Mark Greaney: On target

Seconds later, the launch slowed and bumped against the rubber tires tied at dockside. The canoe's owner made to turn off the outboard.

"No," said the man hunter. "Leave it running. I will only be a moment."

"Wastes gas, sir," said the local. Some sort of Indian savage. "I can start it again in five seconds."

"I said leave it running." The white man climbed ashore, started up the dirt hill towards a man idling by a shack raised on narrow stilts. He'd get some verification that this was the place, and then the Dutchman would not wait around for the fireworks. He carried an ancient Webley top-break revolver in a shoulder holster, but that was really just for show out here amongst the savages of the jungle. Killing was not his job. He'd use his radio, and then his job would be done; he'd head back upriver to Fonte Boa to wait at the hotel.

Mauro sat in the shade, waiting for his father to return with the morning's catch. At ten years old Mauro normally went out with his father to collect the nets, but today he'd stayed behind to help his uncle with some chores, and had only just arrived at the dock when the canoe with the white man appeared. He watched the old man make his way up the hill, stop in front of the drunkard, and engage the man in conversation. He pulled a white paper from his breast pocket and showed it to the man, then handed him some cash.

Mauro stood slowly. Hesitated.

The white man nodded, headed back to the canoe, and pulled a radio up to his mouth.

Young Mauro walked towards a narrow trail that led away from the docks, away from his village. Once inside the dark protection of the jungle canopy, the boy began to run as fast as his calloused bare feet would take him.

Court Gentry pulled on his umbilical line for a bit more slack, then turned back to the wreckage in front of him. He reached out with a gloved hand and felt his way forward to the hulking iron wheelhouse of the sunken steamboat. Visibility in the murky river was right at twelve inches at this time of late morning, and it was the best he could hope for thirty feet below the ochre surface of the warm water. Finding his place, he adjusted the angle of the flashlight on his helmet, lifted his cutting torch back up, and narrowed the flame to little more than a glowing spike. Then he slowly applied the white-hot fire to the iron to begin a new cut.

A series of three strong tugs to his line pulled him off his mark.

"Dammit," he said aloud, his voice reverberated in his brass helmet. Three tugs meant "surface immediately," which meant it would take him, at a minimum, ten minutes to get back down here through the algae and oily film to find his spot again.

But he did not wait. "Surface immediately" wasn't a message to ignore. It could be nothing, but it also could mean there was a problem with the equipment, which could be dangerous, or it could also mean snakes or crocs or a school of piranha had been spotted close to his dive site, which could be downright deadly.

He broke the surface four minutes later, his gear and his weights made it impossible to tread water so he pulled himself along his line towards the shore. When he made it waist-deep he wiped green goo off the acrylic faceplate of his helmet, but only when he unfastened the latches and lifted off the heavy headgear could he see his way forward through the thick reeds and tall grasses on the riverside. Above him stood his two coworkers, Thiago and Davi; both men were experienced salvage divers, but neither was fitted to go down today. Only one compressor line was operational, so they'd split the time between the three of them. One man on the bottom, and two men on crocodile/anaconda/piranha watch.

"What is it?" Court called out to them. His Portuguese was not half as good as his Spanish, but it was functional. One jerked a thumb to the other side of a tiny lagoon that pushed off of the river like a tumor, and Court saw young Mauro standing there on the trail that led towards the dock. The boy wore a red and black Barcelona soccer jersey emblazoned with the name of a Bulgarian player who had not taken the pitch since the mid-nineties, and he was barefoot. Court had never once seen the dark-skinned kid in shoes.

Gentry was surprised that he'd been called to the surface to talk to the boy-still he waved and smiled. But his smile dropped in an instant. The kid's eyes were wide and his body was tight.

Something was wrong.

Court trudged along the marshy bank that rimmed the lagoon, his feet sucked down by mud. He climbed up to the young Brazilian, led him down a trail a few yards before asking, "What's up?"

"You told me to come if I ever saw a white man."

"Yes, I did." Court's own body stiffened.

"An old man. Alone. At the dock."

"Did he talk to any-"

"Yes, he asked Amado a question. Showed him a sheet of paper. Gave him some money. Then he talked into his radio."

"His radio?" Gentry's eyes were off the kid, on the trail back to the dock, a kilometer away through dense rain forest. His hands had already begun removing his old tattered wetsuit, stripping himself down to his underwear.

Thiago called out to him from behind, probably telling him it wasn't time for lunch, but Gentry ignored him.

"Where is he now?"

"He left. Got back in a launch and headed upriver."

Court nodded. Spoke in English to himself. "The man hunter."

"Qual?" What?

"Good. You did real good, Mauro. Thank you."

"Sure, Jim."

Seconds later Court was on his knees by his gear on the other side of the lagoon. The boy stood above him and watched him open his large duffel bag. From it he retrieved a black sawed-off twelve-gauge shotgun with a wooden pistol grip. He grabbed his wallet from the bag-it was fat with Brazilian Reals-and he held it out to the boy. "This is for you. Take some of it, give the rest to your mom."

Mauro took it, his eyes wide with surprise and confusion. "You are leaving?"

"Yeah, kid. Time for me to go." Gentry's hands moved quickly as he yanked on dirty brown pants and a filthy longsleeved cream-colored shirt.

"What about your dog?"

"He wasn't my dog, he just hung around my camp. He's a good boy. Take care of him and he'll take care of you, okay?"

Court began lacing old tennis shoes onto his wet feet.

Mauro nodded, but in truth he did not understand any of this. He'd never seen anyone move so fast in his life. People in his village did not leave, did not make decisions in an instant. Did not hand their wallets over to kids. Did not change their life because some dumb old man showed up in a canoe.

His uncle was right. Gringos are crazy.

"Where will you go?" he asked the strange American.

"I don't know. I'll figure something-"

Court stopped in mid sentence. Cocked his head to the side as he lifted a small loaded backpack out of the big duffel and secured it onto his back.

Mauro heard it, too. Said, "Helicopter."

Court shook his head. Took the pistol-grip pump shotgun and stood up. Velcroed it tight to the right side of his backpack, grip down and within reach. A machete was already fastened similarly on the left. "No. Two helicopters. Run home, kid. Get your brothers and sisters inside and stay there. It's gonna get good and loud around here."

And then the gringo surprised young Mauro one last time. He smiled. He smiled wide and rubbed the boy's tufted black hair, waved to his two coworkers without a word, and then sprinted off into the jungle.

Two helicopters shot low out of the sun and over the treetops, their chugging rotor wash beating the flora below as they raced in formation. They were Bell 212s, a civilian version of the Twin Huey, the venerable but capable Canadian helicopter ubiquitous amongst American forces in the Vietnam War.

In the history of manned flight, no machine was more at home streaking over a jungle canopy than the Huey.