“Bon your, mon Colonel,” greeted the senior sentry.
“We found these poor fellows less than a quarter of an hour ago. It looks as if they’ve been dead for several hours. All five were assigned to field maintanence. There’s something over here that I think you’ll be interested in seeing.”
Nodding to lead on, Moreau and his assistant followed the sentry toward the fence. There, a long length of chain-link wire had been neatly cut. It allowed plenty of room for a full-grown man to pass through. Protruding from the soaked ground beneath this break was a single rusty machete. Tied to its handle was a red bandana.
“It’s the calling card of the Third Brigade,” said the sentry disgustedly.
“After months of absence, those filthy leftist bastards have finally returned.”
Taking in this observation, Moreau shook his head.
“It certainly appears to be the work of the Third Brigade, mon ami.”
“What in God’s name is the Third Brigade?”
asked a bewildered LeMond.
“It’s hard to believe that they’ve been inactive in these parts for over two years,” continued Moreau.
“We had our share of this kind of foolishness when we first started work here.” He turned to LeMond.
“Apparently the Brigade is a Maoist guerilla organization that wants Ariadne out of Guiana. For the first couple of years we put up with their threats, until they started making this kind of sick gesture. A full year before you arrived here, we were forced to move into the back country with a large contingent of Legionnaires. Our boys found their headquarters on the banks of the Sinnamary River, and blew away over four dozen of them. Until today, that was the last we’d heard of them.”
“There’ve been rumblings in Kourou that they’ve returned for sometime now, mon Colonel,” offered the senior sentry.
“Yet this bandana and machete are the first actual proofs of this fact.”
“We still must be cautious,” returned Moreau.
“Someone could be merely copying their calling-card to cover up a simple, brutal murder. That’s why I want a complete investigation. Photograph the area thoroughly before taking the bodies off to Kourou for an autopsy. Then an emergency security meeting is in order for later this afternoon.”
A rumbling boom of thunder emphasized these words. This was followed by the piercing electronic tone of Moreau’s earphone. It was Jacques LeMond who slogged over the muddy field to answer it.
A quick conversation followed. LeMond hung up the receiver and called out to his superior.
“Colonel, it was Winston. He says it’s most urgent that you return to your office at once.”
Knowing that his administrative assistant wouldn’t bother him needlessly, Moreau excused himself and returned to the jeep.
“Would you like a ride back, Jacques?” questioned Moreau as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
LeMond stood on the field before him.
“That’s okay, Colonel. I’ll hitch a ride back with security. If you don’t mind, I’d like to give them a hand with the initial investigation.”
“Be my guest,” returned Moreau, who added, “Just keep an eye on that tree line, mon ami. If it is indeed the Third Brigade, I’ll bet they’re watching us at this very moment. Good hunting.”
The last he saw of his assistant was as he pivoted to return to the fence. The soaked, tall, lanky figure was soon out of his line of sight, and Moreau turned the jeep around and headed back on the same drenched road that he had just passed over.
The rains had yet to diminish and the colonel was most aware that the freshly starched shirt and pants that Theresa had prepared for him that morning were now completely saturated. Wiping the moisture from his forehead, he did his best to drive as fast as possible.
A single vision remained in his mind’s eye. The five dead laborers had been laid out in such a dramatic fashion that the heinous nature of the needless crime that had taken their lives could almost be overlooked.
It was as if the deaths themselves meant nothing.
Rather, it was a mere political point that the perpetrators were trying to convey. Sickened by the type of low-life that could stoop to such an act, Moreau cursed his misfortune. Whenever things appeared to be going smoothly, the jung led hell that surrounded them would place yet another obstacle in their way.
First it had been the logistical difficulties of establishing an adequate supply line. Then there were the mosquitos and the snakes to contend with. The appearance of the leftists only made a miserable environment that much worse.
Moreau guided the jeep through a dense copse of palms and realized that in a way they’d been lucky these past few years. Only a fool would have thought that the Legionnaires had been able to do away with all the troublemakers. As with a malignant cancer, only a single remaining cell needed to be left behind in order for the disease to propagate once more. If the Third Brigade had indeed returned, the only course of action would be to strike them quick and sure.
Since several members of Ariadne’s current security force had previously worked on Devil’s Island, he was confident that they would be able to do the job themselves. This could all be discussed during the afternoon’s meeting.
A crack of lightning lit the nearby sky and the colonel nervously jumped. Beyond, a rain-swollen creek had overflowed and the stream was in the process of flooding the road. Shifting his vehicle into four-wheel drive, he plowed into this current. The wipers continued their futile battle to clear the windshield and Moreau was forced to open his window wider to allow in more air. The jeep skidded, yet he quickly regained control.
A half kilometer passed before the grade of the road improved. Though the rain still fell in blinding sheets, he was able to make out the outline of the payload-preparation facility and, beyond, the Ariadne’s launch tower. No rocket currently sat on this pad.
He cursed when a mosquito bit him on the neck.
Slapping it dead with the palm of his hand, Moreau wondered what could be so damn important to warrant this unusual call back to the office. He knew he’d soon find out for himself, for the two-story, concrete-block structure holding command headquarters was visible off the road directly to his left.
Turning into its lot, he parked the jeep and sprinted to the building’s entrance.
He needed to utilize both his security code and identification pass to gain entry there. Ignoring the trail of mud and water he left behind him, Moreau climbed up two flights of steps. At the head of the stairway was a frosted-glass door on the surface of which was printed, “Colonel Jean Moreau — Director, Ariadne Project.” Quick to enter this door, he was greeted by his black male secretary, who sat before his typewriter pounding out a memo.
“Oh, mon Colonel, thank the Lord that you got back here so quickly. The Commandant himself called you less than a quarter of an hour ago. You’re to call him at once, on the private line at his summer place in Cannes.”
“Why thank you, Winston,” said the breathless Moreau, who only then was aware of the puddle of water that had gathered beneath him.
“Sorry about the wet mess, mon ami, but the rain just won’t stop falling out there. I’ll place the call myself in my office.”
Without waiting for a response, Moreau rushed through the double doors that led to his inner sanctum.
It wasn’t every day that he received a personal call from the Commandant. In fact, it had been over a week since he had last heard from the director and founder of the Consortium. With this in mind, he positioned himself behind his desk and, punching in the series of numbers that only he was privileged to know, activated the computerized telephone.
A succession of electronic tones emanated from the phone’s speaker. Moreau visualized the signal as it was received by the Ariadne communications satellite that soared in a geosynchronous orbit high over the Atlantic. Seconds later, this same signal found itself beamed eastward, to a receiving dish located in faraway southern France. Just as quickly as he could complete a call to neighboring Kourou, a deep voice sounded with utmost clarity from the receiver.