Primeval Waters

by William Burke

Swallowing a mouthful of Mint Milano, Catalina asked Santos, “How’d you guys find these out here in the boonies? Is there a Costco in the rainforest?”

  Santos glared at her.

  Micah said, “It’s their way of showing they’ve done their homework on us. These gentlemen are pros; I mean right out of our vehicle, straight onto a floatplane. That takes experience. Hell, when I was kidnapped in Sudan we had to walk for two days because their truck broke down. They used me as a pack mule.”

  Santos said, “Thank you,” without a trace of emotion.

  Catalina asked Micah, “Your bosses are gonna pay the ransom to get you back, right?”

  Micah laughed. “They wouldn’t pay ten cents to get me back.”

  “Great thing to say in front of our kidnappers.”

  Looking directly at Santos, Micah said, “These guys already know that. They want something, but it ain’t money.”

  Santos stared back like an Easter Island tourism poster.

  The engine roared to life, and the plane bobbed forward across the water.

  Buckling Faye’s seatbelt, Micah asked Santos, “How far are we going?”

  Santos didn’t respond.

  Catalina whispered, “These De Havilland Beavers are only good for about five hundred miles, so it must be someplace here in Amazona.”

  Micah looked at her, surprised by her expertise.

  With a shrug, she said, “I dated a rich guy once.”

  “I see.”

  Santos cut in with, “No whispering.”

  Thirty seconds later, they were airborne.

  Chapter Three

  Doctor Ian Stewart drifted in and out of consciousness, unable to speak or even move. He was aware that he was on Batista’s yacht, where he’d lain for days, living off an IV of saline and morphine. Gradually the pain had given way to a bone-weary fatigue that there was no awakening from. He could sense his wife Margaret seated next to him, felt the grip of her hand, yet he couldn’t communicate. Then, gradually, he felt himself drifting off, knowing that, this time, it wasn’t sleep.

  #

  Hans Maier stood in the infirmary doorway, an impassive observer to the inevitable. Dr. Stewart’s wife was seated at her husband’s bedside, as she had been for days, holding his hand and whispering words of hope. Hans couldn’t help but admire her reserved British dignity—the kind of woman who’d calmly brew tea while the Blitz raged just outside her window.

  After taking a moment to collect herself, she turned to Hans and said, “He’s so cold.”

  In a soft voice, Hans asked, “Margaret, may I examine him?” and stepped into the cabin.

  It only took a few seconds for Hans to confirm that Ian Stewart was dead. His demise came as no shock, considering the scorpion stings he’d suffered and waterborne diseases he’d contracted while navigating the rainforest.

  Kneeling down to Margaret, he said, “I’m sorry, there was nothing we could do. The rainforest is a savage environment. He might have survived the dehydration, scorpion stings or the Chagas Disease, but not all three.”

  Wiping the tears from her eyes, she said, “You should have taken him to a hospital.”

  “That would be hundreds of miles from here, and I fear the journey would have killed him. We had all the needed antibiotics and antivenins on board. A younger person might have survived. I’m very sorry, he was a brilliant man.”

  She took her husband’s hand, and, in an almost inaudible voice, asked, “Mr. Maier, may I have some time?”

  Hans said, “Of course, take all the time you wish,” and left the stateroom. He stood in the passageway for a moment, listening to her sobbing. Dr. Stewart had been a brilliant planetary geologist, and his death was a blow to the project. Fortunately, Mr. Batista had already taken steps to replace him.

  As for what would become of Dr. Stewart’s widow… That would be Mr. Batista’s decision.

  #

  The flight lasted nearly four hours. Faye lay with her head in Micah’s lap, sleeping soundly. Santos neither dozed off nor moved from his seat for the flight’s duration. Micah doubted he even blinked.

  Micah gazed out the window into blackness and said, “Night landing one of these floatplanes can be pretty tricky.”

  Sounding bored, Santos replied, “He does it all the time.”

  The floatplane banked sharply, and Micah saw a cluster of lights off in the distance. Seconds later, a trio of aerial flares launched into the night sky. The flares’ parachutes popped open at nine hundred feet, bathing the area in a flickering orange light. The floatplane began its descent.

  Micah pressed his face to the small window, seeing a hive of activity on the water below. Small, open hull, tender boats laden with cargo zipped out from shore, servicing an impressive assortment of larger craft.

  The biggest of those was a two-story, three-hundred-foot-long cargo ferry. Such ferries were omnipresent along the Amazon. Their remarkably low drafts made them ideal for moving cargo and passengers along the main river and its shallow tributaries.

  The boat moored alongside the ferry wasn’t so ordinary. Micah pegged it as a sixty-foot Multi Cat utility boat—a top of the line maritime workhorse. The flat barge sported a deck-mounted hydraulic crane at its bow, along with a tall central pilothouse. The pilothouse’s paint looked factory fresh.

  But the real oddity was a gleaming white, eighty-foot yacht, floating like a swan among the ugly duckling working boats.

  Micah asked, “Is this some kind of port?”

  Santos mumbled, “Something like that.”

  Micah was ready to badger him further when the plane bounced onto the water. Micah clung on to Faye as the aircraft skipped across the surface.

  Loosening his grip, he asked, “You okay, sweetie?”

  Faye was grinning. “That was cool.”

  Turning to Santos, Micah said, “I gotta admit your pilot’s pretty damn—”

  But Santos was already on his feet, yanking life jackets from a compartment and tossing them at Micah. He said, “Put those on,” and strode up the aisle.

  Looking at the life jacket with disdain, Faye said, “But I’m a good swimmer.”

  Micah said, “So am I, but I’m still wearing one.” Tickling her side he added, “It’ll give the piranhas something to nibble on first.”

  Faye giggled and, with Catalina’s help, donned the orange vest.

  Tightening the last strap, Catalina muttered, “Like they say, any landing you can walk away from.”

  #

  The trio climbed out of the plane, balancing on the float. A large inflatable Zodiac pulled alongside, expertly making fast to the float’s strut. A crewman hopped out and began transferring their luggage.

  The first of the aerial flares drifted down on its parachute, splashing into the river. Micah struggled to take in their surroundings before the others were extinguished. He counted at least fifteen small craft. A cacophony of megaphone-amplified voices and distorted Brazilian music echoed across the water.

  Micah said, “This isn’t a port, it’s a damn flotilla.”

  An assortment of twenty and thirty-foot aluminum-hulled tenders shuttled supplies and fuel drums from shore. All sported planing hulls and larger than normal outboard motors, meaning they were high speed capable. Their crews were a racially mixed bag, with one thing in common—they were all armed.

  Catalina leaned closer, asking, “What’d you think they’re up to?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a cartel.”

  “Doubtful. Drug cartels are all about speed, so they wouldn’t get bogged down by barge boats and cargo ferries.”

  Micah gave her a perplexed look.

  Catalina added, “What? I listen to a lot of true crime podcasts.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Micah got a better look at the cargo ferry. It was nearly three hundred feet long, sixty of those being its uncovered, coal shovel-shaped front deck. The name Valentina was stenciled across its pitted hull. It was the oldest craft of the bunch and
the only one that looked at home.

  The spanking new Multi Cat barge moored alongside it was set up as a floating repair shop and gas station. Wrench-toting grease monkeys scrambled around its deck, strapping down fuel drums.

  Micah thought, They’re getting ready for a long trip.

  The next oddball was a thirty-five-foot Duckworth Landing Craft, resembling a D-Day style beachhead boat with a rear pilothouse. Its deck was packed tight with weatherproofed crates of industrial equipment.

  Once the bags were loaded, Santos bellowed, “Get aboard!”

  Micah reached down to help Faye into the Zodiac, but she was already climbing in, shouting, “Come on, Dad!”

  Micah muttered, “She’s actually enjoying this.”

  Catalina said, “Beats the alternative,” and climbed aboard.

  The Zodiac was bouncing across the water before she even sat down. A fifty-foot fast trawler zipped past them, buffeting the small inflatable.

  Fighting to be heard over the roaring outboard, Catalina shouted, “Look at th,at!” and pointed to an oncoming boat.

  A thirty-footer roared past, rocking the Zodiac. The boat’s pilothouse was located amidship with circular turrets fore and aft. The hull was olive drab, but the bow was emblazoned with a freshly painted set of Flying Tigers style shark teeth, complete with narrow, predatory eyes.

  Micah saw pairs of belt-fed machine guns mounted in the turrets. “Christ, is that a gunboat?”

  “Yup, and it’s got friends!” She pointed to a pair of identical craft circling the flotilla like sheepdogs.

  Faye clamped down on Micah’s arm, shrieking, “Oh no! They’re drowning!” while pointing at a slow-moving tender.

  The thirty-foot tender boat was stacked high with crates of live chickens. A pair of what looked like horses were tied behind the launch, their legs thrashing in the brown water to keep up.

  Micah shouted to Santos, “You’re bringing horses?”

  Santos shook his head, replying, “Donkeys.”

  Tussling Faye’s hair, Micah said, “It’s okay, pumpkin, donkeys have huge lungs that make them float, so they’re really good swimmers.”

  The tender and its swimming donkeys steered towards the Valentina.

  Micah kissed Faye on the head, whispering, “They won’t drown, honey.”

  “Promise?”

  “Cross my heart—”

  Catalina leaned closer to Micah, saying, “Please don’t finish that phrase. So, why’re they bringing live chickens?”

  “They must be establishing an outpost. The best way to preserve meat out here is to keep it alive till you need to eat it.”

  Micah contemplated what he’d seen. Whoever’s in charge is an expert in planning and logistics. And they’ve got money, lots of money.

  The Zodiac approached the rear of the yacht, gleaming pearl white against the brown river. Micah pegged it for an eighty-foot, flybridge style Blohm & Voss. Costing at least four million dollars it was the alpha and omega of pleasure craft.

  Its hydraulic rear tender deck began to lower, revealing the name Esmerelda emblazoned across its stern. There should have been bikini-clad euro models lounging on that tender deck, but instead there were a pair of men holding AK-47s.

  Catalina said, “Looks like we’re about to meet the boss.”

  #

  A dilapidated motor boat laden with bananas and mangos weaved among the other craft, its aged outboard motor belching black smoke. The occupant was a tall, dark-skinned woman wearing a stained T-shirt and battered shorts. Her only companion was a capuchin monkey perched atop a mound of bananas.

  She tooled past the various boats, holding up fruit, shouting, “Fresh bananas, fresh mangos, all cheap, cheap!”

  Most of the boat crews dismissed her as just another peddler working the river, while others grabbed their crotches, shouting obscene suggestions.

  The peddler just smiled and waved, while thinking, Two men with AK-47s on each tender boat, all new weapons, very nice. She pressed on, mentally tallying the men and armaments on each boat. A Zodiac zipped past her. Among its passengers was a white man and a child—both looked very out of place.

  She muttered, “Curious,” adding them to her scorecard while falling in behind the Zodiac, hoping for a closer look at the shiny yacht. As soon as she drew near, a gunboat cut across her path, its siren blaring. The startled monkey leapt up onto the woman’s shoulder, clinging to her neck.

  She petted the monkey and in a sing-song voice, said, “Oh, did the bad men scare you, little one?”

  The gunboat pulled alongside; a crackling voice on its PA system shouted, “You’re not authorized to be here! Get lost!”

  She grinned, holding up a bunch of bananas, shouting, “But I got all fresh stuff, real cheap!”

  The front turret rotated, bringing its twin machine guns to bear on her.

  She smiled at the gunner, making a mental note. Russian PK machine guns and 82 mm mortars … very nice.

  The gunner stood up, yelling, “Hey vaca, do you work this stretch of the river all the time?”

  The woman smiled. “Yes, every day, selling the best fruit, so cheap!” She seemingly ignored the fact that he’d just called her a cow.

  Holding up a coin, the gunner asked, “Have you seen any activity downriver? Like pirates?”

  Her eyes widened. “Pirates? You mean like … Queen Caveira?”

  The gunner tensed at hearing the pirate’s name. He asked, “Have you seen her?” while hugging his machine gun a bit tighter.

  Emphatically shaking her head, the woman replied, “Oh no, but people say she’s like a rabid dog, murdering everyone she sees.”

  “Yup, she’s one psycho bitch. Anyone else on the river? Thieves? Navy?”

  She shook her head while holding up a bunch of bananas, shouting, “Good, cheap!”

  The gunner tossed the coin to her, saying, “Thanks for the info, now get lost. Nobody wants to buy your rotten fruit.”

  The woman held up the coin, grinning like a child on Christmas morning, while thinking, Five centavos? You cheap piece of shit. Spinning the boat around, she sped off, leaving a cloud of black smoke in her wake.

  Choking on the exhaust, the gunner shouted, “Goddamn river trash!” then gestured for the gunboat’s captain to move on.

  As soon as she was out of sight, the woman began tossing her cargo of rotting fruit overboard. Tucked beneath the fruit was a loaded AK-47 along with three hand grenades. The monkey hopped off her shoulder, snatching up a final banana before they went over the side. The curious monkey paused, poking at one of the grenades.

  The woman playfully shooed it away, saying, “Don’t touch them, little one, they’re reserved for Mr. Batista.”

  The fruit peddler steered into a small channel. A fleet of river pirates was moored a few miles down, awaiting her return.

  Queen Caveira smiled, knowing she should have sent one of her pirates to spy on the flotilla. It would have been the prudent move, considering the bounty on her head.

  But, she thought, where’s the fun in that?

  Chapter Four

  Micah, Catalina and Faye were escorted onto the deck, where the thugs were replaced by two neatly dressed porters. The decks were polished, almost pristine. Santos led them through a sliding glass door, where they were struck by a blast of cool air.

  Taking a look around, Catalina said, “Pretty sweet.”

  Micah replied, “That’s an understatement.”

  The walls were teak, polished to a brilliant luster. The rich, inlaid floors were covered with oriental rugs. Micah studied the abstract paintings lining the walls, recognizing an original Burle Marx that any museum would have died for. The contemporary art was incongruously mixed with glass cases of antiques. Micah was drawn to a case containing a steel helmet. A plaque next to it read, “Helmet of Conquistador Lope de Aguirre, 1510–1561. Conqueror of the Amazon.”

  Micah was familiar with Aguirre and wondered how anyone could revere a genocidal mo
nster with delusions of godhood.

  Santos waved them over to a white leather sofa. A steward entered pushing a beverage cart laden with bottled water, soda and sandwiches.

  Faye eagerly grabbed a can of soda.

  Micah said, “Honey, drink some water first. You need to get hydrated.”

  Faye said, “Okay,” and set the can down on the marble coffee table.

  Micah noticed a pool ball-sized stone resting next to the can. “Jesus, look at that. It’s incredible!”

  Catalina asked, “What, the coffee table?”

  “No.” Micah scooped the stone off the table. The dirt and lack of polish couldn’t hide the green facets shining through. He grabbed a conveniently placed magnifying glass. “Incredible.”

  “If you say so.”

  “What community college did you flunk geology in? This is a perfect emerald. It’s uncut and unpolished but exquisite.”

  A booming voice said, “Excellent eye, Dr. Clark. You live up to your reputation.”

  A tall, dark-complexioned man stood in the entryway, his shoulders almost filling the doorway. He wore a white, raw silk shirt, custom tailored to his barrel-chested physique. His English was flawless, with the barest trace of a Brazilian accent.

  The man strode across the saloon, extending his hand to Micah. “My name is Hector Batista, allow me to welcome you to the very edge of civilization.” He took Catalina’s hand. “Ms. Abril, a pleasure.”

  Catalina noticed that, while Batista’s clothes were elegant, his hands were calloused, with the swollen knuckles of a prize fighter.

  Batista said, “You’re holding one of my finest specimens. I keep it unpolished to test if potential geologists recognize its value.”

  Micah studied the emerald through the magnifying glass. “The diaphaneity is near perfect, with almost no irregularities, but I couldn’t even begin to assess its value.”

  With pride, Batista said, “Given its size and perfect structure it will easily fetch half a million US dollars from a well-funded museum, even more from some obscenely wealthy cretin.”

  “Incredible.”

  “It’s yours.”

  “What?”

  “Dr. Clark, I have a mission for you. Complete it and that emerald is yours, along with a substantial paycheck.” Batista leaned down to Faye, asking, “Did the young lady enjoy the cookies? They’re very difficult to get out here you know.”