He arrived at the river’s edge and mopped his damp face with a sweat-stained silk handkerchief. He was a big man, and the high flat crown of a wide-brimmed straw hat added to his height. His baggy white cotton slacks were held in place around his corpulent belly by a length of nylon rope, and his long sleeved white shirt was buttoned up to his Adam’s apple. The sun reflected off a monocle in his left eye.
“Greetings,” he said with a slight accent. “Welcome to the Paris of the rain forest.”
Paul looked past the man’s shoulder at the sorry collection of hovels. “Where’s the Eiffel Tower?” he asked casually.
“Hah-hah. Eiffel Tower. Marvelous! Look there, it’s not far from the Arc de Triomphe.”
After the long river journey in the damp heat Paul had little appetite for witty repartee. “We’re looking for someone called the Dutchman,” he said.
The man removed his hat, revealing a tonsured mop of unruly white hair. “At your service. But I’m not Dutch.” He laughed. “When I first came to this blighted place seven years ago I said I was ‘Deutsch.’ I’m German. My name is Dieter von Hoffman.”
“I’m Paul Trout, and this is my wife, Gamay.”
Hoffman focused his monocle on Gamay. “A beautiful name for a lovely woman,” he said gallantly. “We don’t ~et many white women out here, beautiful or otherwise.”
Gamay asked why the village was so quiet. Dieter’s fleshy red lips drooped. “I suggested that the villagers go into hiding. It never hurts to be cautious with strangers. They will come out when they see that you are friendly.” The empty smile again. “So, what brings you to our poor village?”
“Dr. Ramirez asked us to come. We’re with NUMA, the National Underwater and Marine Agency,” Gamay said. “We were doing some research on river dolphins and staying with Dr. Ramirez. He asked if we couldn’t come in his place.”
“I heard through the jungle telegraph that a couple of scientists from the United States were in the neighborhood. I never dreamed you would honor us with a visit. How is the esteemed Dr. Ramirez these days?”
“He would have liked to come, but he hurt his ankle and couldn’t travel.”
“Too bad. It would be nice to see him. Well, it’s been a long time since I had company, but that’s no excuse for being a poor host. Please come ashore. You must be very hot and thirsty.”
Paul and Gamay exchanged glances that said, Okay, but be careful, and stepped off the boat. Gamay slung the bag with the gun in it over her shoulder, and they started toward the cluster of huts arranged in a semicircle at the top of a rise. Dieter yelled in another language, and each hut disgorged a load of Indian men, women, and children. They came out timidly and stood at silent attention. Dieter gave another command, and they began to go about their tasks. Paul and Gamay glanced at each other again. Dieter did not suggest in this village; he commanded.
An Indian woman in her twenties came out of the largest hut, her head bowed. Unlike the other women, who were dressed only in loincloths, she had a red sarong of machine-loomed fabric wrapped around her shapely body. Dieter growled an order, and she disappeared into the hut.
A thatched roof stood in front of the hut on four poles. The roof shaded a rough-cut wooden table and stools carved from stumps. Dieter gestured toward the stools, sat in one himself, and removed his straw hat. He mopped his sweating head with his handkerchief and snapped an order at the open door of the hut.
The woman came out carrying a tray with three mugs made from sections of hollowed tree limbs. She set the mugs down and stood respectfully a few paces away with her head still lowered.
Dieter raised his mug. “Here’s to meeting new friends.” There was a distinct clinking as he swished the contents of his mug. “That’s right,” he said. “You are hearing the beautiful sound of ice cubes. You can thank the wonders of modern science for allowing me to have a portable gas-powered ice maker. There is no need to live like these brown-skinned Adams and Eves.” He slurped half his glass down in a single gulp.
Paul and Gamay took tentative sips and found the drinks cool, refreshing, and strong. Gamay looked around the settlement. “Dr. Ramirez said that you’re a trader. What sort of goods do you trade?”
“I realize that to an outsider this must look like a poor place, but these simple people are capable of artistic work that is quite sophisticated. I give them my services as a middleman in marketing their crafts to gift shops and the like.”
From the impoverished appearance of the village the middle man must take the lion’s share of the money, Gamay guessed. She made a show of looking around. “We also understand that you are married. Is your wife away?”
Paul hid his smile behind the mug. Gamay was very much aware that the native woman was Dieter’s wife and she didn’t like the way the Dutchman treated her.
Dieter flushed, then called the woman over. “This is Tessa,” he grunted.
Gamay stood and extended her hand in greeting. The woman looked at her in surprise, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she took the proffered hand.
“Nice to meet you, Tessa. My name is Gamay, and this is my husband, Paul.”
The fleeting ghost of a smile crossed Tessa’s dusky face. Sensing that Dieter would make Tessa pay for it later if she pushed too far, Gamay nodded and sat down. Tessa stepped back to where she had been standing.
Dieter covered his annoyance with a meaty smile. “Now that I have answered your questions … the purpose of your arduous trip?”
Paul leaned forward onto the table and looked up over the top of his nonexistent glasses. “The body of an Indian came ashore upriver in a dugout canoe.”
Dieter spread his hands. “The rain forest can be dangerous, and its inhabitants are only one generation removed from savagery. A dead Indian is not unusual, I am sorry to say.”
“This one was,” Paul replied. “He was shot.”
“Shot?”
“There’s more. He was a Chulo.”
“That is serious,” Dieter said with a shake of his jowls. “Any thing to do with the ghost-spirits means trouble.”
“Dr. Ramirez mentioned that the tribe is led by a woman,” Gamay said.
“Ah, you’ve heard the legends. Very colorful, yes? Of course I have heard of this mythical goddess-chief, but I have never had the pleasure of meeting her.”
Gamay asked, “Have you ever run into members of the tribe?”
“I have no firsthand knowledge of them, but there are the stories …”
“What kind of stories, Mr. von Hoffman?”
“The Chulo are said to live beyond the Hand of God. That’s what the natives call the Great Falls some distance from here. They say the five cascading waterfalls resemble giant fingers. Natives who have gone too close to the falls have disappeared.”
“You said the forest was dangerous.”
“Yes, they could have been mauled by some animal or bitten by a poisonous snake. Or simply become lost.”
“How about nonnatives?”
“From time to time men come this way to seek their fortune. I have given them what poor hospitality I could, shared my knowledge of my surroundings, and, most important, warned them to stay away from Chulo territory.” He made a washing motion with his hands. “Three expeditions ignored my cautions, and three have vanished without a trace. I notified the authorities, of course, but they know the impossibility of finding some one once the trees have swallowed them up.”
“Were any of those groups looking for plants that could be useful as pharmaceuticals?” Paul said.
“They came looking for medicine, for rubber, timber, treasure, and lost cities, for all I know. Few who pass this way share their secrets. I don’t ask questions.”
While Dieter rambled on, Tessa had silently raised her hand and pointed toward the sky. He finally noticed the strange gesture and the Trouts’ quizzical expressions. His face went rock hard, then the unctuous smile reappeared.
“As you can see, Tessa was most impressed by a group that pas
sed this way not long ago in search of specimens. They employed a miniature zeppelin to move above the tree canopy. The natives were very much in awe of the machine, and so was I, I must admit.”
“Who were these people?” Gamay asked.
“I know only that they represented a French firm. You know how close-mouthed the French can be.”
“What happened to them?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I heard they moved on. Maybe they were captured and eaten by the Chulo.” He laughed heartily at the prospect. “Which brings me back to the purpose of your visit. I thank you very much for warning me, but now that you know the dangers that lurk here, I trust you will go back to Dr. Ramirez with my appreciation.”
Gamay looked at the lowering afternoon sun. She and Paul knew that in the tropics the sun drops with the swiftness of a guillotine blade.
“It’s a little late to be starting back,” she said. “What do you think, Paul?”
“It would be dangerous trying to navigate that river by night.”
Dieter frowned, then, seeing he was getting nowhere, smiled and said, “Well then, you will be my guests. Tomorrow you will get an early start after a good night’s sleep.”
Gamay half heard his words. Tessa’s head was no longer downcast. She was looking straight at Gamay, her eyes wide open, almost imperceptibly shaking her head. Paul caught the gesture as well.
They thanked Dieter for the refreshing drink and his offer of a place to stay and said they wanted to retrieve some gear from the boat. As they walked toward the river the natives shied away as if the couple were surrounded by an invisible force field.
Gamay made a pretense of checking the engine for oil.
“Did you see Tessa?” she said. “She was warning us.”
“No mistaking the terror in those eyes,” Paul said, examining the dip stick.
“What do you think we should do?”
“We don’t have much choice. I’m not enthusiastic about spending the night here in Camp Happy, but I wasn’t kidding. It would be crazy to run this river in the dark. Do you have any suggestions?”
“Yes, I do,” Gamay said, watching a bat the size of an eagle flit across the river in the failing light. “I suggest that we don’t dose our eyes at the same time.”
Chapter 9
As Austin scudded through the blue-green Baja waters on the back of a mini-submersible, he wondered how a National Geographic photographer filming a whale migration would react if a man riding a giant boot suddenly appeared in his camera’s viewfinder. Perched outside, like a rumble seat passenger in an old roadster, Austin could see Joe’s head and shoulders outlined by the blue light from the control computer screen inside the watertight cockpit.
Zavala’s metallic voice crackled in the headphones of Austin’s underwater communicator. “How’s the weather out there, cap?”
Austin rapped on the Plexiglas dome and curled his finger and thumb in the okay sign.
“It’s fine. This beats muscle power any day,” he said.
Zavala chuckled. “Contos will be pleased to hear that.”
The skipper of the Sea Robin had beamed with pride as he showed Austin the new submersible sitting in its deck cradle. The experimental mini-sub was a marvelously compact vehicle. The operator sat in the dry, pressurized cabin like the driver of a car, legs stretched out into the extended eight-foot-long hull. Two pontoons flanked the miniature cabin, and on the back were the air tanks and four thrusters.
Austin had run his fingers over the transparent bubble dome and said, “I’ll be damned. This thing does look like an old boot.”
“I tried to get you the Red October,” Contos said, “but Sean Connery was using it.”
Austin wisely kept his silence. NUMA people were known to form personal attachments to the high-tech equipment under their command. The uglier the gear, the more intense the relationship. Austin didn’t want to embarrass Contos by explaining how he knew the sub was being field-tested off California where the main components had been assembled. He had commissioned the design and building of the mini-submersible for the Special Assignments Team, and Zavala designed it. NUMA had subs that could go faster and deeper, but Austin wanted a tough little vehicle that would be portable, easily transported by a helicopter or boat. It would have to be unobtrusive as well, Austin specified, so as not to attract attention. Although he had approved the blueprints, this was his first glimpse of the final product.
Zavala was a brilliant marine engineer who had directed the construction of many manned and unmanned underwater craft. For inspiration, Zavala used the DeepWorker, a commercial mini-sub designed by Phil Nuytten and Zegrahm DeepSea Voyages, an adventure expedition cruise company. Zavala extended the range and power and added sophisticated testing capacity. He claimed the instruments aboard the submersible could tell what river or glacier a drop of ocean water came from.
The sub was originally named the DeepSee, an homage to its predecessor and to its intended function as an exploration vehicle. When Admiral Sandecker heard the designation he cringed at the pun. Shown the scale model, he grinned. “It reminds me of one of the brogans I used to wear when I was a kid,” he said, using the old slang term for high-topped workboots. The new name stuck.
The NUMA ship cruised south from San Diego into Mexican waters, staying well offshore. Near Ensenada the Sea Robin began to follow the coast more closely. The ship passed several fishing boats and a couple of cruise ships. Before long the vessel was about a half mile from the open mouth of the cove Austin and
Zavala had scouted out earlier from land. Austin scoured the rugged cliffs through powerful binoculars and studied the back of the tortilla factory. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Large signs posted on either side of the lagoon warned of dangerous hidden rocks. Highlighting the warnings were caution buoys strung across the opening.
The Sea Robin sailed beyond the cove and headed into a small inlet. As the anchor slid into the sea, Zavala eased into the mini-sub and made his last-minute checks. With the dome se cured the cabin was watertight and carried its own air supply. Zavala was dressed comfortably in shorts and his new purple Hussong’s T-shirt.
Austin, who would be immersed in water, was suited out in full scuba gear and extra air tank. He climbed onto the back of the Brogan with his fins resting on the pontoons and fastened a quick-release harness attached to the sub. The dome was latched tight. At his signal a crane hoisted the sub in the air, then lowered it into the sea. Austin unhooked the slack holding lines and gave Zavala the go-ahead to dive. Within seconds they were sinking into the sea in an explosion of bubbles.
The battery-operated thrusters kicked into action with a high-pitched hum, and Zavala steered for open water. The sub rounded the point of jagged sea-wet rocks and followed a course directly into the mouth of the lagoon. They stayed at a depth of thirty-five feet, moving well under Mach One at a comfortable five knots. They used a combination of Austin’s observations and the mini’s instruments to navigate. Austin kept his head low to reduce water resistance. He was enjoying the trip, particularly the schools of brightly colored fish that scattered like wind blown confetti at their approach.
Austin was glad to see fish for a less aesthetic reason. Their presence meant the water was still safe for living things. He had not forgotten that unknown forces killed an entire pod of huge creatures that were hardier and more adaptable to their marine environment than a puny human being. Although sensors in the sub’s skin automatically sampled and tested the ambient waters,
Austin knew that by the time he learned conditions were un healthy it might be too late.
‘Approaching the mouth of the lagoon. We’re going right up the middle,” Zavala reported. “Plenty of room on either side. Mooring line from a warning buoy off to starboard.”
Austin turned to the right and saw a thin black line running from the surface toward the bottom. “I see it. Notice anything funny?”
“Yeah,” Zavala said as they cruised by. “No rocks
under the buoy.”
“Bet you a bottle of Cuervo that all the other warnings are phony, too.”
“I’ll take the bottle but not the bet. Someone wants to keep people out of here.”
“That’s obvious. How’s this buggy handling?”
“Getting into a little backwash from the water swishing out of the lagoon, but it’s still easier than driving on the Beltway,” Zavala said, referring to the highway that separates Washington from the rest of the country geographically and politically. “She handles like an-uh-oh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Sonar is picking up multiple targets. Lots of them. About fifty yards dead ahead.”
Austin had been lulled into complacency by the tranquility of the trip. In his imagination he pictured a line of underwater guards waiting in ambush.
“Divers?”
“Sonar hits are too small. Little or no movement.”
Austin strained his eyes in an attempt to pierce the gauzy blue.
Thinking ahead, he said, “What’s the Brogan’s top speed if we have to get out of here in a hurry?”
“Seven knots, pedal to the metal. She was made more for vertical travel than horizontal, and we’re carrying a couple of hundred extra pounds of beef.”
“I’ll join Weight Watchers when we get back,” Austin said. “Move in real slow, but be prepared to make a dash for it.”
They crawled ahead at half speed. Within moments dozens of dark objects materialized, stretching from the surface to the bottom and rolling off both directions in a great wall.
Fish.
“Looks like a net,” Austin advised. “Stop before we get snagged.”
The Brogan slowed to a complete halt and hovered in place.
Austin ducked his head in reflex as a streamlined silhouette glided in from above and behind him. The shark was only there for an instant, long enough for Austin to see its round white eye and to estimate the hungry predator’s length at more than six feet. Its toothy jaws opened then clamped shut to grab half a struggling fish in one bite before disappearing from sight with a flick of its high tail fin.
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