by Chuck Holton
Fernanda looked off toward the hammock that Hedi struggled to get into without falling on her head. “We have another problem.”
Alex took a deep breath then exhaled heavily. “What’s that?”
“Hedi’s sick again.”
He followed Fernanda’s gaze. “I was afraid of that. She wasn’t looking so good toward the end of the ride. This day just keeps getting better.”
“What are we going to do if she can’t make it?”
Alex pursed his lips for a moment. “Well … I imagine we leave her here.”
“What? We can’t just leave her all by herself.” Fernanda put her hands on her hips and thought of the soldiers who had just left.
“She wouldn’t be alone. The park rangers at the station rotate through here on three-week shifts.”
“Oh, that’s comforting.” She and Zack exchanged glances.
“There’s a bunkhouse where she can sleep.” Alex pointed over her shoulder. “Not five star, but better than where we’re going to be staying. There’s even a cook. And the view certainly doesn’t leave anything to be desired.”
Fernanda couldn’t argue with that. The ANAM rangers kept the grounds nicely landscaped, and tall palms shaded the cluster of buildings on a narrow spit of land that jutted out toward Isla Rancheria. “It really is beautiful here.”
“Now you can see why Noriega used to come here to party with his amigos.”
Fernanda scowled. She got a bad taste in her mouth at the very mention of that era. Even though she had been in elementary school at the time, she remembered it clearly. Or rather, she remembered the change that took place when Noriega was ousted.
Boquete was well removed from the worst of that brutal regime’s alleged atrocities, but even in that sleepy mountain town, Lerida Coffee had suffered and almost folded until the US invasion paved the way for a new government. It was only then that they got a true sense of what had really been happening around the country.
It was probably why Fernanda didn’t do well when faced with bureaucratic stupidity. And she wasn’t about to allow some spineless government hack to mess up her spring break. She thought again of the soldiers.
I know how to fix this problem.
“Did you say that the park rangers spend weeks out here at a time?”
Alex looked puzzled. “Yes. Three weeks on, one week off.”
“And I bet there are a lot of things they can’t get while they’re here.”
The professor and Zack both gave her very strange looks.
She reached out and snatched the permit paperwork from Alex’s hand, then took off her hat and handed it to him. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
She gave him a coy smile. “You figure out what to do about Hedi. I’ll deal with the permit problem.”
“How?”
“I’ve got something you don’t.”
She ignored his protests as she marched to the door of the office. Before entering the building, she quickly pulled the ponytail rubber band out of her hair, shook her hair to its full volume, then stepped through the door.
The stocky man shuffling papers around his desk looked up with a scowl, but it soon dissolved when he saw her striding toward him.
“Mande? What can I … er … do for you, señorita?”
The shell-shocked look on his face told her everything she needed to know.
She flashed her best movie star smile. Problem solved.
Washington DC. 1300 hours
THE TRAFFIC IN Washington DC was ridiculous as always. The black limousine crawled along, even though rush hour didn’t start for another three hours.
“Let me out here, Bill. I’ll walk back.”
The driver shot him a questioning look as he pulled the limo to the curb. “It’s pretty wet out there, sir. Are you sure?”
“It’s okay; I won’t melt.”
The driver grinned in the rearview mirror. “You bet, Colonel.”
Michael LaFontaine opened the door of the Lincoln and stepped onto the wet sidewalk. He’d been out of the military for more than a decade, but everyone still called him Colonel, which was just fine with him. The title seemed to open doors that mister sometimes wouldn’t have.
He mingled with the few pedestrians who dared to brave the rain that had now diminished to barely a mist.
He loved this kind of weather. Everything seemed clean, fresh. Like a baby after a bath. It was a rare luxury in a town that too often stank of ambition and selfishness. It reminded him of why he had come here—to bring a gust of fresh air into a very dirty place.
In the military, honor was an everyday virtue. In the early nineties he had been doing a stint at the Pentagon when he was introduced to the business of politics. And what a business it was. He’d naively believed it to be public service, but it didn’t take long to see that the concept of self-sacrifice in the halls of government was about as rare as a nun in a bikini.
At first it disgusted him, the glad-handing, backslapping men with pasted-on smiles and for-sale agendas. But true to his training, Michael eventually found the pony in the manure pile.
In Washington, an honorable man was a nobody unless he had money. And Michael had lots of money. So if the politicians wouldn’t do what was right for simple duty, he had what it took to make them dance to the correct tune.
Some people believed there was no such thing as right and wrong, but that was crazy. One couldn’t even argue the point without resorting to absolutes. But in Washington, the absolute was set by whoever picked up the tab.
The lights of passing cars reflected off the damp pavement as he walked briskly, turning north on Nineteenth Street.
The current situation with the global war on terror would have been laughable if it had happened to another country. He had invested heavily in the current administration, believing that it would prosecute this war more strenuously than the next guy. But he had been disappointed.
When it came down to it, public opinion was king, even if public opinion was stupid. So as always, Michael had to adjust the way he played the game to fit the situation. No matter, he knew how to fix this problem. It was what he did. Above all, he was a fixer.
With a casual glance over his shoulder born of his years in military intelligence, he stepped into an alley just short of Dupont Circle and entered the nondescript office building through a service entrance.
The building was owned by an anonymous limited liability company based in the Aleutian Islands, and he had maintained a small office there for more than fifteen years, though he rarely visited it anymore. Until recently, there hadn’t been a need.
After climbing three flights of stairs, Michael’s steps echoed down a deserted corridor until he stopped in front of a solid wood door with a brass plate that said Fuller Global Resources, LLC.
He produced a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and stepped gingerly over the large pile of junk mail on the floor below the mail slot. He closed the door behind him and stood in the darkness for a moment, listening. Then he reached up and pulled the thin string above his head.
There was a quiet click-click, and a single bare bulb burned to life, illuminating the six-foot square windowless closet in which he stood. On a shelf in front of him was an old fax machine connected to a telephone line. Other than that, the room was empty.
A single sheet of paper sat on the fax’s tray. He picked it up. The paper had only three words.
Complications. 50K. ASAP.
He crumpled the paper in his fist, his jaw clenched.
This is getting out of hand.
Isla Coiba. 1345 hours
Fate had found him again.
Chombon winced angrily as the strap from his green canvas satchel brushed the bruise on his left shoulder, made doubly stiff by the makeshift bandage Cesar had applied after the fire on the Invincible.
He stood on the riverbank and gazed toward where the water emptied into the sea, only a quarter mile distant. The manglare
s—mangrove swamps that grew thick between the camp and the beach—shielded their camp from the occasional ship that passed on this side of the island.
He cursed and spit on the muddy bank, as he’d done probably a thousand times since the explosion. From where he stood, the superstructure of the ship was barely visible, still smoldering. A corner of its aft deck was all that remained above water after the horrible fire that had killed five of his men and injured four more, himself included.
The ship, apparently, hadn’t been so invincible after all.
He still couldn’t determine what caused the fire. Cesar thought it was a faulty gas line set off by an electrical spark. That was possible, but for an explosion that size and a fire of that scope, there would have been a detectable smell, which none of the survivors claimed to remember.
At first, Chombon had thought it was a missile attack—that they’d been found out—but when no further assault was mounted, his theory had gone up with the giant plume of smoke from the ship’s burning cargo.
They were fortunate the ship sank so quickly. If it had stayed afloat, the fire would have continued burning and surely given them away. As it was, they barely had time to get the wounded onto the lancha. And then the Invincible was gone, along with her several million dollars in lumber, the fortune they had all been counting on.
Chombon sighed and turned his sweaty face up to the sun. They would have to try again. Only now those not injured were not as enthusiastic as they had been. If he did not find a way to regain their obedience, their grumbling could turn to mutiny. But he’d worry about rebuilding their trust and admiration later.
He reached into his satchel and removed the bottle of water he’d put there earlier. When they first arrived on the island, he had taken it from the case of water on the ship. He was tired of drinking the brackish water they scooped from the river. Now was a good time to enjoy the simple pleasure of it, while he was alone and would not draw questions from the others.
He was just about to turn the cap when the thud of footsteps came through the tall grass behind him. Someone was running. He returned the bottle to his bag.
Then a frantic voice called out, “Jefe!”
Several of his men appeared, led by Enrique, the youngest member of the gang. “Jefe, come quick!”
Chombon scowled. “What now?”
“It’s Armando. He’s gone!”
Chombon cursed. “Where did he go?”
Enrique’s glance flickered toward his compadres. “I do not know. He went only a little ways from camp to relieve himself, but he has not returned.”
Chombon spit again. The idiot was most likely lost, thrashing about in the jungle looking for their camp. It was easy to get confused.
“Calm down, all of you. Armando is probably lost. We will fire some shots to guide him home.” That’s it. Show them you can be a decisive and levelheaded leader.
It was possible Armando had been bitten by a snake or eaten by a cocodrilo, but in either case they should have heard something. The hair on the back of Chombon’s neck pricked up as he thought of another possibility.
No … impossible.
“Maybe he is tired of working here,” Enrique ventured.
Chombon’s tattooed hand shot out, snatching Enrique by the collar. “And if Armando has decided to give up on our plans and leave, then I will personally feed the crocodiles with pieces of him. And that goes for anyone else who desires to quit before the job is done.” He looked at the others. “¿Comprendes?”
“Si, Jefe,” Enrique said, eyes wide with fright. Chombon released the boy, and he followed the rest as they quickly retreated back down the path that led to the encampment.
Chombon cursed. Fate might have dealt him a blow, but he would not give up without a fight.
Isla Rancheria. 1030 hours
Fifteen minutes after entering the administration office, Fernanda dropped the signed permit forms on the table outside and gave Zack a smug look. “Done.”
“What did you do?” Zack looked at her like she’d just killed an alligator with her bare hands.
“It was easy. Men are weak.” She refastened her hair into a ponytail.
He looked her up and down in a glance. “I guess we are, but I’m not sure you’re playing fair.”
“Hey, I’m just making use of what my papi gave me.”
Zack’s eyes went wide. “You mean …”
“Coffee, you sicko!” Fernanda punched him playfully on the shoulder. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”
Zack shrugged. “Well, you said …”
She winked at him. “Gotcha.”
The blond student shook his head and laughed. “I guess so! But really, what does coffee have to do with it?”
She grinned. “I simply told the jefe that my friend the professor’s Spanish wasn’t all that good and he had apparently made our trip sound like a scientific expedition when in reality we’re just here camping for spring break. We are avid bird-watchers, so we’d like to look for some Guacamaya while we’re on the island, but we aren’t planning to take anything home with us, except pictures, of course.”
“But we are on a scientific expedition.”
Fernanda dropped her shoulders. “Okay, so I lied. It probably did no good anyway. But when I offered to send him a year’s supply of Lerida coffee, the jefe agreed to allow us to camp but made me promise that we would stay away from the west side of the island.”
Zack crossed his arms. “That’s weird. Why would he say that?”
“I’m not sure. He just said it was off-limits, restricted.”
Alex approached from the direction of the beach. Fernanda waved the permit at him. “Good news! We’re cleared to go.”
Alex was clearly surprised. “Really? How did—?”
“Don’t ask,” Zack said.
Fernanda punched him again. “It was no big deal. Anyway, how’s Hedi?”
Alex shook his head. “She’s quite sick. It wouldn’t be wise to take her into the jungle.”
“Could we stay here another day and see if she feels better?”
“No, Fernanda. I’m afraid if we lose any more time, we’ll never make it into the interior and back out again. We’re cutting it close as it is.”
She felt as if a bucket of negative emotions had just been dumped on her head. When they were back in Panama City, the idea of trekking through the jungle had sounded like a great adventure. Now Fernanda wasn’t so sure she was up to it. She hated the thought of leaving Hedi behind too. Then there was the fact that her mother would be proven right: She was going into the jungle alone with three men.
Papi would have wanted her to hold her chin up and keep moving forward. He had always been like that. When the going got tough in the coffee business, he didn’t give up—he got angry. But he knew how to channel his anger into action. Fernanda wanted to be like him but didn’t feel it.
Carlos came puffing up from the far side of the encampment. “Hey, guys. You got to see this. They’ve got a crocodile named Tito that eats soccer balls and comes when you call it!”
Her resolve wavered. “Maybe I should stay with Hedi.”
Carlos looked confused. “Hedi’s not coming? Man! I knew she was a weak link.”
She was about to kick Carlos in the shins when Alex put a hand on her shoulder. “Hedi will be fine, Fernanda. I’ll arrange with Vincente to return for her after he drops us off. He’ll wait here with her until she feels better, then take her back to Santa Catalina. She can relax on the beach at the Oasis until we return. Anyway, we need you to make this trip happen. With only three of us, there won’t be enough people to carry all of our shared gear.”
Great. Now I’m letting someone down either way.
“Whatever we do,” Zack chimed in, “we should probably do it quick before el jefe changes his mind.”
“Let me talk to Hedi first.” Without waiting for an answer, Fernanda trudged off toward the beach.
Her friend was swinging slowly in the
hammock, staring out to sea.
Fernanda stopped and leaned against the tree to which one end was tied. “I don’t feel good about leaving you.”
Hedi gave her a halfhearted smile. “Ach … I don’t feel good about leaving you either. But it makes no sense to take me if I’ll be a burden to the team. And we both know that’s what I’d be right now.”
Fernanda sighed. “So you won’t be mad at me if I go on the expedition?”
Hedi shook her head and stared out to sea again. “I’ll be mad if you don’t.”
A half hour later they said their good-byes to Hedi and were back in the Pescador with Vincente, motoring out of the bay. Fernanda’s spirits were lifted a little by the sight of Alex standing in the bow of the boat, wearing his expedition hat and looking as intrepid as anyone she’d ever seen. He had a lot in common with her father. She found Alex’s demeanor irresistible.
He turned to face the group and sat on the front seat, raising his voice above the engine’s whine. “All right. As soon as we get out of sight of the ranger station, we’ll turn west and head for Playa Brava, which is closer than our original plan but will still allow us to arrive at our destination.”
“But weren’t we warned to stay away from the west side of the island?”
The professor leaned forward and gave Zack an intense look. “This is a big island. Once we’re fifty yards inland, the ANAM boat patrols will never spot us. And Vincente doesn’t have to go by the ANAM station when he comes to pick us up. As long as he can return without being spotted this afternoon, the rangers will be none the wiser.”
Carlos grinned. “Better to ask forgiveness than permission, brah!”
Zack said nothing. Fernanda thought he looked like this trip wasn’t turning out to be what he had planned either.
They motored south along Coiba’s western coast for about a half hour. Then as they rounded a rocky outcropping, Vincente whistled and pointed to a long stretch of sandy beach. “Playa Brava.”
