by Darren Hale
He touched it to the tip of the cigarette he had jammed in the corner of his mouth.
The paper smouldered beneath its caress, tobacco kindling to glowing shades of ruby and amber with every drag.
He took a deep breath.
The pungent tobacco scoured the back of his throat, turning his tongue to ashes and inciting him to cough, nevertheless, he savoured those first few puffs as one might the first sips of a fine wine… Not an unreasonable analogy given the current exchange rate. One packet of the local weed and two packets of cigarette papers had cost him a slightly worn but serviceable pair of Nike trainers. But, as Arno had rather smugly reminded him, such were the laws of supply and demand in the depths of the jungle.
He took another couple of puffs, then lowered himself from his hammock. His clothes lay in a rumpled heap on the floor. He rescued a pair of jeans from the pile, slipping them on over the lurid pair of red and blue checked boxer shorts he’d received one Christmas – a not-so-thoughtful gift from his brother – and added a bright yellow shirt decorated with pictures of pineapples and palm trees to the ill-conceived ensemble.
Boots crunched through the litter of broken twigs somewhere outside the tent…
Angus dreamily pocketed the lighter. ‘Oki – is that you?’ he enquired absently.
The boots hesitated. There was no reply.
‘Oki – stop pissing around will you mate! I’m not in the mood,’ he said, boldly throwing open the fly-sheet and stepping outside.
Ohh shit! He felt his heart sink into his stomach as he spied the figure ahead of him, darkly sinister in mottled shades of olive and leaf green. His eyes flickered to the weapon clasped purposefully in the man’s hands and recognised it instantly – an AK47 – much televised relic of the Cold War.
In a blur of instinct, he turned to run.
‘Professor!’
A single shot cut his warning short.
******
Juliet gasped as an icy rivulet of water trickled down the middle of her back. It was heaven. She doused the sponge in the bucket then used it to wipe away the delicate film of lather that frosted her skin, the gentle aroma of the rose-scented soap scouring away the bitter reek of the Jungle. How she yearned for a hot shower, a cold winter’s night, and the folds of a warm duvet.
The first shot snapped her from her reverie.
She grabbed a towel and used it to wipe away the stinging suds that curled into her eyes. Hardly daring to breathe, she poked her head around the side of the tent just in time to see several figures, dressed like soldiers, hurrying towards the dining tent.
Seconds later, a volley of gunfire echoed around the clearing.
‘Oh my God!’ she whimpered, her eyes blurring with tears. Probably the soap she thought.
She grabbed her clothes without hesitation and bolted from the wash tent.
One of the soldiers turned, having glimpsed her from the corner of his eye, and started running towards her.
Bullets raked the ground at her feet as she raced into the trees, her breathing snatched in shallow gasps. She wasn’t to know that the sight of her naked body was all that had made him hesitate long enough to buy her escape.
She barrelled on, blindly pushing her way through the undergrowth without a care as to what lay beyond, thorns tearing at her legs, criss-crossing them with tiny cuts, while finger-like branches clawed at her arms and back. Numbed with endorphins, she paid them no heed.
******
‘Angus!’ Catherine raged from behind closed eyes. Not at this ungodly hour of the morning!
Another bang, followed by another, and another…
Having drifted back to the edge of sleep, her brain had filled in the blanks between her senses, giving sights to what had just been sounds; visions of Angus dropping his fireworks into holes around the camp and then igniting them.
Bang... bang… bang… bang… bang…
There was a rustling at the tent flap.
‘Angus!’ She sat bolt upright in her bed and confronted the man from her dreams.
Except that it wasn’t him…
This man was leaner, taller, and wearing military fatigues, and the bangs could only have come from the gun he was pointing in her direction.
‘Levante a mão!’ Waves of his gun translated his words into actions.
Catherine raised her hands.
Another wave of his gun and a few terse words of Portuguese invited her to ‘come with me!’
******
A hand reached out, as if from nowhere, and grabbed Juliet by the ankle, tumbling her onto the ground and discharging her clothes in front of her. But before she could protest, a hand clamped firmly across her mouth. ‘Be quiet if you want to live,’ Martin commanded her icily.
She slapped his hand aside. ‘What the hell?’
Her pursuer was getting closer…
She could hear his heavy-booted feet tearing swathes of destruction as he hurried in her direction.
Martin raised a finger to his lips, imploring her to silence as the guard burst into view, having spied the discarded pieces of clothing scattered ahead of him.
Rising with uncanny swiftness, Martin grabbed him by the lapels with one hand, while drawing him onto a knife in the other.
Juliet stared at Martin in disbelief as he lowered the man onto the floor having dispatched him with such unpassionate brevity. ‘You might want to think about putting some clothes on,’ he said, nodding towards a blouse hanging from the thorns of a bush.
Suddenly conscious of her nudity, Juliet raised her arms in a vain attempt to conceal herself. ‘Do you have to look?’ she snapped petulantly.
His eyes lingered a moment before he averted his gaze. ‘I don’t see what you’re so worried about. From what I could see, you’ve nothing to be ashamed of…’ he said provocatively.
‘Then I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself – and your eyes too for that matter…’ She rescued her clothes and quickly started to dress. ‘Who are these guys anyway? And why did they attack us.’ she asked.
‘Bandits – FARC most likely,’ said Martin, revealing less than he knew. ‘And I can’t imagine they needed any better reason to attack you than you’re being in their way. Now – if you’d like to hurry that up, we really could do with getting away from here.’ He grabbed the dead man by the shoulders and hauled him towards the bushes.
‘Away?’ Juliet huffed, as she manhandled the hem of her blouse into her short before buttoning them.
‘Yes – away! And now – before they come looking for this guy!’
‘And what about the professor?’
Martin returned, dusting off his hands.
‘What about him?’ he asked.
‘We can’t leave the professor,’ Juliet protested.
‘And we can’t very well do anything else,’ said Martin in a tone that invited no argument. ‘We’re outnumbered by at least three to one – and they have guns… So, unless you have a burning desire to join him in his fate, I suggest you come with me now.’
******
‘Just who the hell do you think you are?’ barked the professor, while slapping his hand down on the table; so hard it sent cups and cutlery skittering across its surface.
He had, as usual, been one of the first to rise, and had been in the dining tent, fuming to Rufus and Marina about the lack of breakfast when the men, armed with Kalashnikov rifles, had stormed into the room, applauded by sounds of gunfire from somewhere outside.
Rufus sank back into his chair, wishing he hadn’t been so close to a man who seemed suicidally oblivious to the fact that the tent now contained three rather unfriendly individuals armed with automatic rifles, and closed his eyes, waiting for the fusillade of bullets that seemed sure to follow.
Their leader smiled a thin, lipless smile. ‘I am Enrique Barrera, and you are now guests of the LNC. The Liberación Nacional de Colombia,’ he said proudly. ‘Oh, and if any of you try to leave, you will be executed…’
�
��And what exactly is it you want with us?’ stormed the professor, seemingly oblivious to the threat the intruders presented.
Rufus tried to imagine himself smaller.
Enrique paused a moment, considering whether or not to grace the question with an answer. ‘Let us say, it has come to our attention that you and members of your…’ He hesitated a moment, trying to find the right word. ‘…Expedition – are nothing more than grave-robbers, seeking to deprive us of our country’s heritage.’
The professor glared at him. ‘That’s preposterous! You are nothing more than a bunch of terrorists and your plans for the treasures are no doubt less than altruistic.’
Enrique smiled. So there really were treasures to be found here.
Realising his mistake, the professor bit down on any further outburst, much to Rufus’ relief.
There was a series of commotions at the entrance to the tent as other soldiers appeared, shepherding their captives ahead of them: Catherine, dazed and half-awake; Simon, pasty-faced and beaded with sweat; Miguel; Carmen; Oki; and finally Angus, his body slung between the two soldiers who’d been dragging it along the ground behind them.
‘Angus!’ Catherine exclaimed, throwing herself towards him. Driven by an instinct to save, she had not contemplated the wisdom of her actions. ‘What have you bastards done to him?’
Weapons turned to chase her as another punched the air.
‘Enough!’ Enrique lowered his pistol towards her. ‘Another move and I’ll shoot you where you stand!’
‘But you don’t understand – I’m a doctor!’ she protested. ‘My friend has lost a lot of blood and needs my attention.’
Enrique’s eyes narrowed as he contemplated her request before consenting with a nod.
Moving a lot more slowly this time, Catherine lowered herself beside the stricken Angus and started on a quick study of his vital signs:
Pulse present – quick but steady. Breathing slow – regular breaths.
Thank God…
Angus’s eyes flickered open. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine… Don’t get yourself shot on my account,’ he said stoically.
‘And just where did you get your medical degree?’ asked Catherine tersely.
Angus said nothing.
‘No? Just as I thought. So maybe you’ll just let me take a look for myself then…’
The guards looked on silently, as Catherine slipped her fingers through the hole in Angus’s jeans and tore them apart, opening a wide gash in the fabric.
‘Geez – did you really have to go and do that? That was my best pair…’
Burgundy-coloured blood oozed from broken tissues. By the looks of it he’d been fortunate, and the bullet had missed the larger blood vessels. She tore a strip from the hem of her blouse and used it to staunch the wound. ‘How’s the feeling in your leg?’
Angus winced. ‘It bloody hurts – thank you for asking!’
‘Good…’
‘You know what doc, I’m not sure I like your bedside manner.’
Catherine smiled. ‘You’re a lucky man. That bullet must have passed within a hair’s breadth of the sciatic nerve and a lot of rather large blood vessels,’ she said soberly.
‘So – you think I’ll live?’
‘For now, at least…’
‘You know I don’t find that very reassuring,’ said Angus, his words distilled of his usual humour.
‘The wound is fine,’ she assured him. ‘At least for the time-being… But, if I don’t clean and debride it properly, it’s going to get infected.’
‘And you think they’re going to let you do that?’
‘I can but try…’
Catherine could hear Enrique behind her, snapping orders to two of their guards, his gravelly voice chewing out words in Portuguese, so indistinct as to be almost incomprehensible. ‘Then I suggest you go look for him!’ he snarled in conclusion.
The two men turned and left.
Catherine turned to face him. ‘I need antibiotics for this man. And equipment to clean his wound.’
Enrique’s eyes hardened like chips of flint. ‘I’m afraid that will not be possible.’
‘But I have everything I need back in my tent. If you could just send someone to get it…’
‘I said it will not be possible! You will have to make do with what you’ve got.’ His tone brooked no room for argument.
‘What do you think he’s so pissed about?’ Angus whispered.
‘I’m not entirely sure. I found their conversation a little difficult to follow, but it sounds as if they might have lost someone.’
Angus surreptitiously scanned the room. ‘Juliet!’ he gasped.
Catherine raised a finger to her lips, imploring him to remain silent. ‘She went to have a wash before breakfast. With a bit of luck, she was far enough away when these guys showed up.’
‘You think she might have escaped?’
‘I do hope so…’
35
Thursday 19th October:
The room was packed.
Three people instead of the usual two...
Raymond was on stick, controlling the drone while Mick ran the data retrieval and image analysis, with Brad standing over their shoulders, expectantly hoping that the next, most important part of the drone’s mission, went without a hitch.
The Icarus had sustained a nasty crack to the nose cone housing its avionics computer and other vital systems, but as far as they’d been able to discern, it had been functioning normally as it took to the sky. There had been a few problems with the aircraft’s trim, and a power bleed symptomatic of a problem with the UAV’s power management system, nevertheless, these had been easily managed.
Brad watched the readouts anxiously. The aircraft had been travelling for the last twelve hours along a relatively straight path and at a relatively stable altitude, but as it approached its theatre of operations, the demands being placed upon its systems would increase exponentially as it banked and swerved; its camera swivelling, panning, and zooming back and forth, as it searched the ground beneath it.
‘Coming up on theatre of operations now,’ said Raymond blandly. His attention was fixed upon the screen in front of him; a cockpit’s-eye view of the world, complete with instruments displaying pitch and yaw, airspeed, battery consumption, and other vital inflight data, along with a smaller image being streamed from the aircraft’s ground-facing camera – a much larger version of which was now being displayed on the monitor in front of Brad.
‘Okay – eyes down people. Let’s concentrate on those coordinates we received from Snake Pit,’ said Brad.
The camera was currently zoomed in as far as was practical given the speed of the aircraft, making it possible to discern individual trees, though given the sheer numbers, the computer’s image recognition software was going to have a hard time recognising the subtle details that might have betrayed the presence of a processing lab hidden beneath them.
Nevertheless, it did…
Forty minutes after coming on station, the mighty processors spotted an inconsistency in the images and threw a box around it; a small red square that drew the eye towards a patch of trees that was not unlike the patch of trees next to it, except for the smallest discrepancy – a puddle of red earth and some objects that were difficult to discern.
Mick rotated his joystick while zooming in on the identified area, resolving unnaturally straight lines and smooth curves that were quite unlike anything nature had to offer. At this magnification the image was inclined to wobble – thrown awry by the slightest perturbations in the UAV’s flightpath – but it was, nevertheless, possible to see what looked very much like barrels, stacked beneath the trees. They’d been painted green so as to escape attention, though, under the circumstances, this crude form of camouflage had simply incriminated them further.
There was movement next to the barrels…
A man appeared.
‘I think we’ve got them,’ said Mick happily.
‘I agree
,’ said Brad, taking the first proper breath he’d managed in the last hour. ‘How’s the battery holding up?’
Raymond’s eyes barely moved a flicker, and it was hard to know if he was reciting the number by heart as he reported. ‘We’re currently at about seventy-six percent of battery life.’
Brad nodded contentedly. It seemed that Mick’s assurances had not been misplaced. As promised, the Icarus’s performance had not been impeded by its recent accident.
And then he spotted something…
‘Hold on a minute – what’s that?’
He pointed to the top left-hand corner of the screen. ‘It looks like…’
Mick turned the image, panning across to the area Mick had indicated. ‘A truck…’ he said, zooming in on the back end of a vehicle hidden beneath the trees and the men, dressed in military greens, loading sacks into the back. ‘Looks like our haul,’ he said.
‘Looks like Granite was on the money again,’ Raymond observed.
‘Yes it does,’ said Brad contentedly. Like Mick, he was inclined to treat all of their intelligence sources with a healthy degree of scepticism, though Granite’s tips had always been uncannily accurate.
‘I hope they’re paying him well,’ Mick whispered, almost inaudibly. He would not have liked to be in Granite’s position. Information like this could only have come from someone close to the top. Or someone playing a longer game…
‘And what’s the latest from Snake Pit?’ Brad enquired.
Mick shook his head. ‘Not a word…’
‘He missed his last check-in?’
According to his schedule, Snake Pit’s report was hours overdue.
Mick nodded. ‘He was heading back to the camp. Do you want us to maybe swing over and take a look – see what’s happening over there?’ he asked, acknowledging Brad’s concern that the expedition had succumbed to some sinister fate.
Brad responded without reservation. ‘No – stay on mission. That’s not our affair. Keep your eyes on the money, while I inform Arlington of the situation.’