Into the Jungle

by David M. Salkin

  “Roger that, Tarzan. Check in at waypoint one. You have five hours. Over and out.” With that, Dex hung up the phone.

  Mackey and Cascaes opened the sealed mission pack and pulled out a small disc that they inserted into a miniature handheld computer. The computer, similar in size to a CD player, had a small color screen with GIS capabilities, as well as communication uplinks and a search and rescue homing beacon. Once the disc was in, Mackey tapped out his code, and a map of the area popped up. The first waypoint was shown in red down the Broad River approximately five miles downstream.

  “Dex gave us five hours to go five miles. What am I missing?” asked Cascaes.

  Mackey smiled. “The Glades here are unpredictable. Just because the river is shown someplace on the map, doesn’t mean that’s where it is. This place floods and changes course every season. If we’re on the river, we can be there in twenty-five minutes. If we have to hump it carrying the rafts, I’m not sure we’ll be there next week.”

  Cascaes smiled, his perfect white teeth gleaming in the hot sun. “The only easy day was yesterday, coach.” He turned and started walking quickly to the men. “Okay boys! Vacation is over. We have five hours to cover five miles of nasty jungle. Temperature will go up ten degrees an hour, so I suggest we start humpin’. Move out!”

  The men helped each other with the gear, including the inflatable rubber rafts that were the heaviest part of their equipment. The mean helped get the large deflated rafts, still in folded square bundles that weighed over sixty pounds, on to the backs of Moose and Ripper, who typically carried the heaviest loads. They strained under the weight as they found their centers of gravity. The packs weren’t heavier than normal, just bulkier and harder to manage. Once everyone had their packs on, they followed Mackey and Cascaes single file into the misty heat of the glades.

  An hour into their “walk in the woods”, they realized why they had been given five hours. The trail ended only a few hundred yards away from the old airstrip and they found themselves in thorny vines and muck that tried to suck their boots off. Each step became slower than the last until they found a bearable pace in a huffing and puffing rhythm.

  When they arrived at the point where the river should be, it wasn’t there. Instead, they were struggling in muddy swamp and mangrove roots. They had all soaked through their jungle camos, and found themselves feeding the mosquitoes and flies. They stopped at the first fairly dry spot that they found and knelt down on one knee for a water break while Mackey and Cascaes decided their course of action. Mackey pulled out his computer and switched from the GPS map to a satellite image of their location. He kept zooming in until he could see exactly where they were supposed to be in real time, but of course the thick everglade canopy prevented them from seeing themselves. He moved around the screen trying to see in all directions for snakelike breaks in the canopy that might mean a river, but there wasn’t much to go on. He eventually had to zoom out almost ten miles to find the Broad River where it became wider and more evident. Once he had located the river, he carefully backtracked to their present location, losing the tiny line along the way.

  “At least we have a heading,” he mumbled to Cascaes. “Send Santos and Jones ahead along this heading without their gear except for weapons, radio and GIS handheld. They’re marine scouts and should be used to this shit.”

  Cascaes called them up and relayed the instructions. Santos and Jones stripped off their packs and quickly rubbed mosquito repellent all over their faces, necks and exposed arms and hands. They took a quick swig of water and hustled off into the thick tropical mess following the compass heading that Cascaes had given them. As marine scouts and eventually force recon marines, this was no worse than their usual playtime in the woods. Now, without sixty pounds of gear on their backs, they felt lighter, faster and more confident.

  The rest of the team took a break for a quick MRE, water and a piss and waited for the two marines to radio in. They called in forty minutes later.

  “Coach, this is shortstop. We’re at the river. Over.”

  “How far from us, shortstop?” asked Mackey.

  “Estimate another kilometer from where you are, but we have a better heading for you. We came the hard way. If you head north by northwest, you’ll get to the river further upstream. We can insert there and float downstream. River looks deep enough and clear. Over.”

  “Roger, shortstop. Stay near the river and keep an eye out for us. We are en route.”

  “Roger that, coach. Oh, and one more thing, boss.”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s fucking alligators out here. Out.”

  It was quiet enough in the swamp that they all heard what he said.

  “Alligators? That’s just great,” mumbled Lance Woods, one of the Army Rangers.

  Ripper, always one to bust chops took the shot. “Yeah, I know, Woods—you rangers always want to eat the local grub. You gonna eat gator, or gator gonna eat you?”

  They re-shouldered their gear, plus the stuff left behind by Jones and Santos, and took off in the direction of their new heading. Jake Koches was on point with a machete, hacking his way through the nasty vines. Cascaes followed their progress on his handheld GPS system while Mackey kept his screen set on the satellite image. Thirty minutes later Lance Woods called back from his position on point that he could see the river ahead. It had been an hour and they hadn’t covered a mile yet. They were all soaked with sweat and breathing like they had swum three miles.

  Santos called in that he had visual and was heading in. They rendezvoused at the green slimy edge of the river and Ripper and Moose dropped the rafts on the mud. A quick press of a button and the two packs exploded into large black rafts each capable of holding eight men and equipment, although not particularly comfortably. In any case, it sure beat walking.

  The men quietly stowed their gear in the rafts and assembled their small oars. The river had a slow current, but would do most of the work for them. They pushed into the stream and hopped in, straddling the sides of their rafts while drifting down the thick brownish green river. Birds called from everywhere, and occasionally a splash would alert them to an alligator entering the water.

  As they continued downstream the brownish river became more like green water and less like brown liquefied mud. The current picked up ever so slightly and the sun shone down brightly on the men, lifting their spirits. The river meandered through the raw beauty that was the Everglades, and the men just took it all in. No one spoke as they watched birds flutter through the lush greenery. In less than twenty minutes they traveled three times as far as they had in the first hour, and they arrived at their first waypoint two hours ahead of schedule.

  Once they were where they were supposed to be, the GIS indicator changed from red to green and popped up a new set of coordinates with their second waypoint. It was a delta where the Broad River met the Gulf, and that news brought big smiles to the SEALs.

  “Boys, we are gonna be in crystal clear blue water this time tomorrow,” announced Cascaes with a smile. That brought more than a few “hoo-aas,” and an increase in the speed of the paddling.

  Chapter 9

  Jungles near Ciudad del Este, Paraguay

  Vega was in a sour mood. Evidently, the little bitch had gone crying to Chief Kuka about Vega’s “improprieties.” Communication with Kuka was always a challenge, and it took a gift of one of Vega’s machetes to calm the old man down. Kuka made reference to wanting rum, but Vega had made that mistake only once. The men were angry drunks, and it never took more than a few swigs for them to get out of control. In the end, the chief settled for the machete and Vega’s half apology.

  He and the chief headed out to the center of the village, where his men had assembled along with fifty of Kuka’s porters and warriors. The warriors wore their green feathers and paint which, they were sure, made them invisible in the jungle. Vega’s men all carried AK-47s, but
had put extra ammunition, C-4, detonators and rocket launchers in a pile on the ground for the porters to carry for them on the long miserable walk back to the river in Brazil.

  The Guarani women brought smoked meats and fish wrapped in leaves to their men for the journey. Vega’s men would eat the same thing, although they brought their own water, treated with chlorine tablets. The Guarani men were happy to drink water from the ground, leaves, or holes in trees. Nothing seemed to make them sick, unlike Vega’s men.

  Enrique went over his instructions one last time with his three best men, and Kuka spoke with his own warriors and porters as well. They were all clear on their mission, and headed out into the jungle to the beautiful singing of the Guarani women and children.

  They would walk the two days to the river where the Arabs had a boat waiting for them. The boat would take Vega’s men, leaving the Guaranis to wait for their return. Vega’s men would continue north to the great Itaipu Dam, then disembark to waiting trucks that would drive them to Ciudad del Este. Once there, they had maps and specific instructions on what was to occur and when.

  Leah was with Director Holstrum and Darren Davis in the director’s office when she called down to her agent in Paraguay on an encrypted phone. The conference call had been arranged the day before, as it wasn’t always easy for Julia Ortiz to get total privacy. She had a small office on the outskirts of Ciudad del Este in the International Center for Domestic Relief. Her office, which employed locals to work with the Guaranis, was usually empty because they would typically be out in the field working with the indigenous people to help them find employment, improve their education and improve their housing.

  The CIA funded a good portion of their efforts through paper charities, which actually did help the Guaranis, but ultimately, that wasn’t the actual mission. Julia Ortiz, who was as beautiful as any Hollywood model, used her position as the director of the center to gain access to as many of Paraguay’s influential politicians as possible. While they considered her a lobbyist and general “do-gooder” with her hand out for funds, Paraguay’s most powerful politicians were always eager to speak with her and have their photos taken with the “Guardian of the Guaranis”.

  The poor of Paraguay considered her a saint, and the poor voted, too. It was always in the politician’s best interest to remain on her good side. Almost every one of the men she came in contact with propositioned her, some more blatantly than others. Two members of the Council of Ministers, the president’s direct Cabinet, had actually come right out and told her that they would get her more funding if she would agree to a few days in their private villas. The “Latin lovers” had no success, however, she did continue to flirt shamelessly with them. Even when working in the field, her short black hair and huge brown eyes shone like polished ebony. She had high cheekbones and a golden complexion, the type that millions of Americans paid for under UV lamps.

  At five feet tall and a hundred pounds, you’d think she would blend into her surroundings, but it was not the case. Wherever she went, she was noticed. At first, it was assumed she could never be a field agent because of that simple fact, until she learned how to use it to her advantage. Her smile and pleading eyes opened doors that others simply could not. She had learned to love the Guarani people over the few years she had been there, and her cover story ended up being a passion of hers. She was doing not only high quality work gathering intelligence on the Paraguayan government, but also for the poor natives that had been so abused for the past five-hundred years. After three years with them, she had actually become fairly fluent in their ancient language—something not easily done, since it didn’t resemble Spanish or Portuguese at all.

  For the sake of the incoming call, she had made sure her staff was busy and out of her small office. She swept it for bugs using equipment supplied by the CIA as she did before each phone call, and locked herself in her small office.

  “Hello, Julia,” said Leah from a world away. “I am here with the director and another friend. We’re checking in to see if there’s anything new floating around the rumor mill.”

  “Hello my friends,” she said quietly. “Do you refer to our friend Jim’s arrival?”

  “Yes. We understand he has a meeting with the vice-president to discuss handling some problems in the jungle. Do you have any predictions on his success?”

  “I do not know the vice-president myself,” she said. “But, if he is anything like the President’s Cabinet or the senators and deputies I have met, our friend Jim had better be bringing a suitcase.”

  “Do you think it goes that high?” asked Leah.

  “Nothing would surprise me here. Sometimes I think about these Latin and South American countries and I want to cry. They’re full of natural resources and people that want to work, and yet they all live in poverty except for the elite. It’s a disgrace. I have yet to find a politician down here that really cares about anything other than his own bank account and staying elected.”

  “Makes the States looks a little better?” asked Leah.

  “You have no idea. Sometimes I can’t wait to get the hell out of here, and then other days the Guarani children will teach me a song or take me for a walk through the forest and I could stay here forever. Anyway, there’s only so much one person can do down here.”

  “Well, we all hear you are doing great things for the locals. I don’t think we’ve ever had one of our employees take their extra employment so seriously. You are to be commended. Julia, can you get a feel for what is happening in the tri-border area now?”

  “I haven’t heard much since my last report to you, really. Vega appears to have wiped out all of his competitors, and the rumors about weapons coming in from the Middle East are almost common knowledge. I had mentioned that to a senator last month—about the fact that Guaranis shouldn’t be carrying AK-47s, and he laughed at me. ‘They aren’t the ones with the AKs,’ he told me, like that was supposed to make me feel better. The local Guaranis tell me that Vega employs Pampidos Guaranis that have returned to the jungle and the ancient ways. They are fierce people. I’ve heard rumors of cannibalism, although I have no proof.”

  “How lovely,” said Leah. “We understand that there are plenty of Iranians and Arabs living in Ciudad del Este now—true?”

  “Yes. This is an industrial and international city. The crime rate is horrible, and yet foreign nationals keep coming here. I am pretty damn sure that Al Qaeda, Hamas, and Hezbollah all have plenty of representation down here. And they all have deep pockets, which is why I am doubtful that Jim will have much success. I don’t think it’s any secret that he is here to pressure the Paraguayan government to help go after these organizations.”

  Director Holstrum spoke up. “Julia, this is the director. First off, you are doing a great job—I mean that. I hope you will stay down there a while longer.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you,” she said quietly.

  “In the event that Jim can’t get our friends to play along nicely down there, we do have a ‘Plan B.’ You will be contacted should this go into effect. Your knowledge of the Guarani people and the lay of the land down there will be important should it come to that.”

  “Visitors, sir?” she asked.

  “Affirmative,” he said.

  “With all respect, you’d need a small army, sir,” she said.

  “We agree with you, Julia. And that is exactly what we intend to use.”

  Chapter 10

  Ciudad del Este

  The Guaranis led Vega’s men through the winding jungle trails back to the river where the boats where waiting for them. To an outsider, it might seem strange to see an Iranian crew aboard a boat in Paraguay greeting a group of green painted warriors and drug smugglers. But it was just another day on the Parana River.

  The Guaranis loaded the boat and then disappeared back into the jungle to await the return of Vega’s men. As soon as the boat was loaded and Ve
ga’s men were all aboard, the crew gunned the engine and they roared upstream towards to world’s largest dam.

  It was a pleasant ride for Vega’s men, with the air blowing over them at thirty-five knots—a welcomed change from the sticky and stagnant air of the jungle. They disembarked at their waiting trucks and reloaded, then set off up the dirt roads that would lead to the highways going to Ciudad del Este. They arrived at night, and began scrambling around in the dark city streets, preparing for a morning that would rock the city and send a message to the Americans about meddling in their part of the world.

  Ambassador Jim McKnight sat in the back of a black SUV following his security detail. A second SUV followed close behind with his secretary and another staff member. In all, there were eleven of them in the three sleek black vehicles. It was almost nine in the morning. Jim had gotten up at six and went over his speech one last time, the one he would give to the twenty other nations that would be attending the summit. More importantly, he planned to share proof with the vice president about Middle Eastern involvement in the local drug trade and weapons trafficking. He had been called by the US President himself two days ago to remind him of the importance of this diplomatic mission. McKnight was a veteran of the diplomatic corps and a good negotiator. If anyone could get it done, it was he.

  As their small convoy approached the Paraguayan Center for International Trade, traffic slowed. Hundreds of vehicles with diplomatic tags filled the streets and television news crews were setting up near the large steps that led to the massive granite columns outside the impressive building. Police and private security teams stood around with machine guns across their chests, a show of force that was just that—a show.

  McKnight’s convoy came to a stop behind the Brazilian convoy, which was cued up behind the Mexican convoy that was already unloading. McKnight was shoving his papers into his valise when Vega’s man Carlos pressed the button on the detonator from across the street. The C-4 that had been carefully hidden with bags of gutter nails in ten large flower pots near the entranceway went off simultaneously, sending the Mexican Ambassador’s Mercedes ten feet into the air and, like a claymore mine, sending out a cloud of thousands of nails.