William Christie 02 - Mercy Mission

by William Christie

  "Can I go with you and wash up?"

  "The short answer is no," said Welsh. "The long answer is that you're bound to have a lot of little cuts and scratches, and washing in the stream would let every kind of disease vector into them. Second, better to leave a layer of dirt on to keep the bugs off, no matter what the cost to your morale. Third, no soap or deodorant. Someone used to the jungle can smell it on you a mile off, and if you walk through a stream, the soap film you leave behind has a noticeable scent that travels way downstream."

  "I was afraid you'd have more logical explanations," Scanlan said dejectedly. "Can I at least brush my teeth?"

  "Sure. I've got a container of salt in my pack."

  "No toothpaste?"

  "Nope."

  "Oh, dear."

  "I will rinse your socks out for you when I go down to the stream. Do you have any foot powder?"

  "No."

  He took out his first-aid kit. "Let me see if you have any blisters."

  Scanlan removed her running shoes and peeled off her wet socks. Welsh examined her feet closely. "No blisters," he said with some amazement. "You've got very tough feet."

  "They've never been very ladylike."

  "Screw ladylike. They're worth their weight in gold out here." He began to massage her feet.

  Scanlan leaned back against her pack, an ecstatic expression on her face. "Oooh, that's wonderful."

  "Very important after a long march. Breaks down any edema."

  "Do Marines do this?"

  Welsh found the mental image absolutely hilarious. "No, Marines don't sit around massaging each other's feet. Everyone does their own."

  "Well, that's silly."

  "Guys get a little tight-assed about that sort of thing." When he was done, Welsh dusted on foot powder. Scanlan slipped on new socks.

  "Nothing like a fresh pair of socks to perk you right up, is there?" said Welsh.

  "I never would have thought it, but you're absolutely right."

  "You've got to be very careful with your feet in this climate. If they stay wet too long, the skin sloughs right off and you're crippled."

  "Let me do yours."

  "If you insist."

  The steep trajectory of the sun near the equator caused night to fall with the suddenness of turning off a light switch. Luminescent click beetles as large and bright as small flashlights began dancing among the trees. Welsh used the night-vision goggles to climb down the rocks to the stream. Even so, he nearly fell and broke his ass twice.

  After he returned he said, "We'll give the iodine a chance to work, drink these to get ourselves hydrated for tomorrow, and I'll go fill them up again."

  "Is that really necessary?"

  "Iodine taste getting you down?"

  "Kind of."

  "It's pretty foul, but better than dysentery. Kool Aid is good to cut the taste."

  "That sounds great."

  "It's a shame I don't have any," said Welsh.

  They were sitting side by side on the tarp. He couldn't see Scanlan's face, but her tone of voice let him know she realized she'd been had again. "And here you went and brought everything else."

  Welsh was glad she couldn't see him smiling. "I think we'd better lay low for another day. Even if the bad guys decide to fan out ahead and set up ambushes along likely routes, they weren't carrying packs, so I don't think they could sit still long before giving up. And they might even decide to come back this way. Sitting tight and relaxing in the shade, our water would last for the whole day."

  "You won't get any argument from me. After the last forty-eight hours I think a little rest would be nice."

  After he came back from the stream the second time, he reviewed what to do in case of trouble. "If anyone comes up on us, stay frozen until I give the word. Then bail out, grab your pack, and wait. I'll tuck everything under my arm, and we'll bolt. Oh, and don't take your shoes, gloves, or head net off tonight."

  "Okay."

  "A lot of things are going to go bump in the night. Don't worry unless it's something really close. If I don't hear it, jab me with your elbow."

  "Don't worry about that."

  Welsh removed the magazine from the Beretta and ejected the cartridge from the chamber. He pocketed the cartridge, closed the slide, and reinserted the magazine. Better to leave the chamber empty and take an extra half second to jack in a round than risk shooting his balls off in the middle of the night. He tied one end of a piece of parachute cord to his wrist and the other to the lanyard ring of the pistol so he wouldn't lose it in the dark.

  They lay down on one half of the tarp, and folded the other over them. Welsh tucked the open end under his body, and the bottom under their legs. They used their packs as pillows, and pulled the nylon over their heads.

  "It's called a Ranger Roll," said Welsh.

  "We'll sweat to death," Scanlan said desperately.

  "Trust me, in a couple of hours it'll be the only thing keeping us from freezing our asses off."

  "Can't we leave the top open until then?"

  "Sure, but I won't be responsible for what might wander in."

  "Forget I said anything."

  Welsh immediately fell asleep. Scanlan didn't. Though she tried to gain some separation, it proved impossible to migrate anywhere all wrapped up. Even getting up to relieve the bladder couldn't be done without disturbing the other party. The simple act of rolling over was a nightmare.

  An elbow jabbed into Welsh, and he shot awake just as he had in the hotel room. He automatically rolled out of the tarp and fumbled for the pistol. After a few frantic moments he managed to bring it into action, but couldn't acquire any targets in the early dawn mist. "What was it?" he whispered back to Scanlan.

  She was sitting up and wearing an expression of pure outrage that was visible even through her mosquito head net. "That," she whispered fiercely. It seemed to be all she could get out. "That!" She was pointing down at Welsh's crotch.

  Welsh sagged visibly. He sat down on the tarp and put the pistol on safe. "Jesus Christ," he said weakly, "I thought we were being overrun."

  After taking a few moments to collect himself, he got up and walked into the brush to urinate. By the time he came back he was shivering in the morning chill and filled with the immaculate wrath of the falsely accused. "It was an involuntary reaction, for crying out loud."

  "I'm sorry," Scanlan said, totally serious, "but I couldn't take it anymore. It was sticking right into me."

  A chuckle forced its way out of Welsh. "Really?" he asked innocently.

  "No, it...I didn't mean that...I..."

  "Anyway," Welsh replied. "It was just an EMHO."

  "A what?"

  "An Early Morning Hard-On."

  "Oh, please."

  Considering the hour, he was almost enjoying the weirdness of it all. "Don't worry, it was harmless."

  "That's not what my mother told me."

  Welsh laughed so hard he had to gag himself with his shirt. Then Scanlan joined in. When it had run its course, he said, "Can I get back in the tarp now?"

  "All right."

  It was useless. Whenever one of them was about to drop off to sleep, the other would begin giggling uncontrollably.

  They finally gave up. Breakfast was Fig Newtons and warm iodized water. Scanlan had kept a deck of cards in her bag, and they spent the morning playing blackjack.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Welsh carefully weighed the odds, then said, "Hit me."

  Scanlan dealt a ten of clubs onto the poncho. "Twenty-two. Bust."

  "Jeez," Welsh moaned. "Are you sure you're not a professional dealer?"

  "Actually, I'm a commodities trader."

  "Big Nick mentioned that."

  "Big Nick?"

  "The Ambassador."

  "You know him that well?"

  Welsh held his thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart. "Are you kidding? We were that close to playing golf together."

  "What stopped you?"

  "I us
ed to be a busboy at a country club. I hate golf; I hate country clubbers. Wait a minute, do you think that means I hate Big Nick? This is a real revelation."

  "You seem awfully cheerful, considering our present circumstances."

  "We're not dead, and we really ought to be. It could be ten below, and snowing, instead of a nice warm jungle with things to eat in it."

  "Like what?"

  "You better wait until we cross that bridge—I don't want to psych you out." Welsh paused. "So how does a commodities trader from Chicago come to a piece of hard revenge in Guatemala?"

  Scanlan flinched, thought about it, then said, "I was the oldest of two kids. Old enough to remember how happy my dad was when my brother Michael was born. A son, a son. But my poor brother didn't turn out to be anything my poor dad wanted. He didn't like sports, he liked books. He didn't study business in college, he studied philosophy. He didn't go into the commodity pits, he joined the Peace Corps. When he got out of the Peace Corps, he moved back to Guatemala to start a model environmentally responsible farm." Scanlan shook her head. "My Irish dad."

  "You went into the business," said Welsh.

  "And played sports. And made my first million on the floor. But Michael didn't do it. My dad pushed, and Michael went in the opposite direction every time." Scanlan had been talking to the trees. She turned to face Welsh. "Huge tracts of this whole Peten region were given to senior Army officers as rewards, tribute, whatever you want to call it. National park, biosphere reserve, that was just a colored space on the map. They logged the mahogany and sold the parrots and macaws to pet shops in the States. If there was a Maya site they sent in huaqueros, grave robbers, to strip it, and the artifacts ended up in art galleries in New York. Marijuana was planted instead of food, and planes from Colombia landed and took off. My brother saw all that going on, and he thought he was going to do something about it. Got himself killed, is what he did.

  "I can see it on your face, Welsh. He was a naive North American do-gooder, and he practically begged to get himself killed. You know what? I agree with you. But he was my brother, and when he was murdered it killed my dad too. Heart attack."

  "I'm sorry," said Welsh.

  "I buried Michael, and I buried my dad, and I got my mom settled. I thought about going back to work, but what was the point? I came down here to see if I could get some answers. My sister-in-law is the sweetest woman in the world. Wouldn't hurt a fly. Forgives the men who killed her husband. No one here would talk to me. The Guatemalan government. The State Department."

  "You've got to understand their job," Welsh explained. "The State Department, that is. They're smart people, but their job is to go to another country and get along with the host government. When you consider what most governments are, after a while kissing ass and turning a blind eye become institutional characteristics."

  "Oh, I understand that. How many people have the character to risk their career on behalf of a stranger? I don't know if I would. Anyway, I had money, I spread it around, and I got answers. I thought about hiring a killer, I really did. But a colonel in the Guatemalan Army? Any hired gun would just take my money and disappear. So what happened is what happened."

  "Fathers and sons," said Welsh. "Takes us men half our lives to get over our relationship with our fathers, and the other half to get over our relationship with our sons."

  "You too, huh?"

  "I understand how your brother felt." He decided then he ought to let her know everything Booker had told him. It was only fair, since they were sharing the same risk now, and if something happened to him she needed to know about the stuff. He even told her about the appearance of the snake the previous day.

  The story left Scanlan with a satisfied expression on her face. "Now I see. What I first thought was a special talent for irritating me was just you trying to protect me. I understand why you thought you had to keep everything secret, and why Booker wouldn't tell me anything." She stamped her foot. "That dirty, rotten son of a bitch. He set this whole thing up to get himself out of Guatemala. The only reason he got in touch with me was to get to someone like you. Do you think he betrayed you?"

  "That wasn't in his own best interest, unless he was hanging by his thumbs. I'm pretty sure he's dead."

  "I suppose you're right. He was an evil man, but no one deserves what they must have done to him." She shivered. "And I'm glad I didn't see that snake. I hate them." She looked at him questioningly. "Were you scared?"

  "Are you kidding? I was barely holding my fudge."

  Scanlan's eyebrows shot up, and she started giggling. Then she dealt out another hand.

  "Damnation!" Welsh exclaimed as she dealt herself a blackjack.

  "I think you could say that a commodities trader counts as a professional gambler."

  "If this keeps up I'll have to sign over my car."

  There were a few seconds of silence, and then Scanlan said, "You mean you're not going to bring up that old line: unlucky at cards, lucky at love?"

  That was out of the blue. Welsh didn't know if she was just being mischievous, or he was being tested. "I don't use lines," he replied. "For the only reason that I can't say them and keep a straight face at the same time."

  "That's very interesting. So how do you manage unsolicited introductions?"

  "I just walk up and say, 'Hi, I'm Rich Welsh, would you like to dance?' Or whatever's appropriate to the situation."

  "So you dance?"

  "Being objective, if you saw me in action you'd say to yourself: This guy is either having a seizure or he needs to enter a Twelve-Step Program for the rhythmically challenged."

  "But you do dance."

  "As long as women like to dance, I'll be out there. I not only have no sense of rhythm, I also have no sense of embarrassment."

  "What would you have said to that girl at the Ambassador's reception?"

  "What girl?"

  Scanlan mimed an hourglass shape with her hands.

  Welsh grinned. So she'd noticed the meaningful glances across the room. "Oh, her. I'd say: 'Hi, I'm Rich Welsh, may I have my penis back when you're done with it?' "

  Scanlan clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle a shriek. When she recovered, she said, "If we get back to the States alive, all gambling debts are square."

  "Fair enough."

  She scratched a cluster of mosquito bites on her arm. "I'm itching like crazy. I think they got me when we were hiding yesterday. I didn't even feel them bite."

  "Monkeys," said Welsh.

  "Pardon?"

  "North American mosquitoes don't have many prey able to slap them off. Humans are only a tiny proportion of the available species. So, if you're paying attention, you can feel them land and bite. But in Central America there's a lot of species, monkeys in particular, able to squash them. So evolution favored very quiet, sneaky mosquitoes with a light touch and an imperceptible bite."

  "You're certainly a fountain of useful information."

  "Or useless, as the case may be."

  "But you do know your way around."

  "I'm school-trained as a Mountain Leader Instructor, ironically enough."

  "Still, I think I picked the right guy to get stuck in the jungle with."

  "Listen, I could tell you horror stories about some of the whiners in uniform I had to drag through the jungle; you're doing just great."

  "I've been meaning to ask you, shouldn't we be setting out snares or something?"

  "All survival books show you how to make a snare, which is fine as far as it goes. But the snag is that animals chased every minute by nature's most perfect predators are not going to throw themselves into your trap out of deep concern that you're a human and happen to be hungry."

  "Then they don't work?"

  "Sure, they do. But you have to spend days finding the trails and routines of the local game. Then you have to set the snare at a game trail or water hole without disturbing the tiniest thing that would make these very alert animals suspicious. Then you have to hang around, g
etting hungrier and weaker, until something hits the snare. Maybe."

  "I see. So what's the solution?"

  "Plant foods are easiest. You can gather them while you move. Fish are good. If we didn't have to stay hidden I'd have a line in that stream right now." There were other things too, but Welsh still didn't think it was the right time to bring them up.

  They spent the afternoon taking alternating naps, one sleeping and the other keeping watch. Welsh took the opportunity to clean the Beretta. A single day in wet jungle climate would start it rusting. He detail-stripped the weapon and magazines, spreading the parts out on the poncho. A twig and piece of handkerchief served as cleaning rod and patch. A tube of Vaseline was all they had for a lubricant and preservative. He applied it thinly and rubbed it into the external parts. He wiped the internal parts through his naturally oily hair.

  The sound suppressor was easy to clean. At one end was a screw-in package of wipes: polyurethane disks like washers that allowed a bullet to pass through while slowing the propellant gases to below the speed of sound. The gases were what produced the noise of gunfire, that and the bullet breaking the sound barrier. The subsonic ammunition made for suppressed weapons had a light powder load that kept the bullet under that speed.

  Scanlan woke up and looked over at the hole Welsh had dug several feet away. The dirt was piled up on the edge of the tarp. "What's that for?"

  "We need to lighten your pack."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Did you bring any other extras, beside the cards?"

  "What would make you think I have anything extra?"

  "Your pack is bulging pretty well for what I told you to bring. Don't be offended; it's a normal human tendency. On the Bataan Death March people refused to throw away useless possessions even though it cost them their lives. Every extra ounce on your back makes for that much harder going. Especially in this climate."

  "What have you got in your pack?" Scanlan demanded.

  "Bar of soap, toothbrush, container of salt, and the roll of toilet paper I swiped from the hotel. The tarp and mosquito net. Extra socks. First-aid kit, bug repellent, water bottles. And a little aluminum cooking pot and a pie pan."