“What the hell are we supposed to do?” Morgan Trayhern growled at Mike Houston from his place behind the huge dark maple desk in his office.
Army Special Forces Major Mike Houston turned slowly away from the window where he stood and faced his boss. “Inca must lead that Brazilian contingent into the Amazon basin or Colonel Jaime Marcellino and company will be destroyed by the drug lords. Without her, they’re dead,” he said flatly. Then his eyes snapped with humor. “They just don’t know it yet, that’s all.”
Rubbing his square jaw, Morgan dropped the opened file labeled Inca on his desk. “Damn…she’s a lone wolf.”
“More like a lone jaguar.”
“What?” Disgruntled, Morgan gave Mike a dark look.
“Jaguars,” Mike said in a calm tone, “always hunt alone. The only time they get together is to mate, and after that, they split. The cubs are raised by the mother only.”
Glaring down at the colored photo of a woman in a sleeveless, olive-green T-shirt, bandoliers across her shoulders, a rifle across her knees as she sat on a moss-covered log, Morgan shook his head. “You vaguely mention in your report that Inca’s a member of the Jaguar Clan.”
“Well,” Mike hedged, “kind of…”
“What is that? A secret paramilitary organization down in Brazil?”
Mike maintained a dour look on his face. He unwound from his at-ease position and slowly crossed the room. “You could say that, but they don’t work with governments, exactly. Not formally…” Mike wasn’t about to get into the metaphysical attributes of the clan with Morgan. He tiptoed around it with his boss because Mike felt Morgan would not believe him about the clan’s mysterious abilities.
“But you’re insisting that Inca work with the Brazilian government on this plan of ours to coordinate the capture of major drug lords in several South American countries.”
“Morgan, the Amazon basin is a big place.” Mike stabbed his finger at the file on the desk as he halted in front of his boss. “Inca was born near Manaus. She knows the Amazon like the back of her hand. The major drug activity is in the Juma and Yanomami Indian reservation around Manaus. You can’t put army troops into something like this without experts who know the terrain intimately. Only one person, someone who’s been waging a nonstop war against the drug lords in that area, knows it—Inca.”
With a heavy shake of his head, Morgan muttered, “She’s barely a child! She’s only twenty-five years old!”
Mike smiled a little. “Inca is hardly a child. I’ve known her since she saved my life when she was eighteen years old.”
“She’s so young.”
Mike nodded, the smile on his mouth dissolving. “Listen to me. In a few minutes you’ve got to go into that war room with emissaries from those South American countries that are capable of raising coca to produce cocaine, and sell them on this idea. Inca has a reputation—not a good one, I’ll grant you—but she gets the job done. It ain’t pretty, Morgan. She’s a Green Warrior. That’s slang for a tree hugger or environmentalist. Down there in Brazil, that carries a lot of weight with the Indian people. She’s their protector. They worship her. They would go to hell and back for her if she asked it of them. If that Brazilian army is going to make this mission a success they need the support of the locals. And if Inca is there, leading the troops, the Indians will fight and die at her side on behalf of the Brazilian government. Without her, they’ll turn a deaf ear to the government’s needs.”
“I read in your report that they call her the jaguar goddess.”
Raising one eyebrow, Houston said, “Those that love her call her that.”
“And her enemies?”
“A Green Warrior—” Houston grimaced “—or worse. I think you ought to prepare yourself for Colonel Marcellino’s reaction to her. He won’t have anything good to say when he hears we’re going to pair him up with Inca.”
Studying Houston, Morgan slowly closed the file and stood up. “Mike, I’m counting on you to help carry the day in there. You’re my South American expert. You’ve been fighting drug lords in all those countries, especially in Peru and Brazil. No one knows that turf better than you.”
“That’s why Inca is so important to this operation,” he said as he walked with Morgan toward an inner door that led to an elevator to the top secret, underground war room. “She knows the turf even better than I do.”
Morgan halted at the door. He rearranged the red silk tie at the throat of his white shirt. Buttoning up his pinstripe suit, he sighed. “Did you ever find anyone in our merc database who could work—or would want to work—with the infamous Inca?”
Grinning a little, Houston said, “Yeah, I think I did. Roan Storm Walker. He’s got Native American blood in him. Inca will respect him for that, at least.”
Morgan raised his brows. “Translated, that means she won’t just outright flatten him like she does every other male who gets into her line of fire?”
Chuckling, Mike put his hand on Morgan’s broad shoulder. The silver at the temples of his boss’s black hair was getting more and more pronounced, making Mike realize that running Perseus, a worldwide mercenary operation, would put gray hairs on just about anyone. “She’ll respect him.”
“What does that mean? She’ll ask questions first and shoot later?”
“You could say that, yes.”
“Great,” Morgan muttered. “And Walker’s in the war room already?”
“Yes. I told him to stay in the shadows and keep a low profile. I don’t want him agreeing to this mission you’ve laid out for him without him realizing he has to work directly with Colonel Marcellino. And—” Mike scowled, looking even more worried “—he needs to understand that the ongoing war between Marcellino and Inca will put him between a rock and a hard place.”
Snorting, Morgan opened the door, heading for the elevator that would take them three stories down into the earth. “Sounds like I need a damned diplomat between the colonel and Inca, not a merc. Roan’s always taken oddball assignments, though. Things I could never talk anyone else into taking—and he’s always pulled them off.”
“Good,” Mike murmured, hope in his voice as he followed Morgan into the elevator, “because Walker is gonna need that kind of attitude to survive.”
“Survive who?” Morgan demanded, “Marcellino or Inca?”
The doors whooshed closed. Mike wrapped his arms around his chest as his stomach tightened with tension. The elevator plummeted rapidly toward their destination. “Both,” he said grimly. “There won’t be any love lost between Marcellino and Inca, believe me. They’re like a dog and cat embroiled in a fight to the death. Only this time it’s a dog and a jaguar….”
Chapter 2
What in the hell am I doing here with all this fruit salad? Roan wondered as he slowly eased his bulk down into a chair in the shadows of the huge, rectangular room. Fruit salad was military slang for the ribbons personnel wore on their uniforms. Ribbons that spoke of various campaigns and wars that they served in, and medals they’d earned when they’d survived them. His own time in the Marine Corps as a Recon came back to him as he scanned the assembled group of ten men. Roan recognized two of them: Morgan Trayhern, who sat at the head of the large, oval table in a dapper gray pinstripe suit, and Major Mike Houston, who was a U.S. Army advisor to the Peruvian military. Roan amended his observation. Mike was retired. Now he was working for Perseus and for Morgan.
Roan was the only other person besides Morgan and Mike wearing civilian attire. In his white cotton Western shirt, the sleeves rolled up haphazardly to just below his elbows, his well-worn jean’s and a pair of dusty, scarred cowboy boots, he knew he stuck out like a sore thumb in this assemblage, members of which were now scrutinizing him closely. Let them. Roan really couldn’t care less. At twenty-eight he was already a widower, and the dark looks of some colonels and generals were nothing in comparison to what he’d already endured.
“Gentlemen, this is Roan Storm Walker,” Morgan began. “He’s an ex-Rec
on Marine. I’ve asked him to sit in on this important briefing because he will be working directly with the Brazilian detachment.”
Roan noticed a tall, thin man in a dark green Brazilian Army uniform snap a cold, measuring look in his direction. The name card in front of him read Marcellino, Jaime, Colonel, Brazil. The man had hard, black, unforgiving eyes that reminded Roan of obsidian, an ebony rock, similar to glass in its chemical makeup, which was created out of the belching fire of a violent volcano. Instinctively Roan felt the controlled and contained violence around the Brazilian colonel. It showed in his thinned mouth and his long, angular features that hinted of an aristocratic heritage. Everything about the good colonel spoke of his formal training; he had that military rigidity and look of expectation that said his orders would be carried out to the letter once he gave them.
Maybe it was the intelligence Roan saw in Marcellino’s restless, probing eyes that made him feel a tad better about the man. Roan knew he would have to work with him, and his instincts warned him that Marcellino was a soldier with a helluva lotta baggage that he was dragging around with him like an old friend. People like that made Roan antsy because they tended to take their misery and unconscious rage out on others without ever realizing it. And Roan wouldn’t join in that kind of dance with anyone. It was one of the reasons why he’d quit the Marine Corps; the games, the politics choked him, and he withered within the world of the military. His gut told him Marcellino was a man who excelled at those bonds of politics.
Clearing his throat, Morgan buttonholed everyone seated around the oval table. One by one he introduced each man present. Roan noted there was either a colonel or a general from each of the South American countries represented at the table. In front of him was a file folder marked Top Secret. Roan resisted opening it up before being asked to. When Morgan got to his corner, Roan lowered his eyes and looked down at the well-polished table.
“I’ve already introduced Roan Storm Walker, but let me give you some of his background. As I mentioned, he was a Recon Marine for six years. A trained paramedic on his team, he saw action in Desert Storm. His team was responsible for doing a lot of damage over in Iraq. His specialty is jungle and desert warfare situations. He holds a degree in psychology. He speaks five languages fluently—Spanish, German, French and Portuguese, plus his own Native American language, of the Lakota Sioux nation. He will be working with Colonel Jaime Marcellino, from Brazil. But more on that later.”
Roan was glad once the spotlight moved away from him. He didn’t like being out front. People out front got shot at and hit. He had learned to be a shadow, because shadows could quietly steal away to live and fight another day. As he sat there, vaguely listening to the other introductions, Roan admitted to himself that the fight had gone out of him. When Sarah died two years ago, his life had been shattered. He had no more desire to take on the world. With her his reason for living had died. If it hadn’t been for Morgan nudging him to get back into the stream of life, he’d probably have drunk himself to death in his cabin up in the mountains.
Morgan would visit him about once a month, toss a small mercenary job with little danger to it his way, to keep Roan from hitting the bottle in his despair. Trayhern was astute about people, about their grief and how it affected them. Roan knew a lot about grief now. He knew what loss was. The worst kind. He tried to imagine a loss that would be greater than losing a wife or husband, and figured that would probably be losing a child. It was lucky, he supposed morbidly, that he and Sarah never had children. But in truth he wished that they had. Sarah would live on through that child, and Roan wouldn’t feel as devastated or alone as he did now. But that was a selfish thought, he knew.
Still, he felt that losing a loved one, whether spouse or child, was the hardest thing in the world to endure. How could one do it and survive? As a psychologist, he knew the profound scarring that took place on the psyche. He knew firsthand the terrible, wrenching grief of losing a woman he loved as well as life itself. And Roan swore he’d never, ever fall in love again, because he could not afford to go through that again. Not ever. His spirit would not survive it.
“Gentlemen, I’m turning this briefing over to Major Mike Houston. You all know him well. He was a U.S. Army advisor up until very recently.” Morgan allowed a hint of a smile on his face. “Mike is now working for Perseus, my organization. He is our South American specialist. One of the reasons you have been handpicked to represent your country is because you have all worked with him in some capacity or another. Major Houston is a known quantity to you. You know he’s good at his word, that he knows the terrain and the problems with the drug trade in South America. You know he can be trusted.” Morgan turned to Mike. “Major Houston?”
Mike nodded and stood up. He, too, was in civilian attire—a pair of tan trousers, a white cotton shirt and a dark brown blazer. When he turned on the overhead, a map of Brazil flashed on the screen in front of the group.
“The government of Brazil has asked this administration for help in ridding the Amazon basin of two very powerful drug lords—the Valentino Brothers.” Mike moved to the front and flicked on his laser pen. A small red dot appeared on the map. “We know from intelligence sources in the basin that the brothers have at least six areas of operation. Their business consists of growing and manufacturing cocaine. They have factories, huge ones, that are positioned in narrow, steep and well-guarded valleys deep in the interior of the rain forest.
“The Valentino Brothers capture Indians from the surrounding areas and basically enslave them, turn them into forced laborers. If the Indians don’t work, they are shot in the head. If they try to escape, they are killed. What few have escaped and lived to tell us about their captivity, relate being fed very little food while working sixteen hours a day, seven days a week. If they don’t work fast enough, the overseer whips them. There is no medical help for them. No help at all.”
Mike looked out at the shadowy faces turned raptly toward him. “All of you know I’m part Quechua Indian, from Peru. I have a personal stake in this large, ongoing mission. We have drug lords enslaving Indians in every country in South America in order to produce large quantities of cocaine for world distribution. If the Indians do not do the work, they are murdered. The captured women are raped. After working all day they become unwilling pawns to the drug dealers at night. Children who are captured are forced to work the same hours as an adult. They suffer the same fate as an adult.” His mouth became set. “Clearly, we need to make a statement to these drug lords. The head honchos aren’t stupid. They use the rain forests and jungles to hide in. Even our satellite tracking cannot find them under the dense canopy. What we need, in each country, is someone who knows the territory where these factories are located, to act as a guide, to bring the army forces in to destroy them.”
Mike grimaced. “This is no easy task. The Amazon basin is huge and the military must march in on foot. The only way units can be resupplied is by helicopter. When they get farther in, helicopters are out of range—they can’t reach them without refueling—so we must rely on cargo plane airdrops. The troops’ medical needs aren’t going to be met. If there is an emergency, a sick or wounded soldier will have to be carried out to a place where a helicopter can pick him up and transport him back to the nearest hospital. As you all are aware, I’m sure, there are a lot of deadly things out in the Amazon. Piranhas in the rivers, channels and pools. Bushmaster snakes that will literally chase you until they sink their fangs into you. Mosquitoes carrying malaria, yellow fever and dengue. There’s always the threat of unknown hemorrhagic viruses, victims of which can bleed out before we can get them proper medical help. There are insects that with one bite can kill you in as little as forty-eight hours if you are without medical intervention.”
Mike paused, then moved on. “Colonel Jaime Marcellino has been chosen to lead the Brazilian Army contingent, a company of their best soldiers—roughly one hundred and eighty men. He is their rain forest specialist. He has knowledge of the problems
inherit in that environment.”
Jaime bowed slightly to Houston.
Mike went on. “We all agree that Colonel Marcellino’s experiment with a company of men in Brazil will teach us a lot about how to organize military attacks against drug strongholds in other countries. What we learn from his mission will help all of you in preparation for yours. He will be our guinea pig, so to speak. Mistakes made there we will learn from. What works will be passed on in an after-action report to all of you.”
Moving toward the front of the room, Mike tapped the map projected on the huge screen. “We have it on good authority where six factories, in six different valleys, are located. We have a guide who will lead the colonel’s company to the nearest one, which is about ten hours southeast of Manaus, up in a mountainous region known as Sector 5. The colonel’s company will disembark at Manaus, motor down the Amazon and, at a predestined spot, off-load and meet their guide. The guide will then take them through a lot of grueling hilly and swampy terrain to reach the valley where the factory is located. Once there, Colonel Marcellino will deploy his troops for a strategic attack on the facility.” Mike shrugged. “It is our hope that the Indians who are captive will be freed. We don’t want them killed in the cross fire. The Valentino Brothers have heavily fortified operations. Their drug soldiers are men who live in the rain forest and know it intimately. They will be a constant threat.”
Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart Of The Warrior Page 2
