Jungle Hunt. Don Pendleton

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      4

      Alec Hachtman frowned at the water drop that had splashed on his keyboard just as a sharp pain bloomed in his neck. Slapping a hand down, he brought away a crushed mosquito in his fingers and groaned. Looking up, he saw another drop poised to fall, and snatched his laptop out of the way a moment before it plopped onto his lap desk.

       Starting to hate the place, he activated the VOIP program on his machine. “Kapleron, my tent is leaking again. Please have one of the locals take a look at it as soon as possible.”

       “Yeah, but it probably won’t do you much good—it’s called a rainforest for a reason, you know? I’ll get someone on it when I can.”

       “Well, get them on it sooner rather than later, all right? I woke up this morning half-drenched.” Hachtman closed his computer and slid it into the protective padded ballistic nylon case that was always nearby. Given their situation, he carried the computer with him at all times, in the event that a hurried evacuation was necessary. Slinging the case strap over his shoulder, he rose from his cot and left the claustrophobic tent, emerging into the muggy, humid Amazon jungle.

       Wondering again why he’d agreed to oversee this mission, he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. Sure, it’ll be exciting—come down to South America! This will be great for your record with the company! What a load—all that’s down here is heat, bugs, more heat and these insufferable goddamn mercenaries whose answer to everything is to point a gun and start blasting. They’d be lucky if the whole goddamn forest wasn’t blown up before they’d finished here.

       Hachtman was the ostensible leader of the operation for his company, Paracor Security Solutions International, a private military company eking out a living on the fringes of the Second and Third World. With most of the plum operations going to larger, multinational PMCs, Paracor battled for scraps at the bottom, taking boring, out-of-the-way assignments in the ass end of the world. Their board was looking to move the company up the ranks into the leagues of the big boys and were willing to reward those who could help them accomplish this task.

       That was why Hachtman was here. He’d volunteered to oversee the mission to “pacify” the area so that it could be parceled out to oil companies, loggers, whomever wanted to turn a buck exploiting the riches of the rainforest. The board had made it known that they wanted a perfect operations record that they could use to burnish their reputation—and Hachtman was going to give it to them. All he needed was a few more days, and he would deliver a successful foiling of renegade Colombian soldiers terrorizing the defenseless natives—and perhaps a nearby prospecting oil company, as well.

       That was, if he could survive this infernal jungle that long. The eternal heat, the constant biting insects and the wet that permeated everything had wreaked havoc on his wardrobe, not to mention his computer and other personal effects. After this, he figured he was due a long vacation—maybe somewhere sunny and bright instead of humid and damp all the time.

       As he walked toward the trucks, Hachtman spotted his head of security, Piet Kapleron, coming the other way. The short, pale-skinned, bandy-legged, freckled South African stood out among the rest of the hired guns in looks as well as temperament. His disdain for the operation was obvious—he made no bones about what he thought of Hachtman and any other “suit.” But he was effective, and that was all that mattered.

       “Good afternoon, Piet.”

       “How goes it, baas?” The shorter man fell into step beside him. Kapleron’s Afrikanner accent irritated Hachtman, but he was careful not to show it. For all the man’s lack of manners, he was good at his job, keeping at bay the potential cauldron of trouble—from nosy relief workers to natives in the wrong place at the wrong time, to local soldiers or militia stumbling upon them and then demanding bribes to keep their mouths shut. Kapleron handled them all, letting Hachtman and his team do their job in relative peace.

       “Fine, except my tent’s leaking again. How’s the perimeter? Any trouble recently?”

       “That’s what I came to talk to you about. Those bastards at that village nearby are trekkin’ closer to us all the time. Pretty soon they’ll be stomping all over the place.” Kapleron’s lip curled at the thought.

       “What would you suggest we do about that, keeping in mind that our employers want this operation to keep a low profile?”

       “Ja, I remember, otherwise the problem woulda been solved already—a few of my maats and I woulda paid them a daylight visit. However, since that ain’t an option, perhaps a different approach is in order.”

       “Oh?” Hachtman lengthened his stride, making the shorter man hasten to catch up. It was a faint jab at the other man, but he took his pleasure where he could.

       “Yeah, look, apparently these Huaorani are attacking each other all the time—they stab their enemies with spears. We go in at night and take out the village, then it looks like one of the neighbors did it, not us. Just another hazard of living in the jungle, right? The locals all suspect each other, and we get off scot-free. Heh, if you wanted to live on something more than coconuts and guava, we could even hire ourselves out for ‘protection.’”

       Pondering the rough plan for a moment, Hachtman was surprised to find he liked it. “That’s not a bad idea—it certainly covers all of our bases.”

       “So, when do you want us to move on them?”

       “Let me get back to you on that, okay?” Leaving the small man behind, he headed for a cab on one of the deuce-and-a-half trucks and climbed inside. Unzipping the case again, he connected his laptop to the battery of the truck and СКАЧАТЬ