Joining Karl at the helm, Beisch shouted over the screaming outboard, “If it landed at one of the farms, we should be able to see it from the river.”
The first of the farms was twenty minutes away at full throttle. Karl knew that if the helicopter took off, they might not hear it over the engine. But getting there quickly was more important.
“Rolph, both of you be ready on the bow,” Karl ordered. “If you see the black flying machine, shoot it down.”
The two men quickly uncased their rifles and moved up onto the bow, taking a seat on either side with their rifles at the ready. Fifteen minutes later, just a mile from the first farm, the boat approached a narrow bend in the river. Karl heard the beating sound of the chopper before he saw it; before he could shout a warning, it roared around the bend, flying almost on its side before shooting past the boat. It all happened so quickly that neither man was able to get off a shot.
“Hang on!” Karl shouted, whipping the wheel toward the right bank. He then spun it the opposite way, turning the boat in a skid and throwing up a huge, arcing spray and rooster tail.
By the time the boat was turned and going downriver, the helicopter had disappeared around the next bend. Karl pushed the throttle all the way forward and gave chase.
“Get ready!” he shouted to the men up in the bow. “You might get only one shot!”
Karl angled across the river toward the point, cutting the distance to the long straight part of the river that he remembered was just around the bend. He knew the water would be shallower there, but trusted that there would be enough to keep the boat up on plane.
Turning just a few feet from the river bank, he saw the helicopter come into view. The boat was gaining on it as the two men opened fire.
Suddenly a huge crocodile surfaced just ahead and slightly to the right of the boat. Karl reacted instinctively, turning the wheel to avoid the large river predator, which could easily swamp the boat.
Just as they passed the croc, the hull made contact with one of the ever shifting sandbars, bringing the boat to a sudden stop. Karl quickly shifted into neutral and grabbed his own rifle, joining the men on the bow, who had both chambered a second round. Karl brought his rifle up, centering the scope’s cross-hairs on the helicopter’s exhaust, and all three fired in unison.
“This is my friend, Rene,” Charity said to the old man, who nodded a greeting.
“Please, come over to the shade and sit,” Vicente said. “I have been expecting you.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and started walking toward the two young men at the edge of the clearing. Charity and Rene joined him, both looking all around the clearing for any possible threat.
“You speak very good English,” Rene said.
“I spent most of my youth working on a transport ship,” Vicente said. “I speak English, Spanish, and German. I returned to my ancestral home twenty years ago, because I missed my people.”
“You said you were the buyei of the Ye’kuana?” Charity asked, reaching the tree line. “What does that mean?”
Charity noticed that a trail disappeared just beyond the two boys. Vicente pointed up it and said something to one of the boys in his native tongue. The boy dashed off and was soon out of sight.
Vicente stood by the remnants of a small fire, and spread both hands. “Please, sit.”
Rene looked at Charity and she nodded, moving to a spot near the old man. The three sat down and Vicente explained, “A buyei is what you would call a shaman or mystic. My father was buyei, as was his father before him. There are many different kinds of buyei, I am a healer and seer. My people, the Ye’kuana, are all but gone now. The name means Boat People, and for generations we lived on the rivers. Other tribes along the Manamo and Orinoco are interconnected in some way. The Ye’kuana, Warao, Pemon, Yanomami, we are all the children of Wanadi and the forest. I help the people in this area as best I can by providing medicine, advice, and spiritual healing.”
The boy returned, carrying a small satchel which he handed to Vicente. From inside, the old man produced a hand-carved wooden pipe and a smaller bag.
“We will smoke to your arrival,” he said, taking a small amount of yellowish-green powder and sprinkling it into the pipe’s bowl. “This is the yopo seed. It allows one to see outside the world.”
Leaning forward, the old man blew gently on the dead ashes in the fire pit. A tendril of smoke, then a flame, rose up from a twig. As he lifted the twig to his bowl, he sensed Charity’s reluctance.
“Do not worry. The effect of the yopo seed will wear off in less than a minute with no harm. But it will seem to be a much longer time. During that minute, you may see, hear, and smell things that do not exist in this world. You may also converse with other spirits.”
Vicente held the twig to the bowl and drew deeply. Then he waved the smoke from the bowl over his face and head and handed it to Charity. She took it and looked at the shaman questioningly.
“Fear not, Wind Dancer. It will not harm you.”
Charity put the pipe to her lips and pulled, taking a small amount of smoke into her lungs. It tasted slightly acidic, with a tinge of bitterness. When she extended the pipe back to Vicente, he waved it toward Rene and she passed it to him.
Charity watched as Rene took a small puff, mimicking the old man, by waving the smoke over his head, before handing it back. When Charity looked back at Vicente, the lines in his face faded away and his hair seemed to change to the rich black color of the boys. All around them, the air seemed to darken and grow heavy.
Out of the darkness an apparition appeared, floating among the trees. As it descended to settle beside the old man, Charity recognized her by the clothes she wore. The same soft, tissue-thin garment the ancient woman in her dream had worn. Like Vicente, she appeared much younger now, full of vitality, but though she appeared to be standing next to the seated man, she was much smaller, not even at eye level to the seated man. Like his, her dark eyes spoke of the wisdom of eternity.
“You have come to help my people,” the tiny apparition said, in a soft and soothing voice, with no discernible accent. “For that, I am very grateful. Vicente will guide you.”
Before Charity could say anything, the woman’s face seemed to disappear, as her whole body was engulfed in a hazy white smoke, drifting back up among the giant tree limbs. The air around them grew still and light. Then a few strands of hair, which had escaped Charity’s ponytail, were gently moved across her face by a light breeze.
Though Charity didn’t remember saying anything, she sensed that she’d somehow had a long conversation with Vicente and the apparition.
“The Forest Mother is pleased,” Vicente said, smiling softly. “You will recall more as time goes forward, and if you need my guidance you have only to ask.”
The old man rose then—not like a man his age would normally stand, but with the ease of youth and strength. “You must go now. The babo is approaching.”
Rene scrambled to his feet, extending a hand to Charity, which she took. “Hurry,” the shaman urged. “You have only minutes before they discover you.”
Realizing she hadn’t said a word since smoking the pipe, Charity bowed her head to the old man, the lines in his face and his silver hair having returned to normal. “Will I see you again, Buyei?”
“Yes,” he replied, smiling broadly. “But go quickly.”
Rene and Charity trotted out to the middle of the clearing and quickly boarded the helicopter.
“What the hell was that all about?” Rene asked, strapping in and staring at the old man, now standing at the mouth of the trail.
Charity ignored the question, going through the starting sequence. In seconds, the turbine fired and she brought the rotors up to speed, raising the collective. The chopper lifted up from the ground and Charity pressed slightly on the right foot peddle, turning the bird toward the river.
At a hundred feet, she pulled in more power and pushed the cyclic forward, slowly accelerating away from the
jungle clearing toward the river. Flying over what she assumed was Vicente’s home, she turned downriver and brought the helicopter down close to the water.
“She was beautiful,” Charity said. “And so tiny.”
Rene’s voice came over her headset. “Who?”
“The Forest Mother,” Charity replied, looking over at Rene as she deftly guided the chopper around the first bend in the river.
“Forest Mother? What the hell was in that pipe?”
“You smoked it, too. You didn’t see her?”
In a voice Charity recognized as a former president, Rene answered, “I didn’t inhale.”
“How long were we there?”
Rene glanced at his watch. “We were on the ground for less than fifteen minutes.”
The conversation she’d had with the shaman and the apparition began to come back to her then. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “We were on the ground much longer. It became dark and then light again.”
“The old man’s got some powerful shit,” Rene said, with a chuckle. “Are you sure you’re okay to fly?”
Charity looked inside herself, a skill she’d learned from the Bethesda shrinks after returning from Afghanistan five years ago. Her motor skills seemed as sharp as always, her head clear, and her eyesight normal. There was no headache like she’d gotten from smoking weed, trying to tamp down the nightmares. In fact, in all ways, she felt better than she had in a long time. She felt focused. She felt as sharp and on her game as she had seven years earlier, standing on a platform at the start of her best event in the 2000 Olympics.
“Yeah,” she replied, putting her aviator sunglasses on. “I can fly just fine. Hang on.”
Pushing the cyclic to the right and pulling back slightly, Charity stomped on the right pedal, whipping the Huey around a tight bend in the river. With the skids of the bird nearly skimming the branches on the left side of the river, and the rotors only feet from the water, she felt the familiar weight as g-forces increased in the sharp turn.
Just ahead, a boat raced toward them. Adrenaline began coursing through her brain as she leveled off, slowing time like a slow motion video. She instantly recognized the man at the wheel of the boat. It was the same man who had shot at her yesterday. Napier had said his name was Karl Aleksander.
Next to him was another man, dressed a little better, with an air of authority. He looked trim and handsome, with short blond hair streaming back over his head. For a fraction of a second, their eyes met. She saw evil in his bright blue eyes, and committed his features to memory.
“Vicente said the babo was approaching,” Charity said as they roared over the boat. “That’s him, next to the driver.”
Rene’s head turned quickly as the boat flashed past. “Two men in the bow, both armed.”
Charity whipped the helo around another bend and into the long straight section beyond it. She pitched the nose downward even more, accelerating to fifty knots. Pressing gently on the left peddle, she turned the Huey slightly sideways, allowing her to see behind them.
“They’re gaining!” she shouted, instinctively twisting the throttle to full power and pulling back on the cyclic.
Just as the chopper responded, Charity heard two cracking noises and Rene screamed out, “I’m hit!”
Charity quickly yanked the cyclic left and then right, climbing up over the jungle canopy on the west side of the river. She glanced over at Rene, who was leaning forward, pressing a wadded handkerchief against the top of his right shoulder.
“Are you all right?” she asked, very concerned.
“Yeah,” Rene replied. “Just a nick. What the hell are those guys shooting at us for?”
“We’re interlopers,” Charity said, remembering the words of the apparition. “Like the people of the forest, those men consider anyone not of their race to be inferior.”
Rene looked over at her. “Inferior? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Those men are descendants of World War Two Nazis.”
“And they think we’re infer…” Rene began. “Wait, you told the old man your name was Charity Styleski. Polish?”
“My great-grandfather was a Polish Jew,” Charity said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. So these guys know you’re Jewish? Don’t tell me that’s why they were shooting at us.”
“No, my grandfather was Jewish, but married a Catholic. Dad was raised a Catholic. I guess I’m agnostic, if that needs to be clarified. But I know who and what those people are. The Forest Mother told me all about the things they’ve done against the people of the forest.”
“The Forest Mother told you, huh?”
Charity considered the question a moment, knowing that it sounded crazy as hell. But part of her knew that what she’d experienced was more than just a drug-induced hallucination.
“Sounds nuts, huh? But I don’t think I was imagining what I saw and heard. Maybe some kind of out-of-body experience, I don’t know.”
“That’s your real name, then?”
“No, my grandfather dropped the last two letters from his family name when he immigrated to the States to escape the Nazis. My name is Charity Styles.”
“It suits you,” Rene said. “Are these people your target?”
“Only their leader,” Charity replied. “And maybe those three guys on the boat with him.”
Flying high over the jungle canopy, she pushed the Huey to its top speed of nearly one hundred and forty miles per hour. At that speed, the settlement was less than ten minutes downriver and the boat would probably take twice that to get there.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Charity asked. “I want to look at something, and we might be there for a few minutes.”
“Something those guys back there don’t want you to see, I bet. Sure, just don’t hang out long enough for them to catch up. I really don’t like getting shot.”
The way he said it led Charity to believe this wasn’t Rene’s first time being shot. She looked over at him and, though he was pressing the handkerchief firmly to his shoulder, he didn’t appear to be in a great deal of pain and was actively searching the jungle ahead as well as the skies around them.
As they approached the huge clearing, with its massive wall down the center, Rene let out a soft whistle. “Damn, those guys have a serious issue with keeping anything out. Is this their camp?”
Slowing the chopper to almost hovering, Charity turned and flew over the south side of the tall wooden structure, looking for anything. “Yeah, they settled here in the mid-forties. The original inhabitants were all German soldiers who deserted just before the end of the war.”
Several men could be seen in the field, none of them holding a weapon any greater than an axe. Three fires were going, and the chopper’s downwash whipped the flames to greater intensity.
“They’re clearing the underbrush,” Rene said. “Burning it.”
Two stands on top of the wall, both equidistant from each other and the two rivers were empty. Beyond the wall, a number of women and children came out of the rows of crops to look up as the chopper slowly flew over.
Charity saw all these things in an instant, dismissing everything as non-threatening—all except one man, who was pulling open a large door in the middle of the wall.
“Watch the guy going through the door,” Charity said, while examining the wall and the field where the men were working.
“He’s climbing up into one of the stands,” Rene said. “I think it’s time we get the hell outta here.”
From the corner of her eye, Charity could see the man reaching the platform. She pulled in maximum power again, pushing the cyclic forward and far to the right. The chopper banked sharply, flying low over the lookout stand and accelerating. Flashing over the crops in the adjacent field, Charity pitched the bird over on its other side, pulling back on the cyclic and then to the right, banking that way in a zig-zag maneuver.
Once over the main part of the settlement, she
leveled off, keeping the nose low to gain speed. In just a few seconds, the Huey flew low over the pier at the tip of the island, where the two branches of the Manamo rejoined. In another second, they rose over the jungle canopy again, flying full speed toward Trinidad.
Instead of flying to the airport, Charity flew along the east coast of the island, then up into the mountains, landing at Napier’s house. She didn’t want to risk anyone noticing Rene’s bloody shirt, or the bullet holes in the chopper, and asking questions.
As the rotors slowed, Charity unbuckled her harness and went aft. “Come back here; I have a first aid kit.”
She slid both doors open to let the breeze in, and instructed Rene to sit on the deck at one of the doors. “Take off your shirt,” she told him, as the one-eyed giant and a very small island woman came out of the hangar. The woman was wearing only cut-off jeans, and didn’t appear to be modest about it at all. Both of them walked straight toward the chopper.
“What are you doing here?” Napier asked.
His tone and sheer size caused Rene to pull the Kimber from his pocket and point it at the giant. Both Napier and the half-naked woman stopped in their tracks, Napier moving both hands out away from his body.
“He’s been shot,” Charity replied. “I didn’t want to risk any curious questions at the airport.”
“Easy, man,” Napier said, speaking to Rene. “No need to get all Rambo up in here.”
“Rene, meet Thurman. He’s the man that guided me upriver yesterday,” Charity said, stretching a QuikClot bandage over the wound on Rene’s shoulder. “The bullet just grazed you—a little tissue and blood loss, but it’ll be fine in a few days.” She stepped around Rene and dropped lightly to the ground, helping him to his feet before turning to Napier. Even at five-ten, she had to crane her neck to look up at the man. “You have anything to patch bullet holes? Maybe some black paint?”
“Sure,” he replied. “Anything vital hit?” Then he grinned and said, “I mean besides your friend there?”
Ruthless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 2) Page 15