Amazonia

Nate gave up trying to nap and slid from his hammock. He crossed to her side and knelt. “Jessie will be fine,” he said softly.

Kelly stared at him in silence, then spoke through her pain, her voice small. “She has the disease.”

Nate frowned. “Now that’s just your fear talking. There’s no proof that—”

“I saw it in my mother’s eyes. She could never hide anything from me. She knows Jessie has the disease and is trying to spare me.”

Nate didn’t know what to say. He reached through the netting and rested a hand on her shoulder. He quietly comforted her, willing her strength, then spoke with his heart, softly but earnestly, “If what you say is true, I’ll find a cure out there somewhere. I promise.”

This earned a tired smile. Her lips moved, but no words came out. Still, Nate read those lips easily. Thank you. A single tear rolled from her eyes before she covered her face and turned away.

Nate stood, leaving her to her grief. He noticed Frank and Captain Waxman conferring over a map splayed across the ground and headed toward them. With a glance back at Kelly, he silently repeated his promise. I will find a cure.

The map the two were surveying was a topographic study of the terrain. Captain Waxman drew a finger across the map. “Following due west of here, the land elevates as it approaches the Peruvian border. But it’s a broken jumble of cliffs and valleys, a veritable maze. It’ll be easy to get lost in there.”

“We’ll have to watch closely for Gerald Clark’s sign-posts,” Frank said, then looked up to acknowledge Nate’s presence. “You should get your pack ready. We’re gonna head out shortly and take advantage of as much daylight as we can.”

Nate nodded. “I can be ready in five minutes.”

Frank stood. “Let’s get moving then.”

Over the next half hour, the team was assembled. They decided to leave the Rangers’ SATCOM radio equipment with the remaining party, who needed to coordinate the retrieval effort by the Brazilian army. The group heading out would continue to use the CIA’s satellite array to maintain contact.

Nate hoisted his shotgun to one shoulder and shifted his backpack to a comfortable spot. The plan was to move swiftly, with few rest breaks, until sunset.

Waxman raised an arm and the group headed off into the forest, led by Corporal Warczak.

As they left, Nate looked behind him. He had already said good-bye to his friends, Kouwe and Manny. But behind the pair stood the two Rangers who would act as guards: Corporal Jorgensen and Private Carrera. The woman lifted her weapon in farewell. Nate waved back.

Waxman had originally slated Corporal Graves to remain behind, to be evacuated out, on account of the death of his brother Rodney. But Graves had argued, “Sir, this mission cost my brother’s life along with my fellow teammates. With your permission, I’d like to see it through to the end. For the honor of my brother…for all my brothers.”

Waxman had consented.

With no further words, the group set off through the jungle. The sun had finally broken through the clouds, creating a steam bath under the damp canopy. Within minutes, everyone’s face shone with sweat.

Nate marched beside Frank O’Brien. Every few steps, the man slid off his baseball cap and wiped the trickling dampness from his brow. Nate wore a handkerchief as a headband, keeping the sweat from his own eyes. But he couldn’t keep the black flies and gnats, attracted by the salt and odor, from plaguing him.

Despite the heat, humidity, and constant buzzing in their ears, they made good progress. Within a couple of hours, Nathan estimated they had covered over seven miles. Warczak was still finding bootprints in the bare soil as they headed west into the jungle. The prints were barely discernable, pooled with water from yesterday’s rains.

Ahead of him marched Corporal Okamoto, whistling his damn tune again. Nate sighed. Didn’t the jungle offer enough aggravations?

As they continued, Nate kept wary watch for any perils: snakes, fire liana, ant trees, anything that might slow them down. Each stream was crossed with caution. But no sign of the piranha-frogs appeared. Overhead, Nate saw a three-toed sloth amble along a branch high in the canopy, oblivious to the intrusion. He watched its passage, glancing over his shoulder as he walked under it. Sloths seemed slow and amiable, but when injured, they were known to gut those who came too close. Their climbing claws were dagger-sharp. But this great beast just continued its arboreal journey.

Turning back around, Nate caught the barest flicker of something reflecting from high in a tree, about half a mile back. He paused to study it.

“What is it?” Frank asked, noticing Nate had stopped.

The flickering reflection vanished. He shook his head. Probably just a wet leaf fluttering in the sunlight. “Nothing,” he said and waved Frank on. But throughout the remainder of the afternoon, he kept glancing over his shoulder. He could not escape the feeling that they were being watched, spied upon from on high. The feeling grew worse as the day wore on.

Finally, he turned to Frank. “Something’s bothering me. Something we neglected to address after the attack back at the village.”

“What?”

“Remember Kouwe’s assessment that we were being tracked?”

“Yeah, but he wasn’t a hundred percent sure. Just some picked fruit and bushes disturbed during the night. No footprints or anything concrete.”

Nate glanced over his shoulder. “Let’s say the professor was correct. If so, who’s tracking us? It couldn’t have been the Indians at the village. They were dead before we even entered the jungle. So who was it?”

Frank noticed the direction of Nate’s stare. “You think we’re still being tracked. Did you see something?”

“No, not really…just an odd reflection in the trees a while back. It’s probably nothing.”

Frank nodded. “All the same, I’ll let Captain Waxman know. It wouldn’t hurt to be on extra guard out here.” Frank dropped back to speak with the Rangers’ leader, who was marching with Olin Pasternak.

Alone, Nate stared into the shadowy forest around him. He was suddenly less sure that leaving the others behind was such a wise move.

5:12 P.M.

Manny ran a brush through Tor-tor’s coat. Not that the bit of hygiene was necessary. The jaguar did a good enough job with his own bristled tongue. But it was a chore that both cat and human enjoyed. Tor-tor responded with a slow growl as Manny groomed the cat’s belly. Manny wanted to growl himself, but not in contentment and pleasure.