"My plan for getting across the border was to ditch the jeep short of Melchor de Mencos, walk around through the jungle, and flag down a bus on the Belize side. So I bought the basics for jungle travel and a night in the bush. Now it'll be a few more nights. You up for a short lecture?"
"How can I say no?"
"First, a little philosophy. Most people bumblefuck their way through life with their head up their ass. Which is fine, as long as there's someone to call 911 and a rescue squad to cut their hand out of the garbage disposal. Even in the military, if some idiot falls down a hill at night, you can always call a helicopter to medevac them. We're on our own out here. So, before you do absolutely anything, you have to think about it very carefully.
"First, don't touch anything without checking with me. Don't push a branch away as you go past, don't even rest your hand on the trunk of a tree when we stop. There might be a snake, or a poisonous centipede, or fire ants. Out here even the caterpillars can fuck you up." He produced two pairs of light cotton gloves from the pack and gave her one. "Wear these all the time. Did you bring a hat?"
"I have a baseball cap."
"Put in on. It'll keep crap out of your hair."
"Two pairs of gloves?" Scanlan said.
Welsh thought he could hear a smile in her voice. "When I saw you at the hotel I got one of those feelings. Next thing. As we walk along you've got to watch your footing. We can't afford even a sprain, let alone a broken bone. If you get tired, I want you to let me know."
"I'll be all right," she replied briskly.
"That's another thing," he said. "In the jungle you've got to rely more on your good sense than your guts, or you'll never make it. When you get tired you make mistakes, you lose your coordination, and it's easier to get hurt. This kind of situation, people die more from stupid pride than anything else. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Great. Now, water. You have to drink and keep drinking. Don't ration water; let your body store it for you. In this climate, if you wait until you're thirsty to start drinking, your body is already a liter and a half low. That cuts both your endurance and your oxygen intake. And if you keep moving and losing water, you're looking at dehydration and then heat stroke, no matter how much you drink after that. If you feel woozy, if your skin feels dry and you stop sweating, if you get one of those metal-band-squeezing-your-forehead headaches, let me know 'cause those are the signs. You've got to constantly monitor your body. If you don't feel good, you stop and do something about it. You don't push on and try to gut it out. Okay?"
"Okay."
"You're doing just great. I had Marines, kids who grew up in the city, on their first night walk in the jungle they were so scared they nearly pissed their pants."
"Thanks for trying to make me feel better."
"You think I'm lying," said Welsh, "but I'm not. Last thing. The only stupid question is the one you didn't ask because you were too embarrassed. Just get in close like this and keep it down to a whisper."
"Okay."
He felt in her pack for a fresh water bottle. "Go ahead and fill your tank, then we'll move on." The last item on his lap was a Silva Ranger compass with a loop of green nylon parachute cord attached. Backup in case the GPS died. He tied the cord to his shirt-collar button hole and used the luminous dial to take a bearing along the streambed they were following. About 8 degrees magnetic. The stream probably emptied into a small lake to the north. He'd been worried about the draw angling back toward the road. Now he could be sure.
Welsh slapped on some insect repellent, then put the bottle in his trouser pocket. "This is the ritual after each stop. Make sure all the buckles on your pack are secure, then put it on. Check the ground to see if you dropped anything. Then pat your pockets and make sure you've got everything you came with. Every piece of gear is irreplaceable, and we don't want to leave the bad guys a trail of bread crumbs."
The morning mist was thick, but Welsh could still make out a large hill to the northeast. It seemed like a good spot to check the map. They'd have to move into the canopy to get there, so he took a compass bearing. It was terrifyingly easy to get turned around in thick cover.
Primary jungle was tropical forest in its natural state, untouched by man. Trees grew to heights of up to two hundred feet, forming a mushroom of leaves at the very top. Smaller trees grew up and spread out below them in lower layers, creating a double or even triple canopy. Little light reached the jungle floor, so the vegetation there was mosses, ferns, and tough herbaceous plants. Endless varieties of fungi sprouted up on fallen growth, and vines twined up the tree trunks in an effort to reach the sun.
Even so, it was not as difficult to move through as secondary jungle, where man's clearing of trees allowed sunlight to reach the fertile earth and provoke an explosion of unbelievably tangled, practically impassable undergrowth.
In primary jungle the dead organic material falling to earth formed layers of decaying muck that could be up to a foot thick. With most of the sun blocked out, the air was slightly cooler, though dead still and chokingly, thickly humid. Primary jungle was swarming with raucous birds, monkeys, and two thirds of all the world's species of insects.
When they reached the base of the hill, Welsh circled three quarters of the way around before climbing up. The slope was so steep they had to use saplings for handholds.
"You told me to ask any questions I wanted," Scanlan said as they reached the top, drenched with sweat and gasping for breath.
"Go right ahead," Welsh said. "But remember, quietly."
She dropped back to a whisper. "Why climb up the steep part when the slope in front was a lot less?"
"Because this way we can walk over the top of the hill and watch the trail we made. If anyone is following our track we'll be able to see them. And while they swing around the back and break their balls climbing up, we slip down the easy way and gain some time."
"Very clever."
"Just experience. Now we have a seat, I find out where we are on the map, and you remove your underwear."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You can't wear underwear hiking in this climate, especially cotton. It gets wet and stays wet, chafes, and pretty soon you have a beautiful case of jungle rot."
Scanlan was clearly dubious. "What?"
"Burning, itching, inflammation, skin peeling off. Drives you crazy. Believe me," Welsh said earnestly, "I know what I'm talking about."
"This is no time to kid around."
"I'm not, cross my heart. You can step behind those trees." He just then remembered something. "I need to cover a couple of things before you go to the bathroom."
"I already know how to do that."
"In that case it'll be a much shorter period of instruction."
He led her into the trees and took out the machete. "Cut a circle in the turf, kind of deep," he said, demonstrating. "Pry it out with the blade, put it to one side, but keep the surface intact. Do your business in the hole." He handed her a roll of toilet paper in a plastic bag. "Put the paper on top, replace the circle of turf, press it down. You've left no trace of your presence."
"I was a little worried about the content of this lecture, but I can handle that."
"Also, when you're going, you need to check the color of your urine."
"Excuse me?"
"Clear means you're well hydrated. The darker it is, the more dehydrated you are. It's the best way to determine your fluid level."
"You can level with me now," Scanlan said. "This has just been a series of monstrously tasteless jokes, right?"
"I thought it would go over like a fart in church. But who could make up something like that? And be frugal with the paper, I hate using leaves." After that there was nothing to do but walk away and leave her to it.
He grabbed his pack and crawled to the edge of the hill. Iridescent butterflies beautiful beyond words fluttered about the undergrowth. Lying on his stomach, out of sight, Welsh spread the map out on the ground.
Just then Scanla
n reemerged from the trees. He gave her a mischievous grin. "Underwear come off all right?"
"Yes, thank you very much. That's what I get for being a child of the suburbs."
"I would have thought it was some kind of twisted wilderness initiation ritual too."
She grinned and nodded.
"Now I can tell you to take off your watch and loop the band through one of the button holes on your shirt."
"And why am I doing that?"
"In this climate anything worn next to your skin is going to irritate it. I'd say the same thing about jewelry, if you were wearing any."
"I don't wear jewelry; it's too much trouble."
Without thinking, Welsh said, "'Who troubles himself about his ornaments or fluency is lost.'"
"Who was that?" Scanlan blurted out.
"Walt Whitman, prose introduction to Leaves of Grass."
"And you remember it?"
"Sure. It's one of the great influences on my life." He continued. "'Re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem.' "
"Jungle survival and Whitman. I'm impressed."
"Yeah, well, you'll probably get the whole package before this is over. Now, pull up a chair and observe how we figure out where we are."
"It just looks like a bunch of squiggles."
"It's a l:50,000-scale topographic map. One inch on the map equals fifty thousand inches on the ground. The squiggles represent the contours of the ground. And you have to learn this in case something happens to me."
"Do me a favor, make sure nothing happens to you."
Welsh had the GPS off to save the batteries. Now he turned it on. "Latitude and longitude," he said, indicating the screen. He traced the grids on the map. "Top and side, follow the numbers. "And they intersect…right here." He pointed to the spot on the map. "And we went off the road right about here. Good. And we confirm." Now he pointed out in the distance. "See those three peaks there?"
"Yes."
"They look just like these three hills on the map. Same location, same shape, same height."
"Technology is wonderful."
"As long as the batteries last."
"Then we're screwed?"
"No. Then we use the compass I so thoughtfully brought along, and go old school."
Now that he knew where he was, Welsh could plot a route to Belize. It wouldn't be direct; he first wanted to head north, away from the highway and deeper into the jungle, before turning northeast. He entered the lat/long waypoints into the GPS. When he was done he folded the map so the route was face-up, slipping it into a plastic Ziploc bag.
Scanlan was looking over his shoulder. "How far is it to Belize?"
"Eighteen to twenty miles to the border, another eight or so to San Ignacio in Belize. That's as the crow flies. It'll be more walking."
"And how long will the walking take?"
At least she sounded willing. But she wasn't stupid, and there was no other way out. "Hmmm. In this terrain, and having to tippy-toe around so we don't get ambushed again? A good rule of thumb in primary jungle is a thousand meters an hour. So I guess between five and ten miles a day, depending on the breaks. Probably closer to five."
"So anywhere from four days to a week?"
"Maybe. But that's not the way to look at it. It'll take us as long as it takes to get there."
"Are you a Zen master too?"
"We've got a map, a compass, and some gear. But even if we were standing here naked we'd still make it. Survival isn't equipment or knowledge, though they help. It's the right attitude. Set your mind to it, refuse to quit, and you can get through anything. Without mental toughness all the fancy gear in the world won't save you. So no matter what, we will make it."
Scanlan was watching him closely. Then she smiled. "Okay, if you believe it, then I will."
"Now we know where we're going, let's take a peek at where we've come from." They walked over to the other side of the hill. A blown-down tree at the edge of the slope opened up a good view. Welsh crawled up to the dead log on his stomach, and Scanlan mimicked his every move. He unzipped his pack's outer pocket and took out a pair of palm-sized binoculars. He braced himself on his elbows and focused on the streambed they'd come down.
"Binoculars too?" Scanlan asked.
"Bought 'em in Guatemala City. Handy for sightseeing. Good thing we didn't waste any more time up here."
"What do you mean?"
He handed her the binoculars. She looked carefully, and said, "Oh, my God."
A group of men dressed in military camouflage and carrying M-4 carbines were walking down the streambed.
"I count at least ten," Welsh said matter-of-factly.
"Can you tell who they are?"
"They're dressed and armed pretty uniformly for hired guns. There's a Kaibil base at La Polorva, not too far away."
"The Kaibils are special forces."
"More like elite light infantry. I don't see a dog, so they've got someone who knows how to track. I figure we have a couple of hours head start."
"Why don't you sound as worried as I'm feeling?"
"If I was to start running around like a chicken with its head cut off, you'd probably get a little panicky, wouldn't you?"
"Depend on it."
"Well, there you go. Besides, these people might be dangerous, but they're not very good. Otherwise they would've been able to ambush one lousy car driving down a road. And failing that, they would have been hard on our heels all night long instead of waiting for daylight to start. In the jungle two people can move faster than ten. We won't underestimate them, though; we'll act as though the very best were chasing us."
"So what are we going to do?"
Welsh took the map out again. "Drink all you can hold. We may not be able to slow down for a while."
They both drank, and Welsh packed up his gear. Now he had to urinate, and went behind a tree.
Scanlan had her pack on and was ready to go. "You still haven't told me what we're going to do."
"First we're going to run away," Welsh replied. "Then we're going to cheat. I'll explain it all as we go along."
They walked off the hill, and back into the jungle.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Welsh was completely soaked with sweat. His sleeves were buttoned down to keep the bugs off, and the thin cotton material was so saturated it stuck to his skin like a wet suit. His legs and shoulders felt tight; unfortunately, the only way to get used to carrying a backpack across hills and jungle was to carry a backpack across hills and jungle.
Scanlan was following a few paces behind. She might have been a child of the suburbs, but she was in good shape and picking up the techniques of jungle movement very quickly. With the canopy overhead and the foliage up around your ears, it was easy to get claustrophobic. Every brush of a leaf felt like a big bug crawling down your back. If you panicked and tried to thrash your way through heavy cover, it would exhaust you and pull you under. Not to mention that you'd leave a trail like a highway. Using a machete was out for the same reason. You had to relax and feel your way through rough terrain. Welsh wasn't surprised that she seemed to have some natural talent for it. Women only had to get over those childhood-programmed phobias about dirt, crawling things, and the unknown. They were much more patient than men, and when confronted by obstacles more likely use their brains than their brawn.
Welsh stopped and looked back over his shoulder. The ground was so soft they couldn't help but leave footprints. He was going to have to do something about that soon.
Scanlan whispered, "I'm on my last water bottle."
"We should be running into a stream in about a quarter of a mile."
They continued on. Welsh was being careful not to follow a straight-line compass bearing. All his pursuers would have to do was plot the course on their own maps and extrapolate ahead to predict where he was going to be. So he made frequent zigzag and dogleg turns.
/> There was no blue line on his map, but the valley ahead was quite deep, which meant it was likely to be holding water. They walked downhill, and at the bottom of the steep slope was a muddy stream about five feet wide.
The undergrowth grew up in a thick belt along the banks. They walked outside it, parallel to the water, until Welsh found the spot he wanted. The valley narrowed, and there were exposed granite outcroppings extending from both opposing slopes all the way down to the streambed.
Welsh drew the machete and cut a long sapling to use as a staff. When he finished trimming it was six feet long with the remnant of a Y-shaped crook on one end. Then he chopped a path through the brush along the bank all the way down to the water. No one could miss it. He tested the water depth with the staff; even small streams could be quite deep. About three feet. "Let's go," he said.
Scanlan held back. "Um, I don't want to sound stupid, but what if there are piranha in there?"
Welsh was already thigh deep in the brown water. "Not a native species in Guatemala."
Scanlan took the bait and stepped into the stream. "It's beautiful and cool," she exclaimed.
"Of course," Welsh mentioned, as an afterthought, "I'm not sure if piranha know where they're supposed to be found."
She splashed him.
He said, "Don't let any of this water into your mouth. It's bound to be loaded with all kinds of bad microscopic beasties. Keep it out of your eyes too, if you can. The little critters love to sneak in that way."
"I wish you'd stop giving me things to worry about."
"I will, when there's nothing more to worry about."
They walked down the middle of the stream, Welsh using the staff to check the footing before each step. When they reached the rock outcropping on the opposite side, he handed Scanlan his staff and told her to wait in the stream. He pulled himself onto a large rock, after first breaking down the tall grass growing beside it with his foot, as if by accident. He climbed the rocks up the hill, and near the top leaned off the one he was standing on and scraped a foot in the soft earth beside it, as if he'd slid off. Then he made his way back down and into the stream.
Scanlan gave him a questioning look.
William Christie 02 - Mercy Mission Page 17
