JUNGLE FEVER, page 3
A wall of green plant life surrounded the C-47. The fog bank was settling in and creeping through the vines toward them. Soon visibility would be reduced to zero. He searched the jungle vista, hoping to see signs of human habitation. Nothing. The fog bank was shrouding everything in its path, transforming the landscape into a hazy, gray cloud. He was about to give up when he glimpsed a communication tower rising from the jungle canopy. Before the mist enveloped it, he calculated the tower to be about two miles away.
Before they lost their light, Lincoln assessed the damage to the pontoons. “Roland?” he murmured.
Roland’s head appeared in the hatchway. “Mmm?”
Lincoln pointed at the pontoons. Roland’s eyebrow raised in surprise. “Oh, my. I vasn’t expecting that.”
“Wasn’t expecting what?” Enheim appeared and followed their line of vision. He shook his head. “Typical,” he said to Roland with a curled lip.
Roland stiffened. “I flew a badly damaged plane with only one engine to safety. I landed the plane without killing us. Ve are all in one piece thanks to me. If it vasn’t for my flying skills, ve would all be dead now. You should show me some respect, you know. You should be thanking me.”
“Tell you what, Rolly baby, I’ll thank you and show you some respect when you finish the job, okay?”
“I have no idea vy my sister married you, you know. Your ignorance towards other human beings shows no bounds. Even Napoleon respects me.” Roland leant over toward Napoleon, secure in Enheim’s chest harness. The little pug licked Roland on the cheek in appreciation. “You should take lessons from the dog, you know.”
“You’re sadly mistaken if you think I’m gonna kiss your ass.”
Katya appeared next to Roland. “What’s the problem, my darlink brother?”
“Your husband does not appreciate my flying skills.”
Katya glared at Enheim. “Marcus, apologize to Roland. My brother just saved our lives.”
“Not yet he hasn’t.” Enheim smirked, indicating the pontoons.
“Oh, my!” Katya clasped her hand to her mouth.
Christina nudged Enheim and Katya aside. “What’s all the fuss about?” she asked groggily. She peeked out through the hatchway and giggled, indifferent to the view.
Lincoln smiled. He hadn’t heard Christina laugh until now. Her chuckle had an almost schoolgirl quality that humanized her, made her more than just the assassin he suspected she was. “The painkillers will wear off soon,” Lincoln said, “so, until then, could someone get Christina seated before she hurts herself, please?” Katya guided Christina back to her seat.
“What is happening back there?” Michel called from the cockpit.
Hoping to come up with a plan of action, Lincoln analyzed the situation. “It appears we haven’t landed yet,” he announced.
The C-47 had crashed into a copse of trees jutting from the crest of a steep ridge. The force of the impact had severed the treetops so that the plane rested on what was left of the shattered trunks. The wings, cabin, and tail where sitting fifteen feet above the ground, while the cockpit and nose hung over the edge of the high embankment. The only support for the plane’s front was the gnarled trunk that had crushed the nose cone. From a different vantage, Lincoln thought, the sight would have made an irresistible photo op: a camouflaged WWII cargo plane teetering over the edge of a two-hundred-foot cliff dropping to a mist-shrouded jungle below.
CHAPTER 2
Marianas Islands Chain
An Airbus Eurocopter EC145 with the logo KSPN emblazoned down its sides flew, just above the jungle canopy, skimming the band of fog that engulfed the island. As the chopper thundered over the landscape, the rotor downwash created a vortex of mist beneath the craft that allowed the occupants quick glimpses of the exotic terrain below.
Marie “Becca” Perry slipped her dark hair behind her ear and peered through the dirty window. Her three-piece business suit conveyed an assertive, never-give-up attitude, that of a confidant and self-assured woman—and a woman reporting the biggest story of her life. Her attire, however, was a charade calculated to hide the pressure and anxiety she felt at this moment.
Shortly after the carnage and destruction of Jonathan Kane’s flagship super dome, Becca witnessed a camouflaged WWII plane escaping from the doomed island. Chasing the plane was one of Kane’s personal fleet of Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft. And the pilot? None other than Jonathan Kane himself! Becca watched in disbelief as Kane’s aircraft crashed into the ocean. She had stumbled upon a blockbuster story—possibly the biggest of the decade. But her journalistic instincts told her that something was wrong. How could she reveal the truth about these recent events after the old plane they’d been following had disappeared somewhere in the jungle below—along with her story?
Becca turned to Roy, her KSPN cameraman. She had to give Roy credit. To keep these old-school cameras at shoulder height for a prolonged period took skill. However, as a result, he reeked of sweat and nachos, and more than a few times she had had to turn away from his distasteful body odor. “Did you see where they landed?” she asked via the headset.
Roy indicated the mist-shrouded sea of green. “Over there. The smoke trail from the plane’s damaged engine disappeared behind the tree line.”
She turned to the pilot. “That way,” she shouted into her headset, pointing toward the island’s south end.
The pilot studied the gauges before him and searched the vegetation below for a suitable landing site. At this low altitude, the fog bank rolling across the island was thickening fast, concealing the unknown topography. The dangers of flying into the cloud with zero visibility triggered his survival instincts. “I’m sorry, Ms. Perry, but we can’t fly into the fog. It’s just too dangerous.”
“What?”
“Once I find a clearing with enough headway for the rotor blades, I’ll land. Then we’ll wait until the fog clears.”
She leaned back in her seat, drumming her fingers in frustration as she imagined that Pulitzer prize. So near and yet so far—
Becca slammed against the wall as the helicopter jolted sideways to the shriek of twisting metal. A sliver of rotor-blade sliced through the cockpit, shattering the windshield. The pilot’s head exploded, leaving his body jerking spasmodically in its seat.
Covered in blood and bone, Becca and Roy stared at each other in horror, unable to comprehend what had happened. The chopper lurched violently, and Roy dropped his camera. Completely out of control, the helicopter rotated laterally, spiraling earthward at an incredible speed. The turbine roared in protest as the chopper banked and dropped from the sky.
Through the cabin window, sky and jungle flashed by in a blur of color. The screech of the tormented engine sounded throughout the cabin causing Becca and Roy to cover their ears in terror. As the helicopter plunged toward the unknown, they braced themselves for the impending impact.
The chopper crashed through the forest’s upper canopy and tumbled through the foliage where its tail rotor slammed into a large branch and snapped away. Becca took one last glance through the window at the ground rushing toward her when the scream of torn metal filled her ears. Her body broke away from its safety harness and catapulted across the cabin.
Becca Perry’s world went black.
CHAPTER 3
“So, Monk, what’s the plan?” Enheim asked in his gruff Cockney way. He was happy to put the American in charge since he trusted Lincoln to see them through this setback. Any man who would put his life in danger to rescue a small dog—his dog—was all right with him. Enheim’s bald head, muscular arms, unshaven face, and bullet-riddled smiley-face shirt gave him the appearance of a middle-aged English soccer hooligan. No one would guess that he was a professor of quantum physics who had taught at the most prestigious universities in the United States and worked with top industry heavyweights in the field.
Flanked by Roland and Michel smoking Gitanes, Lincoln stood in the cabin’s aisle facing the others. Christina remained at the back of the cabin, still light-headed from the medication.
Lincoln popped a piece of nicotine gum in his mouth, a gift from Mich. Ten years of smoking was too long. With all that had occurred in the last three days, he concluded life was short. He was determined to give up the habit this time, even if the circumstances were not ideal. “Okay. We’ll start with the good news. The guys,” he indicated to Roland and Michel, “have checked out our predicament with the plane and have informed me that all is okay.”
Roland took a puff of his cigarette and cleared his throat. “Yes. Ava has landed on a dozen very sturdy trees. Ve got lucky, you know. The tree trunks are supporting all the major critical load points of the aircraft. The plane has no chance of slipping or falling. Her stability should be fine. However, ve can’t take off with only one engine.”
“Where on earth have we landed?” Mich asked.
“Our flight plan called for flying south toward Saipan, so my best guess, after looking at the map, is that ve have landed on Alamagan Island.”
“Meaning?” Enheim asked suspiciously.
“Saipan is about two hundred and fifty nautical miles south of here.”
“Any closer islands, inhabited or otherwise?” Mich asked.
“Pagan Island is sixty nautical miles away, but it’s uninhabited. Michel is the only one with a cell phone, which is charged by the way, but we have no reception, and that means no connectivity.”
Michel grudgingly held up his cell phone. The reception bar was empty.
Roland held up another phone with a thick antenna protruding from the side. “And this was my sat phone.” A bullet had torn through its center, leaving a gaping hole.
“In addition,” Lincoln continued, “a tree is now in the cockpit where the radio-set used to be.” They all leaned toward the aisle and glanced down to the open cockpit door. The front end of the cockpit was crushed, and a large tree branch protruded through the windshield. Below the gnarled branch, a series of broken gauges and loose wires hung from the damaged console. “Roland tells me we weren’t sending out a transponder signal when we crashed.”
“What!” Enheim controlled his anger, but his tone was unmistakable. “We must have been transmitting. It’s the law, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes, in my line of business, I have to break a few rules. I switched the transponder to standby a while ago, and in all the chaos of the last few days, I forgot to turn it back on. I apologize, you know.”
Enheim scowled at his brother-in-law.
“Even if the transponder vas activated, it vouldn’t have made any difference,” Roland said.
Enheim’s eyes narrowed. “Why is that?”
“Michel didn’t register a flight plan with the aviation authority when he left Saipan.” Roland shrugged and looked around the group with upturned hands and a sheepish grin. “He vas instructed not to. My bad. Sorry. Old habits die hard, you know.”
“Great,” Enheim groaned. “So no one has any reason to look for us.” Katya comforted her husband with a gentle pat on the hand.
“Sorry, people, but we’re stuck here, you know, with no communication to the outside world.”
“Okay,” Lincoln said, considering all the facts. “This is the plan. To go out in that fog tonight would be suicidal. We don’t know this island, so we don’t know the terrain. One wrong step in the dark is inviting injury and possible death.”
They all agreed.
“Before the fog bank set in, I spotted a tower about two miles north of here. Tomorrow morning I’ll check it out.”
“I’m going with you,” Christina chimed from the back.
“You’re not going anywhere with that—”
Lincoln paused at Christina’s icy glare, the one he’d seen on Neptune Island when he’d questioned her abilities. Rather than lose the argument, he swallowed the rest of his comment.
Christina acknowledged Lincoln’s change in attitude with a tilt of her head.
Before Mich could protest, Lincoln faced him. “As far as I know, you’re the most capable of us all when it comes to these kinds of situations,” he said, recalling the life experiences they’d shared. “But you know as well as I that you’re in no shape to go trekking through the unknown. I’m sorry, but we don’t know what’s out there, and if the shit hits the fan, I can’t have you slowing me down. Besides, I need your electronic skills to help Roland and Michel with the plane’s communication system. Maybe you can get the radio working again.”
Mich understood and patted the flash drive tucked in his pocket.
Lincoln turned to the Enheims. From experience he knew that Marcus could act impetuously. He had witnessed Marcus’s impulsive behavior back on Neptune Island when he head-butted Jonathan Kane, one of the wealthiest men on the planet. Lincoln respected a man who stood up for his ideals and beliefs, but in the jungle, that type of behavior could get everyone killed. He needed Marcus to stay focused. “Katya, I need you to get Marcus up to speed with using guns.” She nodded, understanding what had to be done. Enheim stroked Napoleon under his chin and grudgingly agreed. “You did good work back on the island, Marcus, but I think we all got lucky,” Lincoln said. “Both of you will be on guard duty, so to speak, until Christina and I get back.”
“Everyone needs to stay put,” Lincoln continued. “Don’t stray too far from the plane, and if you do explore, make sure you do so in pairs. I don’t want anyone wandering alone out there. Jungle environments can be disorienting. This plane offers protection from the elements and from whatever lives on this island. Roland has checked the inventory, and we have plenty of water, food, and medical supplies—everything we need to stay alive for the next few days until we can figure something out.”
He turned to Mich. “What are Christina and I looking for when we get to the tower?”
Mich frowned. “Look for a maintenance shed, or some sort of small box at the base of the structure. Whoever set up the tower would have built in a closed-link communication device that connects directly with the people involved.”
“Look for a shed or a box. Got it.”
“Disable it. Whoever built the tower will come looking.”
“Sounds good.”
Roland disappeared into the cargo compartment. He returned with two Glock 19 handguns that he passed to Lincoln. “One for you and one for Christina, just in case. Fifteen rounds in each magazine.” He glanced through the window at the jungle outside. “A gun might come in handy, you know. Think like a boy scout. Be prepared.”
Lincoln thanked Roland and lay the guns beside his belt. “I figure it’ll take a few hours to get to the tower and back. If we’re not back by the end of the day, whatever you do, don’t come looking for us. Just wait. We’ll find our way back somehow. The last thing we need is for more of us to go missing in this jungle. Any questions?”
They shook their heads, satisfied with Lincoln’s logic and rescue plan.
Michel cleared his throat. “I have something to say.” Standing behind Roland, his hulking form dwarfing Roland’s smallish frame, he took a drag on his cigarette. “I am Michel Rousseau, and my friends call me Mich. But we already have a Mich”—he tilted his head in Mich’s direction—”so call me Rousseau. It will be less confusing for everyone, yes?”
“You got that right, Frenchy,” Enheim said.
Lincoln surveyed the group and was met with nods of agreement. He shrugged.
“Rousseau it is. Roland, break out the food, and after dinner we’ll all pretend to get a good night’s sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 4
Leaning against Katya’s soft shoulder with Napoleon asleep on his lap, Enheim tried to adjust the safety blade built into the trigger of the Glock that Roland had given him. “Damn these guns,” Enheim grumbled as the trigger refused to pull back. He rubbed his shaved head in frustration.
Katya had found one of Roland’s adventure magazines tucked in the seat pouch in front of her and was reading an article about alpine skiing in Austria. Her athletic and tanned body made her the envy of many women and the desire of all men. The tight shorts and tank top that she’d worn on the previous day’s adventure, when her firearm skills had saved them all several times, accentuated her athletic form. Now her long blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, more conducive to her mellow mood.
Enheim glanced up and caught a look of sadness in Katya’s eyes. “What’s wrong, luv?”
“Nothing,” she answered hastily. Too hastily.
“What do you mean, nothing? I may be a lot of things: ignorant, shallow, a pig on farm”—he smiled and softly nudged her in reference to her comment about him back on Saipan—“but I know when my wife is upset.”
Her eyes welled up as she showed Enheim a picture of two skiers racing down a mountain. At first, he didn’t grasp the connection between his wife and the picture. Then he recognized what the image meant to her. “The Olympic trials?”
“They’re being held this week. I’m missing the trials, Marcus,” she whispered, her Georgian accent more evident in her distressed emotional state. She resented the nickname her once revered peers had given her—The Catwalk Diva. She was better than that. Their taunts and vacuous attitude had driven her to be more than just a pretty face. With hard work and discipline, her dream of Olympic success—the pinnacle of human endurance—had been within reach.
Enheim appreciated the pain and effort Katya had undergone to reach the trials. The continuous training in preparation for the biathlon had consumed her life. To have competed in the winter Olympics would be a glorious achievement. He took her hand firmly between his. “How about when we get off this island and back to Saipan, I get your idiot brother to fly us to the qualifying events?”
“When we get back to Saipan it will be too late, Marcus. Qualifying trials begin today.”
Enheim didn’t know what to say. He would do anything, even die for her. He wanted his wife to be happy, but this situation was out of their control. If luck was on their side, they could get back to the mainland in a few hours—or they might be stuck in this jungle hellhole for some time. He preferred not to think about the latter. He looked Katya in the eye and kissed her cheek. “Luv, regardless of what happens, you’ll always be a gold medal winner in my books. Always.”
