Operation: Amazon

- 1 -

“I’ll give you this much, Cap,” Wiggins said from the belly of the flat-bottomed boat, “you sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

Captain John Banks swiped half a dozen lazy black flies away from his face, wiped sweat from his brow for the fourth time in as any minutes, and turned his gaze away from the river. Wiggins and McCally were in the process of brewing up a pot of tea on the portable solid fuel stove from the private’s kit bag.

“What are you moaning about this time, Wiggo? I promised you something warmer, didn’t I? It doesn’t get much hotter than this.”

“Warm shite is still shite,” Wiggins said.

Banks laughed.

“Aye, I can’t argue with that logic.”

The flight into the Amazonian interior from the coastal airport had promised verdant greenery, shining waters, and a profusion of wildlife at first glance, but the bay they’d landed in had given Banks the first hint of what was in store for them on their trip upriver. Thick cloying mud banks lined the shores on both sides, choking the green out of the vegetation and leaving it gray and dead as far as 10 to 15 yards into the canopy. The river water was the color of milk chocolate — or warm watery shite as Wiggins would have it — as far as you could see. They’d transferred at the village from seaplane to fishing boat and now, with two river guides, were heading up the Amazon to their destination, slowly, through increasingly murky waters.

“I hope this shite doesn’t get any thicker,” McCally said, and once again Banks had to agree.

Like Wiggins, Banks had hoped for something warmer after Siberia.

“How do you fancy a jaunt to Brazil?” the colonel had said back in Lossiemouth almost 48 hours earlier, and Banks had almost bitten his superior’s hand off to snatch at the job, before he’d even asked the nature of it. He had beaches and sun and Pina Colada in mind, and so had the squad when he’d gathered them for their briefing.

“I’ll pack the sun-tan lotion and the Speedos,” Wiggins had said, and Banks hadn’t dissuaded them of their hopes of a cushy, warm, trip.

Instead, here they were in the depths of the Amazonian jungle, heading far upstream into the interior. They’d been motoring for hours, painfully slowly through what appeared little more than slurry, beset by all manner of flies, and sweating under thin camo-suits that were the only thing keeping them from being eaten alive by said insects.

“All in all, I’d rather be on a beach,” Banks said, talking to himself, but Hynd heard him, and laughed.

“You and me both, Cap. So, it’s a rescue mission, then?” the sergeant asked. He had a cigarette clamped in his mouth, and spoke with minimal movement of his lips. Smoke got in his eyes, causing them to water and giving him a squint, but it seemed to be keeping the worst of the flies away from him and, not for the first time, Banks considered returning to the old habit, if only for the relief from the biting flies.

“Maybe aye, maybe no,” he replied, waving more of the black flies away from right in front of his nose. “I told you what the colonel told me — folks — engineers mainly — have been going missing from a dredging operation upriver; and some of them are British subjects. So we’ve got permission to go in and have a shufti. Whether anybody actually needs rescuing, we won’t know until we get there and see what’s what.”

“And maybe we’re only here to throw our weight around a bit, make a show to see if that puts a stop to any nonsense?” the sergeant said, smiling.

“Maybe aye, maybe no,” Banks replied. “It wouldn’t be the first time the colonel’s had us resort to a bit of gunboat diplomacy.”

“Why us, though, Cap?” McCally said from the belly of the boat. “There’s any number of guys as well suited for a heavy mob job, and closer than we were.”

Banks had held this last bit of info back for as long as possible, not having mentioned it in the briefing or on the long trip south, but they deserved to know.

“We’ve got form. There’s talk that it might be some kind of animal attack. The colonel said he’d heard a rumor about a thing coming out of the jungle.”

“Not more big fucking beasties,” Wiggins said. “They should have sent for fucking Schwarzenegger and left us in peace.” The private waved a hand out over the prow of the boat to the river. “And all this warm shite is coming downstream from the dredging operation? That’s what we’re here to protect?”

Banks nodded.

“Looks like you’re shite monitor this week, Wiggo.”

“What, again?” the private said. That got a laugh from the two guides behind them on the bench behind the small wheel on a pedestal that passed as the pilot’s cabin area. The locals hadn’t spoken much at their meeting in the village, only enough for Banks to know that they were getting well paid for the trip up river, and that they were father and son. On the boat trip so far, the two of them had stayed at the wheel at the rear of the long, low, boat under a tented canopy, smoking black cigarettes that even Hynd, a 40-a-day man given the opportunity, had turned down as too noxious.

The elder of the two and the owner of the boat, Giraldo, addressed Wiggins.

“You are Scottish, no?”

“I am Scottish, yes,” Wiggins replied.

Giraldo’s smile got broader.

“1982, World Cup. We kicked your boys in the ass. I watched it with my father and my uncles.”

“That was a wee bit before my time,” Wiggins replied. “But I’ve seen the highlights. At least we scored first.”

“David Narey. Great goal,” Giraldo replied. “But you just made my boys angry.”

“You’re a fitba’ man then, Giraldo?” Wiggins asked.

“Man and boy,” the guide replied. “And it is a great shame, but your football team is shit now, no?”

Wiggins laughed loudly.

“Our football team is shite now, yes,” he said.

He moved up the boat and passed the guides each a mug of tea. He got some local smokes in reply, and Banks tuned the conversation out as it turned to the merits or otherwise of the respective national football teams. At least Wiggins was making friends though, for within minutes, the private and the two guides were thick as thieves.

“How long until we reach the dredging operation?” Wiggins asked.

“Two hours,” Giraldo said, smiling. “Much more shite to see before then.”

“Same as it ever was,” Wiggins muttered.

Giraldo was spot-on in his estimation, although Banks knew they were getting close to their destination some time before they reached it; the water turned murkier, darker and thicker, until it both looked and felt like they were motoring through melted chocolate. The mud along the banks looked fresher here, wetter and still oozing but that only made it even less welcoming somehow.

Soon after the water turned thicker, they negotiated a wide bend in the river, and finally saw the full scale of the dredging operation laid out on the river ahead of them.

“It is a great blight,” Giraldo said, sadness plain in his voice. “This used to be the perfect spot to catch enough fish for a month. But then these men with more money than sense came, and my fellow villagers could not refuse a pay that was many times more than they could make from the fishing. But look at the cost. Just look at it.”

The main machine was housed on a flat structure the length and width of two football fields joined lengthwise. It seemed to be composed primarily of two parts — one machine for sucking up the riverbed, and another for filtering it, and throwing the resultant slurry wide across the river on either side. A dozen men worked on the flat deck, carting buckets to and from a deep pit of ooze for further filtering, at a guess, in trestles and tables that lined the center of the structure. The back end of the deck nearest to their approach housed a squat cube some 20 feet on a side that Banks guessed were the living quarters.

Giraldo brought them in directly at the rear, but even then they failed to avoid a misty spray of slurry that coated the boat, the squad and all their kit in a thin film of slimy mud that stank of rot and decay.

“I was right about the shite,” Wiggins muttered as they came alongside a makeshift docking area.

They stepped quickly up and out of the boat, heaving their kit up onto the dredger’s deck, where they were finally, thankfully, in an area clear of falling slurry, although Banks still tasted it in his throat.

A burly man came out of the cube, barrel-chested and squat, as brown as old mahogany in arms, face and legs, his shorts and shirt dark with slurry-muck, the only points of brightness being his blue eyes and the white of his teeth when he smiled.

He made straight for Banks and held out a hand.

“Captain Banks, I presume?” he said, his accent English, southern, and sounding strangely out of place here on the equatorial river.

“You’re Buller?” Banks asked, and the man’s smile faded quickly.

“No, I’m Joe the foreman, Joe Wilkes,” he replied. “Buller’s not here; and I need to talk to you about that. But not out here. Come inside; I have coffee and something to eat waiting.”

As he turned away and Banks motioned the squad to follow him, six men, as mucky as Wilkes, but most definitely locals, walked quickly across the deck, passed the squad, and started talking, nearly shouting, to Giraldo. It was all in Portuguese, and too fast for Banks to catch any of it, but he recognized the look on the men’s faces well enough; fear and he were old friends.

At the same time, one of the machines fell quiet around them and the wide arcs of slurry sputtered and died in a spatter of mud on the water.

“Get back to work,” Wilkes said. “I didn’t say you could stop.”

The men around Giraldo ignored the Englishman, and kept up their worried flow of chat with the guide.

“I said get back to work,” Wilkes said, louder, but again he was ignored. “You see what I’m dealing with?” he said to Banks, looking for an ally. Banks wasn’t about to give him one just yet. There was more going on here than met the eye. Hynd had noted it too, but Banks stopped any questions with a finger to his lips, and turned back to follow Wilkes.

And hopefully get some answers.

The interior office Wilkes led them to inside the cube proved to be remarkably clean and cool, with a large air-conditioning unit by the only window to thank for the fresher air. They dropped their kit bags on the floor. Banks wiped at the thin slurry on his trousers, but only succeeded in spreading it around.

“The muck never really washes off,” the foreman said apologetically, “but we do what we can to make ourselves comfortable. Beer or coffee?”

The squad was unanimous, and although there were nominally on duty, beer sounded exactly what Banks needed to get the taste of slurry from his mouth. When Wilkes disappeared down the corridor, then came back and handed out the bottles, it was cold, almost icy to the touch, hissed on opening, and it went down so fast it barely touched his throat.

It did the job he’d asked of it though, but he refused a second for him, and for the squad when Wilkes offered more

“Maybe later. But for now, tell me why Buller isn’t here to meet us.”

Wilkes lit up a smoke before answering, a cigar as thick as his thumb that took three matches to get going.

“The boss isn’t here, and I don’t know where he is,” the foreman said. “He went last night, the same way as the others, quiet, in the night. This whole operation is fucked royally if you can’t find him and get him back.”

Banks saw that the big man was running on fumes, kept going by beer, smoke, and bravado in the face of something that had him terrified.

And if he’s that worried, maybe I should be too.

“You’d better tell us the whole story,” Banks said.

“In that case, I’ll need another beer, and you’ll need some grub. Through here.”

He led them to a small refectory area, no more than a 10 by 10-foot square room lined with refrigerators and cupboards, with a low ceiling and a basic kitchen setup along the outside wall. It didn’t have air conditioning, and the open windows let in heat, flies, and the rancid stench of the slurry. But the bread, meats, and cheeses on offer made up for any discomfort.

While the squad ate, Banks got a cup of strong coffee that tasted like it had been sitting for hours and sipped at it, and sat at a long trestle while he listened to Wilkes’ story.

“Buller and I go back years,” he started. “My first job out of University was working for his father in the Congo. Buller was on that rig as an assistant to the main boss man, but it was clear he was getting groomed for bigger things, so I hitched my wagon to his, and soon we both moved up the ranks. We were after oil that time in Africa but a river is a river, even a bloody big one like this, and we ironed out most of the kinks in the production process both there in the Congo then later in Jakarta, where it was silver we were after. Then Buller’s old man got wind of small-scale prospectors making good money up here in the jungle and knew there was a fortune to be had if the operation could be scaled up properly. We started planning two years ago, then came the job of getting all the gear shipped up river and assembled.

“We’ve been dredging on the river for six months now,” Wilkes continued. “At first, it all went like clockwork; we dredged, we sifted, and we found the gold we knew was lying there waiting to be brought up. The local lads on the team made more money than they’d see in years of fishing. We got to send pounds of gold back to be sold in the U.K. at an enormous markup. We’re far enough away from the tree-huggers that nobody gives a fuck about any mess we might make, and the boss and his dad were happy as Larry.

“Things only changed when we came round that last bend and into this stretch of water. The local lads got twitchy, and although nothing was said to me, I would catch them in groups, muttering to each other, and it became obvious that they would stay near the center of the deck whenever they could, as if afraid of something in the water. And trying to get any of them to do anything after dark got to be near impossible, no matter how much I shouted, or how much money the boss offered them. Every minute of every day felt like we were on the edge of a full-blown mutiny.

“Then people started to disappear.”

The big man stopped, and chewed at his cigar, his gaze taking on a far-away stare, the memory almost overwhelming him before he pulled himself together enough to continue.

“Jack Baillie was first to go — a Scots lad like you, field geologist and in charge of finding the best spots to dredge. He was a good laugh, a good chess opponent, and he was generally well liked by the local lads, for he kept up with them even when they were drinking their homemade rum.

“Then, one morning, he just wasn’t there. There was no noise, no alarm. We got up for breakfast and he wasn’t here. I went out in a boat, up and down the banks in case he’d maybe done something daft like gone for a swim after a drink, but there was no sign of any disturbance on either side, and no evidence of violence of any kind.

“There was a lot of nervous chatter among the men, but the boss offered double time pay for a few days if they’d allow it to be declared an accidental drowning. Money talks, even here in the fucking middle of nowhere, and nobody disagreed with Buller, and we went back to work.

“The second man went three nights later.

“This time, we heard the splash, but by the time we got to the side of the facility, there were only ripples in the water, and despite dredging the area, again no body was found. Even despite the boss’ promise of even more cash, I damn nearly had a mutiny on my hands then. It was only Buller’s talking about sackings and the prospect of losing their cash flow entirely that kept the men here.

“But now, with the boss going — and he went as quiet as Jack Baillie — now I don’t think I can keep them here. Not unless you can help us.”

It had all come out of Wilkes in a rush and, as if it had made him thirsty, he chugged a beer down in one, and then chewed hard at his cigar. Banks again saw the tension in the man, a bottled-up fear that might explode at any moment.

He was about to say something, a remark about how they’d do what they could to help, when there was a commotion in the corridor outside. Giraldo entered with his son and a small crowd of the deck workers at his back. Banks realized that everything else had gone totally quiet outside; all of the machines that ran the operation had been switched off completely and he couldn’t feel the vibration that had been there, unnoticed underfoot until it was gone.

“I am taking these men home,” Giraldo said, addressing Banks rather than the foreman. “If you wish, I will take you back now too. Otherwise, I will return for you, if you are still here.”

Wilkes banged a fist hard on the table, and rose, anger suddenly blazing in him.

“They cannot leave.”

Giraldo kept his gaze on Banks.

“They can, and they will. It is not safe here.”

“They will get no more money, if that’s what they’re after,” Wilkes shouted.

Giraldo smiled thinly.

“It is difficult to spend money when you are dead.” He looked Banks in the eye. “I can take you back too?”

Banks shook his head.

“We stay. But we cannot stop you from leaving. Don’t forget to come back, okay?”

“You will not be forgotten,” Giraldo said, and put out a hand for Banks to shake. “Do not get dead before I return. Wiggins and I have much more football to discuss.”

Banks saw that the fear of the workmen had spread to their guides, but also knew that the violence he felt thrum in the room might explode at any second. These men needed to leave, and any attempt to stop them would only make matters worse.

“Go then,” he said, and Giraldo turned away. Wilkes looked ready to burst, and was about to grab for the guide, but Banks stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s for the best this way,” he said. “We get to work without worrying about the safety of your crew, they get to come back when we get it sorted, and nobody else dies.”

Wilkes still looked ready to argue, but Giraldo had already led the crew away, and minutes later, they all heard the thrum of the outboard as it left the dock and headed away back down the river.

The five men left in the refectory were now the only people remaining on board the dredger.