The DMZ

  Swallowing, she added, “The piranha won’t touch you if you don’t do anything to stir them up. But if they smell blood, they’ll come swarming out of nowhere. They may not be the best-tasting fish in the river, but they’re the easiest to catch. I’ve seen the I’paa toss a dead bird carcass in the river on a string and pull out their supper hanging off the bones. If you don’t have anything else, a nick of blood on a piece of cloth or even a stick will work.”

  “Yeah, well, just don’t do it again,” Rick ordered sternly. “We’ll have to hope that cut doesn’t end up infected—all we need out here. And next time, you tell me before you plan a stunt like that.”

  Yes sir! Julie retorted silently. But aloud, she said with deceptive meekness, “I won’t have to. Just keep some of those fish guts for tomorrow. As long as we’re on the river, at least we won’t starve.”

  “Not while you’re around, anyway.” Setting down his palm frond plate, Rick gave Julie an intent look across the campfire. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate what you’ve done. You’re …”—he glanced down at the remains of supper set on the ground beside the campfire, the charred fronds peeled back from the remaining fish halves and half-eaten hunk of palm heart—“a rather impressive person. I guess all those weeks back at camp, I really didn’t know you, did I?”

  Julie blinked. Was that an actual compliment out of the Special Forces officer? “I guess neither of us really knew each other,” she answered cautiously.

  Rick made no response. Glancing across the fire, Julie saw that his gaze had shifted out over the river, his face thoughtful. He might have once again forgotten she was there. Julie rebelled. It was bad enough to trail in silence at his heels all day. But she wasn’t going to walk clear to the Amazon being ignored.

  She cleared her throat. “So, what made you decide on the army? Or the Special Forces? Aren’t those units pretty difficult to get into?”

  Rick brought a cool glance back from somewhere far away. “Why do you want to know? Or are we back to the nosy reporter looking for quotes?” he added sardonically.

  Julie wanted to scream. Tossing aside her organic plate, she said tensely, “I am not a nosy reporter! I happen to have spent the last month sitting by myself in a guerrilla camp, ostracized from practically any human contact, with everybody scared to death to say more than two words to me. You should know! You were one of them. Well, I’m sick and tired of being ignored and treated like I don’t exist. You’re not Enrique Martinez anymore, forbidden to get too chummy with the prisoner. You’re an American citizen just like me, and if you think I’m going to trail at your heels all the way to the Amazon without so much as some civil conversation—”

  “Whoa! Hold it!” He was actually laughing, Julie saw indignantly. She’d never seen him laugh before, and it transformed his usually somber features, making him at once more approachable and disturbingly attractive. But Julie was in no mood for such distractions, and she sternly repressed an answering tilt of her own mouth.

  Sobering, Rick rocked forward on his boots to focus his sharp gaze on Julie, and for the first time that day Julie felt he was seeing her as a person, not as a problem to be solved. “You’re right! I’ve been pretty rotten company, haven’t I?” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to ignore you. I guess I just haven’t been in the habit of conversation. It’s been so long since I haven’t had to watch every word I said.”

  He rocked back on his heels, and an eyebrow shot up. “So—what do you want to talk about?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Julie was at once mollified and discomfited by his ready agreement. She hunched her shoulders. “How about your life story? We’ve got all evening.”

  Rick reached for a stick to poke the dying fire back into flame. “There’s not much to tell. I grew up in one of the tougher parts of Los Angeles. Single-parent home. Low-income projects. You get the picture. It was the kind of place you only get out of through professional sports, the rare academic scholarship, the armed forces, or a well-paying career in crime.

  “I had an after-school job—no time for sports. And I wasn’t focused enough for an academic scholarship. That left the armed forces or crime. My guidance counselor told me I’d better sign up with the army recruiter because I was too poor a liar to get away with crime—I’d talk my way into jail in no time. I was good at fighting. In my neighborhood you learned to fight just to make it to school and back. In fact, I got into so many fights, I think they graduated me just to get me off the school grounds. So I guess the army seemed a natural choice. It was the best decision I ever made.”

  Julie eyed Rick uncertainly. Was he pulling her leg? “But you said you were an officer, a captain. Don’t you need …”—she hesitated, not wanting to seem rude—“some kind of higher education to be an officer?”

  Rising to his feet, Rick prowled around the perimeter of the campsite, peering into the blackness of the jungle and walking over to the embankment to look up and down the river before coming back to squat down on his boot heels.

  “Sure! Just because I did a lot of fighting doesn’t mean I never studied. I finished high school with a reasonable GPA. And after I got to boot camp—well, once I’d had some discipline pounded into me by the meanest, toughest sergeant that ever kicked a squad of raw recruits into shape—he told me I should go back to school, figured I was officer material. I finished my bachelor’s degree while doing Special Forces training at Fort Bragg. Then I put in for officer’s training—went on for a master’s while I was on duty tour in Germany. It wasn’t long after that I transferred to San José to help train the Colombian counter-narcotics battalion. The army does offer more educational opportunities than weapons training and jungle warfare,” he finished dryly. “I just happened to take them.”

  He was making light of an impressive accomplishment for any kid from an inner-city Los Angeles barrio, and Julie knew it. Before she could comment, Rick looked across at her with a crooked half smile.

  “What about you, Julie Baker? You aren’t exactly a Joe-average news reporter. Some of the things you’ve done these last couple days would put a Special Ops to shame. It all seems a little wasted in Washington, D.C. Did you ever think of coming back to Colombia? Doing missionary work like your parents, or signing on with one of those environmental NGOs you write about? It seems like you’d be a natural for something like that.”

  Julie’s face hardened at the question. “No, never! You forget what this place did to my family—my friends.” She looked across at Rick. “You were there at that interrogation. You should know how I feel about this place. No, I have my own plans for my life, and they don’t include wasting it down here in the jungle like my parents did. I wouldn’t be here now if there hadn’t been a story involved. And if I ever get out of here …”

  Julie lifted her chin, defiance and challenge in its tilt. “The chances of that Pulitzer are looking better all the time. Not just a story—a whole book. Guerrilla captivity. The inner workings of a FARC front. An escape that’ll make pretty exciting reading, you have to admit. And of course a guerrilla fighter who turns out to be a Special Forces operative on a covert mission. I won’t have any problem finding a publisher.” She eyed the tightening of Rick’s jaw. “You don’t mind if I put you in, I hope. You did say your cover was blown.”

  “Can I stop you?” Rick demanded dryly. “As you said, my cover’s blown. You’re a free agent, and while I may not know all the ins and outs of freedom of the press, once we’re out of here I doubt there’s much I can do to muzzle you, short of tying you up and throwing you in the river. Unless someone up the line decides the story constitutes a breach of national security.” The look he shot her under his long lashes was cool. “Is it really that important to you—winning this Pulitzer, making it big on the news front?”

  “The Pulitzer Prize just happens to be the greatest honor in journalism,” Julie retorted. “And if you mean that’s all I care about, of course it isn’t. Do you think I like seeing people fighting and
hurting and … and dying?” Her voice wobbled, and she tilted her chin another defiant fraction. “But I learned a long time ago there was nothing I could do to change it. So why not do what I can do and be the very best I can at it? A book like this—telling about Carlos and the situation in San Ignacio and what’s happening down here in the demilitarized zone—maybe it will even raise public consciousness enough to make a difference somewhere. Is that so wrong? Or are you like the rest of the army types and just dislike reporters on general principle.”

  “No, there is nothing wrong with jounalism,” Rick said slowly. “If that’s what you want to do with your life.”

  He added nothing further, nor did Julie. Their conversation lapsed again into silence. The campfire had burned down to red coals, but here on the riverbank there was the glimmer of moon and stars to lighten the night, as there hadn’t been for so long. A complete lunar cycle had evidently gone by during the weeks that Julie had spent under the jungle canopy, because the moon above the river was again the fingernail shape it had been that night in the plaza. In a few more days it would be reduced to nothing.

  Its crescent gleam was bright enough to outline Rick’s face as he turned his head to peer out again toward the river, giving his strong, lean lines an austere, distant look. Julie felt the weight of his disapproval, whether real or her own imagination. Was he already reconsidering his earlier complimentary words and writing her off—Julie’s mouth twisted wryly at that journalistic pun—as a hopelessly frivolous and selfish member of the press? Not that it should matter what he thought of her. But, somehow, it did.

  “I … I really am sorry about your mission,” she ventured as the silence dragged on. “No matter how kind you’ve been about it, I know it’s my fault you had to abort it. If there was any way I could change it all, even now, I would.”

  Rick turned his head to face her, which had the effect of leaving his face in shadow. She could see nothing at all of his expression.

  “Look, there’s no point in continuing to apportion blame,” he said evenly. “None of this was anyone’s fault. It simply was. If you hadn’t been there, and they were looking for a spy, they might have turned me up even earlier. Or I may never have learned anything more useful than I have so far. We’ll never know, so there is no point in blaming either ourselves or each other over it. As for my mission, Colonel Thornton may already have intel from other sources as to exactly what’s going down here by now. I’ve never fooled myself into believing that I’m indispensable. In any case, if we are going to make it out of here, we have to put the past behind us, stop second-guessing what went wrong, and concentrate on our own survival.”

  He was right, Julie admitted silently. As usual. Recriminations and dwelling on the past would simply distract both of them from the very difficult task that still lay ahead of them. And that went for the future as well. It was futile to be making plans for anything beyond this wilderness. It simply drained energy and thought needed to survive the here and now.

  Easier said than done. Julie watched a glowing-red branch in the campfire break apart and begin to die to ash-white.

  “So, what are you thinking about now?”

  Julie looked up, startled both by Rick’s question and the amiability of his tone. He had gotten to his feet again and was prowling around the perimeter.

  “Actually, I was thinking about Tim,” she said honestly. “I know there’s nothing we can do about him now, and it’s a waste of energy to keep worrying. And I guess in some ways he may be safer with the guerrillas than we are right now. But—well, when I thought he was you … or one of you—you know, a government spy—I figured he must be trained to take care of himself.” She eyed Rick’s lean, muscled outline. “Like you! He always seemed so—well, sure of himself. But if I was all wrong and he really is just a journalist, like he said—what if they do blame him because I’ve escaped? What if they decide to kill him?”

  “They won’t,” Rick said quietly but definitely. “Look, I can understand your concern, but it isn’t necessary. I know how Aguilera thinks. If they were going to kill McAdams, they’d have done it when they decided to kill you. Killing him now won’t bring you back. McAdams is worth more as a hostage to them than he would be dead—especially with you out on the loose. So I wouldn’t worry your head about them. As you said, he is probably safer, and certainly eating better”—Julie caught the wry tilt of his mouth in the moonlight—“than we are out here. Once we’re out of here, we’ll report to the authorities what has happened to him, and they can take it from there. Until then, there isn’t any point in dwelling on it.”

  Cold but logical. And however unemotional Rick’s response, Julie found it comforting. Pushing herself to her feet, she had begun to pick up the remnants of supper when she caught Rick’s quick swing to study the brush behind him.

  “What is it?” Julie emulated his narrowed scrutiny, but she could see nothing beyond the campfire but the black wall of the jungle. “Do you see something out there?”

  Rick shook his head, but it was a long moment before he relaxed his watchful stance. “No, I don’t. But I just feel—I don’t know. As though there are eyes out there on us.”

  “I know. I’ve felt it too,” Julie agreed. “But I haven’t seen or heard anything. I’d pretty well decided it was my imagination.”

  “Maybe,” Rick agreed, lowering the assault rifle that had come up automatically as he spun around. “Maybe there’s a jaguar or puma on our trail—though they aren’t usually so persistent.”

  He dumped an armful of dry branches he’d gathered on the fire. The coals caught at the wood, and the flames shot up. “I don’t like marking our position with a fire. Anyone watching could see this clear downriver. But we’re going to have to risk it. The guerrillas won’t be searching for us at night, if they still are at all, and we’ve seen no sign of other human habitation out here. Right now I’m more concerned with warding off four-legged predators than alerting two-legged ones.”

  He nodded toward the caleta. “I’ll gather some more wood, then take the first watch. Why don’t you get some sleep?” The terseness of his order was ruined by a huge yawn, and as the flames leaped up from the fresh fuel, Julie saw deep lines of weariness as he rubbed a hand over his face.

  “Oh, no, not this time!” she said firmly. “I had a decent sleep last night. You didn’t. You get some sleep. I’ll take first watch.” As he opened his mouth, she added quickly, “I mean it. I’m not even sleepy. I’m not going to bed this early anyway, so you might as well.”

  It was a mark of his exhaustion that he didn’t argue. Collecting another armful of broken branches and brush, he dumped it close to the campfire and said briefly, “Keep the fire going, and don’t let me sleep too long. Call me if anything moves.”

  As he crawled into the caleta, he paused to add quietly, “Thanks for everything, Julie.”

  * * *

  The watchers had seen Rick and Julie searching for them. But they were not concerned. These two moved in the jungle better than most foreigners. And it was clear that the girl had not forgotten all she had learned of the ways of the rainforest. Even so, the two foreigners were loud and clumsy enough to alert all but the slowest of the jungle creatures to remove themselves from their path. All but one jaguar that had indeed been tracking their scent. Though it was probably only curious, the watchers had dispatched it earlier that day.

  They watched now as the girl walked around the campsite, picking up additional pieces of wood, before settling herself between fire and shelter. Though she didn’t have their preternaturally sharp night vision, if she wished to watch the dark, they judged, she would do better without the fire. Still, she couldn’t know that the fire wasn’t necessary to keep predators away.

  The watchers withdrew from their vigil before the debate began. They had obeyed thus far in trailing the foreigners to this place. But now danger lay ahead. And the very core of the evil that infected the jungle. Should they continue or turn back?

&nb
sp; Or choose a third path—to reveal themselves to those they watched? They had no clear orders to govern their decision, and if the girl was known to them, the man was not. Nor were his weapons, the deadliness of which they had already witnessed. He did not act like a captor, yet he was one of those who had taken the girl captive. Perhaps they should destroy the man and take the girl with them.

  But if he were not an enemy, she might be angry. And even if they took the girl, could she help them in this crisis? Would she? That had been the question all along. Children did not always follow the patterns of their parents.

  Still, the matter did not have to be decided tonight. If the man and the girl continued on their present course, they would uncover the danger that filled the jungle for themselves. Then the decision would have to be made.

  * * *

  For once Winston Crawford the Third was not in General Brad Johnson’s office when Colonel Thornton called. The SouthCom commander himself answered on the third ring of the sat-phone. Colonel Thornton waited only to hear his laconic, “Hello, Jeff. Brad here,” to say emotionlessly, “He’s gone.”

  There was a pause as the SouthCom commander processed that cryptic information. Then, “What do you mean he’s gone? I thought you said you knew exactly where he was and that you were confident he was alive and well even though there hadn’t been verbal communication.”

  “That situation has been altered,” Colonel Thornton told him. “You see, when we sent Captain Martini into the DMZ, we provided him with a lifeline. A GPS tracker embedded in the walkie-talkie he carried. In a last-case scenario, it was designed to send off a distress signal to call us in for retrieval. Only last night we lost the signal. We’ve spent the last twenty-four hours checking all possibilities of technical failure on our end. There are none, and we haven’t been able to reestablish contact.”