On his fourth or fifth day, as he realized that he was not going anywhere soon, Troy had started keeping track of the days by scratching marks on an old piece of wood with a nail that he had found. Four dozen marks later, he was finally able to stand and move around a little bit without his crutch.
Troy decided that it was time to think about rejoining the outside world, though he had grown accustomed to life in his jungle retreat. At the same time, he felt so totally disconnected from his world. He had killed a man who had once been a wingman, and he had been copilot to a man who had tried to kill him. What kind of world was that?
He had watched his parents become emotional islands, disconnected from one another — and from him. What was left for him in that world?
He had felt the icy sting of doors slammed in his face by Cassie and Jenna, the only two women whom he had ever loved. What was left for him in that world?
Could he go back to his job? Well, not after his boss had tried to kill him!
How could he return to that world?
The thought of phoning his contacts at the CIA now seemed like a cruel and ridiculous joke. Yolanda had been right.
The idea of phoning home seemed less appealing with each week that passed. Of course, there were no phones. The nearest one was probably several days' hike from this mountaintop, and the aftermath of a multiple fracture set by a stone-age shaman made a long hike seem out of the question.
An attempted bow-hunting trip with some of the guys convinced Troy that it would be a while before he would be able to walk any distance.
The weeks drifted by, and Troy thought and rethought the issue of whether to leave. He had grown familiar, though not yet intimate, with the girl who reminded him of Yolanda. It seemed only a matter of time. By the looks of the way her body curved as she moved, and the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled at him, he knew that it would be exquisite. However, his rational mind told him that it would usher in a whole new era in his status among these people, and he decided that for this, he was unprepared.
The marks on the old piece of wood had long since fallen out of pace with the actual passage of days when Troy finally said good-bye to the people who had become like a family to him. There were even some tears shed as he walked down the trail in his hand-me-down jeans and sandals for the last time.
Two days later, as he walked into the Nicaraguan village of San Sebastian, the sound of motor vehicles was deafening. Troy wondered if he had made a mistake, and he longed for the comforting arms of the girl who reminded him of Yolanda.
He was back in civilization, with its cars, its electricity, its telephones — and its dependence on currency. Troy was flat broke. He had long since given the two hundred dollars in his survival kit to his friends in the mountains. Now he had to draw upon other survival skills.
Troy began by going into a bar and asking in his crude high school Spanish to be directed to "El Gringo." This would be interpreted as an American asking to be sent to "The American." They would — Troy hoped — assume that he actually knew this notional person known locally as "The American."
Most remote Latin American localities have one or two El Gringos, American expatriates who have drifted far from the United States in search of something or on the run from someone. Troy just wanted to find an American — any American.
San Sebastian's "El Gringo" turned out to be a mining contractor named Fred Dobbs.
"You came pretty far out in the middle of nowhere looking for a job," Dobbs said quizzically, when Troy explained himself as an American stranded in the outback of Nicaragua.
"Well it's a long story." Troy smiled. "My girlfriend dragged me out here on a do-gooder, tree-hugging thing, and well, y'know…"
"Yeah. I get the picture," Dobbs said. With his long hair and full beard, Troy indeed looked like either a tree hugger or a dope dealer, which for Dobbs were essentially the same thing. "You're stuck out here with no way back to the real world. Well, I got a gig that I could use you on. I need a gringo with no real ties to this place."
"What's the work?"
"I've got a little extraction operation going up in the mountains. Mostly low-grade nickel, but there's some of the yellow stuff. The local umm… authorities… like to have their palms crossed. They don't care about the nickel. My people working the mine up there are mainly locals. I need somebody with no connection to the locals who can go up and bring out my yellow stuff. Might take several trips… ought to be able to wrap it up in a couple of weeks. You want the job?"
"What's it pay?"
"I'll give you five hundred bucks and have my guy in Managua fix you up with a passport and a plane ticket to the States. Deal?"
"Deal."
Chapter 43
If walking into San Sebastian two weeks ago had been a culture shock for Troy, then setting foot in a real city was a culture concussion.
In the nearly five months since Shakuru had crashed into the jungle, the world that he had blissfully ignored had been turned upside down. For the first time since he had disappeared from radar — literally and figuratively — Troy had gotten his hands on an English-language newspaper and had a chance to surf the Web at an Internet cafe.
To Troy, it felt as though he had been away for years, not mere months. Political discord reigned. Al-Qinamah, the enemy with whom Troy had battled when he had flown with the U. S. Air Force, now reigned in Sudan — as well as in Eritrea and Ethiopia. It was a war that he and the others had fought in vain.
In Malaysia, the government was now essentially a wholly owned subsidiary of Sandringham Partners, Ltd. It was another war that Troy had fought in vain.
In Europe, governments were collapsing. Italy was on its fourth government in less than a month. France and Portugal were both considering outsourcing most essential services to organizations modeled after the PMCs.
The United States was not immune. Washington, D. C., was in turmoil. Pundits from both poles of the political spectrum insisted that the U. S. government was out of control. Some said it was because of the PMCs. American foreign policy was in shambles because the Defense Department was now nothing more than a manager of extranational PMCs. Others insisted that the United States ought to do as Malaysia, France, and Portugal had done and essentially turn governmental operations over to the PMCs.
What stunned Troy the most was what he found when he was waiting in the office of Fred Dobbs's "guy in Managua," waiting to be fixed up with a plane ticket to the States.
The guy was in his private office with another customer, and Troy was waiting patiently on a tattered blue Naugahyde couch in the waiting room. The guy operated a travel agency of sorts, and there were posters for various regional destinations on the wall. There was one for Costa Rica with a large toucan on it and even one for the Peten rain forest.
Troy had spent part of his five hundred dollars on clean clothes, a haircut, and a cheap duffel bag. Soon he would have his ticket to Los Angeles and, hopefully, a new life in an old place.
As he waited, Troy idly began leafing through the inevitable pile of magazines that was on the low coffee table. He recognized the red border of a Time magazine and pulled it out.
Troy's mind did a double take at the cover photo: a head-and-shoulders shot of Raymond Harris!
Troy's mind did a triple take at the caption printed in bold letters across the cover. It identified Harris as The Voice of Reason.
Raymond Harris?
The Voice of Reason?
How could the man who had tried to kill him for exposing a conspiracy be remotely considered The Voice of Reason?
Inside, the journalists had profiled Harris, now back at Firehawk's Virginia headquarters and now the CEO of the PMC. He was described in the article as the steady hand, the man who was calmly negotiating with the polarized political factions in Washington.