by Andy Lucas
Money being no object, Pace demanded he be allowed to pay any costs incurred. It felt strangely uplifting to hear his big brother’s voice telling him he was proud of him.
He said it back; a moment of light flaring up against darkest sorrow.
He had been informed, by the coroner, that Amanda’s body was going to be stored until the completion of the police investigation. It was suggested she might be released for burial within a month, maybe two, but there were no guarantees. It felt stupid, even as he thought of her lying in the chilling, final darkness of a mortuary drawer, but he couldn’t bear the thought of her being so cold. He found himself stupidly wishing she had a warm blanket.
Race Amazon was scheduled to kick off at six o’clock the next morning, with the three teams starting at two hourly intervals. The staging area, bedecked with bunting and lights, was surrounded with seating especially installed to house the two hundred dignitaries and world figures expected to turn up. After a light meal, all the competitors turned in but they all ended up finding their way back to the saloon in dribs and drabs sometime before midnight, unable to sleep.
By the time the old, brass-trimmed saloon clock read three o’clock in the morning, there was no hope of sleep visiting any of them and a light breakfast of fresh fruit, almond croissants and coffee was served. At about the same time news came through that the last flight in, carrying important spectators, had touched down, so everyone would be there for the start, gathering as they had been instructed for five thirty a.m.
Pace sensed some mild excitement but was numb to anything more as he concentrated his mind on the briefing, which was given within each team by the respective team leaders. Ruby was their boss and did the honours.
The first stage was the running section but it actually entailed a split section. An initial ten-mile run would lead the teams to the staging area proper, allowing them a nice warm-up and the press to shoot some film along a well maintained stretch of the road. It was also about allowing the public, locals mainly, to line a decent length of the start route to cheer the teams on.
After ten miles, the running would stop for a time as each team boarded trucks to drive about seventy miles into the rainforest. Each team would then be dumped out and their clock would start ticking again.
From thereon in, a one hundred-mile section of road had to be conquered on foot in the fastest time possible. If a team successfully completed the miles, and a set challenge, they would move on to the second stage. This stage was a two hundred mile mountain bike slog, ending at the final leg; a rapid river dash by small hovercraft all the way back to Manaus.
It would be a major physical challenge, conducted over several days, designed to push every competitor to their limits, and beyond. The real problem wasn’t even the poor state of the highway away from the city, but the weather they would encounter.
Heat, humidity, heavy rain, insects and damp nights all had to be overcome. There would be one set-piece challenge for each stage of the race and failure on any one meant the end for a team. Only a successful outcome would allow progression to the next leg. Video diaries would document the race, warts and all.
Tim Bailey, with Team One under his watchful eye, grinned infectiously with excitement and his smile was mirrored by the rest of his team. Miguel, his number two, Pace knew in passing but the three others only by name. The doctor, a young Scotsman with fair hair in a long ponytail was called Dungannen. The camera operator was a solid, dark-skinned Italian called Vinzenzo Costoza and the final member was a rather muscular, athletic female Korean called Chi-Lu. The latter was already well established on the international scene for her effective campaigning at home against cruelty to animals, especially in stamping out the practice of eating dogs.
Team Three had the inimitable Kate at the helm, supported by Anna and three others; Pace knew even less about those people except that they were all male and that one had been, until recently, an Argentinean champion wrestler. There was a slim Russian; ex-Olympic swimmer apparently, and finally a white man-mountain complete with bushy black beard who stood nearly as tall as Cosmos. Their names escaped him.
Anyone, it seemed, vaguely connected with the race gathered for the start of Team One’s journey, even the ship’s crew. All of the competitors were there as Pace set up his own broadcast camera on a hastily borrowed tripod to shoot some footage of the excited runners shifting from foot to foot at the starting tape like anxious gazelles sensing a lion’s approach. Beaming local officials swelled with pride at the sight of so many television cameras and radio booths set up along the water’s edge, and happily gave interviews despite the early hour.
About three minutes of film later, Pace paused long enough to wish all five of them luck before returning behind his eyepiece. In the harsh brilliance thrown by so many television lights, he filmed the countdown draw to an end and the five smiling runners head off up the road at the request of a single shot from a starting gun.
‘Are you going to be ready in time?’ asked Cosmos, appearing at his shoulder. ‘I could help you with your gear if you’d like.’
‘No thanks, I’m fine,’ Pace grunted, manhandling the big camera into its protective compartment in the base of his backpack, ‘but I appreciate the offer.’
‘Any time,’ the giant shot back, turning and quickly disappearing amongst the throng of people all around him.
After securing the broadcast camera, Pace gave a quick thought to what lay immediately ahead. Each team had its own particular idea as to the right mix of speed and rest that was needed. The initial going should be swift and easy for experienced athletes but managing the rest times effectively would be crucial to get the best out of everyone.
As the last runner disappeared into the ethereal light of an opaque dawn with a jaunty wave, a brief silence fell on the crowd. This was followed by a frenzy of activity as the hordes began to disperse, most to buses that would take them back to their respective hotels, all to return two hours later. The many newscasters and directors scuttled gratefully to the air-conditioned comfort of their broadcast vans to check pictures and sound quality.
Outside, in the fast stifling humidity, technicians battled to ensure satellite links were maintained and timetables for connection to news bulletins were being kept. All of this activity was overseen by the largest police presence ever assembled in the city’s history. One hundred and thirty regular officers kept a dutiful eye on the proceedings but kept their distance. They were bolstered by plain-clothed officers, military police and McEntire’s own security team.
The next two hours quickly ticked down to minutes, bringing with them tangible daylight. A sense of anticipation was tempered by having no choice but to participate in the final equipment check. His backpack felt well balanced and the straps were softly padded against his shoulders as he humped it on. Attia checked it for him and Pace did the same for him in return.
All of them wore the same clothing; a loose-fitting, single piece white running suit sporting a crotch to neck zip fastening at the front and reflective orange stripes on collar and cuffs. Their backpacks were bright orange anyway and each had a large reflective triangle stitched onto the lower part so they would all be visible to each other, even in poor light.
Pace carried the transmitter, cameras, a dozen batteries and bike spares, as well as food and water in his backpack. Crammed in a side pocket of everyone’s pack was a thin waterproof cover. They were bright yellow and reflective also, worn like a poncho but with a hood. They had been designed to allow for a backpack to be kept on and, when worn, the poncho tended to fall to about knee height (Cosmos’ rode above his knees). On their feet they all wore special running boots which were supposed to be waterproof but would allow the socks and feet to breathe.
Suddenly it was time to go. With the big camera packed away, he held a tiny camcorder; a new digital model called the MicroCam in one hand. This was the camera he would use to film while moving. The broadcast camera would only be used for filming interviews,
while they camped or when he needed to grab some quality footage in really low light.
The dignitaries were back and his ears registered the cheering. He caught an arm rising up out of the corner of his eye and swallowed quickly. The arm ended at a hand, the hand held the starting pistol. A high crack split the warm, sticky air and they were off.
The road was wide and in good condition. Lining it were crowds of locals, together with positioned cameras set at mile intervals, surrounded as well by tourists and visitors caught up in the event. A real party atmosphere cheered them along and willed them to succeed. Despite the heat and the weight of his pack, his legs pumped away smoothly beneath him and he found himself settling to an easy rhythm by the time they hit the five-mile marker; at times he even managed a smile and wave to the crowds.
Pace remained settled to his task but was soaked with sweat as the last foot of the tenth mile disappeared beneath his feet. The crowds had thinned out at about the eight-mile stage and there were no more than a couple of dozen waiting at the finishing line. A single military truck, completely open-backed, awaited them and they were hurried aboard by a couple of race officials.
There was no ceremony to hold them up and they even managed some idle conversation during the two-hour drive deep into the rainforest. After they were deposited by the side of a highway that was now broken and cracked in many places, it began to rain. It fell fairly heavily as they assembled next to the section marker; a plain red signpost attended by a couple of stern-faced race officials who marked them in.
They barely had time to don their bright yellow ponchos and pull the little hoods up over their heads before the rain really started hammering down. Another starter gun appeared and set them off again.
They began their race with an hour of fast jogging. Some of the others chatted over their headsets but Pace concentrated on keeping moving, breathing deeply, while all around him the rain poured down from a thin strip of dark, gloomy sky roofing the narrow artery that wormed through the green heart of a forbidding, slumbering giant.
As they reached the end of the hour, he spoke into his mouthpiece for the first time, notifying the others. They dropped the speed slowly, easing down the biological gears to a fast walking pace. The plan was a simple one.
Rest periods would be at three hourly intervals. In between each they planned to move on a sliding rise and fall of effort. From rest they would walk at normal pace for thirty minutes before accelerating to a fast walk for the next thirty. They would then step up to a fast jog for an hour before reversing the process; ending the three-hour period with a final thirty minutes of normal walking leading into the next rest window. This had seemed the best way to keep moving, without killing themselves from heat exhaustion, as conditions deteriorate.
Conversation was light as they moved and Pace managed to grab several minutes of useful footage with the MicroCam. It was all general atmosphere stuff; of towering, brooding walls of jungle pressing in on them from each side of the road and of the constant, heavy rain that dulled the sunlight and added a sense of eerie isolation to the view. He was quite pleased to be able to concentrate on something other than his own growing weariness and looking through a lens did it for him. He knew most of it wouldn't be any good because of erratic hand movements, which were unavoidable with a hand camera, but there was bound to be the odd segment that could be used.
‘How are you doing, James?’ asked Hammond, having taken position by his left shoulder. The road was wide and they eased to a walk, five abreast. Pace wondered if any of the others were as pleased as he was to be slowing down.
‘Hanging in there,’ he replied breezily. ‘Nobody said it would be easy. I’m okay.’
‘I knew you would be,’ he laughed, slightly breathlessly.
‘There’s confidence for you.’
‘I only know what I know,’ smiled Hammond. He liked the man more each day and this only added to the guilt. Hammond knew why they were really here, and he had a fair idea of what could go wrong. Because of him, and McEntire, the man he was now talking to might very soon end up dead.
The heat had risen intolerably as the morning wore on but was made bearable by rain that fell to earth in curtains. As they walked, the constant drumming of the raindrops on the top of their poncho hoods became a familiar background sound. They finally ground to a halt a mile further up the highway where the silent isolation was only broken by the splashing of the rain.
They all stood on the hard, soaked centre, catching their respective breaths. Then, just when Pace would have expected the rain to ease up, it began to hammer down more viciously than he could ever have imagined, accompanied by sudden crashes of thunder that came out of nowhere to shake the massive trees all around, lightning scorching across the narrow strip of grey sky above. There was nothing to be done as the storm attacked except to stop the clock and set up the survival shelter, quickly produced from Hammond’s backpack.
A marvel of design, it was manufactured along similar lines to the explosively impressive emergency life rafts carried by ships. Unlike these, it didn’t burst open in an instant to be tossed onto a stormy sea however. Instead, Hammond attached a small bottle of compressed air into a nipple in the base of the neatly folded, clear plastic package barely larger than a box of breakfast cereal. He twisted the cylinder head and slowly, sedately almost, the little shelter rose up from the road until it hardened into the shape of a small igloo.
Completely rigid within two minutes, with Pace snatching the chance to shoot some film of them using it for the first time, it was secured to the ground only by the weight of the people that hurriedly crammed inside. The lip of the vertical entrance flap sat about two inches off the floor and the flap itself was tight enough to require a reasonable struggle to get through, sealing itself after each of them forced their way inside, leaving their packs and ponchos outside in the rain.
The shelter had been designed by a survival firm especially for the race. Each team had one; the design provisionally called Lester (Life Enhance and Support Shelter). The walls were thin and required only a small squirt of compressed air to fill them completely. The material looked to him like ordinary plastic but apparently it possessed engineered qualities of strength and heat retention.
The designers hadn’t given them much in the way of space and it was a tight squeeze for five people. In fact, Pace was sure Cosmos’s frame filled the small shelter on its own. But it was dry and the inflated walls proved to be good at insulating them from the noise of the rain. The silence was deafening.
They hardly needed communicators in there, so he pushed the mouthpiece down past his chin so that the sound of his voice didn’t activate it. The others followed his lead and then came the looks, the wide-eyed sensation of achievement and the easy smiles.
‘Twenty-four minutes left of the rest period,’ he told them quickly. ‘Two minutes to deflate Lester and one minute to get going again. That leaves twenty-one minutes to talk, rest and moan.’ He eyed his companions speculatively. ‘So, who wants to go first?’
There was no sense pulling out the large camera from his pack, despite the manufacturer’s claim that it was totally waterproof. It wasn’t worth the risk and there wasn’t the space. He carried on with the MicroCam, panning around to get a few introductory shots before recording some snippets of conversation, laughter and pictures of rain and sweat dripping off smiling faces.
The light was poor, dulled further by the opaque skin of the shelter, so Pace used a pocket torch held high in his other hand to lift the shots. Sound was recorded with the pictures via the camera’s own microphone, which was amazingly good. For a small camera, the technology was advanced enough that the tiny microphone could pick up a voice at twenty feet. He didn’t try for any interviews. All he needed was a flavour of their first stop.
Conversation was broken by long periods of shuffling clothing and silent grins. Somewhere up ahead, Team One was pushing on through the rain and behind them, Team Three would be aboard their truc
k and hot on their heels. Bottles of sport soft drinks were handed out and gratefully drained, followed by half a litre of pure water each. Food was a quick munch on some high-energy biscuits but nobody was particularly hungry. He didn’t even try one, he just drank and filmed.
The transmitter, sitting outside in its protective box at the bottom of his backpack, had all necessary leads poking out through specially cut holes in the pack. In theory Pace would never need to get it out. He had to stick his head back out into the rain to make a call, switching the set from internal team communications to external signal and talking through his headset.
The signal was clean and Doyle McEntire himself came on the other end, having finally arrived from Australia. He confirmed that Team One had just checked in for a second time and were making good progress. Team Three weren’t expected to make contact for some time to come but had set off without a hitch. The questions, once edited, would be fed slowly to the media contingent back in Manaus, tantalisingly building the biggest effect possible to promote best coverage but that was all part of the game. McEntire wished him luck and signed off.
With spirits high they slipped on their backpacks and covered up again with ponchos. They deflated Lester and started off up the wide road again. Pace was strong enough to move without any twinges but halfway through the next running phase it was a different story. The rain still fell from the sky, although a little easier than before by then. In the last hour and a half there’d been no sign at all that the clouds would lift.
‘They don’t call it a rain forest for nothing,’ he grumbled over the airwaves, to nobody in particular.
‘You can say that again,’ chipped in Ruby.
‘Oh, happy days,’ agreed Cosmos. Despite their words, all three still wore easy smiles.
The late afternoon light practically dissolved beneath the relentless drudgery of his first tropical downpour and, as he snatched shots here and there, he was grateful for the camcorder’s total waterproofing. The thunderstorm finally abated and at least they didn’t have to worry about being struck by lightning any longer. When he thought the water must surely stop falling soon, it did something he could never have dreamed if he’d not been there to see for it himself. Despite having been pouring for five hours solidly, despite the storm passing by, the rain actually grew heavier.