Jungle Hunt

“Normally, yes, but the Ecuador-Colombian border is important for a couple other reasons. Although the two countries have recently put an end to their hostilities, things tensed up again in ’08 after a Colombian military action against FARC rebels left twenty dead, and relations between the two countries strained to the breaking point. And I haven’t even mentioned how chummy Ecuador’s president is with Venezuela yet—and we know what Chavez thinks of America. The U.S. wants the oil folks to get their work done smoothly and to ensure that no rogue elements on any side—FARC, the Colombian military, anybody—inflame any tensions that could spark a full-scale war. The idea is to send you down there to keep the peace and head off anything before it makes headlines.”

“And I’m guessing that any intervention by American forces would be seen as the U.S. sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong,” Bolan said.

“Got it in one, Striker. With the Ecuadorian president still clinging to power after an attempted police coup in 2010, State doesn’t want to do any on-the-record poking around down there unless we’re sure folks’re being naughty. That, of course, is where you come in.”

“Of course. Do I have a cover, or am I just supposed to run around the jungle and see who shoots at me first?”

“We’re inserting you using the Cooper alias—you’ve decided to head down and report on the state of the rainforest, find out the real story about oil drilling there, that sort of Pulitzer prize–grabbing material. Your modified jacket’s already on the way and will be in place before you’re on the ground. Once there, I’m sure you’ll root out anything that’s happening soon enough.”

“Fair enough. Give me any updates on the locals from the Agency, and I’ll review them on the way over. South America’s been fun so far—I’m sure Ecuador will be, too.”

“That’s the spirit. With luck you’ll just tour the countryside, and everything will be nice and peaceful.”

“Hal, they wouldn’t be sending me down there if that was the case—you know that.”

“Hey, I can dream, can’t I?” Brognola grumbled. “Just keep your powder and your feet dry, Striker. Call in when you touch down in Neuva Loja. We’ll work out the rest from there.”

“Will do. Striker out.” He’d no sooner disconnected when McCarter stuck his head over the seat.

“Back into it, eh?”

“Yup, apparently there may be some unrest brewing west of here—White House wants it checked out.”

“Lucky bastard—trade you details?” The Brit’s tone was hopeful.

“No chance, David. The rainforest still needs to be standing once I’m done there.”

“Hey, I’d leave most of it intact.” McCarter actually sounded wounded by Bolan’s gibe.

“Still, they asked for me and that’s what they’re gonna get. I’m sure something’ll come up that needs your unique talents soon enough.” Bolan reclined his seat and closed the window shade. “I’m gonna catch a couple hours’ sleep before running prep. Make sure our guest is comfortable and quiet.”

“Can do.” McCarter went back to check on Bernier again, while Bolan immediately dropped off.

* * *

SIXTEEN HOURS LATER, Bolan sat on a rickety bus as it brought him and a handful of other passengers from the only airport in Neuva Loja to the center of town. He’d been reading up on the capital of the province while on the flight over, learning that it was the central nexus for the various oil companies that had come in to prospect and drill.

Although the town had grown over the past several decades, the blight the oil companies had brought with them was plain to see. Acres and acres of fields were denuded and barren, deforested to make room for more buildings or the leavings of 20,000 people that were thrown away each day. The air carried with it that unique odor that came with oil drilling—a blend of burning fuel, hot metal and sweat that lingered in the back of the throat and on clothes and skin.

As they drove farther into town, Bolan was hard-pressed to find any difference between many of the city blocks they passed and the Rocinha slum. The buildings here were all packed tightly together, as well. The only difference being that they looked a little newer.

The bus dropped him off at the Hotel Araza, a neat, modern-looking three-story hotel with its own garage and security gate. Bolan walked in after a group of what looked like ecotourists. They ranged in age from college students to middle-aged men and women, wearing a variety of natural fibers, handwoven sandals and, at least for the men, a few scraggly beards.

He checked in under his Matt Cooper alias and went up to his room, which was spacious, with a tiled floor and free internet. Bolan swept it for bugs—more out of force of habit than anything else—then checked in with Stony Man Farm. With nothing new to report, he headed down for dinner.

As expected, he found several of the group on the bus sitting down to dinner, as well, all of them discussing the menu, which, of course, was printed in Portuguese. The three he pegged as college students were all snickering about the caldo de manguera soup, which they were trying to get the others to try. Bolan decided to play along and ordered it as his first course, following it with llapingachos, cheesy potato cakes served with grilled steak.

When his soup arrived, full of rice, celery and small chunks of meat swimming in a brown broth, Bolan didn’t hesitate, but dug in, knowing full well that the other group was watching him to gauge his reaction.

Finally, one of them, a red-haired student in a woven native long-sleeved shirt and cargo shorts, pushed back his chair. “Dude, you do know what you’re eating, right?”

Bolan nodded as he chewed, then swallowed one of the rubbery chunks of meat. “If my Portuguese is right, it’s bull penis.”

The other table erupted in various reactions, from laughter to disgust. “So, what’s it taste like?” a shorter girl with her blond hair braided into two thick pigtails asked.

“Not like chicken, if that’s what you’re wondering. In fact, it doesn’t really have much taste at all. Not like some of the other foods I’ve tasted. In fact, one of the worst was a delicacy called balut, that they serve in the Philippines.” In between spoonfuls of soup, Bolan described the snack—basically a fertilized duck egg boiled whole and eaten straight out of the shell—with enough detail to make more than one of the group push their main course away with queasy looks on their faces.

After that, he was in. Bolan introduced himself as Matt Cooper and said he was a freelance reporter on assignment to do an in-depth report on the state of the Amazon rainforest. He barely got that out when one of the other students piped up.

“Dude, if you want a real story, you should totally come with us—we’re heading into the deep jungle to volunteer at a Huaorani village.” He introduced himself as Mike Saderson and said he and the others were part of the South American Relief Effort, or SARE. The next morning they were all heading to a remote village deep in the rainforest. “The indigenous tribesmen are being encroached upon by oil companies, not to mention illegal loggers, hunters and smugglers. SARE tries to improve their way of life and help protect them and the rainforest from depredation.”

“Sounds like I might have just stumbled onto my story right here.” Bolan’s main course of llapingachos arrived, and as he dug in, he cast his gaze around at the rest of the group. “So, you’re all here on the same mission?”

Each member at the table took a turn to introduce themselves, as Bolan sized them up. The group’s makeup was about what he’d figured. The three college students—Saderson, Thomas Bonell and the shorter girl, Calley Carter—were looking for adventure while doing their part to save the world. The dark-haired man, Paul Wilberson, looked like a die-hard eco-nut or conservationist and turned out to be a little of each, along with possessing a degree in animal husbandry. The second woman was Susanna Tatrow, a British anthropologist graduate student who was going to be both studying and teaching at the tiny school in the village.

The last guy intrigued Bolan the most, primarily because he didn’t fit into any easily classifiable niche. He was the last one to speak, and all he said was, “My name’s Elliot Morgan, and I’m here because I wanted to see the ends of the earth.” He glanced around. “Looks like I’ve come to the right place.”

“You can say that again. Any of you ever been out in the deep rainforest before?” Shaking heads greeted Bolan’s question. “It’s quite an experience—I’d tell you more, but I don’t want to color your first impressions. As long as you have all your shots up-to-date, you’ll be fine.

“In fact,” he said as he rose from the table, “I’d suggest you all get a good night’s sleep—it’s gonna be a long trip tomorrow.”

“Are you going to join us out there, Matt?” Thomas Bonell asked.

“That’s the plan, if SARE doesn’t mind me tagging along. But right now, I’ve gotta check in with my bureau chief, make sure he doesn’t have a problem with it. See you all in the morning.”

He left the restaurant to a chorus of goodbyes, but waited until he’d reached his room before calling Stony Man Farm.

“Stony Man Farm, you kill ’em, we chill ’em,” a young, familiar voice said on the other end.

“Akira, didn’t Hal warn you about answering the sat line that way?” Bolan asked.

“Yeah, but what can I say—it just didn’t take.” Akira Tokaido was Stony Man’s current computer expert, working with long-time stalwart Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman. Among the youngest of the Stony Man team, his youth gave him a different way of looking at things—which sometimes worked against him. “What you need, Striker?”

“Dig up whatever you can find on a NGO called South American Relief Effort and send me any information on them. I’ve just been invited to join a group of volunteers heading out into the jungle and want to know what I’m getting into there.”

“Gotcha, I’m on it.” Bolan heard the clack of computer keys as the whiz kid’s fingers blurred over his keyboard. “Anything else you need?”

“Yeah, better include some higher grade firepower in the care package Hal’s sending down—I don’t want to be outgunned in the bush. Give me something carbine size with a collapsible stock, a CAR-15 would do.”

“Duly noted. I’ll make sure they know to include it and plenty of ammo. You good on everything else?”

“So far, so good. I’ll be in touch if I need anything else. Striker out.”

Disconnecting the call, Bolan prepped for bed, turning out the light and enjoying the last comfortable bed he expected he’d see for a while. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out.

4

Alec Hachtman frowned at the water drop that had splashed on his keyboard just as a sharp pain bloomed in his neck. Slapping a hand down, he brought away a crushed mosquito in his fingers and groaned. Looking up, he saw another drop poised to fall, and snatched his laptop out of the way a moment before it plopped onto his lap desk.

Starting to hate the place, he activated the VOIP program on his machine. “Kapleron, my tent is leaking again. Please have one of the locals take a look at it as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, but it probably won’t do you much good—it’s called a rainforest for a reason, you know? I’ll get someone on it when I can.”

“Well, get them on it sooner rather than later, all right? I woke up this morning half-drenched.” Hachtman closed his computer and slid it into the protective padded ballistic nylon case that was always nearby. Given their situation, he carried the computer with him at all times, in the event that a hurried evacuation was necessary. Slinging the case strap over his shoulder, he rose from his cot and left the claustrophobic tent, emerging into the muggy, humid Amazon jungle.

Wondering again why he’d agreed to oversee this mission, he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. Sure, it’ll be exciting—come down to South America! This will be great for your record with the company! What a load—all that’s down here is heat, bugs, more heat and these insufferable goddamn mercenaries whose answer to everything is to point a gun and start blasting. They’d be lucky if the whole goddamn forest wasn’t blown up before they’d finished here.

Hachtman was the ostensible leader of the operation for his company, Paracor Security Solutions International, a private military company eking out a living on the fringes of the Second and Third World. With most of the plum operations going to larger, multinational PMCs, Paracor battled for scraps at the bottom, taking boring, out-of-the-way assignments in the ass end of the world. Their board was looking to move the company up the ranks into the leagues of the big boys and were willing to reward those who could help them accomplish this task.

That was why Hachtman was here. He’d volunteered to oversee the mission to “pacify” the area so that it could be parceled out to oil companies, loggers, whomever wanted to turn a buck exploiting the riches of the rainforest. The board had made it known that they wanted a perfect operations record that they could use to burnish their reputation—and Hachtman was going to give it to them. All he needed was a few more days, and he would deliver a successful foiling of renegade Colombian soldiers terrorizing the defenseless natives—and perhaps a nearby prospecting oil company, as well.

That was, if he could survive this infernal jungle that long. The eternal heat, the constant biting insects and the wet that permeated everything had wreaked havoc on his wardrobe, not to mention his computer and other personal effects. After this, he figured he was due a long vacation—maybe somewhere sunny and bright instead of humid and damp all the time.

As he walked toward the trucks, Hachtman spotted his head of security, Piet Kapleron, coming the other way. The short, pale-skinned, bandy-legged, freckled South African stood out among the rest of the hired guns in looks as well as temperament. His disdain for the operation was obvious—he made no bones about what he thought of Hachtman and any other “suit.” But he was effective, and that was all that mattered.

“Good afternoon, Piet.”

“How goes it, baas?” The shorter man fell into step beside him. Kapleron’s Afrikanner accent irritated Hachtman, but he was careful not to show it. For all the man’s lack of manners, he was good at his job, keeping at bay the potential cauldron of trouble—from nosy relief workers to natives in the wrong place at the wrong time, to local soldiers or militia stumbling upon them and then demanding bribes to keep their mouths shut. Kapleron handled them all, letting Hachtman and his team do their job in relative peace.

“Fine, except my tent’s leaking again. How’s the perimeter? Any trouble recently?”

“That’s what I came to talk to you about. Those bastards at that village nearby are trekkin’ closer to us all the time. Pretty soon they’ll be stomping all over the place.” Kapleron’s lip curled at the thought.

“What would you suggest we do about that, keeping in mind that our employers want this operation to keep a low profile?”

“Ja, I remember, otherwise the problem woulda been solved already—a few of my maats and I woulda paid them a daylight visit. However, since that ain’t an option, perhaps a different approach is in order.”

“Oh?” Hachtman lengthened his stride, making the shorter man hasten to catch up. It was a faint jab at the other man, but he took his pleasure where he could.

“Yeah, look, apparently these Huaorani are attacking each other all the time—they stab their enemies with spears. We go in at night and take out the village, then it looks like one of the neighbors did it, not us. Just another hazard of living in the jungle, right? The locals all suspect each other, and we get off scot-free. Heh, if you wanted to live on something more than coconuts and guava, we could even hire ourselves out for ‘protection.’”

Pondering the rough plan for a moment, Hachtman was surprised to find he liked it. “That’s not a bad idea—it certainly covers all of our bases.”

“So, when do you want us to move on them?”

“Let me get back to you on that, okay?” Leaving the small man behind, he headed for a cab on one of the deuce-and-a-half trucks and climbed inside. Unzipping the case again, he connected his laptop to the battery of the truck and extended a small satellite transmitting dish. He drummed his fingers on the dashboard, waiting for the interminable lag as the satellite connection uplinked to his superior at the company.

“Good afternoon, Alec.” His boss, known only as Mr. Ravidos, never appeared on screen—the only thing Hachtman saw was the logo of Paracor, two crossed swords on a crimson field.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“I assume you’re calling with an update.”

“Yes, sir. The first phase of the operation has been carried out, however, there is another village nearby that may need pacifying, as well. We’re checking into it right now.”

“Of course, you know that PSSI cannot be connected to any sort of wet activity in the area.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll have this section of jungle cleared and ready for companies to move into in the next five to seven days.”

“Good. Now that we have the rights to resell, our sales force is already lining up leasers for that swath. We’re making history here, Alec. Not only are we supplying the security for an area, but we’re also controlling the rights to exploit it—two income streams off one assignment.”

“Well, sir, you’ve always said that good business is where you find it, right?”

“Excellent memory, Alec. You pull this off smoothly, and there’ll be a big promotion for you when you come back to headquarters. You just make sure that there’s no one there to raise a stink about it, okay?”

“No problem, sir. By the time Piet and his boys are finished, there won’t even be a parrot to squawk about what’s going on down here.”

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