by Darren Hale
‘Sim senhor. This is the place.’
Martin shuffled forwards on his hands and knees, edging his way, quickly but competently, until he lay in the cover of a giant ironwood tree and the dense lattice of strangler figs that hung from its boughs. The American would in all likelihood be known to one of the homeland agencies, and he hoped to capture a few images for verification.
Cradling the camera in one of the strangler fig’s many fenestrations, he focused it upon the man and woman in turn. Its superior optics would allow him to capture images that could then be magnified and scrutinised in the finest detail without any significant deterioration in quality, and its lens, coated in special polymers so as not to reflect light, and electronic shutter system, rendered it stealthy in every possible way.
‘Are you coming?’
The man followed her to the steps and descended out of sight.
******
The second chamber looked much like the first, except for the even more luxuriant wealth of brightly coloured paintings that graced its walls. Pictures that would have challenged, and even surpassed, those that had adorned the tombs of pharaohs far away. Images of reed boats and water crossings, pyramids, and temples… Scenes that resonated with her first love – Egypt.
As a child, Dr Silvia Lopez had been enticed by Hollywood’s portrayals of pharaohs, mummies, and ancient curses, becoming entranced with a civilisation so advanced, it should have ruled the world. A civilisation that had been building fantastic tombs and pyramids while the Ancient Britons had been standing stones in ditches and calling them art.
Nevertheless, as her light wandered the room, she was left with a feeling that, according to her stomach, was much like the euphoria that came from too many tequilas, combined with the hangover that would inevitably follow. A feeling that Nathan had eloquently summed up with the words ‘so this is it. This is what you wanted to see?’
The remains of the room’s only occupant lay in a jumbled heap on the floor, stripped of anything that might have been of value, amidst more mundane looking items that had been treated with such callous neglect, they now lay broken around it.
‘Yes – this is it,’ she said, her anger piquing as she dignified his question with the only words it deserved. She took a moment to calm her mood.
‘There were some crates upstairs weren’t there?’ she asked.
Nathan grunted. ‘Uh-hu.’
‘Good – would you be kind enough to fetch one for me.’ She wasn’t looking at him, nevertheless, she could almost feel him shrug as he turned and stomped from the room, leaving her to commune with the dead alone. Archaeology was not all dusty knees, brushes, and trowels, measurements, and data. It was a connection with the past that could only be gained from touching it, closing one’s eyes, and drifting into history.
‘Okay – so what do you want me to do with this?’ he asked, having returned a few moments later with a crate between his arms.
‘You can leave it there…’ she said, pointing to a spot next to the jumbled bones. ‘We’ll start with her…’
******
Martin watched and waited.
And, once it had become apparent that the man and woman were not about to return any time soon, he’d connected the camera to his radio and transmitted the pictures back to Crow’s Nest for their appraisal.
And their response had been almost immediate…
The man was Nathan Eades, the DEA’s number one most wanted. The traitor of Operation Snowcrest.
And the girl…
Was a relative nobody…
An archaeologist from the National Museum in Bogota, who until now, had not featured anywhere on the DEA’s shitlist, and consequently, had not appeared anywhere in their database. It had not, however, taken long to get a match from the pictures Martin had sent. The woman had quite a presence on social media, appearing as a staunch defender of the country’s cultural heritage. Manuel Rodriguez, it transpired, was an avid collector of Mayan, Aztec, and Incan artefacts, and it had not taken much to join the dots…
Having received his instructions from Crow’s Nest, he had then waited until they emerged again a couple of hours later, carrying a crate between them, then followed them back towards the airfield.
It had not been hard. The woman was no master of bushcraft, and had been making so much noise, she’d almost obscured the sound of an engine coming to life...
******
Nathan’s heart quickened to the sound of an aircraft propeller beginning to turn. It was not a healthy sound. The engine gasped like an asthmatic on a hill, coughed, then died – though to his ears, the absence of the sound seemed somewhat more disturbing than its presence had been. Concern that their pilot might have been planning to abandon them, had become fears that the plane might somehow be broken. And those feeling that had not been dispelled when, upon arriving at the makeshift airstrip, he’d discovered that the plane’s engine compartment had been partially exposed while the pilot attacked it with a spanner and a pair of pliers.
‘Hey, what’s going on?’ he asked, just as soon as he was close enough.
The pilot looked up suddenly, bumping his head on the engine cowling in the process... ‘Shit!’ he swore, ‘I didn’t hear you coming.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Nathan with a nod to the propshaft that had until moments before, been spinning.
Taking his tools in one hand, the pilot rubbed his head with the other. His encounter with the cowling had opened a small gash and brought the beginnings of a swelling to his forehead. ‘The engine’s not running properly. I think we must have sustained some damage to the fuel line – or carburettor – during the landing?’
‘Can you fix it?’
The pilot nodded towards the horizon. ‘Not before the rains hit us.’ His words would not ordinarily have inspired any confidence, but Nathan knew him well, and this was not the first time the pilot had been forced to make repairs in the field. The de Havilland Otter was a rugged and reliable little aircraft. And it had to be… It had just landed on an airfield that was almost too short, too bumpy, and too cluttered with stumps, branches, rocks, and other obstacles to be fit for purpose, despite the best efforts of the soldiers who’d built it. It was a wonder the undercarriage was still attached.
‘Problem?’ Dr Lopez panted. Nathan had abandoned his end of the crate at the edge of the clearing, and having taken a moment to rest, she’d then single-handedly dragged it the last of the way. The crate was not heavy, and the task had been far from superhuman, but the weather was far from conducive to heavy labour and her burden had been bulky and difficult to manage.
‘Looks like we won’t be leaving tonight,’ said Nathan, nodding towards the sky. ‘Whether Ramon arrives or not…’
48
Sunday 22nd October:
The Lockheed C-130 Hercules was a thirty-four-tonne monster of a plane that was capable of carrying half again as much in payload. It had seen a variety of roles in its sixty-five year service history, most often as the workhorse, shifting men and materials around the world, though on this occasion its cargo consisted of nothing more than the ten operators of the DEA’s rapid response team, call sign “Cobra”, and their personal equipment.
‘Okay people we have new intel…’ Chief Logan was standing next to a packing crate upon which he’d positioned a laptop computer displaying their most recent briefing material.
There came a collective sigh from nine of the C-130’s ten occupants. Those words seldom heralded good news.
‘Okay,’ he said in the usual no-shit manner to which he was accustomed. ‘The situation has changed. We have received fresh intelligence relating to insurgents in our theatre of operations. HQ has kindly informed us that the shipment of cocaine we’d been expecting to find at the processing facility, is now on the move and heading south under the protection of one Ramon Aguilar and at least thirty of his men.’
There was some shaking of heads. The team had planned on catching the insurgents and the
cocaine in one single swoop, but to their annoyance, the Peruvian Military detachment with whom they would be working, had been moving too slowly, and were not yet in position.
‘However – we do have some good news. HQ has also informed us that we know where they are heading… A camp some ten kilometres or so to their south-east, and that there are a number of high value assets to be found amongst them.’ The chief pointed to the images now being displayed on his laptop. ‘The first of them, is this man…. Ramon Aguilar… A self-styled Ché Guevara and leader of the LNC. Removing him from the picture will probably do little to hurt the Rodriguez cartel, so he is a target of secondary importance, though his capture would undoubtedly sweeten affairs with Colombia’s current administration. However… Of more interest to us is this man… Nathan Eades…’
The collective intake of breath seemed to suck the air from the room.
‘…And it looks like we might finally get an opportunity to balance the books.’
A slapping of hands and a hearty ‘oorah’ expelled the air again in a cry that, ordinarily attributable to those in the marines, had seemed appropriate in the circumstances.
‘But…’ The chief hesitated, knowing that the next piece of information would not be so well received. ‘Now for the bad news… I have just been informed by our superiors back in Arlington that they would very much like to have a chat with our man Nathan Eades, and we have, therefore, been ordered to locate and extract him – alive!’
Their collective groans were summed up by Agent Pasternak; a black-haired, brown-eyed operator of Polish-American descent, whose sinewy appearance belied the great strength and fortitude that was common to men in his profession. ‘That bastard is a traitor and some off us lost friends thanks to him. He doesn’t deserve to come out of this alive.’ His voice resonated with his heritage, despite the fact that he was a second-generation immigrant, born and raised in Maine.
Chief Logan beat the air with that gesture to “settle down”. ‘Okay – enough! Them’s the orders. Headquarters have made it absolutely clear – there will be NO accidents. He is a high value asset and they do not want him being delivered anything less than alive and well. Is that understood?’
Their acquiescence passed silently.
The chief nodded, his eyes commanding the room. ‘But we do have a little good news... HQ have informed us that we have eyes on the ground – a DEA agent codenamed “Snake Pit”. No doubt, in recognition of the shit pit he’s walked into.’ A new image appeared on the screen. ‘We have his frequency and call sign, and he will defer to our authority. We will commence our drop and assault on the processing plant as per our current plan. Snake Pit will monitor activity at his location and report any changes in their disposition. We will then hand any prisoners to elements of the Peruvian military operating in the area before embarking on what is now a second phase to our operation – a ten-kilometre hike down to the afore-mentioned camp. With the help of Snake Pit, we will identify, and then apprehend our target, while the Peruvian military move to attack the camp.’
‘And what if our friend Nathan Eades gets killed in the crossfire?’
‘Agent Wiśniewski,’ said the Chief, singling out the one man who’d been brave enough to voice what must have been a collective thought. ‘May I humbly suggest that you do your utmost to make sure that does not happen. The apprehension of Nathan Eades – ALIVE – is our primary objective, and should you, through any omission of duty, allow any harm to come to him, then you will quickly discover that your days in this unit have come to be very limited indeed. Do I make myself clear?’
Wiśniewski acknowledged him with a curt ‘yes sir!’
‘And that goes for the rest of you too,’ he said eyeing them sternly. ‘But… just to make sure there are no misunderstandings… you will be provided with the most current pictures of our target. I suggest you use them to make sure that our newly acquired friends know that he is a person of interest. Now… are there any questions?’
‘Yes sir.’
Agent First Class Mark Tyler, better known as “The Desert Eagle”, raised a hand. This stocky and somewhat shorter than average operator from Boise Idaho had once been told that, like the gun, he carried too much firepower for someone of his size, and when reminded of the fact, would often grab his crotch and say something along the lines of “I see you’ve been speaking to your mum again…”
‘If I may ask… What is this DEA informant “Snake Pit” doing on his own, all this way out in the Amazon Jungle? Did he get lost or something?’
The chief answered blandly, and without feeling. ‘He was an embed with a British archaeological expedition. Theirs is the camp you’ll be assaulting. The camp was overrun four days ago, and the team are presumed dead.’
‘Presumed dead?’ Tyler observed. ‘So they might not actually be dead?’
‘The British expedition is not our concern,’ said the chief. ‘Our objective has already been laid out to you.’
‘Fuck that,’ said Pasternak. ‘There may be civilians on the scene, and we’re supposed to what… Leave them to their fate so we can bring that bastard Eades in for questioning? Aren’t there enough lives on his head already?’
The chief did not chastise him for this display of anger. He himself had felt just as uncomfortable when he’d receive the orders. ‘Your superiors would like to remind you that you have cost them millions of dollars in training and are consequently not to place yourselves at risk in an attempt to rescue a group of non-nationals. Our friends in the Peruvian military can worry about them…’
The floor was silent.
‘Good – we have six hours and twenty-seven minutes to our drop point, so I suggest you familiarise yourselves with all of the latest intel. I want no mistakes people – so make sure you get it right…’
49
Sunday 22nd October:
The morning was young, and the sky was still clad in vestments of purple and navy blue, hemmed in towering cumulus clouds that appeared as inky stains across the moon. All was serene. A few hectic minutes followed by silence. Almost…
The C-130 Hercules that had brought them here, was gone: another black stain on the night sky, distinguishable by nothing more than the diminishing sound of its engines. The ready order had been given and the tail ramp had opened. Agent first class, Krystian Wiśniewski, and the nine other members of Cobra Team had shuffled to the back, weighed down with a hundred pounds worth of parachute and other equipment, before hurling themselves into the darkness.
There had then been a breath-taking moment of freefall before his canopy had unfurled. In military parlance, this was known as a HAHO jump – a High-Altitude High-Opening parachute insertion. The C-130 had been cruising at a height of twenty thousand feet when the jump order had been given; a modest height for such an operation, given that the best of the best would (on occasions) jump from heights of thirty-thousand feet or more. It was, nevertheless, a “High-Altitude” jump, being higher than anyone could breathe without the use of an oxygen mask and colder than anyone could tolerate without a specially insulated thermal jumpsuit, and doubtless a “ High Opening”, given that the canopy had opened within moments of his departure from the aircraft.
He toggled the parachute’s control cables, using tweaks of his wrists to guide it towards his destination and the trees that were growing rapidly ahead of him, rendered as ghostly green spectres thanks to his light-enhancing goggles. Nevertheless, finding a safe place to land was going to rely more on luck than judgement.
His feet struck first, piercing the veil of leaves as a diver might enter the water, while praying there was nothing harmful waiting beneath the surface.
Twigs snapped, leaves fluttered, branches cracked, and bits fell, as he accepted the bludgeoning strikes from the trees, his canopy snagging and then freeing itself in a series of jerking movements that ended with him suspended some fifteen or so feet above the ground.
Having thanked The Almighty for his deliverance, Krystian Wiśniewsk
i released the equipment pack that was at this point hanging from between his legs. Then, having unhitched himself from his chute, he rappelled to the ground using the long line that had been provided for just such a contingency.
Apart from a few minor bumps and scrapes, the members of Team Cobra had landed without incident. He himself had endured a number of aches that had yet to be identified, though they likely related to nothing more than bruised ribs and muscular contusions, and Louis Pasternak had grunted as he’d laced his boot tighter, compensating for what had likely been a minor ankle sprain.
Having collected his backpack from the ground, he shouldered it in preparation for the hike ahead.
50
Monday 23rd October:
The jungle quivered beneath the slashing blows of machetes and the rumbling growl of engines as the trucks burst from the treeline.
‘What the hell is that?’ asked Dr Lopez, having awoken half-drunk with sleep.
‘I think Ramon just arrived…’ Nathan propelled himself from the chair in which he’d resting. ‘Wake the pilot will you… And tell him to be ready to get us out of here.’
Captain Rico had performed his usual magic and though it had seemed at one point as if a substantial portion of the engine had been removed and then reassembled, the plane was now in working order.
Nathan opened the cargo bay door and lowered himself down the steps. The sun had not risen far enough into the sky to have revealed the clods and potholes that might have claimed his ankle, had he jumped.
The trucks had stopped nearby and were now disgorging their cargoes of men, including two with whom he was intimately familiar.