Standing, Nate revealed a fist-sized hardened lump of sap. He speared it atop a sharp stick like a marshmallow. “Can I borrow a match?”
Captain Waxman removed one from a waterproof container.
Nate struck the matchhead on the bark and held the flame to a corner of the resin ball. Immediately it ignited into a bright blue flame. He held it out and marched toward the site of the failed campfire. “Indian hunters have been using this sap for centuries to light campfires during rainstorms. It’ll burn for hours, acting as a starter to light wet wood.”
Other eyes were drawn to the flame. Frank and Kelly joined the group as Nate settled the flaming resin ball into a nest of leaves and twigs. In a short time, the tinder and wood took the flame. A decent blaze arose.
“Good job,” Frank said, warming his hands.
Nate found Kelly staring at him with a trace of a smile. It was her first smile in the past twenty-four hours.
Nate cleared his throat. “Don’t thank me,” he mumbled. “Thank the Indians.”
“We may be able to do just that,” Kouwe said suddenly from behind them.
Everyone turned.
The professor and Corporal Jorgensen crossed quickly toward them.
“We found a village,” Jorgensen said, his eyes wide. He pointed in the direction that the pair had gone in search of foodstuffs. “Only a quarter mile upstream. It’s deserted.”
“Or appears to be,” Kouwe said, staring significantly at Nate.
Nate’s eyes grew wide. Were these the same Indians who had been secretly dogging their trail? Hope surged in Nate. With the rainstorm, he had been worried that any trail left by Gerald Clark would be washed away. This storm was but the first to mark the beginning of the Amazonian wet season. Time grew short. But now…
“We should investigate immediately,” Captain Waxman said. “But first, I want a three-man Ranger team to recon the village.”
Kouwe raised an arm. “It might be better if we approached less aggressively. By now, the Indians know we’re here. I believe that’s why the village is deserted.”
Captain Waxman opened his mouth to disagree, but Frank held up a hand. “What do you suggest?”
Kouwe nodded to Nate. “Let the two of us go first…alone.”
“Certainly not!” Waxman blurted. “I won’t have you going in unprotected.”
Frank took off his Red Sox cap and wiped his brow. “I think we should listen to the professor. Swarming in with heavily armed soldiers will only make the Indians fear us. We need their cooperation. But at the same time, I share Captain Waxman’s concern about the two of you going in on your own.”
“Then only one Ranger,” Nate said. “And he keeps his gun on his shoulder. Though these Indians may be isolated, most are well aware of rifles.”
“I’d like to go, too,” Anna Fong said. The anthropologist’s long black hair lay plastered to her face and shoulders. “A woman among the group may appear less hostile. Indian raiding parties don’t bring women with them.”
Nate nodded. “Dr. Fong is right.”
Captain Waxman scowled, clearly not keen on letting civilians lead the way into an unknown encampment.
“Then perhaps I should be the one to go as their backup.” Gazes turned to Private Carrera, the female Ranger. She was strikingly beautiful, a dark-skinned Latina with short-cropped black hair. She faced Captain Waxman. “Sir, if women are viewed as less hostile, I would be best suited for this mission.”
Waxman finally agreed grudgingly. “Fine. I’ll trust Professor Kouwe’s assessment for now. But I want the rest of my forces set within a hundred yards of their position. And I want constant radio contact.”
Frank glanced to Nate and Kouwe.
They nodded.
Satisfied, Frank cleared his throat. “Then let’s move.”
Kelly watched the camp fracture into various units. Nate, Kouwe, Anna Fong, and Private Carrera were already motoring their pontoon boat into the current, while Captain Waxman selected three of his men and led them to a second rubber raider. They would paddle a hundred yards behind the first boat, keeping a safe distance away yet close enough for a rapid response. Additionally, three more Rangers would travel overland with Corporal Jorgensen in command. This team would take up a position a hundred yards from the village. In preparation, they painted their faces in jungle camouflage.
Manny had attempted to join this last party, but he’d been rebuffed by Captain Waxman. “All other civilians stay here.”
With the matter settled, Kelly could only watch as the others set off. Two Rangers—the newly arrived Private Eddie Jones and Corporal Tom Graves—remained at the camp as bodyguards. Once the others were launched and on their way, Kelly overheard Jones grumble to Graves, “How did we end up minding the friggin’ sheep?”
Corporal Graves did not respond, staring dully into the drizzle, clearly grieving for his brother Rodney.
Alone now, Kelly crossed to Frank’s side. As the nominal leader of this operation, her brother had the right to insist on joining either of the departing groups, but he had chosen to remain behind—not out of fear, she knew, but concern for his twin sister.
“Olin has the satellite link hooked up,” Frank said, taking his sister under his arm. “We can reach the States when you’re ready.”
She nodded. Not far from the fire, under a rain tarp, Olin sat hunched before a laptop and a satellite dish. He tapped busily at the keyboard, his face scrunched in concentration. Richard Zane stood over his shoulder watching him work.
Finally, Olin glanced to them and nodded. “All set,” he said. Kelly heard the trace of his Russian accent. It was easy to miss unless one’s ears were tuned for it. Olin was ex-KGB, once a member of their computer surveillance department before the fall of the communist regime. He had defected to the States only months before the Berlin Wall tumbled. His background in technology and his knowledge of Russian systems earned him a low-level security position in the CIA’s Directorate of Science and Technology.
Frank guided Kelly to a camp chair before the laptop computer. Since learning of the contagion, Kelly had insisted they be updated twice daily now. Her excuse was to keep both sides fully apprised, but in reality, she had to know her family was still okay. Her mother, her father, her daughter. All three were at ground zero.
Kelly sat on the camp chair, eyeing Olin askance as he moved aside. She was never fully at ease around the man. Maybe because he was ex-KGB and she had grown up with a father in the CIA. Or maybe it was that ropy scar that stretched from ear to ear across his throat. Olin had claimed to be no more than a Russian computer geek for the KGB. But if that were true, how had he obtained that scar?