Operation Amazon

by William Meikle

  Banks agreed, but they had no idea how long their guide might take to return, and the thought of their mission, now a possible hostage retraction, worried at him. The squad retired to the mess for Wilkes’ stew and then a smoke break, but Banks sat at the laptop, playing the snippet of video over and over, hoping to see some fresh clue that might have eluded him. Then, when no inspiration came, and he knew he couldn’t put it off any longer, he called in on the sat-phone, making his first report to the colonel back in Lossiemouth.

  “S1, checking in,” he said when the call was answered. He heard the usual whirrs and clicks as the call was scrambled and put through to his superior’s desk. He realized, too late, that it was going to be very late evening back in Scotland, but the colonel answered immediately at the other end.

  “Are we ready to bring the package home?” he asked.

  From there on, it went about as well as Banks could have expected. His superior officer listened, went quiet for several breaths, then spoke, his crisp tones coming through more than clear enough to be understood.

  “Buller is the mission,” he said. “Everybody else is either hostile or expendable, but bring Buller home however you can. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir,” Banks replied.

  “Check back in 24 hours from this mark,” the colonel said. “I expect good news.”

  Hynd came in as Banks finished the call, and put a bowl of stew and a cold beer on the table.

  “Eat up, Cap,” the sergeant said, “before Cally and Wiggo polish it off between them.”

  The fish stew was strangely spiced and tasted faintly of the muck of the riverbed, but with the help of the beer, it went down well enough. It did a lot to get back some of the strength that had been sapped by the heat and the effort of paddling earlier.

  “Orders, Cap?” Hynd asked.

  “We go after Buller,” Banks said, “and we’ve got a day to get him out of here—the boss was feeling generous.”

  “The lads will take to the paddling, if you ask them,” Hynd said.

  “I know,” Banks said. “But I’m of a mind to wait for Giraldo and some power to get us upriver. Keep the lads off the booze for a couple of hours until the boat’s back here. Wilkes too. We might need to know something that he knows, so make sure he’s sober.

  Hynd saluted, then nodded toward the screen, where Banks had stopped it again on that final, inexplicable image.

  “What are we up against here, Cap?”

  “I’ve not got a clue,” Banks replied. “Some daft bugger in a rubber suit, or a real big fucking snake, it hardly matters either way. We’ve got our orders, and we’ll find out soon enough one way or the other.”

  *

  Giraldo returned right about when Banks expected him to. He was alone in the boat when they met it at the rear dock.

  “I left my boy with the others,” the guide said as he tied up the boat. “There is no sense in us both being in danger. Can we go now?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Banks said. “We paid you to get us where we need to go. And where we need to go is further upstream.”

  The guide went pale, and paler still when Banks took him inside to the laptop and showed him the video playback. The man crossed himself, twice, and muttered something. It was in Latin, not Portuguese, and Banks guessed it was a prayer.

  Giraldo looked into Banks’ eyes.

  “It is as your Mister Wiggins would say, ‘bad shite,’ Captain. You do not wish to go to that place if you do not need to.”

  “We need to,” Banks said, pointing to the screen. “One of our countrymen is being held there.”

  “He is most certainly already dead, or wishes he was,” the guide said, with such certainty that Banks felt it sink into his own heart as truth.

  “Nevertheless, we will go, and we will go now. We can take your boat anyway, but I’d rather have you with us, for you know the river and its ways. But if you want, you can stay here with Wilkes. We will be back in the morning, one way or the other.”

  The guide didn’t reply, but Wilkes spoke at Banks’ back.

  “I’m coming with you,” he said. “Buller’s my boss, but he’s also my friend. I’m coming.”

  Giraldo spoke up.

  “And you cannot have my boat without me,” he said, the resignation clear in his voice. “So I will take you. You will need me on the river in any case, for it can be treacherous enough by day, let alone by night. But promise me one thing, Captain,”

  ‘Name it,” Banks said.

  Giraldo did a fair impression of Wiggins.

  “If you see anything shite, shoot the fuck out of it first, and ask questions later.”

  *

  Banks had the squad get kitted up.

  “Night goggles, ammo, rifles, and water. Leave everything else here. I’ve got a hunch that hard and fast is going to be the only way this one will get done.”

  Five minutes later, they were all in Giraldo’s boat, the outboard taking them around the side of the dredger and onto the open river, making far better time than they had in the canoes earlier. Banks looked back, and saw the lights of the living quarters glowing bright against the background of mud on the banks; dusk was approaching fast. Banks welcomed it, for darkness would give them cover for the forthcoming operation.

  The squad sat in the middle area of the boat, Wilkes with them, all getting smokes lit. Banks moved back to join Giraldo, for the tang of tobacco was starting to remind him again of how much he missed the old habit. He stepped back and joined their guide at the wheel, sitting beside him on the rickety bench that passed as the captain’s seat.

  “Thank you for agreeing to this,” Banks said. “I owe you a favor.”

  “I would not let any man take this journey alone who did not need to, but I do not like this, Captain,” Giraldo said. “We never go this far up river; not even for the fishing.”

  “Why not?”

  Giraldo shook his head.

  “You would not believe me. You would think me a superstitious native; Mister Buller certainly thought that of me. Wilkes here still thinks that of me.”

  “I am not Buller or Wilkes,” Banks said, and, remembering Antarctica and the high weirdness the squad had seen, and fought, in that cold Nazi bunker, pressed the question. “Try me. I too have seen things that would make you think me a superstitious native.”

  Giraldo thought he was being teased and looked him straight in the eye for a long time, then Banks saw recognition in the man’s stare.

  “I believe you have, Captain.” He poured them each a mug of thick, black coffee from a battered thermos and handed it to Banks, then lit up one of his noxious black cigarettes before continuing.

  “It is a story we are all told as children in the village. I had it from my father, who had it from his father before him and so on, as far back as there have been fish in the river and men to catch them. I know now, having told it to my own boy, that it is a cautionary tale. It is meant to stop our young ones from venturing too far onto the river alone. But I also know there to be more than a kernel of truth in it. As to how I know this, I might tell you that too, but first, the story, as I heard it that first day I was old enough to take to the water.”

  He began the tale in the singsong voice common to all such stories everywhere.

  *

  “Long ago, when the world was yet young and there were more fish than water in the river, there lived a boy in a village on the south bank.

  “Raul was a boisterous child, always looking far away from his duties to hearth and home. His father tried to get him to work in the forest or on the river, but at the end of each day the work was not done, and Raul was found, ever more distant from his village, exploring the dark byways of the water.

  “Every day he would venture farther. He began taking light with him, in order to see the dark places better, carrying flint and straw to make firebrands that he would carry on his explorations.

  “It was during one such exploration, farther from his vi
llage than he had ever been, that he found the cave, a black cavern that ran deep into a rocky outcrop in the upper reaches of the river where it approaches the mountains where the gods live. He lit a fresh brand, his hands trembling with excitement as he did so, and ventured inside.

  “His young head was full of the thought of treasure, of the ancient gold so sought after by the Conquistadors that they had marched into the jungle in their thousands after it, never to be seen again. Raul was not worried about suffering such a fate—he had his fire to lead him and warm him in the darkness.

  “The cave went down deep into the hill, so far that all light from outside was lost, and there was only the burning brand. But still Raul for not afraid, for his burning curiosity was stronger than any fear. Panic only fluttered in his chest when he turned a corner, and stepped into a far larger, cavernous chamber. Something gleamed there in the dark, flickering golden in reply to his own fire. A voice spoke from the shadows, old beyond time, weary beyond sleep, as loud as thunder in the blackness.

  “‘I like your red eye, boy,’ the voice said. ‘Give it to Boitata. She will take care of it for you.’

  “Raul turned to flee but a great wind, warm as fire, blew through the cave, and blew out his brand as simply as puffing out a candle. He was left alone there in the deepest dark.

  “But that wasn’t the worst thing. The worst thing was the fiery red eyes that opened, and blinked at him, tens, scores, hundreds of them there in the dark, coming closer as Boitata slithered from her sleep.”

  *

  “Back in the village, Raul’s father was frantic with worry as darkness fell, for young Raul was nowhere to be found. The father took to the river in his canoe, going up and down the banks and calling the boy’s name, but still there was no reply, and darkness was coming quickly. The man was making a turn for home when he heard it, a great splash in the water, and a surge under the boat as something huge swam beneath him. There came another splash, and suddenly Raul was there, splashing frantically in the water and crying most piteously. His father dragged the boy aboard, and at the same time Boitata came up out of the water, rising up high above the canoe and looking down, deliberately showing the father what had been done before sinking back into the river.

  “The canoe went still in the water again as the father bent over the boy, looking down at his face, and the black, empty holes where his eyes had been. He did not need to ask the whimpering child what had happened—he had already seen for himself. The last thing he had been shown before Boitata sank back into the river had been Raul’s eyes, now showing flecks of fiery red, looking back at him from the great head of the river serpent.”

  - 5 -

  Banks almost applauded; the man had put everything into the story, and Banks had been rapt and lost in it as if he too had been a child in the village at the knees of an elder. Giraldo smiled in return and lit another cigarette. Banks waited to see if more was coming, but the guide fell quiet, watching the river ahead.

  “You said there was more?” Banks said when it was clear the man would need prompting.

  Giraldo wasn’t smiling when he replied.

  “There is more, yes. But that part of the tale is not a story I want to tell on this stretch of the river, in the dark, Captain,” he replied. “There is only a certain amount of tempting fate with which I am comfortable, and I believe I have reached my limit for the night. Besides, the river can get tricky around these parts, and I need my full concentration on the water. If we are still here, still alive in the morning, when the sun is full, I shall share a beer and my story with you, so you can count that as a promise.”

  “I will hold you to it,” Banks replied, then left the man alone to do his job.

  *

  The squad still sat in the middle of the boat, smoking and brewing up a pot of tea on the camp stove. Banks squeezed past them, carefully making his way forward so as not to set the vessel rocking, and went up front to join Wilkes where the big man sat beside a pair of large floodlights that showed the way ahead. A myriad of small white fish roiled and leapt at the prow as if trying to catch the light, and moths the size of Bank’s palms fluttered and swarmed around the lamps. Every so often a dark shape, bats as big as crows, would swoop among the insects and carrying one off in the black as quickly as it had come. Over by the left-hand bank, a pair of large, pale-yellow eyes blinked twice, but the boat had motored past before Banks properly recognized them as belonging to an alligator that had to be at least 10 feet long nose to tail. Now that the heat of the day was fading, the jungle and its inhabitants were much more alive.

  It was almost full dark now, and the light showed only 10 to 15 yards ahead of them on the water. Everything else was mostly deep blackness and thick shadows; Banks had no idea how Giraldo was navigating, but he was rapidly developing a sense of admiration for the man’s skill, and not only in his storytelling ability.

  “How do you like our river now, Captain?” the big man said.

  “I like this boat. It’s better than paddling, I’ll give you that,” Banks said, and Wilkes laughed.

  “Then again, anything’s better than paddling,” the big man replied. “But we’re making good time. We should be near the highlands in an hour or so. Do you have a plan?”

  It was Banks’ turn to laugh.

  “To quote my private, the plan’s as simple as shite. We go in, we find our man, we get out, and we shoot the fuck out of anything that gets in our way.”

  “Works for me,” Wilkes said. He patted at his hip, and for the first time, Banks noted that the man had a handgun holstered there. He resolved to make sure Wilkes was kept far away from any possible action. The last thing he needed was for an amateur to get involved in any firefight.

  *

  Wilkes’ prediction of their arrival time proved to be right, almost to the minute. After an hour of cruising in the dark, Giraldo took them in a sharp turn to the left into an inlet and a minute after that the lights picked out a stone quay directly ahead of them, high enough that it loomed above their heads, even when they stood up. As the boat slowed to approach the structure, the lights brought it into sharp relief. Banks saw that the stones from which the quay was built were ancient in the extreme. They had been badly corroded by the river and weather and smoothed to a polish by the current in places, encrusted with freshwater barnacles and algae up to two feet above the water line in other spots. But the whole thing was built with such precision that the wall itself had stood obdurate against the Amazon for centuries, perhaps millennia.

  As Giraldo brought the boat around to moor parallel to the wall, Banks also saw that each brick was so tightly packed against its neighbors that there was no sign of any mortar. He’d seen such work before, in megalithic tombs on Orkney and Malta, and in the great temples of Egypt. He had not expected to find it here, in the upper reaches of the jungles of the Amazon.

  It seemed, however, that Giraldo knew the place, for he brought the boat to a halt tight up close to a ledge and a set of stone steps that led directly up to the top of the wall of the quay. He cut the engine and quickly tied them up to a stone pillar set on the steps.

  “I stay here with the boat,” Giraldo said. It wasn’t a question, and in truth, Banks was glad he didn’t have to persuade the guide otherwise.

  “Wilkes will stay with you,” Banks replied. “I’m not leaving you here alone.”

  The big man looked like he might argue, but one look from Banks was enough to keep him quiet.

  “I’m trusting you here, Wilkes,” Banks said. “We might need to make a quick getaway, so you’re our backup plan. Just hang out here, and don’t do anything stupid. We’ll be back before you know it.”

  That seemed to be enough to mollify any resentment Wilkes had been carrying, and the big man threw Banks a mock salute in reply.

  “You’ve been here before?” Banks asked Giraldo.

  “Only this far and no more,” the guide said. “I did not go ashore, and I did not stay long.”

 
There was more to it, Banks saw it in the guide’s eyes and his manner, but he didn’t have time to probe any deeper. It would have to wait. He waved a hand above the quay, away from the river and under the tall canopy of foliage.

  “How far will we have to walk?”

  Giraldo shrugged.

  “The ground rises quickly, I remember that much. And there is a building, a tower of a sort, higher up on the hill. But as to where they might be holding Mister Buller? That is anyone’s guess.”

  “So, a walk in the jungle, at night, with no idea where we’re headed?” Wiggins said. “This shite gets thicker by the minute.”

  *

  Banks turned back to Giraldo while the squad got geared up.

  “Do you have a flare gun?”

  The guide nodded.

  “In a box under the wheel.”

  “If there’s any sign of trouble, send one up. Hopefully we’ll see it, and come running.”

  Banks checked his gear; he had his rifle, spare magazines of ammo in a vest over his jacket, and a pair of night goggles that he pulled down and set to full intensity as he stepped out of the boat and up the steps onto the quay. A quick look around told him he was alone, with a wall of jungle ahead of him. A stone walkway, little more than a yard wide, led off to his left away from the river, through a gap in the foliage.

  “All clear. Move out, lads,” Banks said. “Remember, we’re going in hard and fast. Don’t fuck up.”

  He turned to wait for the squad to come out of the boat and up the steps to join him.

  “Give us four hours, tops,” he said to Wilkes and Giraldo. “After that, feel free to head back down river; if we’re not back by then, we’re probably not coming any time soon.”