Ghost Flight

46

Jaeger was in no doubt that the jungle warrior had chosen to show himself. The question was why. The Indian had melted out of the shadows, and doubtless he could have remained hidden had he so desired.

He held a gracefully arched bow and arrow in one hand. Jaeger was familiar with such weapons. Each of the long arrows was tipped with a twelve-inch length of flat bamboo honed to razor sharpness, and with vicious serrated edges.

One side of the bamboo arrowhead would be coated in the poison of the tiki uba tree, an anticoagulant, and the rear end would be hafted with a parrot’s tail feathers, to ensure that it flew true. If you were pierced by the arrow tip, the anticoagulant would prevent your blood from clotting and you’d bleed to death.

The range of an Indian blowpipe was little more than a hundred feet – enough to reach the forest canopy. By contrast, the bow and arrow could fire four or five times that distance. It was these kind of weapons that the tribe would use when hunting large prey: caiman maybe, jaguar certainly, and without doubt any human adversaries who trespassed on their lands.

Jaeger used the flat of his paddle to beat out an alarm signal on the water – alerting those behind him, in case they hadn’t noticed.

He lifted the paddle out of the river and laid it lengthwise on the kayak, resting his right hand on his shotgun. He drifted forward for several seconds, silently eyeing the Amazonian Indian, who in turn was staring right back at him.

The figure gave a signal: a single hand gesture, made to one side and then the other. Further figures stepped out to left and right, similarly dressed and armed.

Jaeger counted a dozen now, and more were very likely secreted in the shadows to their rear. As if to confirm his suspicions, the lead warrior – for leader he had to be – made a second hand gesture, as if cueing something.

A cry rang out across the river.

Animal, guttural, deep-throated, it rapidly grew into a chanted war cry, one that rolled across the water in challenge. It was punctuated by a series of incredibly powerful percussions, as if a massive drum were beating out a rhythm through the jungle: kabooom-booom-booom, kabooom-booom-booom!

The deep beats echoed across the water, and Jaeger recognised them for what they were. He’d heard something similar when working with Colonel Evandro’s B-SOB teams. Somewhere just inside the treeline the Indians were beating their heavy battle clubs against a massive buttress root, the blows ringing out from the wall of wood like thunder.

Jaeger watched as the Indian leader lifted his bow and brandished it in his direction. The war cries rose in volume, the beating of the buttress-root drums punctuating every shake of the weapon. The gesture – the entire effect – needed no translating.

Come no further.

Trouble was, there was no way that Jaeger could turn back. Back lay only one-hundred-plus kilometres of river, upstream and in the wrong direction; and forward lay only the plunge over the Devil’s Falls.

Either they made landfall here, or Jaeger and his team were in deep trouble.

It was hardly the most auspicious of ways to go about making first contact, but Jaeger didn’t figure he had much choice. A few more seconds of this and he’d be within range of the tribe’s arrows – and this time he didn’t doubt that they were tipped with poison.

He lifted the shotgun from its mount, pointed it at the river just in front of his canoe, and opened fire. Six warning shots were pumped out in quick succession, cutting a swathe through the water and throwing a great spout of spray high into the air.

The reaction from the Indians was instantaneous.

Arrows were strung and the warriors let fly, their shots arcing high through the air bang on target but falling a little short of the prow of Jaeger’s kayak. Cries of alarm echoed back and forth, and for a moment Jaeger was convinced that the tribe were determined to stand their ground and fight.

The last thing he had come here for was to do battle with this lost tribe. But if he had no choice, he would use all necessary means and defend his team to the last.

For a long moment he locked eyes with the tribe’s warrior leader, as if a battle of wills had been joined across the water. And then the figure gestured again, his arm jerking backwards towards the jungle. On either side of him figures melted into the trees. The moment they did so, they were rendered invisible.

Jaeger had seen such forest tribes do this instantaneous disappearing act many times over, yet it never ceased to amaze him. He’d never seen anyone, not even Raff, who could equal it.

But the leader held his ground, unmoving – his face like thunder.

He stood alone facing Jaeger.

The kayak continued to drift inwards towards the riverbank. Jaeger saw the Indian raise something in his right hand, then, with a cry of rage, drive it deep into the mudbank. It looked like a spear with a battle flag or a pennant fluttering from its back end.

With that, the figure turned and was gone.

Jaeger took no chances making the landing. He pushed on alone, but with Alonzo and Kamishi to either flank and set slightly behind him, assault rifles at the ready. At the very rear he stationed Dale and Kral with their camera, for they were intent on filming every last move.

Jaeger knew that he was well covered, and he was banking that his show of force – the rounds unleashed from the shotgun – would prove a powerful deterrent against the tribe. With some powerful thrusts from his paddle he got the kayak drifting in the last few yards. He took the shotgun in hand and brought it to his shoulder, its wide, gaping muzzle menacing the dark line of trees.

Not a sign of movement anywhere.

The front of the kayak ground against the mud as it came to a halt. Jaeger was out in a flash, crouched low in the water behind his heavily laden craft, his weapon scanning the jungle in front of him.

For a good five minutes he didn’t move.

He remained hunched over his shotgun, silently listening and watching.

He tuned his every sense to this new environment, filtering out any noises that he figured were entirely natural. If he could tune out all the normal pulses and rhythms of the forest – its heartbeat – he could tune in to anything that was abnormal, like a human footfall, or a warrior stringing an arrow to his bow.

But there was nothing of that nature that he could detect.

The tribe seemed to have melted away, just as swiftly as they had appeared. Yet Jaeger didn’t believe for one moment that they were gone for good.

Keeping his weapon at the ready, he signalled Alonzo and Kamishi closer. When their canoes were almost level with his own, he stepped up from the crouch and waded through the shallows, shotgun held at the ready and primed to unleash hell.

Partway up the mudbank, he sank to one knee, weapon sweeping the dark terrain ahead of him. He signalled Alonzo and Kamishi in. Once they were alongside, he moved up further on to the sand, until he was able to take hold of the Indian warrior’s spear and rip it out of the ground.

Leticia Santos, the missing Brazilian member of Jaeger’s team, had worn a striking multicoloured silk scarf emblazoned with the word ‘Carnivale!’ Jaeger spoke decent Portuguese, having learned it during his time training the B-SOB teams, and he’d remarked on how the scarf complemented her warm Latino spirit. She’d told him it had been a gift from her sister during the previous February’s Rio carnival, and that she wore it to bring her luck on the expedition.

It was Leticia Santos’s scarf that was hanging from the end of the Indian warrior’s spear.