by Mark Alpert
It was nothing, though, compared with the anger he’d felt last night as he stood in the pine woods south of Haven’s fence. He knew he’d been tricked as soon as the ground rumbled under his feet. He’d underestimated his mother’s survival instincts. The bitch had devised an escape from Haven before obliterating the cavern and burying half of his Riflemen. Sullivan ordered his remaining men to search for a tunnel, a hidden exit they’d somehow missed in their earlier reconnaissance of the area. Then, on a hunch, he raced to the Rudyard Trucking warehouse. It was ten miles west of Haven, much farther than he’d thought a tunnel could reach, but when he arrived he saw right away that a mass exodus had taken place. Although the warehouse was empty, its floor was spotted with debris. There were also signs of bloodshed. A couple of fresh red stains had soaked into the concrete.
Soon afterward, the Riflemen caught up to the last truck heading for the Canadian border. The attack eased Sullivan’s anger for a few minutes as the truck burned beneath the highway overpass and his men extracted a few morsels of information from the dying guardsmen. But then he discovered that one of the corpses in the truck was Old Sam. Worse, he’d been shot in the head before the attack had even started. The bitches had eliminated Sullivan’s last, best spy. Now he had no one to tell him what the Elders were doing or where they’d gone.
He clenched his teeth and stared hard at Lake Superior, trying to dissolve the blurry mist in his eyes. On the other side of the lake, beyond the horizon, was the Canadian province of Ontario. That’s where most of the Furies were hiding, scattered and out of reach. But all was not lost. Although Sullivan couldn’t locate the Elders at the moment, he had a good idea where they were headed. Thanks to his deceased spy, he knew a great deal about their relocation plans.
Nine months ago Old Sam had informed him of an unusual conversation he’d overheard in the council chambers. Elizabeth had assigned Hal and Richard to travel to the Caquetá region in southern Colombia. They were going to investigate a sealed cavern that some long-dead Ranger had discovered in the 1920s. Old Sam learned the geographic coordinates of the site and relayed them to Sullivan, who sent two of his own men to the area. After a few weeks they radioed a message confirming his suspicions: the cavern was Elizabeth’s first choice for a new refuge if the Furies were forced to leave Haven. Sullivan then gave his men a new assignment. Using some of the gold the Riflemen had taken from Haven’s vaults, they made a deal with the FARC guerillas who controlled Caquetá.
His vision suddenly cleared. He could see the waves on the lake’s surface and a green buoy at the edge of the bay and a long black freighter far in the distance. And now he knew what he had to do. It was time to get in touch with Comandante Reyes.
TWENTY-EIGHT
It was a long, dull flight. Even though John sat next to Ariel for nearly seven hours, they hardly talked. She was too damn busy.
For the first two hours after the Gulfstream took off, she inspected the contents of the duffel bags Elizabeth had given her. There were fifteen bags in all, stacked in the back of the jet’s cabin, behind the five passenger seats. First, Ariel examined the bag holding their carbines and ammunition. Then she inventoried the food rations, clothing, and miscellaneous supplies in the other bags. Then she returned to her seat and spent the next three hours reviewing the details of the mission and poring over the maps and photographs. John looked over her shoulder for a while, then got bored and stared out the window at the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea. Finally, just when he thought she’d finished preparing herself, Ariel clasped her seat’s armrests, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. At first he assumed she was taking a nap, but her back was too straight and her face too composed. She appeared to be meditating.
Having nothing better to do, John studied the other passengers. The guardsman named Horace sat in the middle of the cabin, facing John and Ariel in the rear seats. He was close enough that he and John could have had a conversation, but the man had fallen asleep soon after the flight started. His head tilted to the right and his mouth hung open. John counted seven places on his chin and jaw where he’d cut himself while shaving off his Amish beard. Across the aisle from Horace was another sleeping guardsman, this one named Peter. Both men were big and muscular, but they also seemed a little sluggish and stupid. John would much rather have Ariel at his side in a firefight.
Seated at the front of the cabin, across from the Gulfstream’s door, was Elder Margaret Fury. She spent most of the flight leaning forward in her seat, sticking her head into the cockpit so she could talk with the pilot and copilot. They were Margaret’s daughters, John had realized right away. Both were short and chubby and had enormous bosoms. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was a lively conversation, full of jokes and laughter. This surprised him. Margaret had seemed so mean-spirited every time he’d seen her before.
After another hour John looked out the window again and viewed the continent of South America. They flew over the rugged, snow-capped Andes and the forested foothills on the eastern side of the mountain range. Then the landscape flattened out to a patchwork of farms. As they continued flying southeast the farms grew smaller and scarcer, and then they disappeared altogether and there was nothing below but undisturbed jungle. Several black rivers threaded across the vast green carpet but no towns or highways or railroad tracks were in sight. John was awed and disconcerted. If they fell into that expanse of rain forest, no one would be the wiser.
Then he felt a tap on his arm. Ariel had finished meditating. She nudged him aside and leaned over his seat so she could look out the window, too. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess. If you like the color green.”
“I came here for the first time two hundred years ago, when the people were fighting for independence from Spain. I had some experience with revolutions in North America, so I thought I could help the South Americans, too.” She pointed at the jungle below. “The amazing thing is that it hasn’t changed. Most of the rain forest still looks the same. That’s why I love coming back here.”
The sun was descending, and so was the Gulfstream. As they drew nearer to the ground John started to see variations in the landscape, veins of lighter green feeding into the rivers. On closer inspection, the rivers themselves looked like frayed rope, with dozens of thin black strands twisting through the jungle on both sides of the main channel. The black floodwaters flowed everywhere, coursing below the foliage and between the tree trunks, sluicing across the whole region.
The jet flew through a thundercloud and hit a knot of turbulence. John’s stomach flip-flopped as the plane rocked up and down. Margaret said something he couldn’t hear, and her daughters laughed. Ariel glanced at them, then turned back to John. “Have you noticed the change in Aunt Margaret? She seems happier now, doesn’t she?”
“As a matter of fact, I did notice. She hasn’t given me the evil eye all day.”
“She’s always happy when she’s with Gwen and Veronica.” Ariel glanced at them again. Her face had a wistful look. “I don’t particularly like Margaret, but she’s a good mother. Some women are better suited for the role than others.”
John guessed that Ariel was thinking of her own mother. He’d just recognized another disadvantage of eternal youth: If neither you nor your relatives age, you’re stuck with them forever, for better or worse.
“I bet you’d be a good mother, too,” John said. “Even better than Margaret.”
Ariel shook her head. “I was a mother once. For almost three years. But it was so long ago, I don’t even remember whether I was good or bad at it.”
“You’d be good at it now. You’re older and wiser.”
That made her smile. Ariel rested her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. She kept it there as they looked out the window at the rain forest.
The Gulfstream was quite low now, only a few thousand feet above the jungle. Through scattered gaps in the green canopy John could see the white trunks of the tropical trees rising from the
black water. Several miles ahead he saw a patch of higher, drier ground, a rough rectangle of grassland surrounded by the rain forest. And in the center of this patch he spied the yellow line he’d seen before in the satellite photo. It was their destination, the jungle airstrip. The runway was unpaved, just a long strip of dirt with ragged, grassy edges, but it looked golden in the twilight.
Margaret’s daughters steered the plane in a wide arc, circling the airstrip as they descended. The field had no control tower, no radar, no lights. Nothing except the dirt runway. John pointed at it. “Not much of an airport.”
Ariel nodded. “The strip was made for the drug traffickers. They collect the coca grown in the jungle and turn the leaves into cocaine. Then they load the stuff on small planes and send it north.”
“Wasn’t that tribesman supposed to meet us here? Kuikuro? I don’t see anyone on the ground.”
She leaned closer to the window and surveyed the area around the airstrip. “He and his men are probably under the trees. They’re going to stay hidden until they’re sure we’re not traffickers. The drug smugglers will shoot anyone who interferes with their operations, so the tribesmen have to be wary.”
“You’re sure they’re down there?”
“Kuikuro has been faithful to our family for decades. He wouldn’t miss this rendezvous.”
By this point Margaret had stopped joking with her daughters, so they could concentrate on the landing. The Gulfstream swooped low over the rain forest, on final approach. John looked out the window and saw several herons take flight from the treetops, startled by the roar of the jet engines. The plane seemed to be cruising just a few yards above the foliage. Then they reached the rectangle of grassland and descended to the airstrip. The jet’s landing gear bounced against the hard-packed dirt and the Gulfstream rattled like a piggy bank. John squeezed his armrests, convinced they were going to crash. But Gwen and Veronica threw the engines into reverse and managed to slow the plane. Whining and shuddering, it came to rest at the end of the runway, just short of the grass.
Margaret clapped her hands in triumph. “Excellent job, girls!” she crowed. “Your mother is well pleased!”
As soon as the jet stopped moving, Ariel jumped out of her seat and peered through the windows on both sides of the aircraft. She stared at the trees at the edge of the grassy clearing, obviously hoping to see Kuikuro emerge from the jungle. But there was still no sign of him. The sun had just set, and the airstrip was rapidly darkening.
The bumpy landing had awakened Horace and Peter, the sluggish guardsmen. Rising from their seats, they picked up their carbines and turned to Margaret, awaiting her orders. The Elder yawned and stretched her arms wide. “What are you waiting for?” she said. “Go outside and secure the perimeter.”
Ariel looked at them nervously. “Do me a favor, Auntie. Tell your daughters not to shut down the engines yet.”
Margaret frowned. “We don’t want to waste fuel. We only have—”
“Just three minutes. That’s all I ask.” Ariel quickly unzipped one of the duffel bags and removed an M4 carbine and an ammunition clip. She attached the clip to the rifle and handed it to John. Then she took another rifle out of the bag for herself and loaded it.
John hefted the rifle and switched off the safety. He hadn’t held an M4 since his long-ago stint in basic training, but the gun felt familiar in his hands. “We’re going to back up the guardsmen?”
She nodded. “It never hurts to be careful. Once you step out of the plane, lie flat on the grass and scan the jungle. The tribesmen usually go shirtless and paint their faces.”
Cradling their carbines, they followed the guardsmen to the Gulfstream’s door. When it opened, Horace and Peter dashed across the clearing, moving much faster than John had expected. Horace ran toward the trees on the left side of the clearing and Peter headed in the opposite direction. Then both men threw themselves down on the grass and aimed their rifles at the rain forest. John and Ariel did the same thing but stayed close to the plane, each lying prone under one of the wings.
“Kuikuro!” Ariel called. “Kuikuro!”
John listened carefully. The jungle thrummed with chatter from its birds and frogs and insects, but he heard no answer to Ariel’s call. A swarm of mosquitoes swiftly gathered around him, landing on his head and back and neck. It was already so dark that the rain forest looked like a black, unbroken wall around the clearing. He could just barely make out the figures of the guardsmen, Horace lying in the grass fifty yards to the plane’s left and Peter fifty yards to the right.
Then the jungle erupted with gunfire. It came from both sides of the clearing, the tracer rounds flashing in the dark and lancing across the sky. Bullets strafed the grass around Horace, who let out a scream of pain and surprise. Peter returned fire, shooting blindly into the forest, but another round of bullets silenced him. A third barrage struck the Gulfstream, thunking into the jet’s wings and fuselage. It all happened so quickly that John never got a chance to fire his gun. Ariel screamed, “Get back in the plane!” and he bolted for the Gulfstream’s door, scrambling into the cabin behind her.
As he slammed the door shut, more bullets smashed into the fuselage, shattering some of the windows. Gwen and Veronica cowered in the cockpit while Margaret crouched behind them. Their faces were identical in their terror.
“Can we take off?” Ariel shouted at them.
Gwen raised her head and looked around the cabin. “I think so. The broken windows may slow us down but—”
“Then turn the plane around and get us out of here!”
Margaret’s daughters got to work, revving the engines and turning the jet. Their mother looked up at Ariel. “The guardsmen? Are they—”
“Lost.”
Keeping her head low, Ariel moved toward the rear of the cabin and thrust the barrel of her carbine through one of the broken windows. John did the same on the other side of the plane. As the Gulfstream turned to face the opposite end of the runway, he saw figures running in front of the black wall of jungle. It was too dark to see their faces, but he noticed they wore combat fatigues and carried assault rifles. They were emerging from the rain forest and racing toward the jet.
“They’re coming!” he shouted. “Open fire!”
He aimed at the running men and pulled the carbine’s trigger. A burst of automatic fire cut across the clearing, and three of the men fell to the grass. At the same time, the Gulfstream’s engines roared to full power and the plane leaped forward, hurtling down the runway. Ariel fired her carbine too, strafing the other side of the clearing as the jet accelerated. Then she pulled away from the window and turned toward the cockpit. “The gunmen are on the airstrip! Gwen, watch—”
Bullets shattered the cockpit window and streaked into the plane. Gwen jerked backward, struck in the head. Her blood sprayed over the instrument panel and controls. Margaret screamed, but Veronica kept her cool, taking over the controls and throttling up the engines. More bullets tore into the Gulfstream’s wings, and the jet shuddered as it hit one of the gunmen on the runway. Then the plane lifted off the ground.
They barely cleared the treetops. Veronica struggled with the control column, trying to gain altitude. Margaret reached into the cockpit and pulled Gwen out of the pilot’s seat, laying her body on the floor of the cabin, but she screamed again when she saw the wounds to her daughter’s head. “Oh, Mother of Creation! Gwen, Gwen!”
Ariel dropped her rifle and rushed to the front of the cabin. “Auntie, please—”
“She’s dead!” Margaret spun around and flailed at Ariel. “She’s dead, you bitch, she’s dead, she’s dead!”
A tremendous bang shook the fuselage, drowning out Margaret’s wails. Then there was a loud beeping from the cockpit, accompanied by an oddly calm, computer-synthesized voice: Too low. Terrain. Too low. Terrain.
“One of the engines is out!” Veronica shouted. “And the other’s damaged! She won’t climb!”
John’s throat tightened as he looked o
ut the window. The Gulfstream was skimming over the dark jungle canopy, less than fifty feet above the trees. He caught a glimpse of something bright at the rear of the plane, and when he looked behind he saw that one of the jet engines was burning. The fire was the brightest thing in the rain forest. He could see its reflection in the black water below the treetops.
Ariel nudged Margaret aside and leaned into the cockpit. “Are you going to ditch?”
“Affirmative.” Veronica’s voice was high-pitched and frightened. “I’ll try to reach the river.”
The beeping alarm sounded again. Too low. Terrain. Too low. Terrain. While Margaret wept over Gwen’s corpse, Ariel ran to John and grabbed his arm, dragging him to the stack of duffel bags at the back of the cabin. “Get in there!” she shouted. “Get on top of the pile!”
“What?”
“Just follow me!” She climbed on top of the bags and wriggled down into the space between them.
John doubted this would work. He never saw a stewardess demonstrate this technique during a flight-safety presentation. But he climbed the pile anyway and squeezed into the dark niche where Ariel lay. Although he couldn’t see her so well, he could hear her breathing fast and hard. The duffel bags around them muffled all the other noises, but he could still hear the alarm and the oddly calm voice.
Too low. Terrain. Too—
TWENTY-NINE
Sullivan enjoyed the biggest surprise of his life the next morning.
He and his men were camped at another deserted Ranger airstrip, this one in western Minnesota. They’d arrived the night before and found signs of recent activity—footprints and tire tracks in the mud, a trash can full of shredded documents in the trailer beside the runway—but the Rangers had apparently abandoned the post several hours before the Riflemen got there. Sullivan was convinced that the Chief Elder had been at this airstrip, plotting against him, and he grew enraged when he realized he’d just missed her. His vision blurred again, clouding so much he could hardly see a thing. Shortly before midnight, though, he received a radio message from Comandante Reyes. The rebel commander reported that his guerillas had downed one of the Furies’ Gulfstreams, which had crashed into the rain forest near the Yarí River. The good news eased Sullivan’s rage. His eyesight cleared, and for a few hours he was able to get some sleep.