Jungle Hunt Read online

  Etienne snapped out orders, and the two men grabbed the hose. With the wiry Ecuadorian on one side, Morgan inserted the bottom of the pump into the sleeve and was gratified to find that it fit just right. Hand over hand, they lowered it into the bore, feeding it down, until they met resistance. Morgan pushed down once more, but felt the pump stop moving, and knew they were at the right level. “That’s it. All we need to do is secure the hose and fire up the generator, and it should be ready to go.”

  They did both tasks, a process that took less than five minutes, then Etienne told the other two men to gather the villagers around so they could see the pump work. The pair ran off, leaving Morgan alone with Etienne.

  “Should we test it while they’re gone?” Etienne asked. “Just to make sure it works?”

  Elliot glanced at him. “Is there water down there?” The other man nodded. “Does your generator and compressor work?” Another nod. “Then it’ll work, trust me.”

  “I hope you’re right. We’re the pilot project for this entire region, so if we get it working, then other villages will follow.”

  Morgan rubbed his jaw. “Speaking of the other villages, I heard someone in the city saying something about legends of ghosts in the rainforest. Thing was, he didn’t sound like he was talking about local legends—it sounded like he was really scared of some kind of spirits in the jungle. Have you heard anything like that recently?”

  As Morgan spoke, he watched Etienne’s face turn from open and friendly to closed and grave. “Have you asked any of the other villagers about this?”

  It was Elliot’s turn to shrug. “I don’t speak the language, remember?”

  “Right, well, do us a favor and don’t. There’s no need to spook anyone here—their lives are hard enough as it is.”

  “So there is something going on in the jungle?”

  Etienne glanced around before answering. “Lately the more isolated villagers have reported in, such as they can, about disappearing people—men, women, children. The military keeps claiming they’ll investigate, but so far nothing has happened. Rumors have it that a patrol went out to investigate one such claim, and none of the soldiers returned—they simply disappeared. It hasn’t affected this village yet, and Nancy and I are keeping track of the reports, making sure they don’t come too close.”

  “Pretty risky, to put foreigners in possible harm’s way like that, don’t you think?”

  “No more so than dropping them in the middle of the jungle, don’t you think? Besides, there are always ways to die out here, more from nature than man. Your volunteers were made aware of the risks when they came. These ‘ghosts’ of yours, who knows if they are real, or something made up by the locals—either of which is possible.”

  “But if people are really disappearing…”

  Etienne frowned. “People, even natives, disappear each year in the jungle, and not all of them are found. There are many reasons for this—sneaking off to the cities, stumbling across criminals who don’t want witnesses to their deeds, or the rainforest itself claiming a life. We’d need some kind of real proof—not just native stories—before we could do anything about it, or even bring it to the attention of the proper authorities.”

  “I see. Would it be all right if I asked Nancy about it?”

  “What’s your interest in these…stories?”

  Morgan cracked a smile. “Self-preservation, for one thing. But if someone really is body snatching out here, I think we ought to know about it.”

  “Rumors, only, keep in mind. But yes, I think you could discuss it with Nancy. Let her know that you spoke to me first, please.”

  “Naturally—it’ll probably keep my head on my shoulders.”

  Now Etienne’s affable grin returned. “Yours and mine both. Here they come.”

  The two men had done their job well—fully half the village trailed behind them, from the elderly to small children, who had been let out of class to witness what would hopefully be a life-changing event. Kelleson was there, along with Susanna, her kinky hair pulled back and her white skin sweat-streaked and glistening.

  After a brief discussion between Morgan and Etienne as to who would do the honors—each wanted the other man to do it—the smaller man stepped forward. “Today marks a new dawn for our village. For today—” Etienne hit the switch on the generator, causing it to roar to life and activate the air compressor “—we have our own water!”

  All eyes, including Morgan’s, turned toward the pipe that hung a few feet above the ground. The generator hummed and for a moment nothing happened.

  Morgan hoped he’d hooked everything up right as a nervous twinge shot through his stomach.

  Then, a dribble of brown water dripped from the pipe, which turned into a trickle, then a stream and then a gush that gradually cleared as it splashed on the ground.

  Everyone there gave a cheer, and the children immediately ran forward to jump and splash in the growing puddles. Morgan shook Etienne’s hand, along with the two men who had assisted them. The women and children all crowded around the spurting hose, holding their hands out, letting the liquid splash over them.

  “Remember, that water has to be filtered and purified before drinking, so try not to get any in your mouth.” Kelleson’s warnings were only partially heeded as the children splashed each other in the muddy puddles.

  Morgan had extricated himself from the admiring pats and hugs from the joyous villagers, as well, and presently stood beside Kelleson with his arms folded. “Ah, let ’em have their fun—it’s not often something like this comes along for them, I suppose.”

  She glanced up at him, her brow furrowed. “Spoken like someone who’s never cared for a five-year-old with dysentery. All right, children, come away. Etienne, let’s turn it off until you can get the containers for storage ready. And since Mr. Morgan here seems to be so handy—” she pinned him with another arched look “—perhaps he can help you with putting up that water tank you’ve been wanting to get done.”

  It was Morgan’s turn to arch an eyebrow. “You been holding out on me, Etienne?”

  The diminutive man smiled. “It’s a project I’ve wanted to try for the past year, but I’ve just not been sure we could do it, and then the parts have been impossible to get and, well, I think you already know how it is here.”

  “Yeah, but now you’ve got something you didn’t have before—me. Come on, let’s take a look at what you’ve got. That is, if I’m not needed elsewhere for the moment?” Morgan glanced at Kelleson, who regarded him with an expression somewhere between admiration and annoyance.

  “Yes, that would be fine.” She turned on her heel and walked away, Morgan watching her the whole while.

  I hate to see her leave, but I must confess I like watching her go, he thought with a rueful smile before heading off with Etienne.

  9

  Raised voices interrupted Hachtman as he was trying to compose a report of the group’s progress and activities to email back to the company. With an irritated frown, he saved his document, rose from his stool and exited his tent. He stalked through the camp, brushing by men who knew to get out of his way when they saw the tall man walking with such purpose.

  As soon as he reached the cluster of trucks, he took in the scene. Kapleron stood in the center of a half dozen of his security personnel, all of them looking as though they were going hunting for black caiman. Each carried a FAMAS bullpup assault rifle, with a bandoleer of magazines, sidearms, and one even toting a Milkor MGL-140 multibarrel automatic grenade launcher, capable of laying down devastating ordnance against lightly armored opponents.

  “Exactly what is going on here?” Hachtman didn’t have to raise his voice to make the activity around the trucks come to a stop—his presence alone did that.

  Kapleron rammed a magazine into his FAMA
S and yanked the cocking lever back. “One of them feckin’ locals killed one of my boys last night. We’re out t’get some payback—let ’em know they can’t mess with us.”

  Hachtman heaved a sigh. “Give me the details.”

  “We had sensor reports of a few jaguars moving through the southwest quadrant, so I sent out a team to capture some, nothin’ unusual there.”

  Hachtman nodded. Kapleron had connections in Europe and Asia that would pay upward of six figures for live tropical animals—especially a jaguar. Hachtman had approved the side venture with strict instructions that it not impede their primary mission in the area. “Go on.”

  “They came back and said while they were chasin’ one, Barent got surprised and taken out—cracked his skull, they did, and all without a sound. Wasn’t any jungle cat that did that—not without taking a bite or two. So one of the locals must have gotten the drop on him. They need to be punished.”

  “And this fits in with your primary objective how?”

  Kapleron swung around, and for a moment Hachtman actually thought the smaller man was about to point his assault rifle at him. “My men were only a mile from the main camp. If those bastards are comin’ that close, they could stumble onto the place. Best for us to do them before they do us. You given any more thought to my suggestion from yesterday?”

  “Yes, and I’m inclined to give you approval to carry it out, provided you can make it look like what you said—a warring faction killing the other village.”

  “No problem. Like I said, we can make it look like militia did it, or even those pansy natives. The message’ll get across, and while they’re tryin’ t’figure out who killed who, they’ll keep lookin’ there and stay out of here.”

  Hachtman nodded again. “Just don’t make any mistake that would lead them or the local military right to our doorstep.”

  Kapleron’s voice dropped dangerously low. “Are you questioning my ability to carry out this mission, Mr. Hachtman?”

  “Not at all, I just want you to achieve your mission objective and understand what your role is. We’ve got a job to carry out here. I don’t want you embarking on missions of petty revenge. If, while completing your primary mission, you have a chance to satisfy your bloodlust against these savages, fine, but do not forget—” Hachtman stepped close to the smaller man, looming over him, despite the armament Kapleron held “—never forget who’s paying you and your men to carry out our goals—and what Paracor will do to you if they aren’t completed to our satisfaction.”

  Despite the fact that Hachtman wasn’t armed, he had the satisfaction of seeing Kapleron swallow and drop his gaze first. “Right, baas. Don’t you worry—we’ll have those bastards spitted and gone before you can spit.”

  The overseer turned his head and did just that, sending a spray of saliva to the ground. “Then you and your men had better get moving, Mr. Kapleron.”

  10

  Kelleson led Bolan to the north side of the village, to the goat pen, where Paul Wilberson waited for them.

  Along with the water pump, the pen was one of her proudest achievements. She’d fought hard to expand the tiny herd from its meager three animals to the rambunctious dozen they had today, with the additional milk from the females a godsend for the growing children. Unfortunately, unlike the well, she feared that the goats might be in the most trouble, as several of them had come down with a strange disease, and she was in the middle of trying to diagnose and treat it. That was why she had put in the request for anyone with either veterinary or animal husbandry experience to visit.

  She just hoped Wilberson knew what he was doing, as she watched the man examine the brown-and-white, round-bellied goats, all of which bleated and butted up against the tall man as he palpated one’s jawline, humming softly to keep the animal calm. Kelleson was surprised to see how relaxed he looked while he worked. The tenseness in his body had eased, and the hint of a smile slowly curled one corner of his mouth. He checked the billy’s teeth, then let the animal go to rejoin the rest of the herd.

  “Well?” Kelleson hated the anxious tone in her voice.

  Wilberson straightened and turned to her. “It’s a problem, but nothing too serious. Your herd’s got what’s called Caseous lymphadenitis, caused by two bacteriums, coryne and pseudotuberculosis. Vets refer to it as ‘cheesy gland’ or ‘yolk boils.’ It’s a fairly common infection, usually caused by abrasions in the goat’s mouth or elsewhere on its head.”

  “It’s not contagious for humans, is it?” Bolan asked.

  “Good question, but no, we’ll all be fine handling them. The best thing to do will be to give them something like Eweguard, which will not only take care of this, but also prevent five clostridial diseases—the long, scientific names of which I won’t bore you with right now—and also control internal parasites, nasal bot and itch mite. A handy little drug, especially out here.”

  Kelleson smiled. “You sound like a commercial for the stuff.”

  Wilberson returned her grin. “Only because I know how well it works. Any decent farm-supply store should carry it. The only question is where the nearest decent store is.”

  Kelleson jerked her thumb toward the lone, rutted road out of town. “Back in the city, and a day’s travel away. However, one of the other villages nearby had a similar problem, and they might still have some of that vaccine you mentioned, or something else that works just as well. Looks like I’ll be taking the group on a field trip tomorrow. Want to come?”

  “Sure, if we can finish trimming the goats’ hooves by then,” Wilberson said.

  “What do you mean? I thought their feet were fine.”

  “Whoever’s been caring for these guys hasn’t quite got the correct ratio of toe to heel on the ground. They’re also a bit overgrown, although nothing too bad yet. It’s a fine point, but an important one, otherwise mud and dung can get in there and cause putrefaction and hoof rot, neither of which you want in your herd, of course. Since you don’t have any rocks for the goats to walk on to condition their hooves, they grow faster, and require more frequent care.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “One person doing a dozen goats, it’s going to take a few hours.”

  “If you show me what to do, I can lend a hand, get it done faster,” Bolan said.

  “I’ll help, as well,” Kelleson said.

  Wilberson frowned. “Don’t you need to oversee the other volunteers?”

  “Not really, a crew is helping them construct their hut for the next few days, so that’ll keep them busy. How about it?”

  “Okay. It’s a handy skill to have, although you’ll both need a bit of practice before you’re ready to tackle one on your own. We’ll need hoof shears, a small pick if you have it, a small brush—an old toothbrush would do—a bucket of water and a small carpenter’s plane. Iodine, too. While you’re getting all that together, I’ll cull out the worst of the lot, and we’ll do them first.”

  Bolan went to collect the necessary items, getting the plane from Etienne and the rest of the items from the women in the village. He returned with his arms laden with tools, along with two pairs of heavy cloth gloves. “I figured we’d need these, as well.”

  “Good call, thanks.” Wilberson separated four goats from the rest of the herd, pulled the heavy gloves on, then knelt and stroked his first patient, a small kid who bleated nervously. He murmured soothing words until the goat calmed down enough to stand still. He bent its foreleg back and held out his hand to Kelleson. “Hand me the hoof pick.”

  She did so and watched as he cleaned the underside of accumulated detritus. Then Wilberson asked for the toothbrush and water, and washed the outside of the hoof.

  “See these growth lines, running parallel with the hairline where the leg meets the hoof itself? That’s the proper angle to trim each hoof
parallel to, as the toe grows faster than the heel. Hand me the shears.”

  She did so and watched him work, trimming slices of hard hoof off with sure, deft movements. “Take a look—see how I’ve gotten past the white and down to the pink area? That’s as far as you should go. Again, the toe and heel should be at the same angle as the nearest growth ring. Now I trim the other hoof.” He set the one hoof down and cleaned then trimmed the other foreleg, then held both of them together, eliciting another bleat from the goat. “They don’t like this as much.” Holding both legs together in one hand, he used the carpenter’s plane to level both feet.

  Kelleson winced as she watched the plane rasp across the hooves. “Is that blood coming out? Doesn’t that hurt them?”

  “Not nearly as much as improperly trimmed hooves might. He’ll be all right. But that’s what the iodine is for, to prevent infection.” Wilberson sprinkled a bit on the bottom of each hoof and set them down. “Now for the hind legs.”

  In another few minutes, the trimming was complete, and he released the kid, who took off to join his brothers and sisters on the far side of the pen. Wilberson stood and looked at Bolan. “Okay, want to give it a shot?”

  “Let’s do it.” He knelt in the mud as Wilberson culled another goat from the herd, this one a white-furred doe with floppy ears. He grasped the foreleg firmly and bent it back until the mud- and dung-encrusted hoof was visible. “Not a pretty sight,” Bolan said.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it—I would advise breathing through your mouth as much as possible, however.”

  “Thanks, I don’t think I’ll have any trouble remembering that.” Bolan breathed shallowly while cleaning the hoof bottom, then washed it before taking up the shears.

  “Remember, you aren’t hurting them. Trim through the white area until you reach the pink, and try to keep your cuts parallel to the nearest growth ring. Go slow at first, until you get the hang of it.”