by Richard Bard
The smartphone Marshall had given him sat in a console pocket beneath the dash. Jake wondered if now was the time to finally call Francesca to let her know Alex was okay.
“We can’t call her yet,” Alex said, as if reading Jake’s thoughts. “It’ll only make things worse when we tell her where we’re going. Besides, is that phone really secure? Just because Uncle Marshall said it was?”
“On the run for two days, and now you’re an expert at staying off the grid, is that it?”
“Trust me, I’ve learned some stuff.” Alex’s eyes went distant. “Lots of stuff.”
Jake studied him. They hadn’t discussed the mysterious disease that was aging Alex at an accelerated rate. Jake hadn’t wanted to bring it up any more than he imagined his son wanted to talk about it. But Jake saw the faint wrinkle lines around his son’s eyes, and the freckles on his arms that hadn’t been there before. Francesca had said Alex had less than six months to live, and the thought of it tore at Jake’s heart.
“Mom misses you. She’s worried sick.”
“I figured she would be when I ran away. But I didn’t have much choice, did I? Doc said government men were looking for me, and my being around put them in even more danger than they were already in. So I had to leave.” Alex held his father’s gaze. “Just like you.”
After a long moment of silence, Jake said, “It’ll be another four hours before we arrive. Why don’t you lie down in the back and get some shut-eye?”
Alex nodded and crawled in the back. Jake refocused on the task at hand. The wild and unforgiving Amazon River basin was as big as the forty-eight contiguous United States, and they were headed straight into the heart of it.
***
An hour and a half later they crossed the border into Brazil. The clouds had passed, and the night sky was ablaze with stars. A half-moon illuminated the landscape. Even though he’d expected it, what Jake saw tightened his gut. Instead of a never-ending canopy of trees, a bleak wilderness stretched to the horizon. It was dotted with the remnants of fallen trees, a grim reminder of the pressing war between man and nature. Up ahead he spotted the silhouette of a large herd of cattle. Most were lying down, but a few stood eating grass. It was hard to tell from only the moon’s reflection, but the ground behind the herd appeared to be absent of any vegetation. He imagined the cattle eating their way across the landscape like termites gnawing through a home.
The cattle scattered at the Cessna’s low-flying pass. Plumes of smoke obscured the distant horizon, where he suspected controlled fires had been set to replenish the soil and clear more brush for the next season. He’d done a lot of reading on the flight to Bogota, grateful that the commercial airliner offered internet access. He’d learned Brazil was home to over two hundred million heads of cattle, a booming industry built at the cost of stripping away a large part of the rainforest that had enriched the planet for eons.
“It seems to go on forever,” Alex said, as he crawled back to the front seat.
“Can’t sleep?”
“Bad dream.”
Jake waited for him to elaborate. Instead, Alex gestured ahead and asked, “How far does it go?”
Jake thought back to what he’d read. “Over two hundred and twenty thousand square miles. A swath of destruction nearly as large as the states of California and Oregon combined.”
“It’s horrible. Can’t they see what’s happening here?”
“People tend to see what they want to. Sure, there are lots of folks who cry out against what we’re doing to the planet, but there are many more who’d prefer to bury their heads in the sand. It’s going to require strong leadership to make the kind of changes necessary to avert the global disaster looming ahead—leaders willing to do what’s right, rather than kowtow to the shortsighted demands of the moneymen who supported their rise to power. That will require a level of personal courage rarely found in politicians these days.”
“Maybe it’s just as well that I’ll be dead in six months, because the world is going to hell.”
If Jake had been driving a car just then, he would’ve pulled over. “Don’t talk like that. Hope isn’t lost when there are people like you and your friends on the planet, willing to sacrifice your lives for the sake of others. It’s heroes like you who are going to make things right.”
“And heroes like you…” Alex said, his voice trailing off.
They sat in silence for a moment, until Alex nodded as if having decided something. He retrieved a tablet from his backpack.
Jake said, “You know you can’t get internet access up here, right?”
“Duh.”
He was grateful his son hadn’t lost his sense of humor. Hiding sadness or fear behind a veil of humor was something Jake was all too accustomed to, a trait born from years packed with far too many challenges. It was one more characteristic Alex had picked up from him. “You’re quite the smartass.”
“You’re not half wrong. Except my new friends called me a friggin’ genius. I prefer that moniker over smartass.”
Jake grinned. “A moniker? Really? Well, I’m not about to call you genius, because that’ll just go to your head.” He winked.
Alex rolled his eyes at the play on words, but he couldn’t completely hide the beginnings of a smile. “Corny.”
“Let’s see, the world knows me as the Global Terrorist, so you could be Son of GT, or Kid Terror, or…”
Alex chuckled. “You’re weird, Dad.”
Jake pantomimed spreading open his shirt like a superhero brandishing his logo. “I know, you can call me Brainman!”
Alex shook his head, but his smile was wide and free.
“Brainman,” Alex said in the best dramatic accent he could muster. “Faster than a speeding Cessna!”
Jake matched his tone. “More powerful than an alien grid!”
“Able to leap herds of cattle in a single bound!”
They laughed heartily together. Jake reached over to tickle his son to keep it going. It had been way too long since they’d shared a moment like this. He pulled his hand away. “I got it,” he said with a grin. “If I’m Brainman, your official moniker should be Brainchild!”
Alex’s countenance shifted. His mouth hung open in mid-laugh, but no sound came out. He sagged into the seat and tears moistened his eyes. “I won’t be a child much longer, not from what Mom said.”
Jake sobered up. “Yeah, I heard about that. How’re you feeling?”
“Scared.”
“Me, too, son. Me, too…”
“It’s not fair.”
“I know.” Jake took his hand. The physical connection, heightened by the mini in Jake’s pocket, allowed them to share their sadness, worry, anger—and so much more—without words, their minds merging in a kaleidoscope of memories of the incredible adventures they’d shared, measuring them against the unknown of what awaited them in the dark jungles ahead. They sat that way for several long moments. It was Alex who finally broke free.
“So anyway,” Alex said, drawing out the words. “Even though I could probably figure out a way to get internet access using that sat phone in your backpack, it’s not necessary. I downloaded all the wiki pages I thought we’d need while you were off stealing this plane.”
Alex powered up the tablet and opened a folder containing what looked like hundreds of files. He opened the first twenty in a series of overlapping windows. He scrolled through the first article, and Jake knew he was capturing details as fast as a high-speed scanner converting printed pages into PDF files. Ten seconds later Alex was on to the next file, and the next, and when he’d finished digesting all twenty files, he looked up at Jake with wide eyes. “Did you know that the deadliest living spider in the world lives in the Amazon rainforest?”
“Yeah. The Phoneutria, or wandering spider,” Jake said, pulling from his own bank of memorized articles. “So called because they don’t bother with webs. Instead, they crawl around at night like crazed hunters on the loose.” A chill tickled his neck. He hated
spiders.
“And I suppose you know about the red-bellied piranhas, with razor-sharp triangular teeth, and jaws powerful enough to strip the flesh of a large animal in minutes? Or the electric eels that can zap you with a six-hundred-volt charge that could stop your heart?”
“Yep, let’s avoid swimming.”
“No kidding, because if the piranhas or eels don’t get you, the four-hundred-pound black caiman crocodiles will. That’s assuming, of course, that you haven’t first been wrapped in the hungry embrace of a five-hundred-pound, twenty-seven-foot long anaconda, or pounced on by a jaguar. Jeeze, Dad. Humans are nothing more than a tasty treat down there. How do people live in the midst of all that?”
Good question. Jake didn’t bother adding that the area they were headed into—the Vale do Javari—was considered one of the most isolated places in the world. It was a vast jungle landscape the size of Austria, riddled with twisting rivers and inhabited by dozens of indigenous tribes, many of which had remained “uncontacted” because of their aggressive response to intruders. He’d learned that the Brazilian government stopped sending emissaries into that part of the jungle years ago because none ever returned.
And we’re being pulled straight toward it.
“Keep reading. We’re both going to need our wits about us if we expect to survive down there.”
They flew on in silence.
Two hours later the swath of eco destruction was hundreds of miles behind them. Jake had thousands of hours of flying time under his belt, much of it at night, but he’d never encountered an expanse of darkness like the one stretching out ahead of them. They were seventy-five miles from their destination, and no sign of civilization could be seen in any direction. Not a single light. The moon had dipped below the horizon, and the starlight had little chance of penetrating the thick canopy of trees. The only visible terrain feature was the flickering reflection off the flowing rivers and tributaries snaking in a never-ending series of hairpin turns.
“Is it going to be difficult to find a straight enough stretch of water to land in?” Alex asked.
“Landing’s not the problem. Once the skids touch the water, I cut power and we’ll pretty much stop on a dime. Taking off, though, is an entirely different matter. Because of the drag caused by the water, and the fact that this baby is a pretty heavy utility aircraft, we’ll need a straight stretch of at least two thousand feet. Make that three thousand feet if we have to clear trees at the end of the run.”
“More than half a mile,” Alex said, studying the squiggles of rivers. “Not going to find a stretch that long down there.”
“You’re right, but we should be okay at Frank’s. The river there is wide and straight.” It had required an intense Google search to isolate the location. It wasn’t as simple as zooming in on satellite views along the river system feeding the area, because so little was visible beneath the trees skirting the banks. And they needed far more than just a landing spot. They’d fled Bogota in a hurry, with no gear. They needed to get outfitted. Food, clothing, camping gear, weapons—the lot. Most important of all, they needed to hire a guide. Jake had faced a lot of challenges in his life, but trekking through deadly rainforests wasn’t one of them. Going off on their own would be a death sentence. He’d scoured the web for local help. The villages that popped up on his search were few and far between, and none were within striking distance of Jake and Alex’s destination. Only by speed-scanning hundreds of travel and adventure blogs had he finally found the small fishing village that was home to Frank’s.
“Frank’s Last Chance Bar sounds a little ominous,” Alex said. “Don’t you think?”
“We’re Bronsons. We do ominous with our eyes closed.” He winked.
Alex rewarded him with a crooked smile that matched his own.
It was 5:30 a.m., and the first glow of sunrise peeked from the horizon. He switched on the plane’s GPS long enough to confirm their position and track, then turned it off.
“We’ll be landing in thirty minutes.”
Chapter 4
Vale do Javari, Brazil
DAD REDUCED POWER. I tightened my seatbelt as we descended over the brown, rippling river. I searched for floating obstacles, my mind flashing to the images of sixteen-foot caiman crocodiles. If we clipped one on landing, the plane could flip over and we’d be swimming with piranhas, or electric eels, or—
“Easy peasy, pal,” Dad said. “We’ll just ease back on the throttle and set ’er down as light as a snowflake on a dog’s nose.”
I looked at him like he was crazy, but as usual when he was flying an aircraft, he was relaxed and grinning. I spotted structures in the distance at the water’s edge, and another beyond the river’s bend. Dad pulled back on the stick, bringing the nose up, and my view of the river vanished. An instant later trees flashed by on both sides. The plane shuddered as the pontoons skimmed the river, and the nose dropped to settle us into the water as gently as can be.
“What did I tell you? Piece of cake.”
“Like a snowflake on a dog’s nose.”
We’d landed against the current because it was easier to maneuver the plane that way. The village was up ahead on the right, where several thatch-roofed homes stood on stilts along the water’s edge, with a number of long canoes pulled onto the banks beneath them. The ground rose beyond the shoreline, where thatched huts nestled among the trees, and trails of smoke rose from chimneys or campfires to disappear into the canopy of leaves. A wooden pier jutted into the water, where a thatch-covered longboat was tied along its opposite side. Several native kids ran onto the dock and waved at us.
“That’s a friendly reception party,” Dad said. “A good sign.”
“Unless they’re cannibals.”
Dad faked a horrified expression, his mouth wide open. Then we busted up laughing. He goosed the throttle a tad and steered the plane toward the dock. There was a weathered, two-story wooden structure behind it sporting a faded sign that read FRANK’S LAST CHANCE BAR. As out of place as it might’ve seemed in this isolated corner of the world—especially with the large dish antenna tethered to the roof—it somehow felt like it belonged there.
“Frank must have quite a story,” I said.
“No doubt. Let’s hope he’s as friendly as those kids.” Dad spun the plane around so that it faced back toward the river. Then he edged it to the dock, where two of the older boys had already taken up station fore and aft with ropes in hand. Dad killed the engine. The plane drifted the last few feet into position and the boys tied it off. When I swung open the door, I was greeted by half a dozen wide smiles.
“Well-come!” a young girl said, as if it was two words that didn’t come naturally to her. The other kids looked at her with pride. “You follow?” She gestured for me to step out, and the rest of them encouraged me with delighted expressions.
“Go ahead,” Dad said. “I’ve gotta crawl out the same door. It’s a little wet on my side.”
I pulled on my backpack and lowered myself onto the pontoon. One of the older boys offered me a hand, and I made the short leap to the dock. The kids edged back as Dad stepped beside me, the two older boys appraising the Bowie knife strapped to my dad’s belt. Unlike the younger children, these boys had similar geometric-patterned facial tattoos that hugged their cheeks and chin like five o’clock shadows.
“Lucy,” the girl said, pointing to her chest. Her bright blue eyes stood out in stark contrast to her milk chocolate skin. I guessed she was in her early teens.
“Hi, Lucy. I’m Alex, and this is my dad, Jake.” The words came out by reflex, and I realized too late I shouldn’t have used our real names. Then again, who could possibly have heard of us down here?
Lucy studied me for a moment, her tongue exploring the corner of her lip. “Al-ex,” she said. She looked up at Dad, this time speaking with authority. “Jake!” The other kids giggled.
Dad grinned. “Nice to meet you, Lucy.”
She beamed, taking my hand and pulling me forward.
“Come!”
A smaller boy took my other hand. Kids were pulling Dad as well. He looked amused.
The air was warm and humid, laced with an earthy smell of rotted logs and vegetation. A gentle hum of insect noises arose from all directions, a white noise that was likely a constant companion to all who lived here. The children had milk chocolate skin, with broad noses, high cheekbones, dark hair and eyes. The bare-chested boys wore shorts and bowl-shaped haircuts, while the girls had long hair and were dressed in shorts and colorful T-shirts. Except for Lucy, who wore a blue dress fringed with white lace. Her features were softer than the others’, her skin somewhat lighter. They were all barefoot, and each wore strings of beads around their necks or wrists. They looked happy.
Lucy led us up a short wooden staircase to the deck that wrapped around the front of Frank’s. The elevated platform provided a commanding view up and down the river.
We walked past the main entrance to the bar, and up a staircase leading to a second-floor balcony with three doors. The gang of kids stuck to us like fans around pop stars, wide eyed and giggling. Lucy scooted ahead and opened the third door. “Best room.”
We stepped inside. The room was stark but clean—well, except for the lizard that scampered into a crack in the floorboard. There were two pallets on the floor with mattresses and folded blankets, a small dresser, and a bathroom area. Wide-open windows on either side invited a gentle breeze.
Lucy beamed. “Good. Yes?”
Dad returned her smile. “It’s nice, Lucy. Thank you. But we need to speak to the owner to get some gear and find a guide.”
