by Greig Beck
The mission came rushing back—it was a night incursion into no-man’s land to get in behind enemy lines and find and destroy an ammunition store. There were eight of them, eight of the best of the best Special Forces, the Gravedigger Unit. Two of them were out at point, Gino Zimmer and Ron Jackson; both good soldiers, but that night not good enough.
On that night, there was no moon, and they had their quad night vision goggles in place, the eerie four lenses and their body armor making the Special Forces operatives look like armor-plated robots.
They walked into a patch of desert that immediately had the hair on Drake’s neck rising. But it wasn’t until Cartwright raised a clenched fist that the unit halted. The captain reached up to his quad lenses and must have flicked them from night vision to thermal.
In the next few slices of a second, the captain had yelled a single word that turned their world upside down: “Contact!” And then all hell broke loose.
They’d walked right into the center of a terrorist’s nest—spider holes all around them, and only slits showing their positions. With thermal imaging, Drake could make out the thin slice of red-warmth, telling of the bodies hidden inside under those camouflaged trapdoors.
They’d engaged—loud, bloody, and brutal. And they didn’t stop until the air was filled with a red mist, smelling of cordite and the tang of coppery blood.
They’d wiped out every single terrorist that night but lost four good men. Zimmer and Jackson were the first to buy it—the price of letting your guard down.
Yeah, without Cartwright’s sixth sense, he’d be dead. All eight of them would be dead.
Drake continued to circle the blade on the stone. He owed the big guy, and it was time to pay his dues.
*****
In a car concealed under the shade of trees and as close to the Cartwright house as she could get, Camilla Ortega held up the sound gun, with the earphones over her head. She had her eyes closed and she concentrated on the voices. In her other hand was a pen, and she made notes as she picked the valuable details from the group’s plans. Beside her, a dark-eyed man sat leaning back in his seat, looking bored.
“The meeting is breaking up,” Camilla said.
“Good; they been in there all morning, and I’m hungry.” Juan Marquina exhaled loudly and shifted, making the seat complain under his weight. He let the telescopic lens camera rest in his lap so he could wipe sweaty hands on his shirt.
Camilla glared at him. “This might be the biggest story in our newspaper’s history. In fact, I’m betting it’ll make headlines in both North and South America. So I think you can hold off on your donuts for a little while longer, yes?”
He picked up the camera again. “Yeah, because the picture guy always gets the awards.” He snorted derisively.
“Get ready. I want photographs of the mercenaries. I can use them.” She licked her lips as she lowered the sound gun and dragged the earphones off her head.
“I don’t get how we’re ever going to track these guys in the Amazon. They got mercenaries, guns, money, and all you got is a skinny expense account, and a lovable, but ever so slightly overweight, camera guy.” He grinned.
“Slightly?” She chuckled. “And you got me. But we won’t be tracking them.” She turned in her seat. “Because we’ll be invited along.” She pushed open the door.
*****
The doorbell rang, and Emma swung to Cynthia and frowned. The old woman shook her head. Everyone else simply looked back at her. Emma pointed to the weapons, and Drake and Fergus quickly gathered everything up and started to store them away.
She went to the door and pulled it open to see a 30-something, black-haired woman with eyes just as dark staring back at her with the hint of a smile on her lips. She stuck out a small brown hand.
“Ms. Emma Wilson; I’m delighted to meet you in person at last.”
Emma reached forward automatically, still confused, and the woman grabbed her hand and pumped it.
“And you are?” Emma forced the hand to stop pumping.
“Camilla Ortega, journalist for Nacional De Venezuela.”
Emma released her hand, and her gaze became flat. Immediately, she sensed danger.
“Yes?”
“Call me Camilla, please.” The woman’s smile remained fixed in place.
Emma folded her arms, waiting.
“Nice place you have here.” Camilla looked over Emma’s shoulder into the house for a few moments, and then her gaze returned, and she seemed to force a smile. “You know, Ms. Wilson, I feel I’ve known you forever. I was just doing mundane local stories at the newspaper when they brought you, just you, out of the jungle all those years ago.” Her eyes were intense as she scrutinized Emma. “But you fired up my journalistic passion. And now, after all this time, you are finally going back.” Her eyebrows just lifted a hint.
Emma shook her head slowly. “Nope.”
She became coy. “I think, we may finally solve the mystery of the missing Cartwright expedition, yes?”
Emma felt alarms going off in her head. How the hell did this woman know this? she wondered. Her jaw set, and she leaned forward.
“Listen, Ms. Ortega, I don’t know what you want or expect. But you have your facts wrong. I have nothing to offer you, and don’t intend to be talking to the media, local or otherwise.”
Camilla’s red lips remained lifted at the corners. “But you’ve given me so much already, Ms. Wilson.”
Emma’s frown deepened.
Camilla went on. “I know you’ve hired mercenaries, have a few scientists working with you.” She tapped her chin for a moment. “And now I believe you will be preparing for a little trip down to our magnificent jungle once again.”
“Piss off.” Emma went to shut the door, but Camilla’s arm shot out.
“Wait.” The woman’s eyes were gun steady. “I can be your best friend or your worst enemy, Ms. Wilson. One call from me, and you’ll never get a visa to our country, ever again.”
Emma felt her heart sink, and she shut her eyes for a moment. She had spent years trying to plan for everything, every conceivable risk, but had overlooked the most basic one—people. She steeled herself and glared back at the woman, but now Camilla looked more empathetic than triumphant.
“Hear me out. Please.” Camilla’s hand went to Emma’s arm. “I can help you. But this mystery has been part of my life almost as long as it has yours. I only wish to help you solve it. Because it will give you closure, I think.” She shrugged. “And I can help you in Venezuela; I know people.”
Emma felt torn—their plane was to fly to Caracas, but then she and her team would immediately board a private charter seaplane to transport them and their cargo to a destination she would reveal to the pilot only when she was onboard. It was costing her a fortune in under-the-table fees.
The last thing she wanted was to be hauled in by Venezuelan immigration officials and questioned. A horrifying thought of being detained, even for a few days, might mean she’d miss her slim window of opportunity—Primordia would come and go—for another goddamn ten years.
Emma felt the knot in her gut tighten. She couldn’t even afford to gamble on having her shipment confiscated or scrutinized. Her mind whirled as she tried to think.
“I can help; I promise.” Camilla’s hand was still on her arm, and it moved to her hand where she then squeezed her fingers. “I promise.”
Emma looked at the journalist—small, but robust-looking, well-dressed, but not dainty, and with an ornate silver crucifix around her neck. Did she really care if this woman wanted to risk her own life, or worse, lose it?
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“No, I know exactly what I’m asking,” Camilla responded confidently. “You’re going into the Amazon jungle. I’ve been into its interior several times on news stories. I’m fit, and I can climb, hike, swim, and shoot with the best of them. So can my cameraman.”
“Cameraman?” Emma scoffed. “Deal breaker.”
> “No, he won’t film anyone that doesn’t want to be filmed. In fact, each day and at the end of the expedition, we can review the footage and edit out anything you don’t like.” She stepped back and crossed her heart, briefly touching the silver crucifix at her throat.
Emma noticed. “Do you believe in the devil, Ms. Ortega?” she said evenly.
Camilla frowned, but her lips curled up slightly. “I believe in good and evil.”
“Hmm, I never used to believe in him. But I do now.” Emma continued to look deep into the woman’s eyes, trying to decide.
“You won’t frighten me off.” Camilla tilted her head. “So…”
Emma knew she didn’t have the time to wrestle with this now. Besides, there was something she needed the woman to do. And something that only a local with knowledge of the Amazon and its workings could do. If she wanted to come so badly, she needed to earn her way in.
Emma decided. “I need you to do something for me. Consider it a test. Or an entry fee.”
“Sure, what is it?” Camilla smiled benignly.
“To find and contact someone in the Amazon, the jungle, that I haven’t been able to. Can you do that?” Emma lifted her chin.
“Sure can; try me.” Camilla looked serious.
“I’ll give you the details—it’s important. Do it, and you’re in.”
Camilla nodded. “Consider it done.”
“Good; we leave for Caracas in ten days. Be ready.”
Camilla continued to look serious. “We will be, and thank you.”
They swapped phone numbers, and Camilla then turned and made a call. In a few moments, a car pulled up with a larger man sitting in the driving seat that had obviously been parked close by.
Emma sighed and closed the door. Now she had to break it to the team that they’d suddenly picked up a couple of extra members…who were press. She groaned.
“They’re gonna kill me.”
*****
Camilla jumped into the car and slammed the door. She turned and grinned. “We’re in.”
Juan’s mouth dropped open. “You’re good; you’re real good. So what’s the plan?”
“We leave in ten days, so we need to prepare. We join their team. We’ll be with them the entire way. Filming the entire way.”
‘They’ll let us film…everything?” Juan’s eyebrows shot up.
“I told them that they could review the footage. But I never said we’d delete anything. Just make sure you back everything up to the secondary camera drive.” She turned back to the front of the car. “We’ll be there, right there, when we all find out what happened to Mr. Ben Cartwright and his friends. And if Ms. Wilson had anything to do with their disappearance, then she may find her stay in Venezuela is a lot longer than she expected.”
CHAPTER 13
Ben woke to sunshine on his face, and he blinked a few times before even remembering where he was. The warmth of the rays had also warmed the guano in the cave, and a miasmic steam began to rise off the fishy-smelling paste.
He sat up as the small reptilian birds flew past him, in and out, gathering the morning’s fish from the ocean surface. Ben turned about and immediately spotted a few nests close by with grey, leathery-looking eggs nestled within.
He scrambled over and lifted three, tearing the oblong cases open and drinking their protein-rich contents. He wrinkled his nose at the bitter sardine taste of the first two, and then the third from a different nest turned out to be a bit further along, containing soft bones and a hint of salty blood. It didn’t matter what they tasted like; he needed the protein for his energy. Nothing was wasted anymore.
Ben wiped his mouth, and several times across his beard, and sat staring at the view while ignoring the stench of the small pterodons. It was entrancing and he moved closer to the cave mouth and then inhaled the odor of the sea—the fresh saltiness, drying weed, and warming sand. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it.
It all felt familiar, and he could have been back at home, looking out over the expanse of never-ending blue water from a pier down at a California bay. That is, except for the sight of long necks lifting, swan-like, from the water, and diving back down to be gracefully raised once again with flapping fish in their toothy mouths.
He watched them for a while longer, mesmerized by their grace and beauty. Like a pod of whales, he thought, as the group of plesiosaurs moved together, some huge, their slender, shining necks rising 20 feet from the end of large cetacean-like bodies, and others small, no more than six feet in length, obviously their calves.
Ben closed his eyes and sat for a while, letting the sun warm his upturned face. He relaxed, something he was rarely able to do in this time of tooth and claw, and let his mind drift to not if, but when, he would be back home.
What would he be doing now? he wondered. Would he be fixing up a motorbike in his garage? Would he be drinking with his buddies at one of the local bars? He inhaled, smelling stale beer, ancient cigarettes, and the press of bodies.
Or would he be out somewhere with Emma, sitting under a tree, talking, or perhaps just holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes. He groaned, feeling a wave of homesickness wash over him.
While there is life, there is hope, he reminded himself. His eyes flicked open to the sound of squawks and clicks from down along the beach. Two theropods, both only about four feet tall, walked like a pair of ostriches along the sand at the high tide line. Now and then, their necks would drop to pick something from amongst the weed to be gulped down. Probably dead fish, he guessed.
Even though they were both fairly small, he knew from experience that those triangular heads contained teeth sharper than those of a wolf. And they cut like shears. Best to avoid ones even that size.
In another few minutes, they were well out of sight. The tide was drawing out, and Ben looked down into the large, natural pool below him. It was roughly circular, hundreds of feet across, and a perfect lagoon. And by the look of it, the breakwater rocks had trapped a good deal of sea creatures in its depths.
The water was extremely clear, especially in the shallows that ran for several hundred feet, but then there seemed to be a ledge where it gradually dropped deeper and then toward the far edges closest to the ocean, it must have been over a dozen feet deep, and a type of kelp weed stopped him from seeing the bottom. Still, even in those shallows, he saw fish darting back and forth.
He grinned; they had no idea what a human was like, or whether they were even dangerous. He bet he could spear one with ease.
His mouth watered; he hadn’t eaten fish in years. Even raw fish with the ocean’s natural saltiness would make a change from berries, tubers, and even a dinosaur’s tough and gamey meat.
Ben turned to look over his shoulder, which immediately elicited some loud and serious warnings from the small pterodons sitting on their nests.
“Hey, guys, looks like I might not be able to join you for dinner tonight.”
He chuckled, lifted his spear, and looked down over the edge of the cliff. “We can do this,” he said. He noticed he spoke to himself quite a bit now. Hearing his own voice was better than not hearing any voice at all. It somehow made him remember he was a human being.
There was a ledge that would take him all the way to the horseshoe-shaped beach. He was kinda looking forward to it; even as a kid, he loved peering into rock pools and turning over stones to see what weird sea thingies lived underneath—crabs, octopus, starfish, urchins, and tiny fish with huge mouths like a mudskipper.
He pulled off the tattered remains of his boots, now held together with vines and animal hide, and began to thread his way down the cliff ledge. It only took a few minutes and in no time, he was able to leap the last few feet, feeling the sand scrunch beneath his feet as he landed. Ben made fists with his toes, smiling as he remembered the sensation from his childhood.
He turned to the water, feeling good. In fact, better than he had in years. A change of scenery is as good as a holiday, he remembered his dad used
to say. He continued to stare, thinking of the paradox he was trapped within—his father or mother wouldn’t be born for another 100 million years. Somewhere in some corner of this prehistoric world, there was a special sort of creature that would evolve into one of his progenitors.
“Better not step on it,” he said with a grin.
Ben paused at the notion—and what if I do? Will I simply cease to exist? Vanish? Will it change the entire course of human evolution and then some other species will rise to be the new rulers of the planet? It made his head hurt just thinking about the paradox.
Ben glanced quickly up and down the coast, not seeing any threats for miles heading north along the sand, and looking down south, it ended in cliffs that rose hundreds of feet. He felt pretty safe with empty beaches, cliffs at his back, and a pod of plesiosaurs more interested in fish than a weird upright, hairy creature on the shore.
He began to walk along the tide line, looking at the strange in amongst the familiar. There were bivalve and coiled shells, crab bodies, and jellyfish. But also, the front end of a creature that might have been a dolphin but had a plated boney head, large disk-like eyes, and backward-curving teeth like those of a barracuda. There were ribbed shark egg casings, starfish as big as hubcaps, and after a while, something else he noticed. It wasn’t something that was there, but something that wasn’t—there wasn’t a speck of plastic—no modern flotsam and jetsam.
He scoffed softly; the ocean was better off before we arrived, he thought. He waded into the shallows of the lagoon and saw sprats darting about over a rippling sandy bottom. He lifted his gaze to the deeper water near the rock barrier and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the still-rising sun.
The lagoon was bigger than he expected now that he was down at water level, running for hundreds of yards to the left, right, and out to the breakwater. Where the water began to deepen, he could just make out colorful weed growing like underwater trees and spiny starfish with long spiky arms hung in amongst them. Shrimp, crabs, and colored fish also moved about, and as he hoped, none paid him the slightest bit of attention—in fact, many of the fish came closer to him to investigate.