by Gary Ponzo
Tommy did as he said, pulling the guy along the ground with the rifle under his arm.
“Where are we going?” Tommy asked.
Anthony tugged the dead weight along the floor. “First we’re going to bury him in the woods, then we’re going to leave here as quickly as possible. Neither one of us can ever be seen in South America ever again. And even that might not be enough to save our lives.”
“You lead the way, chief,” Tommy said. “I wasn’t all that impressed with the hospitality here to begin with.”
Chapter 29
The jungle was eerily quiet. There was nothing but the steady sound of raindrops pricking the treetops and a few chatty birds. Nick was scouring the landscape from above a fallen tree. Matt was next to him, on his stomach, peering under the same tree trunk from the nest he’d built. He was permanently attached to his rifle. The three SEALs were to their left, playing point, crawling up the hill. Kalinikov was to their right, low and ready.
Olson whispered in their headsets, “We have movement on the ridge.”
“How many?” Nick asked.
There was a pause. “Thirty . . . maybe forty.”
“Good,” Matt responded. “That’s better than fifty.”
“Stay tight,” Olson said. “Wait until we take the first shot. We’ll draw their attention, then you can flank their left.”
“Yes,” replied Kalinikov. “Agreed.”
“No,” Nick said. “You can’t take on forty soldiers by yourself for any length of time. It’s suicide.”
There was nothing but a quiet hum over the headsets. Finally, Olson said, “I thought that’s what this was—a suicide mission?”
“Not yet, it isn’t,” Nick said.
“All right, then,” Kalinikov responded. “Let Matt take the first shots. He can remove the most targets, the quickest.”
“We’d better hurry,” Olson said. “They’re beginning to surround us.”
Matt never needed much encouragement to fire his weapon. The gunfire began with a series of automatic weapons spreading across the theater; leaves and vines were splintering off and splattering up like confetti.
Nick fired his rifle at the designated targets, working left to right. He received several close calls, tree bark flicked into his face as he tried to ignore the obvious danger. The firefight threw the jungle into a frenzy of blasts and ricochets. Nick would empty his magazine, then duck behind the tree and wait for incoming fire to spot the muzzle flash. A method Matt had taught him. Follow the muzzle flash to find your target. The second time he tried this, he realized something. The enemy had built a barrier of protection. They were low inside bunkers dug out of logs and man-made cement walls. They’d been prepared for this type of an attack for a while. Only they thought it would be the FARC coming to attack their Amazon facility, not a small group of hostage rescue agents.
Matt rolled to his right behind another tree and reloaded. Nick was curled up behind his tree when he heard the whistle heading their way. He didn’t need to see the RPG to know he had less than a second to get cover. The grenade exploded at the exact spot where Matt had built his nest and left just seconds earlier. It didn’t stop the attack from being unfruitful, however. When Nick moved his arm from his face and looked up, he froze from terror.
Matt was down on the jungle floor, his rifle dead weight in his arms. He lay there completely exposed and incapacitated. Gunfire riddled the ground around Matt’s limp body. Nick scrambled to his partner and pulled him behind a tree while the gunshots rang in his ears. He felt one clip his foot and saw the tip of his shoe gone. The pain not overcoming the shock his body was enduring.
Nick cradled Matt in his arms, not knowing whether he was dead or alive. Nick’s heart thumped against his chest wall as gunshots whipped past his head, shards of tree bark sprayed around them like snow flurries. Nick held his partner tight, wishing he could’ve tried another strategy before succumbing to this result.
The gunfire began to slow. Nick heard nothing over his headset and couldn’t tell if he was deaf from the explosions or whether he was now alone.
The gunfire slowed even further.
“Why aren’t they firing back?” came Olson’s voice over the headset.
Nick felt the Camenos were now gaining position and at any time would appear behind them, shooting at point-blank targets.
A few more shots were fired, but then the shooting ceased completely. The silence lingered; the hum of grenades and machine guns still rattled in Nick’s brain. He pressed his index finger against Matt’s neck and felt a pulse. Matt had been concussed by the RPG, so he was alive for the moment. And that’s probably what they had. Moments. Nick spent those last few seconds considering their options. They were outnumbered and lacking weaponry, so it was inevitable this would turn out the way it did, but he pulled the pistol from his holster and prepared to take as many Camenos as he could with him.
There was movement to his left. He expected to see a Cameno soldier approaching, but instead saw Anton Kalinikov rising from his nest, unarmed and walking directly into the center of the theatre. Nick wanted to scream for him to take cover, but something stopped him. Something about the expression on Kalinikov’s face caused him to remain silent and simply watch.
The Russian stepped through the center of the battlefield and slowly raised his arms over his head, palms up to the sky. Nick twisted his neck to see the ex-KGB soldier remain frozen in a permanent position of submission. It made no sense and Nick wondered if the PTSD medication was causing hallucinations. There was complete stillness in the rainforest. The sound of birds chirping became more prominent, as if they were surrounding the battlefield.
Nick felt Matt move. He looked down and saw his partner beginning to regain consciousness. He slapped Matt’s face with the back of his hand and when he tried a second time, Matt grabbed it, then quickly swiveled around onto his knees, his hands up and ready to attack. When he saw Nick smiling at him, he sat back on his haunches and took a breath. “What the fu—”
Nick put a finger to his mouth and pointed to the other side of the tree. In his headset, he heard Olson say, “You seeing this?”
Nick whispered, “Yeah.”
Kalinikov had settled down to his knees now and still there were no shots fired. Nick didn’t quite understand what was happening until the bird chirps became prominently closer and then he saw the trees begin to shake. Native Indians were climbing down from the trees with such dexterity, it appeared as if the tree limbs were simply dropping their leaves. They’d blended in so well with the environment, Nick couldn’t tell where the trees ended and the Indians began. They were naked but for the animal hide which covered their genitals and nothing more. They had black and dark green streaks of paint across their torso and macaw feather earrings.
The chirping came from the Indians which were speaking with each other in the most precise birdcalls Nick had ever heard. Kalinikov reached into his pocket and removed a string of shells and held it up for the Indians to observe. He kept his head down and subservient.
He was surrounded by at least seventy-five Natives who seemed to appear out of the jungle mist. They moved on the balls of their feet, some with seven-foot-long spears, some with various sizes of bamboo blowguns. They formed a circle around Kalinikov, who remained on his knees, head bowed.
The birdcalls softened and the circle parted to expose a corridor. At the end of a long row of Native Indians, at the top of a ridge, stood a powerfully built Indian with black circles painted around his eyes and a buckskin pouch around his waist. He stepped down the path toward Kalinikov. As he drew closer, Nick could see that he was older, with gray streaks through his thick mane of hair. This was obviously their chief.
The chief stood in front of Kalinikov and stared intently. He didn’t have muscles in the typical places. His chest was thick with upper body strength, but his legs were tapered down at the ankle. His calves were cut like a fine race horse. He reached down took the string of shells, then rai
sed Kalinikov’s chin to face him. A spark of recognition flickered in his eyes.
Kalinikov gestured with his hands, small loops followed by placing his hand on his heart. The chief mimicked these movements with a great look of satisfaction on his face. He pulled Kalinikov to his feet and the two men stood face to face. Then they both tilted their foreheads slowly toward each other until they touched. They stood there for a few seconds while the rest of the Natives chirped birdcalls to each other. A sense of excitement whirled around the scene.
When they separated, Kalinikov and the chief had a conversation with sign language. Finally Kalinikov looked over his shoulder toward Nick and Matt. “It’s okay,” he said loudly, so the rest of the team could hear. “Please join us.”
Instinctively, Nick and Matt knew to drop their weapons and headsets as they stepped out into the clearing created by gunfire. The three SEALs also joined them, weapon-free. They all stood in the circle and Nick offered a head bow.
The chief returned the gesture, then added a few hand signs.
“He senses you are the leader of our tribe,” Kalinikov translated for Nick. “He says he watched us driving on the invisible road in the sky until we were attacked by fire shooters.”
“Yes,” Nick said. “Our plane.”
“He says you are hiding something.”
Nick cocked his head. “What does he mean? What am I hiding?”
Kalinikov and the chief exchanged hand signals.
“He wants to see your tongue,” Kalinikov said.
“Excuse me?”
The chief stared at Nick while gripping the handle of the blade on his hip.
Kalinikov slowly turned toward Nick, while a nervous tension seemed to spread among the Natives. “If you would like to live another minute or two, I suggest you show him your tongue.”
Nick stepped forward and looked directly at the chief while carefully sticking out his tongue.
The chief examined his tongue like a scientist looking into a microscope for bacteria. After a few tense moments, the chief raised his head and a broad smile came across his face.
Nick shut his mouth and watched Kalinikov sign with the chief.
“What is he saying?” Nick asked.
“He says the tongue is the conduit to your soul. He can see you have no malice in your heart and that pleases him.”
The chief continued to signal to Kalinikov.
Kalinikov translated. “He says you are keeping your greatest fear inside of you and it is making you sick.”
“Yeah, well, tell him I’m seeing a doctor twice a month about that.”
Kalinikov kept up with his gestures. “He says you must speak with someone very important to you about your fear. Then you will begin to heal.”
In the thick jungle air, with the rain trickling down on their heads, Nick felt a sense of understanding with this older being. For some reason Nick’s inner fear came to his mind as clear as day. He’d been suppressing it for so long, he hadn’t even the courage to bring it up in therapy. The chief had been able to touch Nick’s soul with a simple examination of his tongue and a few hand gestures.
Nick smiled, then bowed graciously at the chief.
The chief returned his bow with an amiable smile as well. As if Nick had passed some ancient test of fidelity, the chief raised his hand with his five fingers spread wide. The rest of the tribe began to chirp and stomp their spears in a cohesive rhythm. The jungle was alive with an a cappella celebration.
Among the joyous cheers, Kalinikov turned to Nick with a nod. “You are a special guest. They want to help you with your quest.”
“They know why we’re here?” Nick said.
Kalinikov nodded. “They knew we were coming for the great storyteller.”
This got Nick’s attention. “The great storyteller. You mean—”
“Yes,” Kalinikov said, acknowledging Nick’s assumption while watching the chief continue the conversation. “He says the great storyteller came to them with a machine that could remember their thoughts so he would not forget.”
“A tape recorder?” Nick mumbled.
“He says the great storyteller was here to tell other people about their war against the fire shooters. The fire shooters were taking over their land and the great storyteller was here to help them. He says the war was about to begin when we arrived.”
“Does he know—” Nick asked.
“He says the great storyteller has an honest tongue . . .”
Then the chief pointed to Nick.
“Like you,” Kalinikov added.
“Yes, but does he know where the great storyteller is?” Nick asked.
Kalinikov seemed to be able to get his message across because the chief half-turned toward the path behind him. Then he turned back and gestured to Kalinikov while looking at Nick.
“He wants you to walk next to him,” Kalinikov said. The Russian gave Nick a severe glare. “Do not take this lightly. Walking next to him is the highest honor one can receive from a Maruto chief.”
Nick nodded at the Native leader and joined his side, careful to stay just a tad behind the dominant figure as they strode up the rise toward the crest of the hill. The other members of the team followed. When they passed the Camenos bunkers, the cartel soldiers were peacefully lying on the ground as if they were in a deep sleep. Except they were never getting up from that sleep. Every one of them had a thin green stick protruding from their neck or cheek.
“Phyllobates Terribilis,” Kalinikov said from behind Nick. “Poison frog darts. Each frog has enough toxins to kill twenty people.”
Nick tried to keep up with the tribal leader as he marveled at the carnage. All these soldiers with their sophisticated weapons and they never heard the birdcalls overhead coordinating their demise. The Marutos blended in with the landscape so well, they were never even detected.
As they reached the crest, the tents came into view. Ten of them. As Nick suspected, the camp was surrounded by a man-made body of water forming a moat. The bridge was already in place for the tribe to cross when they approached the camp. A dozen Marutos were on the other side awaiting their chief.
Nick paused and gestured for the tribal leader to go ahead of him on the narrow bridge.
The chief stepped onto the wooden structure and stepped across.
“Smooth move,” Nick heard Matt say from behind him.
As they reached the other side, Nick found Manny Padilla’s body sprawled out on the ground. His mouth was open with splotches of blood across his lower face. The man’s tongue was missing.
“He had a touch of malice in his heart,” Kalinikov said casually, as they entered the Camenos’ camp.
The chief pulled the mosquito netting aside from the nearby tent and motioned for Nick to come.
On the floor of the tent was Trent Merrick. Unconscious. His left leg was exposed with nothing but a primitive wooden splint wrapped with white tape. There was a long laceration along the side of his calf which looked like it had been traumatized fairly severely. The gash was fresh and dripping blood.
Nick was fairly certain the guy was dead. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and realized they now had satellite coverage. Stevie had told them there would be a booster once they reached camp and he wasn’t wrong. Nick turned to see Matt checking out his own phone and realizing the same thing. Nick made a circle motion with his index finger in the air. Get the choppers going. Matt nodded and began texting Walt.
Nick returned his attention to the president’s brother. Although it was early afternoon, the tent was still fairly dark with a couple of candles providing most of the light. Nick thought he saw a rope or a vine lying next to Trent’s injured leg, but had to squint to see that it was a line of bugs, single file, entering into the wound on his leg like miners entering a tunnel.
Squatting next to Trent was a thin, mature Indian, sprinkling what looked like different colored herbs and plants into a hollowed out piece of wood in the shape of a bowl. As the Indian dropped the
assortment of leaves, he would take a stick with a round head and grind the powdered mixture in the bowl with an intense look on his face.
“What’s happening?” Nick asked Kalinikov.
“Those are Red Chigger Ants,” Kalinikov said. “Piranha Bugs. Among other things, they feed on human tissue. The Marutos’ medicine man is trying to save him.”
The medicine man was sprinkling the dry mixture directly onto Trent Merrick’s wound, then packing it down with his bony fingers to cover the entire laceration. He seemed careful not to drop any excess mixture making Nick wonder just how toxic the treatment was.
At first Nick didn’t notice any change. Then a minute later, the line of ants didn’t seem as straight as it was. They appeared to be more spread out.
“Stand back,” Kalinikov said.
Nick moved away from Trent and saw the ants scatter. The medicine man seemed prepared for this and he placed a candle in front of the tent opening, which stopped the ants from heading their direction.
The medicine man chirped a short birdcall and one of the Maruto Indians pulled up on the side of the tent to create an opening for the ants to exit. And they did. Quickly. They poured out of Trent’s leg as if there was a bomb scare, seeming a little disoriented and mostly frantic.
After a few minutes, the mass evacuation appeared complete. Trent Merrick’s leg, however, looked like a mangled piece of meat you’d see in a butcher shop. Instinctively, Nick stepped toward the injured man, but Kalinikov grabbed his arm and simply shook his head.
The medicine man dipped his fingers into a pouch strapped around his waist and came out with a pinch of herbs between his index finger and thumb. He opened Trent’s mouth and dropped the mixture onto his tongue. The old man crouched next to Trent with his hand gently lying on the patient’s chest.
Nick stood behind the medicine man and hovered, wondering if there was anything he could do that these Indians weren’t already doing. He was amazed to see the overwhelming concern on the medicine man’s face, as if Trent were his own son.
Just outside the tent, Kalinikov and the chief exchanged information with fervent hand gestures, the conversation getting so animated, the chief would add some loud chirps to the discussion.
