by Nate Granzow
Olivia's cellphone buzzed in her pocket. Withdrawing it, she checked the caller, took a sharp breath, and smiled curtly to the group. "I need to take this. If you'll excuse me."
Austin watched her as she turned the corner toward the bar's restrooms.
"So have you two gentlemen been flying aircraft long?" Henri asked. Tied to a lie about his survival skills and in the company of two men he'd only just met, the Frenchman's discomfort was apparent. The researcher crossed his arms over his chest and smiled nervously.
Ignoring his question, the pilot grunted and said, "Time to point Percy at the porcelain, methinks. Gentlemen."
Exiting toward the men's room, Austin stopped in the doorway as he heard a woman's hushed, choking sobs.
"Just…stop. Please? I don't want to hear it again, Terry. It's over. It has to be over, and you know it," Olivia whispered.
Though he felt guilty listening in on her intimate conversation, the pilot stood motionless, the bathroom door ajar, the smell of urine and ammonia wafting out.
"I want to believe that. I do." Olivia sniffed back her tears and her voice steadied as she regained her composure. "But you know as well as I do that it wouldn't work. You'd come here for a few days, and then you'd get listless again and say you had some urgent business back in California. Then, I wouldn't hear from you for a month. I just…I just can't do this anymore. You know that, and it's just…it's fucking cruel of you to keep me hanging on like this."
Austin's eyebrows rose at the rawness of her emotion.
"I love you, too. But don't ever call me again, Terry."
Olivia pressed the phone's screen with her thumb and clutched it to her chest as she leaned against the wall and wept.
Austin lingered just out of sight as he considered going to comfort her.
He stepped into the restroom instead.
FOUR
Raul Alvarez bit the tip off a fresh cigar and struck a match as he leaned back in a plastic yellow lawn chair. Waving the flame over the opposite end, the Colombian drug lord drew ragged puffs until the tightly rolled tobacco burned in a dull orange ember, smoke wafting into the open night air. He grimaced. It'd been an unpleasant day, one filled with disappointment. Hours before, during his supper, one of his men had informed him that the plane carrying 200 kilos of his cocaine had gone down in the jungle. His product had been destroyed. So enraged by this news, he aerated the messenger's trachea with his fork.
That fucking pilot.
The Englishman had just needed to fly his usual route, keeping the drugs hidden amidst his company's legitimate product, and then hand it off to Alvarez's men in San Cristóbal, who would smuggle it into Honduras and leave it in the care of their distributors. His had been the shortest leg of the journey—a task so simple when compared to the thousands of miles the product had yet to travel before it reached its final destination in the United States. But the Brit had found a way to fuck it up. And now, Alvarez would have to draw on his personal wealth to keep his men, and the FARC guerillas to whom he paid protection money, from killing him in his sleep for losing their next payday.
It wasn't even the money lost that bothered him. Money, like the cocaine that generated it, was easy to come by in this game. No, the thing that made his blood thicken, his stomach tighten, and his teeth grind, was that this had made him look like an incompetent leader. He could not afford to be viewed as incompetent, especially when all those who worked for him would gladly take their turn as the head of the organization if they believed they could get away with killing him.
Alvarez absently stroked the straight black hair of the young woman kneeling before him, head between his legs, pleasuring him. Pulling a knife from his pocket, he scooped a small dune of cocaine onto the blade from a Ziploc bag beside him. Dividing the powder in two with his finger, he held the knife to his nostril and violently snorted one half. A chilling, electric aura of ecstasy flooded his senses as he swept the young woman's hair from her face and placed the knife beneath her nose. Inhaling, she looked up at him with glossy eyes.
Such women were easy to acquire. Young beauties living in stagnant villages without electricity or clean drinking water could be easily swayed to join his company by the promise of wealth and the taste of pure euphoria on their sweet lips. They were his for as long as he wanted them.
When he got done with this one, he'd hand her over to his men—a gift to keep them satisfied and distracted from the day's events. He would spend the night alone, planning a means to make Austin Stewart pay for his mistake.
FIVE
Slipping a pair of aviator sunglasses over his eyes, Austin seated his weathered oilskin ball cap on his head and sauntered out of the chair he’d situated in the shade of the aircraft hanger. The past week had been the most difficult of his life, not just because he'd lost two of his closest friends, but because he knew he was expected to jump back aboard another plane as if nothing had happened. She’d replaced their last plane with an antiquated one, too—probably not even airworthy. He'd visually inspected it three times already that morning, and was considering doing so once more when the whir of a car engine interrupted him. Jeremy pulled up in a Willys Jeep, filled to capacity with hard-shelled instrument cases, neoprene bags, and oversized hiking backpacks with aluminum frames.
"What’s this, then? We loaded the plane up yesterday."
"Our scientist friends don’t understand the notion of packing light," the copilot replied, muscling the shifter into neutral, turning the vehicle off, and tossing his feet atop the hood.
"All this? All this belongs to them?"
Jeremy nodded wearily.
Picking unenthusiastically through the pile, Austin said, "This is unacceptable."
"Good thing she’s cute, right?"
"Who?"
"Dr. Dover."
Austin nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, she's dishy all right. But that doesn't mean I'm going to let her walk all over us."
"Dishy?"
"Yeah. You know, cracking."
"I give up."
"She's very pretty. How's that?"
"Better. You need to stop with the British talk. Learn to speak English like everyone else."
A small sedan approached and parked beside their hanger, the researchers disembarking amidst a cloud of rust-colored clay dust. The scientists approached, both dressed in spotless khaki cargo pants and matching button-down shirts rolled at the sleeves. Henri removed his eyeglasses, the lenses darkening in the sunshine, and rubbed them against his sleeve.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Olivia called out.
"Doctors," Jeremy greeted.
"You two look as though you've just stepped out of a catalogue," Austin said, leaning against the Jeep and running his finger through the thick layer of dust on its body.
"Thank you, sir," Henri said proudly, smoothing the crisp folds in his sleeves.
"That wasn't a compliment. Those boots—this is your first time wearing them, isn't it?"
"Yes, well…"
"We're going to be marching through mud and demanding terrain for days; your feet will be rubbed raw."
"We'll be fine," Olivia challenged. "It's the dry season, is it not? Again, Mr. Stewart, you don't need to babysit us. Just get us to the plant and let us do our work."
The night before, she'd frantically done as much research on the Amazon and jungle-survival techniques as she could absorb in the short time before the flight. She was determined not to look the helpless fool.
"We are excited to be coming with," Henri added, trying to neutralize the growing tension between Olivia and the pilot. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Austin could hear a slight wheezing coming from the older gentleman, his eyes drawn to the bulge of stomach fat pushing against the man's belt.
"It's only just gotten out of the rainy season, Doctor," the Englishman replied, as though her assertion about the weather conditions was the most asinine he'd heard. "If you think you're going to stay dry out there, you're in for a s
urprise."
"We brought plenty of gear," she replied coolly.
"Yeah, about that. You're each allowed to grab two bags from the jeep. There's no way I'm hauling this entire truckload of rubbish," the pilot said abruptly.
"But the plane is enormous," Olivia protested, her eyes pleading behind her sunglasses. "You’ve got enough room."
"It's not about the size of the plane," Austin said as he slipped a cigarette from behind his ear. "You insisted upon coming along with us to find this plant. Well, who's going to carry all this into the jungle? It's not as though there's a blooming freeway through the trees; we're going in on foot. Bring only what you can carry."
"But we need—"
"You need to take my advice and pack only the essentials, sir," Austin said, cutting Henri off before he'd finished his sentence. Turning on his heel, the pilot waved a peace sign over his shoulder as he strolled toward the plane. "Two bags."
Jeremy leapt from the Jeep's driver's seat, shrugged his shoulders at the researchers, and ran to join his friend.
"Cúmbila, you could be a little kinder to these people. We're going to be relying on them out there, and God knows we don't need more enemies than we already have," the Brazilian said, crossing himself.
"Any kindness you show them will only be perceived as weakness, Jeremy. I know their sort: the holier-than-thou demeanor, the sense of entitlement they receive with their multitudinous diplomas…" Cupping his left hand around the tip of his cigarette, Austin rolled his lighter's striker and breathed deeply.
"Multitudinous—there you go again with that British talk."
"It's not—never mind. It means multiple. Many. Lots," Austin exhaled, smoke rolling out of his nostrils.
"Okay."
"My point is, give them an inch, and they'll be running this show before you even have time to pull your trousers back up."
Watching the two men walk toward the plane, Olivia dropped her backpack to the dirt, aggravated.
"What an arrogant ass."
"Come now, ma fille. The poor man was the only survivor in a plane crash that killed three other men. It seems to me he's hiding a sense of profound guilt and sorrow behind a mask of irritability. Let's not be too quick to judge him," Henri said, working a finger between the strap of his backpack and the skin on his neck that it had already chafed red.
Smiling and leaning in to kiss her mentor's cheek, she said, "You're a better person than I'll ever be. Why aren't more men like you?"
"I'm a strange specimen, my dear," he said, grinning. "For better or worse."
The sound of hurried footsteps scuffing the dirt behind them caused the researchers to turn around.
"Glad I made it before you took off." Christian said, dropping his backpack and shaking the curly hair from before his eyes, his cheeks red from the sunshine.
"Christian, what are you doing here?"
"When I learned you guys were going into the field, I asked Ms. Senske if I could go with. You know, to get a taste of the rainforest before I have to head back to California. It took a little persuasion, but she finally caved when I promised to sign a waiver."
Looking to Henri with consternation, Olivia said, "He's going to freak out about this."
"Who's going to freak out about this?" Christian asked.
"The pilot. Mr. Stewart. He's on a bit of a short fuse right now," Henri said, stroking his beard.
"That's the asshole who ran into me in the hallway yesterday, isn't it? Don't worry, I can handle him."
"Christian, it's dangerous out in the jungle. It'd be best if you don't disrespect the men whose job it is to guide us during our travels. You may want to ask him—nicely—if you can fly with us." The elder researcher glanced at Olivia as if to subtly remind her of the same.
Rolling his eyes, Christian shuffled toward the pilots and the plane.
"This isn't going to go well," Olivia mumbled as she and the Frenchman watched the spectacle from afar.
Within seconds, Austin's booming voice could be heard echoing through the high ceiling of the hanger.
"Absolutely not. Gordon bloody Bennet, what kind of barmy plan is that munter Senske trying to pull off here?"
"I signed the paperwork; you're taking me with you," Christian shouted back.
The doctors sprinted toward the racket to intervene.
"On your bike, you gormless little prat. You're not getting on this airplane so long as I'm the one flying it."
Looking to Olivia with pleading eyes, Christian said, "I don't get what this guy's problem is. What's one more person on a plane this size?"
"For the last time, it's not about the size of the airplane. It's bad enough that I've been tasked with babysitting two adults in the jungle, but throw a dozy little muppet into the equation? I've got to draw the line somewhere, and your boss just bloody leapt over it."
"She's your supervisor, too, Mr. Stewart. If she approved Christian's travel, I don't see how you can deny him," Olivia said. "Unless you’d like to call her and tell her yourself that he’s not coming along."
"He'll never survive out there," Austin said, trying to decide whom of the three researchers to glare at.
"You'll allow him to travel with us, or neither Dr. Rouillard nor myself will be joining you. It's as simple as that, Mr. Stewart."
"You promise?" Austin dared.
Olivia cocked a hip and crossed her arms, meeting the pilot's glare. "You need us. You may be able to get to the plant, but without our verification, you won't know if you have the right one. You can spend the next few months of your life running back and forth between here and the jungle, or you can make one additional accommodation and allow Christian to join us."
After a moment spent flexing his jaw, Austin raised a finger and growled, "Listen to me carefully, each of you. There will be no more surprise members of this little expedition of ours. Each of you will be allowed two bags only. From this moment forward, you will consult me before so much as taking a piss. Understood?" Without waiting for confirmation from the research team, the pilot stormed away, kicking the dirt in frustration as he climbed aboard the aircraft, muttering obscenities under his breath.
SIX
After returning to the jeep to sort through their gear, selecting only the most essential tools and supplies, the scientists boarded the rusty cargo plane, each looking skeptically at the craft as they stepped up. The only thing that looked new about it was the freshly painted company insignia on the vertical stabilizer: A Greek goddess cradling a snake.
"See what happens when I leave you alone?" Jeremy joked as he dropped into the copilot's chair, the leather seat cracked and discolored from decades of use. He slipped a headset over his ears. "We end up flying garbage like this. You remember that scene in Top Gun, when the pilots were threatened with flying a cargo plane filled with rubber dog shit out of Hong Kong? I used to think that scene was a laugh riot. Didn’t think I’d be living it." Turning in his seat to look at the researchers, he added, "Not to say you guys are dog shit, or anything."
"It'll get us there. These old C-47s were built like tanks. If we can just get the old sod started, we'll be in the air in no time," Austin said as he scanned the cockpit and began memorizing the locations of the instruments. "Besides, our last plane was Vietnam War surplus, used for dropping Agent Orange on the NVA. Probably never got properly cleaned out. No telling how many years we shaved off our life flying in that HAZMAT dumping bin. You should be thanking me for wrecking it."
"Excuse me, Captain, but if your last plane was fifty years old and you're complaining about the age of this plane, how old is it, exactly?" Olivia asked from the makeshift seating bolted behind the cockpit to accommodate additional passengers. She furrowed her brow and pinched her nose at the smell of dead mouse emanating from the bench cushions.
"Seventy or so years old. They made most of these Skytrains during World War Two. And I'm not a captain, Dr. Dover. I never served in the military. I learned to fly smuggling guns into Sierra Leone."
<
br /> "You don't mean that, do you?" Henri asked gravely.
Jeremy chuckled.
The Brit answered distantly, "Of course not, Doctor. Only a joke." He stared out the windshield at Hygeia's empty private runway.
Breathing deeply, Austin reminded himself that he wasn't dead yet, and if his luck saw him through the last crash, it wasn't likely to give out after one more flight. Following a quiet moment, everyone watching the pilot to see what the wait was about, he asked, "Everyone settled?"
"Yes," the three researchers echoed.
"Ready for the preflight checklist?" Jeremy asked.
"Yessir," Austin said, poorly faking a southern drawl.
"Physical inspection?"
"Looked good enough for our purposes."
"Certificates and documents aboard?"
"Do a photocopied passport and directions from Google Maps count?" Austin asked sarcastically.
"Auxiliary fuel pump off?"
"Looks to be."
"Flight controls, altimeter, instruments and radios?"
"Free and correct, set, and yeah. Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"The important ones work."
"Good enough. Props and flaps?"
"Exercise."
"Magnetos?"
"Checked."
"Fire her up."
"Clear."
The craft's large radial engines banged and popped as Austin flipped on the primer and ignition switches. He massaged the worn throttle lever protruding from the center console like a bent-antenna. Exhaust flooded the hanger as the popping grew into a steady roar.
"See? No problem," the Brit shouted into his headset. Jeremy moved his hand down the line of instruments, tapping the glass faceplate on the fuel gauge, fuel pressure indicator, and oil-pressure indicator.
"I'll believe it when we get there," Jeremy replied dourly.
