He kept the power at full throttle, and concentrated on maintaining the boat’s position in the center of the current as they negotiated the bend. There was enough light left as they turned the last curve to see the bulk of the dredger stretched out across the river ahead of them. The squad moved to prepare for docking without Banks having to prompt them, tidying away the stove, coffee, pot, and mugs and taking positions front and rear of the boat.
“Once we get to the dock, the sarge and Cally head inside and get kitted up first. Wiggo, you’ll help me and get us tied up. When the other two get back, we’ll get Giraldo here off and into a proper bed, I’ll call for evac on the laptop link, and Cally can rustle up grub and a beer for us all while we wait. Everybody clear?”
There was no dissent, and they all moved quickly once Banks got the boat around the downstream side of the dredger and lined it up against the small dock.
“Buller, you wait here,” he said as Hynd and McCally stepped out onto the docking area.
“Bugger that for a lark,” Buller said. “This is my rig, and I’ll do what I bloody well like.”
Not for the first time, Banks considered tying the man up and gagging him for the duration, but Buller had already stepped up and out of the boat, and was hurrying along behind the other two men toward the living quarters.
*
Banks spent the next few minutes helping Wiggins get the boat tied up, then preparing Giraldo to move the sick man into the dredger’s living quarters and a proper bed. Hynd and McCally were quick about getting kitted up and arrived back in their spare suits of camo gear and flak vests, rifles slung over their shoulders.
“All clear?” Banks asked.
“Just as we left it. But yon sneaky wee bugger we rescued is on the blower back home already, Cap,” McCally said. “He’s up to something.”
“Aye? Well, so am I,” Banks replied. “But first, let’s get this man inside and into a real bed. It’s the least we can do for him.”
The four of them each took a corner of the cot and, carrying it like a stretcher, got the sick man out of the boat and across the dredger deck to the main living area. The guide moaned softly, but the black veins were like tree roots through his chest and neck, pulsing darkly among the sweat. Banks had rarely seen a man more ill yet still alive.
“Hang on there, man,” he said as they gently laid Giraldo in a bed in what looked like it might be Buller’s own room. “Help will be here before you know it.”
He turned back to the squad.
“Sarge, Cally, make a quick sweep, just to make sure we’re still on our lonesome here. Then get back and we’ll get some grub and a beer inside us while I call for evac.”
“Fine fucking plan, Cap,” Wiggins replied with a smile.
*
It only took Banks a couple of minutes to get into his gear, but once dressed, and with a gun at his shoulder, he realized he was no longer an escapee fleeing a field of battle: he was a soldier again, just like that. The ritual of dressing and arming himself flicked a switch in his thinking and the events of the previous 24 hours were starting to take on a dreamlike quality, already fading from mind. He let them go—moving ahead was the priority now.
By the time he got back to the kitchen area, McCally was already working at the stove, and Hynd was in the fridge, getting out the beer.
“Nothing to report on the rig, Cap,” Hynd said. “All clear.”
He handed Banks a cold bottle of local lager that went down quick and smooth. Banks took a second, but only sipped at it; the temptation was to neck it as fast as the first, but he needed a clear head, for the next few minutes at least.
Buller was noticeable by his absence.
“Where’s the wanker?” he asked and Hynd motioned through toward the office area.
“Through there on the laptop. Still talking to somebody back home. He’s awfy excited about yon vein of gold we saw; I got that much before he shut the door on me.”
“Aye, well, the money side of things is his problem, not ours. I’ll be happy if we get him back to base without any of us strangling the bugger.”
Long minutes passed. McCally produced a steaming pot of spicy fish and vegetable stew, they all had another beer while eating, Banks made a check on Giraldo, who was still alive, but barely, and Hynd and Wiggo left for another tour of the facility, all before Buller emerged from the office. He went straight to the fridge, got himself a beer, and had a wide grin on his face when he turned back to Banks.
“I left the connection open. Your boss wants a word with you.”
Looking at the man’s smug smile, Banks knew even before he left the scullery that he wasn’t going to enjoy the next few minutes.
*
“But sir, I’ve got a dying man here,” Banks said five minutes later. “We don’t have the time, or the gear, to babysit a rich wanker who’s looking to get richer. It’s not worth the risk.”
The video connection wasn’t great, what with the colonel’s face often wavering in and out of a badly pixilated screen, but his orders came through clear enough on the audio.
“The word’s come down from on high, lad,” his commanding officer said. “They’ve called in some favors and we’ve got a pair of tooled-up local Brazilian Air Force choppers coming in to your position. E.T.A. four hours. One will get your sick man off and away to hospital, the other is for you. You’re to use it to do what Buller tells you. The job is to secure the gold seam you found for Queen and Country and rich bastards everywhere. So you’ll make sure it’s secured. You have your orders. I’ll expect a report when the job’s done. Is that clear?”
Banks had already tried explaining the situation, twice now, but the colonel wasn’t showing any sign of wavering, and Banks knew better than to push too hard, for his superior’s temper was legendary. But he had to make one last try.
“I’ve told you, it’s risky. This is another weird one, Colonel,” he said. “There’s some big bloody snakes up on yon hill.”
“And you’ve got big bloody guns, and more firepower coming. Do your damned job, Captain, or I’ll find somebody who will.”
*
Hynd took one look at Banks’ face when he returned to the kitchen and, without speaking, handed him another beer and a cigarette. Banks finished both, pointedly ignoring Buller, before telling the squad of the orders he’d got from the colonel.
“And you told him about the weird shite?” Hynd asked.
“Aye. All of it. But the gold trumps all of that. Your man here talked to his daddy, his daddy talked to a politician, the politician poked the colonel, and now we get to do babysitting duties while a bunch of other fuckers get rich.”
“Same as it ever was. This wanker’s really got that kind of clout?” Wiggins said.
“This wanker really has,” Buller replied, and smirked again. “So get used to it. You’re working for me for the duration. You’re all drinking my beer anyway; this only makes it official.”
Wiggins spoke to Banks.
“Can I no’ give him a wee slap, Cap? Enough to shut him up for a while?”
“You’d have to get in the queue for that one, Wiggo,” Banks replied. “But orders is orders, so we’re going up shit creek again, as soon as the choppers get here and we get Giraldo to a doctor.”
Buller looked up and smirked again.
“Four hours? He’s got half that, at the most.”
“You’d better hope you’re wrong,” Banks replied. “Because if the man dies before the doctor gets here, I’ll let Wiggo give you that slap.”
Banks was pleased to see signs of doubt in Buller’s eyes as he turned away.
*
What he really wanted was another beer, and another smoke. He was dismayed to notice that the old habit was back as if it had never been gone. He forced the craving down for now and instead sent McCally and Wiggins out on another tour of the dredger before going to the bedroom to check on Giraldo.
Much to his surprise, the man was awake. The guide smil
ed up thinly from a face that was otherwise a mask of pain.
“I thank you for the bed, my friend,” he said. “It is easier on my old bones than the cot.”
“Don’t speak. There’s a chopper on its way. Hold on.”
The guide smiled again, a great sadness in his eyes.
“I always wished to ride in one of those. But I am afraid it might be the last journey I ever take, and I might be too dead to appreciate it.”
He reached out and a sweat-laden, burning-hot hand gripped Banks at the left wrist.
“I can feel the snake, my friend. It slithers and creeps through me, looking for its way out of the dark. Promise me you will do the right thing, if it gets out? I have spent enough time on this river as a man; I do not wish to live in it as a snake.”
“That’s the venom talking,” Banks said. “Fight it.”
Giraldo coughed, thick black phlegm oozing at his lips.
“We both know better, my friend,” he said. “I see it in your eyes, in your heart. Promise me. One last favor for a dying man. Actually, I ask for two. Find my boy. Tell him I died thinking of him.”
Banks didn’t bother with any platitudes. He knew a dying man when he saw one; he’d seen far too many not to know. Instead, he patted his rifle, then gripped the guide’s hot hand in his own.
“You have my word, my friend, on both matters.”
*
The squad spent the next hours on patrols sweeping the perimeter, keeping an eye on Giraldo, and smoking an endless succession of cigarettes over a similarly endless flow of coffee in the kitchen and mess area. Banks kept the squad off the beer. Buller, after taunting them with a cold one, went quiet when Wiggins pointed his weapon at the man’s chest.
“Do that again, lad. Go on, I dare you. You might be rich, and about to get richer, but a bullet doesn’t give a fuck about your money.”
After that, the company man sat in silence, and after a time fell into a restless sleep upright in his chair, still cradling a beer in his arms. Banks started to hope that they would see out the time until the chopper’s arrived in peace, but all such hope was dashed when Wiggins and McCally left to do a sweep. It was less than a minute later when he heard Wiggins shout out.
“Heads up, lads. We’ve got incoming.”
- 15 -
Gunfire echoed around the facility seconds after the shout. Buller woke with a start, spilling beer down his front. He jerked as if hit as another volley of shots rang out.
“Lock yourself in your office,” Banks said sharply. “And don’t come out until I say it’s safe.”
The company man scuttled away. Banks and Hynd left him to it and headed out toward the source of the shots. Wiggins and McCally stood on the open decking that stretched toward where they had docked the boat. They fired into a slithering, squirming mass of giant snakes that teemed over the vessel, tearing it apart in splintering cracks and flying pieces of wood.
McCally and Wiggins’ efforts didn’t seem to be slowing the attack down although their shots raised wounds that gushed black and thick in the dark, and the air filled with the same acrid oil and vinegar oil that was all too recognizable.
By the time Banks and Hynd joined the other two men, there was little left of the boat but floating debris. The shooting had at least accomplished something. Two dead snakes floated away downstream with the wreckage. Banks and Hynd had enough time to push their earplugs in, in anticipation of the firefight to come. The remainder of the snakes came out of the water, a score or more of them, as one headed straight for the squad.
*
“Get those mother fucking snakes off my mother fucking deck!” Wiggins shouted.
They all fired at once, three quick rounds per man, picking out the closest of the attackers and pumping enough holes in it to slow it down. It opened a mouth that looked like a cave, two six-inch long fangs catching and reflecting the light from the living quarters at their back. Banks put two bullets down the thing’s throat and it fell in a heap. It oozed more of the black viscous fluid, and the sour tang in the air got stronger. Two more of the creatures slid forward to take the dead one’s place, each of them at least 15 feet long and like the ones Banks had seen at the pyramid, as thick as a man’s thigh at the widest point.
“Head shots only, lads,” Banks shouted. “Don’t waste ammo.”
The two approaching snakes went down quickly enough with clean shots, but the others behind weren’t in the mood to come in singles or pairs, and surged forward, a dozen or more all coming on fast at once. Banks put three bullets down the yawning throat of another, then had to take a step back to avoid a searching, slithering purple tongue as one of the beasts reached almost to his feet.
“Back up, lads, double time,” he shouted. “Back to the door. Let’s get them in a funnel.”
He held position as long as he could to let the others retreat, pumping three-shot bursts as fast as he dared, having to dance and jump to avoid striking heads and fangs. The noise almost deafened him, and the stench of acid and oil tickled at his throat, threatening to bring on a gag reflex.
He’d kept count well enough to know when his mag was about to run empty and, not waiting to see if the squad had made the doorway, emptied his weapon into the head of the nearest snake, and turned for the door.
The squad was, as he’d guessed, ready and waiting. They covered his retreat, firing to either side of him and parting to let him through behind them to give him time to reload.
The four stood inside the doorway of the living quarters, allowing the snakes to come forward, then stepped back as a unit, four paces into the hallway, so that the snakes would have to bunch up tight to come toward them.
After that, it was little more than a shooting gallery.
There didn’t seem to be enough intelligence in the creatures for them to form a coherent strategy. They kept coming on, even as the squad blew heads and tongues and fangs to globs of flesh and dripping goop. The stink was even stronger now, causing Banks’ eyes to water and making his head swim as if he’d taken too much liquor. The enclosed space was concentrating the effect.
“Back up again, lads,” he shouted. “To the kitchen doorway and cleaner air.”
There were only four snakes left by the time they reached the doorway and they immediately felt the benefit of cleaner air. Two went down quickly, blasted to dripping gore. A third proved tougher to handle, and slid out a tongue that grabbed McCally by the leg and coiled tight like the grip of an octopus tentacle, trying to tug the man off his feet. Wiggins stepped to one side, put the barrel of his weapon against the thing’s right eye, and fired three times. The snake went down, but McCally had to take some time to untangle himself from the still-coiled tongue around his calf. With two men momentarily out of the action, the last of the snakes, the biggest specimen they’d seen, made a lunge forward. It was so long that its tail was still outside the main door even as it came into the kitchen. Its head was almost as wide as the doorway itself, two red eyes fixed straight at Banks as it reared to strike.
The snake’s mouth opened, and Banks tasted hot vinegar and oil again as he raised his weapon. At the same moment, Hynd stepped under the rearing head, put his rifle under its jaw, and fired. Banks put a shot into each eye for good measure but the thing was dead already as it fell to join the others in the carnage on the floor.
*
Banks’ ears rang for long seconds after the firing, but he made out Wiggins’ shout clear enough.
“Is that all of these buggers?”
“Go and check. Take Cally and have a keek out the main door,” he shouted back. “Shout if there’s any more of the fuckers. And don’t do anything stupid.”
“You know me, Cap,”
“Aye. That’s the problem, Wiggo.”
McCally and Wiggins left, stepping gingerly over the oozing bodies.
“Sarge, tell the wanker he can come out now. I’ll go check on Giraldo.”
Banks headed for the bedroom. As he reached the open door
and stepped inside, he heard Wiggins shout from out in the corridor.
“Cap? You have to see this shite.”
But Banks couldn’t reply. His breath had caught in his throat at the sight of the thing on the bed where he’d left the guide.
It lay in a thick coil in the center on top of the sheets, a snake almost as big as the largest one they’d seen so far. A wide, flat head turned so that it looked straight at Banks.
It had Giraldo’s eyes.
*
The head dipped and rose again, and a thick purple tongue slid wetly between the fangs that were starting to emerge from bloody gums. It made a rasping noise, deep in its throat, then repeated the sound, this time with its mouth open wider and the forked tongue moving rapidly. He realized it was trying to speak, and he finally recognized the single word being formed.
Promise.
He stepped forward, weapon raised.
“Aye, I did, man. I’m so sorry.”
He put the weapon to the middle of the wide head, between the eyes. Giraldo, what little bit was left of him, looked up, and pressed his head tight against the barrel. Banks nodded, and fired twice.
He had already turned away as the coiled body slithered from the bed onto the floor and lay still.
- 16 -
He met Hynd and Buller standing in the kitchen doorway. They stood looking down at a body at their feet. When Banks had gone into the bedroom, there had been a huge dead snake there. Now there was a naked dead man, one with the back of his head blown out and blood, still wet, running red around the body.
Operation Amazon Page 8