The Amazon Job

by Vince Milam

“We are close,” she said and pulled her phone.

  “Don’t tell me. Leave the phone off.”

  “Why should I not tell you?”

  Her word order or word usage or the French lilt made for a great conversational tone. It struck me as a flavorful add-on within an already exotic environment.

  “It’s best if I find it. Recognize it. Without knowing the exact spot.”

  I kept the engine past idle and made slow headway against the mild current, hugging the left bank and eyeballing the right bank’s upper tree line. Found it. Nothing leapt out, no obvious indicators. Then a change, an inconsistency among the tree foliage. Several branch stubs, a subtle opening high in the air.

  “That’s it.”

  She returned a nod with a slight eyebrow lift behind her shades. Was she surprised? Maybe. A legit perspective given she knew nothing about me other than I was sent under contract. A proof-of-the-pudding moment.

  “Don’t let me know when we approach the next one. I’ll find it on my own.”

  The afternoon sun blazed, the heat oppressive. Kim, her back toward me, would dip a handkerchief in the water at regular intervals. She removed the ball cap, draped the dripping cloth over her head, and pressed the cap back on. A cool reprieve from the heat, repeated often. She adjusted, worked with the environment. Understood what worked and what didn’t. Good for her.

  I ran us at a moderate speed. Too slow and we’d never make headway. Too fast, and we’d whip past entry points. Eyes peeled, a well-honed skill set utilized. Several miles upriver I found the second tunneled entrance. Same indicators, subtle but discernible. This little training exercise would pay off, big time. The pathways of my quarry would hold similar signs. I swung the boat across river and beached it beneath the overhead alleyway.

  “Why do we stop?”

  “Checking one of these high-water islands you folks concentrated on.”

  “Why?”

  “To capture a feel for the environment.”

  “This strikes me as peculiar. We have a great deal of river travel before we enter Dr. Amsler’s search area.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  A small headshake as she removed the wet handkerchief and scratched her scalp. The vertical midline of her shirt, dark with sweat, clung to her back. I killed the engine as the boat’s bow scooted onto the few feet of beach, its prow nudging the wall of green. Birds called and insects buzzed. Rain forest noises, unchanged for millennia. The scrape of our aluminum hull against riverbank an alien call, invasive.

  Kim unsheathed her short machete and stepped onto the bank. She turned and captured the sight of me prepping a personal webbed tool belt. It contained my own machete, a Ka-Bar knife, and soft-sided water canteen. A built-in fanny pack held a first aid kit and energy bars. The belt also held a holstered Glock.

  She stowed the sunglasses—a deep-shaded world awaited. “Is this necessary?” A finger shot toward my weapon.

  “Hope not.”

  Which she met with a hard stare and furrowed brow.

  “There’s an old expression,” I added. “Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.”

  “An American expression?”

  “I suppose.”

  “But of course.” She turned toward the jungle wall. “Shall I lead?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Her machete strokes would be more indicative of a Swiss scientist trail than my more experienced jungle traverse technique. A technique with less machete work, more sidesteps, faster pace. This was a Swiss scientist pathways lesson within a vast wilderness.

  “Does this mean yes?”

  “It does. Yes. Please lead.”

  Deep shade and instant cooler temperatures. Eyes adjusted to our intrusion into this muted light and life-filled world. We worked our way uphill, a gentle slope, the high-water mark discernible as we crested the small hummock. A uniform line of jungle debris adhered to tree trunks and bush tops.

  “If we find something interesting,” I said as Kim whacked brush and overhanging tree limbs, “something we could toss in a blender and create a concoction to cure the common cold, let me know. I’ll split the patent with you.”

  “You are making a joke?”

  “Sorta.”

  Squawks erupted overhead, but their source remained hidden by thick-tiered branches. I heard quick, short scampering sounds through the jungle floor detritus around us. I scanned the surrounding area with constant glances toward the immediate travel path.

  “Watch for snakes.”

  “I am aware of snakes, Mr. Lee.” She whacked another limb.

  “Case.”

  “Yes.” She directed a backhanded machete swipe at an obstructing frond plant. “So you say. Often.”

  She halted and slapped her exposed thigh. An insect. The slap was accompanied by a Swiss word I didn’t understand. High odds it wasn’t a word used among polite society.

  “Alright. Seen enough. Let’s get back underway.”

  Shade and lower temps didn’t offset the exertion of wielding a machete. Sweat poured down her face. She strode past me, leading again, and shot me a “waste of time” look. It wasn’t. She’d cut a trail, and I now understood what to look for. Each scientist would have their own approach, sure, but the frequency of blade swipes and the linear nature of advance would remain somewhat constant.

  At the boat she grabbed a mess hall pitcher. Dipped it in the river, bent at the waist, and poured semicool water over her head. Full sun radiated off the aluminum boat, the metal hot to the touch. She offered the pitcher, and I repeated her performance. Whether an act of simple companionship or an effort at keeping the hired hand upright was unclear.

  I goosed the engine and headed farther upriver, farther into the wilderness. The treetop tunnels lowered as we progressed, reflecting the drop in water level over the last months. The last hacked path appeared at shoreline level, and Kim announced we were approaching the farthest upstream exploration area for the rest of her team. We had entered Ana Amsler’s area. The search zone. I slowed the boat to half-throttle.

  I well understood Amsler’s technique. Amsler the loner. The hardheaded scientist. She’d suss the dry areas, the large islands of potential, each night at the base camp. Study the satellite images overlaid on topographic maps. Choose the next day’s exploration area. Areas farthest away from the others. Ascertain the GPS coordinates. A daylight start, her boat loaded with fuel, a GPS enabled phone, and minimal supplies. A solid approach from Amsler, and a valid assumption on my part. Not rocket science. With such a light load, the little skiff would scoot at full throttle. And she’d keep it at full throttle for several hours, covering multiple miles upriver. We didn’t have the luxury of speed as we searched and hunted for signs, so I’d figured three or five days to cover the most probable areas. Scour her trail for indicators, clues. But we did have one ace in the hole.

  “Okay. What we’re looking for is very specific,” I said and waited for Kim to turn around and face me. She did. “A treetop tunnel. About fifteen feet above us.”

  She lowered her Ray-Bans and nodded. Ice-blue eyes, unblinking.

  “And one of two things corresponding with the overhead path. One—another entry point at ground level near the overhead. Where she went back in with her custom-made equipment.”

  “I understand.”

  Her attention meter pegged. Right up Kim’s alley—specific and methodical.

  “Or two—a nearby smaller river or creek that could have accommodated her boat. Used for closer access to her objective. Her discovery. A small creek wouldn’t have been discernible during high water. She may have used one several days ago.”

  “We should focus on the smaller river premise.”

  “Why?”

  “There was no sign of her boat during our airplane search. If she had entered near her earlier location—the treetop tunnel, as you call it—and an accident or injury occurred, the boat would have remained. We would have seen it. A smaller wat
erway nearby would hide her boat due to overhanging jungle. Is this not so?”

  Yeah, it was so if you held with surety a view of Amsler as still around. Hurt, perhaps. Lost. I wasn’t so sure; I maintained the possibility that Amsler had skedaddled with her toxic bundle downriver toward heaven-knows-where. But no point cracking open the weirdness door. Not now.

  “What’s important is we dismiss nothing and absorb everything. Any sign of her and her travels.”

  She nodded, those ice-blue eyes focused over the top of the sunglasses.

  “We’re working a puzzle,” I continued. “We require all the pieces. All the data.”

  The last bit seemed to salve Kim’s thoughts toward our search methodology.

  “I understand.” The Ray-Bans went back up her nose. “We shall do as you recommend.”

  She turned back around, sat straight, and officially began her personal search for her Swiss colleague. I smiled, amused at the scientific mantle she wrapped around her demeanor. Not my cup of tea, but it had a strange appeal coming from Kim Rochat. Maybe it was the French inflection or the tightly wound demeanor of the small and fit scientist. Hard to say.

  I kept us in the waterway’s center. I wasn’t buying that the entire Swiss team had searched the west side of the river. Not with Amsler. I spotted the first overhead indicators an hour later. Westward, sure enough. I slowed to a crawl and eyeballed the shore and adjacent foliage for signs. Nada. And no smaller creeks as inlets nearby. We moved on. I found the second air tunnel occupying the east side. When I pointed it out, Kim frowned and shook her head. A violation of team protocol. An unauthorized departure from agreed-upon methodology. But again, no further signs or indicators of a follow-up entry point.

  The river forked. I slowed and idled against the current, considered my quarry. Kim expressed, in no uncertain terms, that the right fork constituted the correct route. And it could have been. Maybe. I kept right, and we found one more Amsler high-water access with no accompanying clues. Then nothing. A full hour pushing upstream and no signs, no access points. Late afternoon, and time to make camp. A river bend held a sandbar and offered a small open area adjacent to the jungle.

  “That’s it for the day,” I said as the boat’s bow pushed onto the sand. “Let’s settle for the night and hit it again at daybreak.”

  No argument from Kim. Together, we fixed a large rain tarp ten feet overhead inside the jungle wall. I strung my hammock and mosquito netting and helped with hers. Shared a trick or two regarding hammock sleeping preparations. Worked with her to secure a small jungle stick perpendicular to the hammock rope at both ends. Each one acted as a rafter, jutting out in both directions. When the mosquito netting was situated, the sticks held it away from the hammock. Otherwise, critters could bite Kim through the netting where it draped against her body. I also emphasized tight netting knots farther up the rope. It would keep creepy-crawlies from working their way along the rope and joining her during the night. She nodded approvingly during the setup.

  A large tree, victim of high water, lay across our camp and provided a working surface, a rain forest table. We collected fallen limbs and started a fire—it would cool off once the sun set, and the damp woodsmoke kept the insects at bay. You could go old school to start a fire with damp wood. It took time and effort. Or use a small road flare and let a couple thousand degrees of heat kick things off. Between futzing around or striking a flare, I preferred the latter. Kim pulled dried food and aluminum pots from her camp collection.

  “How about fresh fish?” I asked, assembling a travel fly rod. “Bernie says they make fine fare.”

  “What does?”

  “Piranhas.”

  “I believe such tales of their density are much exaggerated.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Let’s see.”

  I’d brought several twelve-inch lengths of flexible wire leader to prevent sharp teeth from cutting my monofilament line. At the end of the leader a decent-sized feather streamer. I didn’t sweat color or shape too much—these were piranhas, after all. I cast midstream and stripped line. I was beginning to credit Kim’s skepticism when, close to shore, a hook-up. It was the size of a healthy bluegill perch. But with razor teeth on prominent display. Mercy. I changed flies—it had destroyed the feathered presentation—and cast along the shore. Two line strips and bingo, another. And another streamer destroyed. Kim sidled up as I cast again. And caught another piranha.

  “It would appear they are quite numerous,” she said.

  “After I catch supper, feel free to take a dip.”

  “Dip?”

  “Swim.”

  “Most amusing. No, thank you.”

  I caught two more and called it good. Cleaned the fish and tossed the heads and guts into the water six feet from shore. Flashes beneath the surface appeared—a few silver darts grew to dozens. No more heads, no more guts. Yowza.

  After supper I fed the fire more logs and branches as night approached. Before it was too dark, I ran two perimeter lines of thick monofilament around the camp—one at two feet off the ground, the other at ten inches, the lower one for any gators or anacondas taking a midnight ramble. At each tree I bent the line around, I attached a small LED light—much like the one on a cell phone—six feet high. A monofilament trigger line then attached to the perimeter line. Each LED was powered with a small battery. I had packed several dozen of the small devices and plenty of thick monofilament.

  “And this is for what?” Kim asked.

  “Critters. Both four- and two-legged.”

  I explained the trip line would engage the LEDs and light up the camp’s perimeter, as well as frighten away whatever caused them to trigger. The lights also emitted a small electronic whine when activated.

  “You have plans to sleep with your weapon?” she asked as I unholstered the Glock and tossed it into the hammock.

  “My version of a comfort blanket.”

  She went about her business, prepared for sleep, and muttered a few things in Swiss French. I may have heard the word “Rambo.” We settled, and I ensured she tied a tight knot in the mosquito net where it draped below her hammock.

  “Keeps the ground dwelling insects out. Usually.”

  “Yes. Fine. How often do you plan on shifting position during the night?”

  Peculiar question. And I said so.

  “You have assembled our hammocks so we share a common tree,” she replied. “A quite small common tree.”

  True enough. We shared a small diameter tree as one tie-off. The other ends of our hammocks were attached to separate trees.

  “Each time you shift or turn, this small tree reacts. And I bounce.”

  “I’ll try and keep it to a minimum. Good night, Kim.”

  A resigned exhale from the nearby hammock.

  “Good night, Case.”

  It wasn’t.

  Chapter 12

  My eyes popped open and the adrenaline meter pegged. High-pitched electronic whines as LED lights flashed on. Situated smack dab in the middle of Amazon wilderness the high-pitched noise and bright light made for a hell of an alarm clock. Pistol in hand and a quick exit from the hammock. I ripped through mosquito netting and plopped on the ground. Jaguar, gator, or one of those giant anaconda snakes. Didn’t matter—I wasn’t a menu item for any of them.

  The jungle-side of our camp now illuminated, I stood with a two-handed grip on the Glock. Searched, strained for movement. And found it. Multiple figures in deep shadow, retreating into the dense rain forest. I dropped to my knees. Not good.

  “What is the issue?”

  The electronic whines, lights, and my hitting the dirt woke Kim. She sat up.

  “Hit the ground!”

  “What?”

  No time. I scrambled the few feet toward her and flipped the hammock. She wasn’t heavy enough to break through the netting and hung suspended, cocooned, a foot off the ground.

  “What are you doing? Stop this!”

  I whipped out the Ka-Bar knife—another comfort b
lanket—and slashed through the netting. She tumbled onto the ground. A few choice Swiss expletives joined her attempt to stand.

  “Down!”

  No time for discussions. I grabbed her shirt and jerked her toward dirt and safety. She gripped my wrist with both hands, furious. We performed a mad scramble with accompanying khaki shirt tug-of-war toward the protection of the fallen tree across our campsite.

  “Stay down!”

  “What is it? What are we doing?”

  A distinctive thwack against the other side of the fallen tree trunk was her immediate and unwelcome answer. Followed with two more in rapid succession. Arrows. Not good at all.

  “What was that?” she asked, now with semiacceptance of our hunkered-down position. “This noise. What does this mean?”

  I responded with the Glock lifted over the log and pointed high toward their general direction. I had no intention of hitting any of them, but I was damn sure intent on delivering a message. We’re armed. And we’ll fight. Three massive booms from the pistol echoed through the dense environment. And three white-bright muzzle blasts even in the LED-lit environment. A quick glance toward the other half of our search party revealed a small Swiss scientist, eyes wide as headlights, short hair disheveled and mouth open.

  “Those thunks were arrows. Stay down, Kim. Give them a chance to scoot away.”

  “Why are they attacking us?”

  “Because we’re on their turf.”

  She digested this information and asked, “What do we do?”

  “Get the hell off their turf.”

  The rustle of bodies against branches and fronds and ground cover, retreating. Whether this activity would continue or they’d gather and come at us again would remain an unknown. We’d depart, as in right freakin’ now.

  “Give them another thirty seconds. Then we grab our stuff and toss it in the boat.”

  “It will take time for arrangement of our equipment.”

  I shot her a no-nonsense eye lock. There were another few minutes on the activated LEDs before they’d flick off. I’d activate the ones at our back side, toward the river, to give us an additional few minutes. We wouldn’t require it. Speed, rapidity of movement was now paramount.