Amazon Burning (A James Acton Thriller, #10)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “That’s the environmentalist! He and his friend Steve Parker claimed to have been attacked by Special Ops soldiers. Parker just left a few hours ago with the Brazilian rescue team to talk to the Venezuelans upriver.”

  “Well, the Mitchells and Turnbull were released earlier today with all charges dropped, but never arrived at their hotel. In fact, an intercept suggests they left on a private plane heading for Venezuela a couple of hours ago.”

  Acton and Milton stared at each other, dumbfounded. “I can’t see them doing that voluntarily,” said Milton. “It makes no sense.”

  “No it doesn’t,” agreed Kane. “My contacts gave me a set of coordinates just inside the Venezuelan border where the plane disappeared from radar, presumably landing on an unknown runway. I’m sending those to your phone now.”

  The phone vibrated with a message and Acton quickly looked to confirm receipt. “Okay, we’ve got them. But what the hell can we do? We’ve got seven security guys with us, one who’s wounded, and a bunch of natives who we shouldn’t get involved. This is really a thing governments need to get involved with.”

  “I don’t think we’ve got that kind of time.”

  Kane’s statement sounded ominous, and Acton gripped the arms of his chair tight. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you’ve got a Special Forces team, possibly from China, in the area, killing witnesses. They are tapped into communications well enough to have known about Turnbull in Manaus. Now he made a phone call with Mitchell’s satellite phone, which was obviously monitored. That means all calls on that phone would have been checked.”

  “You mean the calls made to here.” Acton’s voice was almost a whisper as he realized the implications.

  “Exactly. They know about Parker, and they know he told you about what they saw. If they’re willing to kidnap Turnbull and your students in broad daylight, then they’re coming for you. I guarantee it.”

  “Then we have to get out of here now!” exclaimed Milton, turning in his chair as he surveyed their surroundings.

  Acton shared his friend’s feelings, but also knew that panicking had never proven useful in the past. “What do you recommend?” he asked the expert.

  “I’ve got help on the way, off the books. They should be there before morning. I suggest you brief Leather. He’s ex-SAS, he’ll know exactly what to do. Now, I’ve got to go. I’m in the middle of an op but when this intel flashed my way I had to pass it on. Good luck, Professor.”

  “Okay, Dylan. Thanks for this. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Good bye.”

  The call ended and Acton quickly input the coordinates into the Google Maps app on the iPad. “It’s the middle of nowhere. Nothing but trees!”

  Milton nodded. “But somewhere in there, somehow, a plane landed.”

  “And there’s something there worth killing for.”

  Steve Parker sat anxiously awaiting news, any news, on whether or not the Venezuelans were going to help. It had only taken an hour to reach the border, guarded merely by signs indicating the fact it was a border, and that all vessels crossing should report to customs upriver at the next town. Fortunately they’d been able to avoid that, a random boat patrol having just arrived when they did. The two boats were lashed to a dock that had been set up he assumed by both countries at some point, the Venezuelans on the northern side of the old wood structure, the Brazilians on the south.

  Several radio calls had been made and apparently word was working its way up the chain of command, which in a near-communist state like Venezuela meant it needed to go almost to the top, decision making power rarely delegated to the first several layers of bureaucracy.

  Parker looked at his watch.

  Two hours!

  It was ridiculous how long things were taking, but he had to be patient. He had to not look annoyed otherwise he might piss off the Venezuelans who were his only hope of saving his friends.

  If they’re alive.

  He pushed the thought aside. They had to be alive. He couldn’t give up hope now, now that he was so close to finally getting them help. Surely the Venezuelans would help, especially now that they knew the Brazilians were involved. He was relieved that Lt. Colombo had agreed to talk to the Venezuelans despite the fact he hadn’t been able to reach Turnbull. He wasn’t too worried about not having reached him, he just thanked God Turnbull was safe and working from the outside to get help. The phone belonged to the Professors’ people so there could be any number of reasons why they hadn’t answered.

  He stood up, unable to take the waiting any more, and stretched. Lt. Colombo sat on the dock with a couple of his men and two of the Venezuelans, chatting in Spanish and smoking exchanged cigars, a flask of something being passed around as they passed the time on friendly terms. He got the distinct impression they all knew each other, and it might very well be possible—he couldn’t see there being too many people available to patrol this area.

  Heads turned north, into Venezuela, as a boat motor made its presence known. Everyone rose, watching as a boat raced around a bend, making directly for them. He knew enough Spanish to know the Venezuelans had no idea who the new arrivals were, and he also knew enough to know that if help were that close, there wouldn’t have been as much doubt expressed earlier about what they could do.

  Colombo took a pair of binoculars from one of his men and peered into them. His jaw dropped, the cigar he had been enjoying falling from his mouth, onto the dock. He tossed the binoculars back and started barking orders, the Venezuelans confused for a moment, then following suit. Ropes lashed a moment ago to the dock were untied, motors fired up, and the Brazilian boat was pushed away, already turning down river, its motor in full gear.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, terrified to hear the answer. The binoculars were tossed to him and he looked through them to see the Venezuelan boat pulling into the middle of the river, several men lying on the prow, machineguns laid out in front of them. He heard something being announced over a speaker from the Venezuelan boat but he couldn’t make it out, their own engine too loud, the distance between them growing rapidly.

  He changed his angle slightly and suddenly the new arrival appeared. And he nearly shit his pants. Aboard the all black vessel were at least a dozen heavily armed men, all dressed head to toe in black.

  “That’s who attacked us!” he cried, pointing. “That’s them!”

  “We know, senhor!” cried Colombo, screaming into his radio. He slammed it on the side of the boat several times and tried again. “It’s not working!”

  “They must be jamming communications!” Parker had watched enough spy movies to know it was a possibility if you had the right hardware. Which meant that these guys were not only well-armed, but well-equipped with state-of-the-art equipment.

  Could they be American?

  The ones that had attacked his team were speaking some Chinese sounding language, definitely not English. And from what he had seen through the binoculars, these new arrivals were wearing the same gear as the team that attacked—hardly something he’d expect if they were from different countries.

  Gunfire erupted from the arriving boat, tearing huge holes in the Venezuelan craft. The men on the prow returned fire, their bullets seemingly ineffective.

  “We’ve gotta go faster!” yelled Parker, Colombo apparently shouting the same thing, the officer at the controls already giving the boat all she had.

  And it wouldn’t be enough.

  A streak of smoke raced over the water drawing a line of death from the attacking boat toward the Venezuelans. When the rocket impacted the entire front of the boat erupted in flames sending the men on the prow spiraling through the air, screaming. The remaining Venezuelans jumped overboard as the fuel line ignited, the boat erupting into a large fireball as the wood it was constructed of splintered and flew in every direction. The men flailed in the water, surrounded by burning fuel and oil, desperately waving toward the Brazilians for help, but Colombo appeared to have no intentions
of providing it.

  And Parker was okay with that.

  They turned a bend, losing sight of the chaos, the only evidence of it the distant pleas from the survivors, and a ball of dark black smoke smeared across the sky, slowly rising and dissipating as all evidence of the event was slowly wiped out by Mother Nature. Small arms fire suddenly was heard over the engine and within moments the cries of the survivors in the water were silenced.

  Then the engine of the attacker’s boat roared back to life.

  “We’re dead if we stay here!”

  “Where would you have us go, senhor?”

  It was a reasonable question, and the choices were limited. All Parker knew was that the choice of staying with the boat was the wrong one. He rushed across the deck toward the port side and jumped into the water, swimming as hard and as fast as he could, his heavy boots dragging him down, but he knew he’d need those if he were to survive. As he struggled toward the river’s edge he glanced over his shoulder, taking a deep breath, and saw Colombo gripping the railing, shouting after him as the boat continued swiftly down the river, the high-pitched whine of their pursuers growing closer.

  He reached the shore and looked to his left. He could hear the engine of the attacking boat nearing and suddenly it burst around the corner, banking sharply toward the Brazilians, Colombo’s men opening fire. Parker sucked in a deep breath then dropped below the waterline, praying he hadn’t been noticed in the split second he had been in view. The boat raced by him. He could hear the muffled sounds of weapons fire and what he thought was a splashing sound. His mind raced as to what that could be, and terror suddenly seized him as he realized it could be a crocodile coming for him.

  He waved his arms and kicked his feet, pushing himself closer to the shore then finally came up for air looking downriver to see the boat he had just been on in flames, the men fighting a losing battle as the superior firepower of their foes overwhelmed them.

  Parker reached for some roots and pulled himself out of the river, his waterlogged clothes slowing him down, and just as he was about to collapse onto dry ground, he heard something erupt from the water behind him then felt an incredibly sharp pain in his back. He screamed out in agony as he felt something heavy land on him, pinning him in place. Turning his head to see what had attacked him, he saw a man in a wetsuit, goggles covering most of his face, as the knife buried in his back was withdrawn then used to slice his throat open.

  And as he slowly bled out, his attacker pulled his body deeper from shore and out of sight of anyone who might pass by, leaving him to be reclaimed by the forest, and the creatures that inhabited it.

  Barasana Village on the Rio Negro, Northern Amazon, Brazil

  “Colonel!”

  Leather turned toward Acton as he rushed down the dock to the shore. He said something quietly to the two members of his team that were with him, then approached Acton. “Yes, Professor?”

  “We’ve got trouble.” Acton quickly summarized Kane’s phone call and could see the concern growing on Leather’s face the more he spoke.

  “And he didn’t give an ETA on when this ‘help’ would arrive?”

  Acton shook his head. “Just that they should arrive before morning.”

  “And I assume this help is your Bravo Team buddies?”

  “I assume so, but I don’t know for sure.”

  Leather’s lips were drawn back into thin lines as he surveyed the village, the village of over two hundred innocents who wouldn’t stand a chance against modern weaponry.

  Laura walked up to them, a smile on her tired face. “Tuk has gone back to sleep. Kinti was wonderful, she apparently learned his language when she was a child on a work exchange with a village near his. She thinks she might have actually met him but she’s not sure, it was so long ago.” She stopped, eyeing Acton and Leather, her smile disappearing. “What’s wrong?”

  Acton brought her up to speed, she too surveying the natives around them as he spoke. “What are we going to do?” she asked no one in particular.

  “It’s almost dusk now,” said Leather, looking at the sky. “Leaving on the boat isn’t really an option. If they’re indeed coming for us, then they’ll come either by boat, or on foot. If I were them I’d say boat since their home base we assume is a good three day’s hike from here. They could travel that distance in a fast boat in a matter of hours.”

  “So they could be here at any time.”

  “Or never.” Leather waved one of his men over, a former SAS captain named Chester. He briefed him quickly then pointed upriver. “Hike fifteen minutes upriver, set up position and watch for any activity. Radio us if you see anything. If you do, do not engage, hoof it back here as quickly as you can. If we have already been engaged and captured, retreat and await the arrival of the Delta team. If they’ve killed us all, get the bodies home. If they’ve captured some of us, give them these GPS coordinates”—he showed Acton’s iPad to the soldier who quickly wrote them down—“and tell them this is where we presume their base of operations is. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Now go, and good hunting!”

  “Yes, sir!” Chester rushed over to the small camp set up by Leather’s men and moments later reemerged from his tent fully equipped. He disappeared into the woods as the rest of the team began to approach, their curiosity piqued.

  Laura lowered her voice. “What are we going to do, Colonel?”

  “We could retreat by boat. That would at least in theory protect the villagers. But we also know they’ve killed or captured an entire village so it might not protect them.”

  “It sounds like they captured them,” said Laura, relating Tuk’s story about how he had seen everyone gathered in the village center, all alive except for two. “And one of the dead, a woman, it sounded to me by the way it was described that she may have been tasered. Apparently one of the Panther People as he calls them held out his hand and she shook as she hit the ground.”

  “If they’re tasing people then they want them for something.” Acton scratched behind his ear. “Slaves?”

  Leather nodded. “That’s the only thing I can think of. Whatever the Venezuelans have going on they must need labor for it, and if it’s so top secret that they’ll kill to prevent anyone from knowing about it, they probably want to minimize their own people which means laborers from the cities are probably out of the question. Natives however wouldn’t be missed by anybody and don’t need to be paid.”

  Laura shook her head in disbelief. “What the bloody hell do they have going on up there that they would do such a thing? It can’t be illegal logging. That’s not worth killing for, wiping out villages for!”

  “I’m guessing it’s something far more valuable than trees,” agreed Leather, ending the conversation. “But now we need to make a decision. Do we leave on the boat and possibly leave the villagers to be taken as slaves or worse, or do we stay and try to defend the village, against a most likely superior force?”

  “How superior?” asked Acton.

  “Their boat would have to be pretty big to bring more than a dozen men, so I’m guessing squad or platoon size, ten to twenty. And we’re seven, with one wounded.”

  “Correction. We’re ten. Laura, Reading and I are all trained and can fight.”

  Leather grunted. “If these are truly Special Forces, especially Chinese Special Forces, they will be highly trained, and brutal. They don’t fight under the same code we do. You will have to kill them or they will kill you. They’re not likely to follow the Geneva Convention. This will be a fight to the total death.”

  Acton felt himself pale slightly as Laura grabbed his arm. He decided to let her speak first. “I don’t see that we have much choice. These people have done nothing wrong. We need to protect them if we can.”

  Acton looked at his wife with a proud smile as he placed his hand over hers gripping his arm. He squeezed it three times.

  I love you!

  “Agreed,” said Acton. “Our priority is saving
these people. Hopefully we’ll have the element of surprise.”

  “Very well,” said Leather, his emotions well hidden leaving Acton to wonder if he agreed with the decision. “I suggest you try and get the natives to leave the village at once and take refuge as far into the forest as possible.”

  Laura nodded, immediately heading back to the communal lodge where the elders were. Leather turned to Acton. “You see if you can get the boat crew to help. I’m guessing they’ll sail within ten minutes.”

  Acton allowed himself a single, wry laugh. “I wouldn’t take that bet.”

  He watched as Leather left to brief his men, then returned to the boat to fill Milton in on what had been decided.

  Decided for him. A near cripple now in the middle of a war zone with no safe method of escape.

  I never should have invited him on this trip!

  Undocumented Landing Strip, Northern Amazon, Venezuela

  Terrence Mitchell stumbled from the small plane, out onto the dirt runway carved into the forest. As the plane was pushed into a small sheet-metal hangar, he watched in awe as two vehicles drove toward them from the opposite end of the runway, pulling massive camouflage netting between them. Within minutes of their arrival there would be no evidence from the air of a runway existing.

  What was even more stunning however was what lay to their left. A massive strip mine, carved deep into the jungle floor. And overtop, similar, thicker, netting, covering the entire area from prying eyes. Unless someone happened to fly directly overhead, at a low altitude, they would never know it was there.

  And how many planes actually fly low over this area?

  Mitchell guessed few if any. He exchanged stunned glances with Jenny and Turnbull before they were shoved forward by several armed guards, all dressed like the Special Ops soldiers Turnbull had described earlier. As they entered a camouflaged building built among the trees, the windows capped with large overhangs he assumed were designed to prevent any reflection from the sun being seen from above, he heard a cry from within the mine, and some shouting. As he peered below in the fading light, he gasped.