Amazonia

Nate nodded. He had not participated in the argument. In his mind, there was only one way to go—forward.

Waxman pointed to Olin. “Pack it up. You can work on the problem once we’re on the far side.”

Resigned, Olin nodded. He returned his tiny screwdriver to his repair kit.

With the matter settled, the others dispersed to gather their own gear, readying for the day’s journey.

“At least we won’t have to walk,” Manny said, patting Nate on the shoulder as he passed on his way to wake Tor-tor. The jaguar was asleep under a palm, oblivious to the world after last night’s trek.

Nate stretched a kink from his neck and approached Professor Kouwe. The Indian shaman stood near the swamp, smoking his pipe. His eyes were as haunted as Kelly’s had been. When Nate and Corporal Warczak had met the fleeing group on the trail, the professor had been unusually quiet and somber, more than could be attributed to the loss of Jorgensen.

Nate stood silently beside his old friend, studying the lake, too.

After a time, Kouwe spoke softly, not looking at Nate. “They sent the locusts…the Ban-ali…” The shaman shook his head. “They wiped out the Yanomamo tribe with the piranha creatures. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s as if the Blood Jaguar tribe could indeed control the jungle. And if that myth is true, what else?” He shook his head again.

“What’s troubling you?”

“I’ve been a professor of Indian Studies for close to two decades. I grew up in these jungles.” His voice grew quiet, full of pain. “I should have known…the corporal…his screams…”

Nate glanced to Kouwe and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Professor, you saved everyone with the tok-tok powder.”

“Not everyone.” Kouwe drew on his pipe and exhaled. “I should’ve thought to relight the Ban-ali symbol before we left the camp. If I had, the young corporal would be alive.”

Nate spoke sharply, trying to cut through the man’s remorse and guilt. “You’re being too hard on yourself. No amount of study or experience could prepare you to deal with the Ban-ali and their biological attacks. Nothing like it has ever been documented before.”

Kouwe nodded, but Nate sensed that the man was hardly convinced.

Captain Waxman called from near the water’s edge. “Let’s load up! Five to a raft!” He began assigning Rangers and dividing the civilians accordingly.

Nate ended up with Kouwe and Manny, along with Tor-tor. Their two mates were Corporal Okamoto and Private Carrera. The group was forced to wade through the shallows to reach the bamboo-and-log constructions. As Nate heaved himself onboard, he appreciated its sturdy construction. Reaching out, Nate helped Manny guide the large cat atop the bobbing raft.

Tor-tor was not pleased about getting wet. As the cat shook the swamp water from its pelt, the rest of the group mounted their own boats.

On the neighboring raft, Kelly and Frank stood with Captain Waxman, along with corporals Warczak and Yamir. The last five teammates climbed onto the farthest raft. Olin was careful to carry his pack with the satellite gear high above his head. Richard Zane and Anna Fong helped him aboard, flanked by a stoic Tom Graves and a scowling Sergeant Kostos.

Once everyone was mounted, lengths of bamboo were used as poles to push away from shore and through the shallows. But the swamp’s banks dropped steeply. Within a hundred feet of the shore, the poles no longer touched bottom, and the paddles were taken up. With four paddles per raft, it allowed one person to rotate out and rest. The goal was to continue straight across without a break.

Nate manned the raft’s starboard side as the tiny flotilla slowly drifted toward the far bank. Out on the waters, the distant roar of multiple waterfalls, muffled and threatening, echoed over the swamp lake. Nate stared, shading his eyes. The highlands across the way remained shrouded in mist: a mix of green jungle, red cliffs, and a fog of heavy spray. Their goal was a narrow ravine between two towering, flat-topped mesas, a yawning misty channel into the highlands. It had been where Clark’s last carved message had pointed.

As they glided, the denizens of the swamp noted their passage. A snow-white egret skimmed over the water, a hand span above the surface. Frogs leaped from boggy hummocks with loud splashes, and hoatzin birds, looking like some ugly cross between a turkey and a pterodactyl, screeched at them as they circled over their nests atop the palms that grew from the island hummocks. The only inhabitants that seemed pleased with their presence were the clouds of mosquitoes, buzzing with joy at the floating smorgasbord.

“Damned bugs,” Manny griped, slapping his neck. “I’ve had it with flying insects making a meal out of me.”

To make matters even worse, Okamoto began to whistle again, tunelessly and without the vaguest sense of rhythm.

Nate sighed. It would be a long trip.

After an hour, the little muddy islands vanished around them. In the swamp’s center, the water was deep enough to drown away most of the tiny bits of land and jungle. Only an occasional hummock, mostly bare of trees, dotted the smooth expanse of the swamp’s heart.

Here the sun, scorching and bright, shone incessantly down on them.

“It’s like a steam bath,” Carrera said from the raft’s port side.

Nate had to agree. The air was thick with moisture, almost too heavy to breathe. Their speed across the swamp slowed as exhaustion set in. Canteens were passed around and around the raft. Even Tor-tor lounged in the middle of the bamboo planking, his mouth open, panting.

The only consolation was being temporarily free of the jungle’s snug embrace. Here the horizons opened up, and there was a giddy sense of escape. Nate glanced frequently back the way they had come, expecting to see a tribesman on the bank back there, shaking a fist. But there remained no sign of the Ban-ali. The trackers of the ghost tribe remained hidden. Hopefully the group was leaving them behind and getting a few days head start on their pursuers.

Nate was tapped on the shoulder. “I’ll take a shift,” Kouwe said, emptying his pipe’s bowl of tobacco ash into the water.

“I’m okay,” Nate said.

Kouwe reached and took the paddle. “I’m not an invalid yet.”

Nate didn’t argue any further and slid to the raft’s stern. As he lounged, he watched their old campsite get smaller and smaller. He reached back for the canteen and caught movement to the right of their raft. One of the bare hummocks, rocky and black, was sinking, submerging so slowly that not a ripple was created.