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“Afternoon, Mack.” The man’s voice had a thick layer of cockney in it.
“David.”
“Any problems?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
The head of Phoenix Force shook his head. “Still say it would have been more prudent to have me with you.”
Bolan smiled. “I wanted to get one man out, David, not bring down the entire slum around me.”
“Fair enough.” David McCarter moved to the passenger door. “This our third passenger?”
“Yup.”
McCarter grinned, a sharklike baring of teeth that was completely devoid of warmth or humor. “You aren’t gonna be any trouble now, are you, mate?”
Staring at the fox-faced Brit, Bernier shook his head. David reached in and relieved him of his sidearm and smartphone. “All right, then, time to go.”
It was on the way to the plane that Bernier got some of his courage back. “Wait a minute. You cannot just take me out of the country—there are rules to this sort of thing. I cannot be extradited like this. I demand to speak to your State Depart…” He trailed off at seeing the wolfish looks on Bolan’s and David’s faces.
“When are these guys gonna learn?” David asked rhetorically.
“I never claimed to be affiliated with the government, U.S. or otherwise.”
Bernier’s face clouded in confusion. “What—are you bounty hunters? Private security? Whatever you’re being paid, I can give you ten times the amount.”
David dropped a firm, unyielding hand on the Brazilian drug lord’s shoulder. “You can just call us troubleshooters, mate. And if you’re not nice and polite on the flight up, you’ll be the trouble we’ll shoot next.”
Thiago Bernier, once a top drug kingpin and mastermind behind a large pipeline that stretched from Rio to Peru and three other continents, allowed himself to be meekly led into the Gulfstream’s interior, searched in more detail and secured to a captain’s chair.
Meanwhile, Bolan contacted their pilot, Jack Grimaldi, and had him get into the takeoff schedule. Thirty minutes later, they were wheels up and off the ground, arrowing into the brilliant blue Brazilian sky.
3
Once Bernier had been settled—with the aid of a mild sedative to relax him—Bolan had planned to take a well-deserved break himself, having been up for the past thirty hours tracking down his leads to the drug lord. McCarter, however, had other plans for him.
“Sorry, mate, but Hal said to call in the moment you got here.” He dropped his rangy form into the cushy leather seat across from Bolan. “You’re lucky I let you have a drink first.”
“Well, I already noticed we’re not heading north.” Bolan gestured with his bottle of water at the sun setting ahead of them. “What’s he got now?”
David shrugged as he held out a sat phone. “No idea—your ears only, apparently. All I know is that I get to babysit Mr. Silk Pants there back to D.C. while you get to jaunt off into the shite again.”
Bolan grinned as he took the receiver. “Too bad there couldn’t be another mission in Rio—preferably on the beach?”
“Oi, mate, wild horses wouldn’t have kept me from that one.” McCarter rose. “I’m gonna go check on our passenger.”
“Thanks.” Bolan waited until David had headed out before connecting to Stony Man Farm, his stateside base of operations. Bounced off several satellites, the tight-beam communication went through multiple encryption layers, rendering it virtually unbreakable. To the rest of the world, Bolan and his contact outside of Washington, D.C., were speaking static-filled gibberish.
“Striker?” Bolan heard a quiet chewing sound and knew Brognola was munching on one of his ever-present antacid tablets.
“I’m here, Hal.”
“How was your fishing trip?”
Bolan grinned. “Not as much time on the beach as I’d wanted, but I landed the big one. David cleaned him up and we’re bringing him home so you can cook him for as long as you want.”
“Excellent. Look, normally I don’t like sending you back out in the field right after the completion of one mission, however, Wonderland’s breathing down my neck on this one, and since you’re already in the area, so to speak…”
“Yeah, it seems I can’t get enough of South America lately. Where’s Jack dropping me off this time?”
“Quito, Ecuador, and from there you’ll be taking a charter plane to Neuva Loja, in the province of Sucumbíos. Ultimately you’ll be heading into the Amazon rainforest, so let me know whatever gear you’ll need that isn’t on the plane and we’ll drop it to you.”
“Okay—what’s going on over there?”
“Part of this—okay, most of this—is the D.C. policy wonks and bureaucrats covering their collective asses. As I’m sure you’re aware, the energy crisis is ramping up again, with oil futures climbing to record levels again and showing no signs of receding anytime soon. With truly effective alternate power sources still slow to come online, efficient use of current fields and discovery of new ones is of paramount importance, not only to our current government, but also to nations around the world.”
No surprise there, Bolan thought. China’s appetite for energy grew larger by the week, with India nipping at its neighbor’s heels, both burgeoning nations contributing to the pall of pollution growing worse in the Far East every day. And that didn’t even count America’s near-insatiable consumption of gasoline—all of which required new sources, preferably not from the Middle East.
“Of course, this has pushed any and all forms of oil exploration to the forefront, with companies able to find and claim the biggest undiscovered fields reaping potential years, maybe even decades of bonanza. Recent explorations indicate sizable oil fields are present in several areas of the Amazonian rainforest, particularly on the border between Ecuador and Colombia. The oil exploration company Sulexco has recently entered into an agreement to measure exactly how much oil may be in the area.”
“I trust that you’re not asking our operatives to babysit oil company executives?” Bolan kept his tone even, but his disdain was evident at the thought of such an assignment.
Brognola snorted. “Hell, no. They’ve hired a private security company to provide corporate protection for its assets. However, despite the U.S. and Ecuador’s warm camaraderie in public, they’ve been making some moves lately that the current administration is not very happy with, including getting very cozy with Iran over the past couple of years.”
Bolan sifted through recent CIA analysis on his smartphone. “Yeah, they’ve been buying weapons from the Middle East, taking billions in deposits, everything but a government sleepover. But why send me to the middle of nowhere? If there’s something to be found, shouldn’t I be starting in the capital?”
“Normally, yes, but the Ecuador-Colombian border is important for a couple other reasons. Although the two countries have recently put an end to their hostilities, things tensed up again in ’08 after a Colombian military action against FARC rebels left twenty dead, and relations between the two countries strained to the breaking point. And I haven’t even mentioned how chummy Ecuador’s president is with Venezuela yet—and we know what Chavez thinks of America. The U.S. wants the oil folks to get their work done smoothly and to ensure that no rogue elements on any side—FARC, the Colombian military, anybody—inflame any tensions that could spark a full-scale war. The idea is to send you down there to keep the peace and head off anything before it makes headlines.”
“And I’m guessing that any intervention by American forces would be seen as the U.S. sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong,” Bolan said.
“Got it in one, Striker. With the Ecuadorian president still clinging to power after an attempted police coup in 2010, State doesn’t want to do any on-the-record poking around down there unless we’re sure folks’re being naughty. That, of course, is where you come in.”
“Of course. Do I have a cover, or am I just supposed to run around the jungle and see who shoots at me first?”
“We’re inserting you using the Cooper alias—you’ve decided to head down and report on the state of the rainforest, find out the real story about oil drilling there, that sort of Pulitzer prize–grabbing material. Your modified jacket’s already on the way and will be in place before you’re on the ground. Once there, I’m sure you’ll root out anything that’s happening soon enough.”
“Fair enough. Give me any updates on the locals from the Agency, and I’ll review them on the way over. South America’s been fun so far—I’m sure Ecuador will be, too.”
“That’s the spirit. With luck you’ll just tour the countryside, and everything will be nice and peaceful.”
“Hal, they wouldn’t be sending me down there if that was the case—you know that.”
“Hey, I can dream, can’t I?” Brognola grumbled. “Just keep your powder and your feet dry, Striker. Call in when you touch down in Neuva Loja. We’ll work out the rest from there.”
“Will do. Striker out.” He’d no sooner disconnected when McCarter stuck his head over the seat.
“Back into it, eh?”
“Yup, apparently there may be some unrest brewing west of here—White House wants it checked out.”
“Lucky bastard—trade you details?” The Brit’s tone was hopeful.
“No chance, David. The rainforest still needs to be standing once I’m done there.”
“Hey, I’d leave most of it intact.” McCarter actually sounded wounded by Bolan’s gibe.
“Still, they asked for me and that’s what they’re gonna get. I’m sure something’ll come up that needs your unique talents soon enough.” Bolan reclined his seat and closed the window shade. “I’m gonna catch a couple hours’ sleep before running prep. Make sure our guest is comfortable and quiet.”
“Can do.” McCarter went back to check on Bernier again, while Bolan immediately dropped off.
* * *
SIXTEEN HOURS LATER, Bolan sat on a rickety bus as it brought him and a handful of other passengers from the only airport in Neuva Loja to the center of town. He’d been reading up on the capital of the province while on the flight over, learning that it was the central nexus for the various oil companies that had come in to prospect and drill.
Although the town had grown over the past several decades, the blight the oil companies had brought with them was plain to see. Acres and acres of fields were denuded and barren, deforested to make room for more buildings or the leavings of 20,000 people that were thrown away each day. The air carried with it that unique odor that came with oil drilling—a blend of burning fuel, hot metal and sweat that lingered in the back of the throat and on clothes and skin.
As they drove farther into town, Bolan was hard-pressed to find any difference between many of the city blocks they passed and the Rocinha slum. The buildings here were all packed tightly together, as well. The only difference being that they looked a little newer.
The bus dropped him off at the Hotel Araza, a neat, modern-looking three-story hotel with its own garage and security gate. Bolan walked in after a group of what looked like ecotourists. They ranged in age from college students to middle-aged men and women, wearing a variety of natural fibers, handwoven sandals and, at least for the men, a few scraggly beards.
He checked in under his Matt Cooper alias and went up to his room, which was spacious, with a tiled floor and free internet. Bolan swept it for bugs—more out of force of habit than anything else—then checked in with Stony Man Farm. With nothing new to report, he headed down for dinner.
As expected, he found several of the group on the bus sitting down to dinner, as well, all of them discussing the menu, which, of course, was printed in Portuguese. The three he pegged as college students were all snickering about the caldo de manguera soup, which they were trying to get the others to try. Bolan decided to play along and ordered it as his first course, following it with llapingachos, cheesy potato cakes served with grilled steak.
When his soup arrived, full of rice, celery and small chunks of meat swimming in a brown broth, Bolan didn’t hesitate, but dug in, knowing full well that the other group was watching him to gauge his reaction.
Finally, one of them, a red-haired student in a woven native long-sleeved shirt and cargo shorts, pushed back his chair. “Dude, you do know what you’re eating, right?”
Bolan nodded as he chewed, then swallowed one of the rubbery chunks of meat. “If my Portuguese is right, it’s bull penis.”
The other table erupted in various reactions, from laughter to disgust. “So, what’s it taste like?” a shorter girl with her blond hair braided into two thick pigtails asked.
“Not like chicken, if that’s what you’re wondering. In fact, it doesn’t really have much taste at all. Not like some of the other foods I’ve tasted. In fact, one of the worst was a delicacy called balut, that they serve in the Philippines.” In between spoonfuls of soup, Bolan described the snack—basically a fertilized duck egg boiled whole and eaten straight out of the shell—with enough detail to make more than one of the group push their main course away with queasy looks on their faces.
After that, he was in. Bolan introduced himself as Matt Cooper and said he was a freelance reporter on assignment to do an in-depth report on the state of the Amazon rainforest. He barely got that out when one of the other students piped up.
“Dude, if you want a real story, you should totally come with us—we’re heading into the deep jungle to volunteer at a Huaorani village.” He introduced himself as Mike Saderson and said he and the others were part of the South American Relief Effort, or SARE. The next morning they were all heading to a remote village deep in the rainforest. “The indigenous tribesmen are being encroached upon by oil companies, not to mention illegal loggers, hunters and smugglers. SARE tries to improve their way of life and help protect them and the rainforest from depredation.”
“Sounds like I might have just stumbled onto my story right here.” Bolan’s main course of llapingachos arrived, and as he dug in, he cast his gaze around at the rest of the group. “So, you’re all here on the same mission?”
Each member at the table took a turn to introduce themselves, as Bolan sized them up. The group’s makeup was about what he’d figured. The three college students—Saderson, Thomas Bonell and the shorter girl, Calley Carter—were looking for adventure while doing their part to save the world. The dark-haired man, Paul Wilberson, looked like a die-hard eco-nut or conservationist and turned out to be a little of each, along with possessing a degree in animal husbandry. The second woman was Susanna Tatrow, a British anthropologist graduate student who was going to be both studying and teaching at the tiny school in the village.
The last guy intrigued Bolan the most, primarily because he didn’t fit into any easily classifiable niche. He was the last one to speak, and all he said was, “My name’s Elliot Morgan, and I’m here because I wanted to see the ends of the earth.” He glanced around. “Looks like I’ve come to the right place.”
“You can say that again. Any of you ever been out in the deep rainforest before?” Shaking heads greeted Bolan’s question. “It’s quite an experience—I’d tell you more, but I don’t want to color your first impressions. As long as you have all your shots up-to-date, you’ll be fine.
“In fact,” he said as he rose from the table, “I’d suggest you all get a good night’s sleep—it’s gonna be a long trip tomorrow.”
“Are you going to join us out there, Matt?” Thomas Bonell asked.
“That’s the plan, if SARE doesn’t mind me tagging along. But right now, I’ve gotta check in with my bureau chief, make sure he doesn’t have a problem with it. See you all in the morning.”
He left the restaurant to a chorus of goodbyes, but waited until he’d reached his room before calling Stony Man Farm.
“Stony Man Farm, you kill ’em, we chill ’em,” a young, familiar voice said on the other end.
“Akira, didn’t Hal warn you about answering the sat line that way?” Bolan asked.
“Yeah, but what can I say—it just didn’t take.” Akira Tokaido was Stony Man’s current computer expert, working with long-time stalwart Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman. Among the youngest of the Stony Man team, his youth gave him a different way of looking at things—which sometimes worked against him. “What you need, Striker?”
“Dig up whatever you can find on a NGO called South American Relief Effort and send me any information on them. I’ve just been invited to join a group of volunteers heading out into the jungle and want to know what I’m getting into there.”
“Gotcha, I’m on it.” Bolan heard the clack of computer keys as the whiz kid’s fingers blurred over his keyboard. “Anything else you need?”
“Yeah, better include some higher grade firepower in the care package Hal’s sending down—I don’t want to be outgunned in the bush. Give me something carbine size with a collapsible stock, a CAR-15 would do.”
“Duly noted. I’ll make sure they know to include it and plenty of ammo. You good on everything else?”
“So far, so good. I’ll be in touch if I need anything else. Striker out.”
Disconnecting the call, Bolan prepped for bed, turning out the light and enjoying the last comfortable bed he expected he’d see for a while. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out.
4
Alec Hachtman frowned at the water drop that had splashed on his keyboard just as a sharp pain bloomed in his neck. Slapping a hand down, he brought away a crushed mosquito in his fingers and groaned. Looking up, he saw another drop poised to fall, and snatched his laptop out of the way a moment before it plopped onto his lap desk.
Starting to hate the place, he activated the VOIP program on his machine. “Kapleron, my tent is leaking again. Please have one of the locals take a look at it as soon as possible.”
“Yeah, but it probably won’t do you much good—it’s called a rainforest for a reason, you know? I’ll get someone on it when I can.”
“Well, get them on it sooner rather than later, all right? I woke up this morning half-drenched.” Hachtman closed his computer and slid it into the protective padded ballistic nylon case that was always nearby. Given their situation, he carried the computer with him at all times, in the event that a hurried evacuation was necessary. Slinging the case strap over his shoulder, he rose from his cot and left the claustrophobic tent, emerging into the muggy, humid Amazon jungle.
Wondering again why he’d agreed to oversee this mission, he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. Sure, it’ll be exciting—come down to South America! This will be great for your record with the company! What a load—all that’s down here is heat, bugs, more heat and these insufferable goddamn mercenaries whose answer to everything is to point a gun and start blasting. They’d be lucky if the whole goddamn forest wasn’t blown up before they’d finished here.
Hachtman was the ostensible leader of the operation for his company, Paracor Security Solutions International, a private military company eking out a living on the fringes of the Second and Third World. With most of the plum operations going to larger, multinational PMCs, Paracor battled for scraps at the bottom, taking boring, out-of-the-way assignments in the ass end of the world. Their board was looking to move the company up the ranks into the leagues of the big boys and were willing to reward those who could help them accomplish this task.
That was why Hachtman was here. He’d volunteered to oversee the mission to “pacify” the area so that it could be parceled out to oil companies, loggers, whomever wanted to turn a buck exploiting the riches of the rainforest. The board had made it known that they wanted a perfect operations record that they could use to burnish their reputation—and Hachtman was going to give it to them. All he needed was a few more days, and he would deliver a successful foiling of renegade Colombian soldiers terrorizing the defenseless natives—and perhaps a nearby prospecting oil company, as well.
That was, if he could survive this infernal jungle that long. The eternal heat, the constant biting insects and the wet that permeated everything had wreaked havoc on his wardrobe, not to mention his computer and other personal effects. After this, he figured he was due a long vacation—maybe somewhere sunny and bright instead of humid and damp all the time.
As he walked toward the trucks, Hachtman spotted his head of security, Piet Kapleron, coming the other way. The short, pale-skinned, bandy-legged, freckled South African stood out among the rest of the hired guns in looks as well as temperament. His disdain for the operation was obvious—he made no bones about what he thought of Hachtman and any other “suit.” But he was effective, and that was all that mattered.
“Good afternoon, Piet.”
“How goes it, baas?” The shorter man fell into step beside him. Kapleron’s Afrikanner accent irritated Hachtman, but he was careful not to show it. For all the man’s lack of manners, he was good at his job, keeping at bay the potential cauldron of trouble—from nosy relief workers to natives in the wrong place at the wrong time, to local soldiers or militia stumbling upon them and then demanding bribes to keep their mouths shut. Kapleron handled them all, letting Hachtman and his team do their job in relative peace.
“Fine, except my tent’s leaking again. How’s the perimeter? Any trouble recently?”
