Last Light Part 24

He pa.s.sed me to hang the green towel next to mine on the line.

"You feeling better now? We were worried."

I started to rinse off.

"Fine, fine, must have picked something up yesterday.

How's the jaguar?"

"They promised they're going to do something this time, maybe the 700, but I'll believe it when I see it." He hovered awkwardly for a moment, then said, "Well, Nick, I'm heading to go catch up on some work here. It's been sort of backing up on me this week."

"See you later, mate."

I pulled my towel off the line as he headed for the storeroom door.

TWENTY-SIX.

Now that the sky had greyed over completely the storeroom was almost dark. I eventually found the string-pull for the light and a single fluorescent strip flickered on, dangling precariously from wires about six feet from the high ceiling.

The first thing I saw was that the weapon and ammunition had been placed on a shelf for me, along with a Silva compa.s.s and map.

I needed to make some 'ready rounds', so ripped about six inches off a roll of one-inch gaffa tape, placed a round on the sticky side, and rolled. As soon as the round was covered I placed another, rolled a little, then another, until four rounds were in a noiseless bundle, easy to fit into my pocket. I folded over the last two inches of tape to make it easier to pull apart, then started on another. A box of twenty was still going into the bergen; you never know how these jobs are going to end up.

I rummaged around in the medical case for the aspirin and threw two down my neck. They were helped on their way with a litre bottle of Evian I broke from a new case of twelve, and I lobbed three on to the cot for later.

My leg was starting to hurt again but I really couldn't be bothered to change the dressing. I'd be wet and covered with mud later tonight anyway, and the aspirin would help.

I had to prepare for as much as four nights in the field up to two on target and two in the jungle before popping out once the dust had settled and making my own way to the airport. Come what may, I needed to make Josh's by Tuesday.

I found an old A-frame bergen in the storeroom, its green canvas patchy with white haze after years of exposure to the elements. Joining the bergen and water on the cot went nine cans of tuna and an a.s.sortment of honey sesame bars that looked as if they'd get me through daylight hours.

Judging by what was on the shelves, they had certainly got their hands on enough of that military give-away. I grabbed a poncho and some dark green mozzie nets.

I could make a shelter from a poncho with the hood tied up and a couple of metres of string through the holes at each corner, and the mosquito nets would not only keep the beasties off me at night, but also act as camouflage netting.

I took three one for protection, and the other two for camouflaging me and the tub once we were in position. A large white plastic cylinder in a tree, tilted down at the road the other side of the gate, just might arouse suspicion.

Most importantly, I found a gollock, an absolute necessity for the jungle because it can provide protection, food and shelter. No one worth their salt is ever without one attached to their body once under the canopy. This one was US Army issue and much st.u.r.dier than the one Diego had been swinging at me. It was maybe six inches shorter, with a solid wooden handle and a canvas sheath with a light alloy lip.

I climbed up the angle-iron framework of the shelves and, holding on to one of the struts, checked out the goodies higher up. Next door, Luz suddenly sounded very pleased with herself.

"Yesss!" Baby-G told me it was 3.46 probably her schoolwork ending for the day. I wondered if she was aware of the arguments Aaron and Carrie had had about her. What did she know about what was happening now? If they thought she didn't know what was going on, they were probably kidding themselves if she was anything like Kelly she never missed a trick.

For a second or two my thoughts wandered to Maryland: we were in the same time zone, and right now Kelly would probably be doing the same as Luz, packing up her books. It was private, individual, and expensive, but the only way forward until she had adapted between the one-on-one attention she'd been receiving in the clinic and the push and shove of mainstream education alongside Josh's kids. I had a flash of worry about what would happen now that I wasn't going to make the second half of the money then remembered that that was the last thing to be concerned about.

I realized what I was doing and made the cut. I had to force myself to get on with the job wrong, the mission.

I knew what kit I wanted, which wasn't very much. I'd learnt the lesson the hard way, just like so many holiday makers who take five suitcases with them, only to discover they only use the contents of one. Besides food and water, all I needed was the wet clothes I'd be standing up in, plus a dry set, mozzie net, lightweight blanket and hammock. All this would be kept scrupulously dry in plastic in the bergen, and by the poncho at night. I already had my eye on the string hammock on the veranda if I didn't find anything better.

None of these things was absolutely essential, but it's madness to choose to go without. I'd spent enough time in the jungle on hard routine in places like Colombia, so close to the DMP that no hammock or poncho could be put up, sitting all night in the s.h.i.+t, back to back with the rest of the patrol, getting eaten alive by whatever's flying around or mooching over you from out of the leaf litter, not eating hot food or drink for fear of compromise due to flame and smell, while waiting for the right day to attack. It doesn't help if you're spending night after night like that with all your new insect mates, s.n.a.t.c.hing no more than a few minutes' sleep at a time. Come first light, bitten to death and knackered, the patrol still has to get on with its task of watching and waiting.

Some patrols lasted for weeks like that, until trucks or helicopters eventually arrived to pick up the cocaine and we hit them. It's a fact that these conditions degrade the effectiveness of a patrol as time goes on. It isn't soft to sleep under shelter, a few inches above the s.h.i.+t rather than rolling around in it, it's pure common sense. I wanted to be alert and capable of taking that shot as easily on the second day as on the first, not with my eyes swollen up even more because I'd been trying to hardcore it in the s.h.i.+t the night before. Sometimes that has to happen, but not this time.

I carried on rooting around, climbing up and down the shelves like a howler monkey, and was so happy to find the one thing I was desperate for, its clear thick liquid contained in rows of baby-oil-style plastic bottles. I felt like the thirsty Arlington Road winos must feel when they find a half-full bottle in the bin, especially when the label said it was 95 per cent proof. Diethyl-mtoluamide - I just knew it as Deet was magical stuff that would keep the little mozzies and creepy-craw lies away from me. Some commercial stuff contains only 15 per cent, and is c.r.a.p. The more Deet the better, but the problem is it can melt some plastics -hence the thickness of these bottles. If you get it into your eyes it hurts; I'd known people have their contact lenses melt when it had been brought into contact with them by sweat. I threw three bottles on to the cot.

After another ten minutes of digging in boxes and bags, I started to pack the bergen. Having removed the noisy wrappers from the sesame bars and put them all into a plastic bag, they got stuffed into the large left-hand side pouch for easy access during the day. I shoved a bottle of Evian into the right-hand one for the same reason. The rest of the water and the tuna went into the bottom of the pack, wrapped in dishcloths to m.u.f.fle any noise. I'd only pull that food out at night when I wasn't in my fire position.

I put a large plastic laundry bag into the long centre pouch at the front of the bergen. It would be taking any dumps I did whilst I was in the jungle: I'd have preferred individual bags, but couldn't find any, so one big one would have to take the lot. It was important not to have any smell or waste around me because that would attract animals and might compromise my position, and I didn't want to leave anything behind that could be DNA'd.

Into a similar clear plastic bag went the mozzie net I was going to use for protection at night, and one of the blankets that was out of its wrapping. The hammock would join the contents of this bag once I'd nicked it from the veranda later on. All the stuff in this bag needed to be dry at all times. Into it also would go my dry clothes for sleeping in, the same ones I'd wear once out of the canopy and heading for the airport. I'd get those from Aaron at the same time I got the hammock.

I laid the other two mozzie nets beside the bergen, together with some four-inch wide, multicoloured nylon luggage straps. Black, brown, in fact any colour but this collection would have been better to blend into a world of green. I placed them inside the top flap, ready to make a sniper seat. The design originated in India during the days of the Raj, when the old sahibs could sit up in a tree in them for days with their Lee Enfields, waiting for tigers below. It was a simple device, but effective. The two straps were fixed between two branches to form a seat and you rested your back against the trunk. A high viewpoint looking down on to the killing area makes for a great field of view because you can look over the top of any obstructions, and it would also be good for concealment as long as I tucked the mozzie net under it, to hide the rainbow holding up my a.r.s.e.

I sat on the cot, and thought about other stuff I might need. First up was a shade for the front of the optic sight, so that sunlight didn't reflect off the objective (front) lens and give away my position.

I got a container of antifungal powder, again US Army issue, in a small olive green plastic cylinder. Emptying the contents, I cut off the top and bottom, then split it down the side. After wiping away all the powder on the inside, I put it over the front of the sight. It naturally hugged the metal cylinder as I moved it back and forth until the section protruding in front of the lens was just slightly longer than the lens's width. The sunlight would now only reflect off the lens if the sun itself was visible within my field of view.

Next I needed to protect the muzzle and working parts from the rain, and that was going to be just as easy. I fed a plastic bag over the muzzle and taped it to the furniture, then loaded up with rounds, pushed the bolt action forward to make ready the weapon, and applied the safety.

I ripped open the bottom of one of the clear plastic bags that had held the blankets, so only the two sides were still sealed, then worked it over the weapon like a hand m.u.f.f until it was covering the sight, magazine and working parts, using the gaffa tape to fix each open end to the furniture. Then, making a small slit in the plastic above the sight, I pushed it down so that the sight was now clear, and gaffa-taped the plastic together underneath to keep the seal. Everything in that area, bar the sight, was now encased in plastic. The weapon looked stupid, but that didn't matter, so did I. The safety could still be taken off, and when the time came I could still get my finger into the trigger by breaking the plastic. If I needed to fire more than one round, I'd just quickly rip the bag to reload. This had to be done because wet ammunition and a wet barrel will affect the round's trajectory -not a lot, but it all counts. I'd zeroed this weapon with a dry, cold barrel and dry ammunition, so it had to stay like that to optimize my chances of a one-round kill.

Next, I used the clear plastic from the last of the blankets on the shelf to protect the map, which said it had been compiled by the US Army's 551st Engineer Company for the Panamanian government in 1964. A lot would have changed on the ground since then Charlie's house and the loop road being just two of them.

That didn't concern me too much; I was interested in the topographical features, the high ground and water features. That was the stuff that would get me out of there when I needed to head towards the city.

The compa.s.s still had its cord on, so I could just put it over my head and under the T-s.h.i.+rt. What it didn't have was any of its roamers for measuring off scale: mozzie repellent had already been on this one and the plastic base was just a frosted mess. I didn't care, as long as the red needle pointed north.

The map, compa.s.s, gollock and docs would stay on my body at all times once under the canopy. I couldn't afford to lose them.

The last thing I did before getting my head down was thread the end of a ball of twine through the slit drilled into the b.u.t.t designed to take a webbing or leather sling, and wrap about four foot of it round the b.u.t.t, cut it and tie it secure. The weapon would never be over my shoulder unless I was climbing a tree.

Only then would I tie the string into the slit in the stock and sling it.

I pushed everything that was left off the bed, and gave the light cord a tug. I didn't want to see the others; it wasn't that I was feeling antisocial, just that when there's a lull before the battle, you get your head down.

Lying on my back, my hands behind my head, I thought about what had happened with Carrie today. I shouldn't have done it. It was unprofessional and stupid, but at the same time, it felt OK. Dr. Hughes had never managed to make me feel like that.

I was woken suddenly. I snapped my wrist in front of my face to check Baby-G, and calmed down: it was just after a quarter past eight. I didn't need to get up until about nine.

The rain played a low, constant drumroll that accompanied the low thud of the fans next door as I rubbed my greasy, clammy head and face, pleased that there hadn't been any more dreams.

The canvas and alloy frame of the cot squeaked and groaned as I turned gently on to my stomach, running through my bergen list. It was then, just now and again above the sound of the rain and fans, that I heard some conspiratorial-sounding murmurs1 should know, I'd done enough of that stuff.

The cot creaked as I slowly swung my feet over the side and stood up. The sound was coming from the computer room, and I felt my way towards the door. A sliver of light from beneath it guided me.

I put my ear to the wood and listened.

It was Carrie. In a whisper she was answering a question I hadn't heard: "They can't come now ... What if he sees them? ... No, he knows nothing, but how am I going to keep them apart? ... No, I can't... He'll wake up ..."

My hand reached for the door handle. Gripping it tightly, I opened the door slowly but deliberately no more than half an inch to see who she was talking to.

The six-inches-by-six, black-and-white image was a little jittery and fuzzed around the edges, but I could clearly see whose head and shoulders were filling the webcam. Wearing a checked jacket and dark tie, George was looking straight into his camera.

Carrie was listening via the headphones as his mouth moved silently.

"But it wouldn't work, he won't buy that... What do you want me to do with him? ... He's next door asleep ... No, it was just a fever ... Christ, Dad, you said this wouldn't happen ..."

George was having none of it and pointed at her through the screen.

She answered angrily.

"Of course I was ... He likes me."

In that instant I felt as if a giant wave had engulfed me. My face began to smart and burn as I rested my head on the door-frame. It was a long time since I'd felt so ma.s.sively betrayed.

I knew I shouldn't have opened up to her, I just knew it.

You've screwed up big-time ... Why can you never see when you're getting f.u.c.ked over?

"No, I've got to go get ready, he's only next door ..."

I didn't have the answer to this, but I knew what I had to do.

When I pulled the door open Carrie was clicking away at the keyboard. She jumped out of her seat with shock, the headset wire jerking tight as the headset pulled down round her neck and the screen closed down.

She recovered, bending forward to take them off.

"Oh, Nick -sleep better?"

She knew, I could see it in her eyes.

Why didn't you see the lying in them before?

I'd thought she was different. For once, I'd thought... f.u.c.k it, I didn't know what I'd thought. I checked that the living-room door was closed and took three paces towards her. She thought she was about to die as I slapped my hand hard over her mouth, grabbed a fistful of hair at the back of her head, and lifted.

She let out a whimper. Her eyes were bigger than I'd ever thought eyes could be.

Her nostrils snorted in an attempt to get some air into her lungs. Both her hands were hanging on my wrists, trying to release some of the pressure from her face.

I dragged her into the darkness of the storeroom, her feet scarcely touching the ground. Kicking the door shut so that we both became instantly blind, I put my mouth right up to her left ear.

"I'm going to ask questions. Then I'm going to let go of your mouth and you'll answer. Do not scream, just answer."

Her nostrils were working overtime and I made sure I pressed my fingers even harder into her cheeks to make me seem more scary.

"Nod if you understand."

Her hair no longer smelt of shampoo: I could only smell coffee breath as she gave a succession of jerky nods into my hands.

Taking a slow, deep breath, I calmed down and whispered into her ear once more.

Why are you talking to your dad about me? Who is coming?"

I released my grip from her mouth a little so she could suck in air, but still gripped her hair. I felt her damp breath between my fingers.

"I can explain, please, just let me breathe-' Both of us heard the noise of a wagon approaching as it laboured up the muddy track.

"Oh, G.o.d, oh, please, Nick, please just stay in here. It's dangerous, I'll explain later, please."

I hit the light and it started to flicker above us as I grabbed the weapon from the shelf, ripped the plastic from the bolt and rammed the two bundles of ready rounds into my pockets.

She was still begging as the engine got louder.

"Please stay here, don't leave the room I'll handle this."

I moved to the exit door.

"f.u.c.k you turn the light off, now!"

The roar of the engine was right on top of the house. I stood at the door with my ear pressed against the corrugated iron.

"Lights!"

She pulled the switch.

TWENTY-SEVEN.

I eased the door open a couple of inches. With one eye pressed against the gap, I looked to the right, towards the front of the house. I couldn't see a wagon, just the glow of headlights bouncing off the veranda through the rain.

I slipped through the door and closed it gently behind me, leaving Carrie in the darkness. Turning left, I made for the was.h.i.+ng area just as two vehicle doors slammed in quick succession, accompanied by a few overlapping shouts not aggressive, just communicating. I guessed the language was Spanish, though I couldn't tell from this distance, and didn't really care.

As soon as I'd rounded the corner I set off in a straight line towards the shack in the dead ground, using the house as cover. I didn't look back. With the weapon gripped tightly in my right hand and my left holding down the ready rounds, I just went for it, crouched low, doing my best to keep my footing in the mud and tree stumps in the darkness.

I moved for maybe two hundred wet and muddy metres before risking a glance back.

The house was silhouetted in the glow of headlights, and the engine noise had faded. I turned and moved on; another twenty paces and the lights, too, slowly disappeared as I gradually dropped down into the dead ground, heading towards the hut.