Jungle Hunt. Don Pendleton

       “That’s what I came to talk to you about. Those bastards at that village nearby are trekkin’ closer to us all the time. Pretty soon they’ll be stomping all over the place.” Kapleron’s lip curled at the thought.

       “What would you suggest we do about that, keeping in mind that our employers want this operation to keep a low profile?”

       “Ja, I remember, otherwise the problem woulda been solved already—a few of my maats and I woulda paid them a daylight visit. However, since that ain’t an option, perhaps a different approach is in order.”

       “Oh?” Hachtman lengthened his stride, making the shorter man hasten to catch up. It was a faint jab at the other man, but he took his pleasure where he could.

       “Yeah, look, apparently these Huaorani are attacking each other all the time—they stab their enemies with spears. We go in at night and take out the village, then it looks like one of the neighbors did it, not us. Just another hazard of living in the jungle, right? The locals all suspect each other, and we get off scot-free. Heh, if you wanted to live on something more than coconuts and guava, we could even hire ourselves out for ‘protection.’”

       Pondering the rough plan for a moment, Hachtman was surprised to find he liked it. “That’s not a bad idea—it certainly covers all of our bases.”

       “So, when do you want us to move on them?”

       “Let me get back to you on that, okay?” Leaving the small man behind, he headed for a cab on one of the deuce-and-a-half trucks and climbed inside. Unzipping the case again, he connected his laptop to the battery of the truck and extended a small satellite transmitting dish. He drummed his fingers on the dashboard, waiting for the interminable lag as the satellite connection uplinked to his superior at the company.

       “Good afternoon, Alec.” His boss, known only as Mr. Ravidos, never appeared on screen—the only thing Hachtman saw was the logo of Paracor, two crossed swords on a crimson field.

       “Good afternoon, sir.”

       “I assume you’re calling with an update.”

       “Yes, sir. The first phase of the operation has been carried out, however, there is another village nearby that may need pacifying, as well. We’re checking into it right now.”

       “Of course, you know that PSSI cannot be connected to any sort of wet activity in the area.”

       “Yes, sir. We’ll have this section of jungle cleared and ready for companies to move into in the next five to seven days.”

       “Good. Now that we have the rights to resell, our sales force is already lining up leasers for that swath. We’re making history here, Alec. Not only are we supplying the security for an area, but we’re also controlling the rights to exploit it—two income streams off one assignment.”

       “Well, sir, you’ve always said that good business is where you find it, right?”

       “Excellent memory, Alec. You pull this off smoothly, and there’ll be a big promotion for you when you come back to headquarters. You just make sure that there’s no one there to raise a stink about it, okay?”

       “No problem, sir. By the time Piet and his boys are finished, there won’t even be a parrot to squawk about what’s going on down here.”

      5

      The honk of an automobile horn broke Nancy Kelleson’s concentration. She looked down to see the rows of figures swim into focus on the inventory sheet. In every column, red ink was the predominant color.

       “Well, I might not have enough food, equipment or field supplies, but at least I’ve got a few more warm bodies to help out for the time being.” She pulled back her damp, blond hair—in the humid heat, it never got completely dry—and secured her ponytail with a leather thong. Rising, she pushed the rough, wooden door of her hut aside and stepped out to meet the new arrivals.

       The pair of four-wheel-drive Land Rovers had pulled into the center of the village, surrounded, as always, by the population of the small enclave, about fifty men, women and children. Most were dressed in simple, brightly colored clothes that were a mixture of native and western styles. The children ran around barefoot and either bare-chested or clad in T-shirts and worn shorts. The women dressed in a mix of the traditional breechclout covering, also going bare-breasted. The men wore mainly simple shirts and pants or shorts. Some articles of clothing had been white a long time ago, to protect against the tropical sun, but they had all turned a dirty gray-brown over time.

       As usual, Kelleson headed straight for the driver of the first vehicle, a short man with ebony skin, thinning, curly hair and an ever-present smile that revealed one missing front tooth. He directed the other passengers to unload their duffels and for the villagers to remove the supplies they had brought back. “How was the trip, Etienne?”

       He looked up at her—the top of his head barely came to her jaw—and held out a stubby-fingered hand, waggling it back and forth. “Not as bad as the last one—we only had to stop six times to clear the road, a new record. At least we didn’t break anything this time. I think, however, that Major Medina will be paying a visit here soon—he seemed to be particularly interested in the new arrivals.”

       “Just what I need right now.” Kelleson brushed an errant strand of hair out of her eyes and turned to the half dozen men and women standing to one side, their Caucasian skin, tans and new clothing demarking them as her fresh recruits. “I’m off to give the welcome speech to the newbies.”

       “Good luck, we’ll have this squared away by the time you’re finished. Oh, one more thing—the Feri pump finally arrived.”

       “Finally? Thank God for small favors, I say. I just hope it works as well as they promised. We’ll make that a priority—fresh, clean water will go a long way toward making things better around here. Thanks for the great news.”

       The short man grinned again while hoisting a forty-pound sack of corn with distinctive Red Cross markings over his shoulder. “I bring it all back, good and bad—you know that.”

       “Yes, I certainly do.” Squaring her shoulders, Kelleson approached the small group, noting that most of them looked to be either from Europe or America. She took a moment to watch as they all stared around at the strange new world they had just stepped into. “I trust you all enjoyed the trip here?”

       “Sure, if you call twenty hours crammed in five airplanes, followed by an eight-hour drive into the bush enjoyable.” The speaker was a tall, rail-thin guy with short, black hair and wire-rimmed glasses. His comment brought weary chuckles from the other three men, a grin from one of the women and a glare from the other one.

       “First, let me welcome you to this Huaorani village in the province of Sucumbíos, Ecuador. My name is Nancy Kelleson, and I’m your headperson for this SARE project. Over the next six months, we’ll all be helping this village become more self-sufficient, installing a new well, clearing and planting fields and teaching Spanish and English and their country’s history to the children.” She looked each person directly in the eyes as she spoke. “Make no mistake about it, this is not a vacation or pleasure trip. You all volunteered for SARE with the expectation of seeing the world and working hard, and I can guarantee that you’re going to get both in about equal measure.”

       She extended a hand to encompass the cluster of single-story wooden huts with thatched roofs, all surrounding a cleared main square. In the back of all the houses, looming over all of them, was the thick, verdant jungle. “The first rule I want all of you to take to heart is that the moment you set foot here, you entered hostile territory. The jungle can kill you as easily as breathing. It will swallow you up without mercy, pick your bones clean and leave what’s left to bleach in the sun before being covered by the foliage in less than a week. Treat the jungle and its denizens with the respect they deserve—you won’t often get a second chance.”

       All eyes were on Kelleson, the group’s shared fatigue