“That’s where we noted it, as well as a cell-phone transmission. However, when we sent the Colombian military there, they said no flight had landed. Should I believe them?”
Señor Lopez pursed his lips. “What town did the military embark from for this mission?”
Miguel named a small town. “It was closest to the cell-phone transmission.”
“That town is controlled by the paramilitary.”
“Controlled? How?”
“Some say they are blackmailing the mayor.”
Miguel felt his irritation rise. “I do not care about money, and neither should the mayor. Is it possible that he lied to us?”
“That is entirely possible.”
“Perhaps he should care more about innocent lives being taken,” Miguel said.
Señor Lopez nodded. “He does. The paramilitary group threatens that if he does not cooperate, they will kill his wife and children. He is a father of four. So he cooperates.”
Miguel didn’t know what to say for a moment.
“What about the airstrips? Do you map those?”
Señor Lopez nodded. “There are hundreds. The drug runners’ airstrips will be no easier to find than your jet—perhaps harder.” The man waved at the map on the wall. “Here are the ones that we have been able to locate. Each red line is a strip.”
Miguel counted forty such lines. The map also had a large circle, drawn in red, with Apiay marked as a dot on the circle’s edge. The mushroom cloud occurred outside the circle.
“What is that circle?”
“That is the distance that our surveillance airplanes can fly before they must turn around and come back to refuel. Our planes are small. They can fly to the edge of the circle, but they have only ten minutes to find the airstrip used by the drug transport. After that time, they must turn back or they will run out of fuel before they’re able to land. If we fly to your mushroom cloud, then the plane doesn’t have enough fuel to return.”
Miguel studied the map. There were tiny pins stuck on what appeared to be random points. The majority of the pins were scattered in an area along the Colombian-Venezuelan border. All fell outside of the red circle.
“What do the pins mean?” Miguel said.
“All are suspicious flights and landings,” Señor Lopez said.
“As in drug flights?”
“Yes. But you see, most of these so-called suspicious flights landed outside our interference capabilities.”
“So the drug runners know how far you are able to fly,” Miguel said.
“And they have adjusted their operations accordingly, yes.”
“Do you know Cameron Sumner? He works as a trainer with the American organization charged to help you find and intercept these drug flights.”
Señor Lopez nodded. “I do know him. He is a quiet, efficient man.”
“Is he a survivor?” Miguel said.
“I will answer that by telling you a story about an incident that occurred here eight months ago. Mr. Sumner was here to review our policies and determine whether we were acting in accordance with the terms of the joint cooperation between his agency and mine. While he was here, we spotted a suspicious flight. Mr. Sumner insisted on flying the intercept plane himself.”
“I understand that he is a good pilot,” Miguel said.
“He is an excellent pilot. He chased the plane and determined it was a drug transport. When the pilot refused to land, Mr. Sumner followed it outside of the red circle.”
“And?” Miguel said.
“He shot the plane down.”
Miguel was shocked. “Is that protocol?”
“Absolutely, and Mr. Sumner followed it to the letter. With the exception that his flight tracked beyond the area where the plane could safely return, however.”
“How did he get back?”
“He turned around, flew as far as he could, and landed on a drug runners’ airstrip ten miles from his origination point. He hiked back to us through the night.”
“Determined man.”
“Very much so,” Lopez said.
Miguel poked a finger at the map where the mushroom cloud was seen. “He was on the plane that created the cloud.”
Señor Lopez looked even sadder than his usual sad expression. “Then I am truly sorry for him, because a man that goes into that area without additional security does not come out alive.”
“He came out alive before.” Miguel felt compelled to voice an optimism that he didn’t feel.
“But that time he flew back very far and was armed. This time I presume he is unarmed and on foot.”
Miguel nodded. “If you were Sumner, what would you do?”
“I would tell the guerrillas that my relatives are wealthy Americans and will pay any amount to ransom me.”
“Would you tell them you were with the Southern Hemisphere Drug Defense Agency?” Miguel asked.
Señor Lopez looked horrified. “Absolutely not! If they discover this, they will kill him on the spot.”
Miguel stared at the map.
Señor Lopez sighed. “I will miss Mr. Sumner.”
11
THE HOWLER MONKEYS BEGAN THEIR EERIE HOWLING AT DAWN. The noise started low, then rose to a bass-toned roar before ending in a full-throated howl. The sound echoed through the forest. It sounded like a thousand lions roaring in a cave. As others took up the call, the jungle came alive with sound. The mournful howl set Emma’s teeth on edge, and chills ran up her spine.
No sooner had the howler monkeys completed their morning chorus than the parrots started screeching. By the time they finished, the sun was up. Emma dragged herself out of the tent, broke it down, and began to run.
Stinging insects plagued her and the oppressive heat dehydrated her. The passengers moved so slowly that she doubted they had completed fifteen miles. She’d caught up with them without any trouble and adjusted her pace to match theirs. She trudged behind them, close enough to be able to hear their progress but not so close as to be discovered.
She was losing weight at an alarming rate, because she sweated profusely, but she rationed the drinking water. Every day, when the rains came, she set out the small plate from the airline food to catch what she could. Finding water was the second item on her mental list. The first was staying hidden from the guerrillas.
THE TORRENTIAL RAINS DRENCHED her clothes and turned the path to mud. At times the water pounded so hard on the leaves above her that it sounded like drumbeats. The only positive thing about the rain was that it kept the bugs from biting.
At dusk, Emma heard a whistle blow. She took it as a signal that the day’s march was over. She set up her tent and crawled into it. She removed her shoes and peeled off the soaking-wet, sweat-drenched running socks. She flicked on the lighter to look at her feet. They were bone white, with red patches on the edges of her toes where blisters were forming. The shriveled skin had a cheesy texture. She’d switch to her second pair of socks, but if she didn’t find a way to dry them soon, the blisters would never heal. Then each step would be agony, and she would start bargaining with the deviclass="underline" If I take off the shoes, will you promise not to have my feet swell to balloons? She propped her feet up on the backpack and hung her socks out to dry. Without the benefit of sunlight, the humidity ensured they never would.
She sat in the tent and thought about her situation. She’d already eaten one whole packet of food last night, her first night after running away from the airstrip. She had nine packets left. If she ate one half a day, she had, at most, eighteen days to eat. She reached out and fingered a packet. The meat was cooked, so it wouldn’t spoil immediately, but she doubted the packets would stay fresh enough to eat for as long as eighteen days. The heat would rot it in three, maybe four. She revised her food intake downward. She’d eat one full packet a day. She’d continue to eat it once it rotted. Nine days. She needed to reach safety in that time.