Jungle Hunt. Don Pendleton
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With truly effective alternate power sources still slow to come online, efficient use of current fields and discovery of new ones is of paramount importance, not only to our current government, but also to nations around the world.”
No surprise there, Bolan thought. China’s appetite for energy grew larger by the week, with India nipping at its neighbor’s heels, both burgeoning nations contributing to the pall of pollution growing worse in the Far East every day. And that didn’t even count America’s near-insatiable consumption of gasoline—all of which required new sources, preferably not from the Middle East.
“Of course, this has pushed any and all forms of oil exploration to the forefront, with companies able to find and claim the biggest undiscovered fields reaping potential years, maybe even decades of bonanza. Recent explorations indicate sizable oil fields are present in several areas of the Amazonian rainforest, particularly on the border between Ecuador and Colombia. The oil exploration company Sulexco has recently entered into an agreement to measure exactly how much oil may be in the area.”
“I trust that you’re not asking our operatives to babysit oil company executives?” Bolan kept his tone even, but his disdain was evident at the thought of such an assignment.
Brognola snorted. “Hell, no. They’ve hired a private security company to provide corporate protection for its assets. However, despite the U.S. and Ecuador’s warm camaraderie in public, they’ve been making some moves lately that the current administration is not very happy with, including getting very cozy with Iran over the past couple of years.”
Bolan sifted through recent CIA analysis on his smartphone. “Yeah, they’ve been buying weapons from the Middle East, taking billions in deposits, everything but a government sleepover. But why send me to the middle of nowhere? If there’s something to be found, shouldn’t I be starting in the capital?”
“Normally, yes, but the Ecuador-Colombian border is important for a couple other reasons. Although the two countries have recently put an end to their hostilities, things tensed up again in ’08 after a Colombian military action against FARC rebels left twenty dead, and relations between the two countries strained to the breaking point. And I haven’t even mentioned how chummy Ecuador’s president is with Venezuela yet—and we know what Chavez thinks of America. The U.S. wants the oil folks to get their work done smoothly and to ensure that no rogue elements on any side—FARC, the Colombian military, anybody—inflame any tensions that could spark a full-scale war. The idea is to send you down there to keep the peace and head off anything before it makes headlines.”
“And I’m guessing that any intervention by American forces would be seen as the U.S. sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong,” Bolan said.
“Got it in one, Striker. With the Ecuadorian president still clinging to power after an attempted police coup in 2010, State doesn’t want to do any on-the-record poking around down there unless we’re sure folks’re being naughty. That, of course, is where you come in.”
“Of course. Do I have a cover, or am I just supposed to run around the jungle and see who shoots at me first?”
“We’re inserting you using the Cooper alias—you’ve decided to head down and report on the state of the rainforest, find out the real story about oil drilling there, that sort of Pulitzer prize–grabbing material. Your modified jacket’s already on the way and will be in place before you’re on the ground. Once there, I’m sure you’ll root out anything that’s happening soon enough.”
“Fair enough. Give me any updates on the locals from the Agency, and I’ll review them on the way over. South America’s been fun so far—I’m sure Ecuador will be, too.”
“That’s the spirit. With luck you’ll just tour the countryside, and everything will be nice and peaceful.”
“Hal, they wouldn’t be sending me down there if that was the case—you know that.”
“Hey, I can dream, can’t I?” Brognola grumbled. “Just keep your powder and your feet dry, Striker. Call in when you touch down in Neuva Loja. We’ll work out the rest from there.”
“Will do. Striker out.” He’d no sooner disconnected when McCarter stuck his head over the seat.
“Back into it, eh?”
“Yup, apparently there may be some unrest brewing west of here—White House wants it checked out.”
“Lucky bastard—trade you details?” The Brit’s tone was hopeful.
“No chance, David. The rainforest still needs to be standing once I’m done there.”
“Hey, I’d leave most of it intact.” McCarter actually sounded wounded by Bolan’s gibe.
“Still, they asked for me and that’s what they’re gonna get. I’m sure something’ll come up that needs your unique talents soon enough.” Bolan reclined his seat and closed the window shade. “I’m gonna catch a couple hours’ sleep before running prep. Make sure our guest is comfortable and quiet.”
“Can do.” McCarter went back to check on Bernier again, while Bolan immediately dropped off.
* * *
SIXTEEN HOURS LATER, Bolan sat on a rickety bus as it brought him and a handful of other passengers from the only airport in Neuva Loja to the center of town. He’d been reading up on the capital of the province while on the flight over, learning that it was the central nexus for the various oil companies that had come in to prospect and drill.
Although the town had grown over the past several decades, the blight the oil companies had brought with them was plain to see. Acres and acres of fields were denuded and barren, deforested to make room for more buildings or the leavings of 20,000 people that were thrown away each day. The air carried with it that unique odor that came with oil drilling—a blend of burning fuel, hot metal and sweat that lingered in the back of the throat and on clothes and skin.
As they drove farther into town, Bolan was hard-pressed to find any difference between many of the city blocks they passed and the Rocinha slum. The buildings here were all packed tightly together, as well. The only difference being that they looked a little newer.
The bus dropped him off at the Hotel Araza, a neat, modern-looking three-story hotel with its own garage and security gate. Bolan walked in after a group of what looked like ecotourists. They ranged in age from college students to middle-aged men and women, wearing a variety of natural fibers, handwoven sandals and, at least for the men, a few scraggly beards.
He checked in under his Matt Cooper alias and went up to his room, which was spacious, with a tiled floor and free internet. Bolan swept it for bugs—more out of force of habit than anything else—then checked in with Stony Man Farm. With nothing new to report, he headed down for dinner.
As expected, he found several of the group on the bus sitting down to dinner, as well, all of them discussing the menu, which, of course, was printed in Portuguese. The three he pegged as college students were all snickering about the caldo de manguera soup, which they were trying to get the others to try. Bolan decided to play along and ordered it as his first course, following it with llapingachos, cheesy potato cakes served with grilled steak.
When his soup arrived, full of rice, celery and small chunks of meat swimming in a brown broth, Bolan didn’t hesitate, but dug in, knowing full well that the other group was watching him to gauge his reaction.
Finally, one of them, a red-haired student in a woven native long-sleeved shirt and cargo shorts, pushed back his chair. “Dude, you do know what you’re eating, right?”
Bolan nodded as he chewed, then swallowed one of the rubbery chunks of meat. “If my Portuguese is right, it’s bull penis.”
The other table erupted in various reactions, from laughter to disgust. “So, what’s it taste like?” a shorter girl with her blond hair braided into two thick pigtails asked.
“Not like chicken, if that’s what you’re