night at the mouth of the channel. With the sophisticated systems aboard the RCB, she could have navigated the narrow waterway in total darkness and howling rain. Halliday and his team, too, could launch their assault at night. But doing so would increase the risk to friendlies. He agreed with Charley that it was better to wait until morning to probe the channel.
Once the RCB was secured to the riverbank, Halliday and his team scoured the vicinity and set up perimeter alerts. They didn’t expect visitors but neither did they want any surprises. Then they hunkered down in a loose circle, using their ponchos as tarps while they indulged in the gourmet delights of MREs.
Charley intended to join them but wanted to scrub off some of her grit and grime first. The latrine facilities aboard the RCB were small, cramped and basic, so she opted to find a private spot along the riverbank.
“I’m going a few yards upstream.”
Her men understood her desire to grab a few moments alone whenever conditions allowed. They’d worked together long enough to have established a delicate balance between crew integrity and her needs as a female in an all-male environment.
Halliday hadn’t found that balance yet. A frown settling between his brows, he started to rise. “I’ll go with you.”
“I don’t need an escort.” She waved him back down. “I’ll stay within shouting distance.”
After the anaconda encounter, she wasn’t about to take any chances. She kept her sidearm within easy reach, her knife front and center on her utility belt, and her every sense on full alert.
With the onset of dusk, rain-forest sounds took on a different pitch. The noisy macaws and parrots had pretty much folded their wings and stilled their screech. The spider and squirrel monkeys had also quieted, although the howlers still let loose with the occasional roar. Night creatures now made themselves heard. Tree frogs had started their evening warble, and a whole different chorus of insects filled the air with their buzzing and clicking.
This time of day, though, bats reigned supreme. Millions and millions of them whirred through the swiftly darkening sky, feasting on mosquitoes. They sounded like the rush of a freight train when they zoomed overhead, and their high-pitched chirping saturated the air as Charley followed the riverbank.
She didn’t go far. Not more than fifteen or twenty yards. A mound of lush ferns provided an effective screen. Just beyond the screen, the river had cut into the bank and eroded the vegetation, providing easy access to the small pool of water that eddied in the cut.
Charley used a stick to slap the pool and deliver an eviction notice to any amphibious residents. None slithered or swam away. Still, she didn’t strip off more than her body armor and long-sleeved BDU blouse. In boots, pants and T-shirt, she knelt on the spongy earth and formed a scoop with her hands.
After the torrential rain, it was a mystery why splashing this cool, clean water on her face and neck and arms felt so darned good. But it did. God, it did! Sighing with pleasure, she sluiced her upper body and soaked her T-shirt and sports bra all over again. She would have loved to release her hair from its tight twist and rinse the sweat out of it. Tomorrow, she promised herself. After the takedown. Assuming, of course, all went as planned and Halliday nailed his target.
She sat back on her heels, thinking about the tight-lipped, taciturn Jack Halliday. S
he’d spent a little over twenty-four hours with him now and he’d probably spoken just about that many words to her. He was friendlier with her crew, more open. Charley had overheard him asking Bubba Burke about his tour in Iraq. He’d even let the young gunner’s mate transfer Snowball to his palm while listening to an impromptu lesson in the life cycle of pygmy marmosets.
And Halliday had been friendly enough at the cebicheria last night with Bear and Sergeant Santos. Not so much with Charley. Aside from the brief, approving smile he’d aimed her way during the mission planning this morning and the tense moments they’d worked together to get an air tube into Sergeant Santos’s throat this afternoon, the Delta team leader had pretty much shut her out.
Then she remembered their brief contact. The brush of Halliday’s hand against her cheek. The spark ignited by that touch had surprised the heck out of her. Him, too, judging by the swift frown that followed it. The man looked as if he’d swallowed the fat, blood-engorged mosquito instead of whisking its remains off her cheek.
Charley couldn’t figure him out. Or what she sensed was his ambivalence toward her. In anyone else, she might have chalked it up to plain, old-fashioned chauvinism. But she didn’t get that vibe from Halliday. It was something else, something more subtle.
Maybe he just didn’t like tall, sweaty females.
Or redheads.
Or her.
Scowling at the mixed feelings that thought generated, Charley gathered her BDU blouse and pushed to her feet. She was about to slip her arms into the sleeves when she spotted the dark shadow a few yards away. Her heart jumped into her throat and stayed there for the few seconds it took for the shadow to resolve into the man she’d just shrugged off. He was leaning against a tree, cradling his assault rifle in his arms.
“Dammit, Halliday!”
She resisted the instinctive and ridiculously feminine urge to clutch her blouse to her soaked chest. If he got an eyeful, he got an eyeful.