made a sharp left turn.
Jeffrey saw at once that Rio de Janeiro’s Guanabara Bay formed a truly superb natural harbor. Volcanic formations jutted from the shoreline on both sides of the mouth of the huge upper bay. The tall granite features worked as ideal breakwaters. He recognized Sugarloaf Mountain, shaped like a gigantic cone, an unmistakable soaring landmark. Parts of Sugarloaf were densely overgrown with bushes and vines. The more sheer drops, of hundreds of feet, were stark naked rock — shades of brown and tan embedded with vertical seams of milky quartz. A cable car led to Sugarloaf’s peak; it was running and its spacious cabs seemed crammed to capacity.
As the speedboat entered the main shipping channel into the port, Jeffrey passed lighthouses and buoys. The boat skirted Sugarloaf; the protruding hump fell behind. He noticed that both sides of the harbor entrance were guarded by ancient forts.
Now Jeffrey caught a sweeping panorama of Rio itself. On the left sprawled more modern buildings, of gray concrete, white masonry, and glass. He saw parks and marinas, and the gilded domes and weathered copper steeples of many churches, plus two airports along the water — one small, then one large. Several miles ahead and to his right were shallows, leading to mangrove swamps and stream outlets and housing projects and slums. In the middle of the bay there were islands of all different sizes, and anchorages where merchant ships were moored. Ferries plied between opposite shores of the bay. There was also a bridge, under which the speedboat passed.
Beyond the bay rose Brazil’s great coastal escarpment: more towering solid granite, only superficially weathered. The mountainsides were covered with lush greenery, or held clusters of dwellings for more of Rio’s poor. Overlooking the whole scene from just inland on Jeffrey’s left soared another prominent summit, Corcovado, Hunchback Mountain. At its 2,400-foot peak stood the world-famous statue of Cristo Redentor — Christ the Redeemer — with arms outstretched, a hundred feet tall.
The motorboat turned left again and headed for a pier on the mainland. A long enclosed shed covered the structure, and the slip alongside was protected by an awning, for security; Jeffrey noticed armed guards.
The crew brought their craft under the awning and alongside the pier with skill. The frogmen and Jeffrey climbed out, hurrying into the shed.
Inside, Jeffrey saw an armored personnel carrier — an old M-113, a boxy thing that rode on tracks. Dating from the Vietnam era, it could have been fifty years old. This one was painted matte black. Yellow letters on the side said POLICIA.
The big rear hydraulic ramp hatch was down. Jeffrey and the frogmen clambered in.
The odor of diesel fuel and exhaust was sharp and thick. The ancient engine was idling roughly, and the whole vehicle shook. Headroom was low and Jeffrey had to stoop.
At the front of the troop compartment, on one of the passenger benches, dozed a man in civilian clothes. His right arm was in an air cast and sling. The man woke up when he heard the frogmen take seats and raise the ramp hatch closed.
He looked at Jeffrey and was obviously glad to see him.
“Sorry, the painkillers made me drowsy.”
“What the heck happened to you?” Jeffrey shook the man’s left hand with his right.
“I’m the senior surviving military attache. Lieutenant Colonel Chuck Stewart, United States Army Green Berets, at your service.”
“What happened to your face, Colonel?”
“Shrapnel. It’s nothing. They closed the wounds with surgical glue, then smeared on antiseptic.” The colonel had long gashes on his cheeks and forehead, unbandaged.
Jeffrey nodded sympathetically. “I heard there were attacks.”
The man’s eyes clouded with anger and grief. “We’re hardly out of the woods yet, not by a long shot…. Anyway, I’m supposed to be protocol and liaison officer for your visit.”
Jeffrey hesitated. “In other words, my handler. Make sure I don’t put my foot in my mouth in front of somebody important.”
“Pretty much.” Stewart patted the bench next to him. Jeffrey sat and put his travel bag in his lap. The lighting in the vehicle’s interior was dim.
Some of the half-dozen frogmen opened their equipment bags and took out special warfare versions of the M-16. Jeffrey saw that the M-113 had viewports and firing ports cut in its sides. The men locked their weapons into the firing ports, slipped in long thirty-round magazines, and pulled the charging handles to chamber rounds.
The frogman leader yelled to the driver. The engine roared to life and the aged transmission slipped into gear. The armored personnel carrier lurched forward. It came out onto a road between drab warehouses, turned right, and picked up speed.
The engine and the worn tracks and sloppy suspension made for a most uncomfortable ride; the tracks had rubber blocks in each link so they wouldn’t tear up the pavement, but this didn’t help much.
“Where are we going?” Jeffrey shouted.
“You’ll see,” Stewart told him. “Be careful what you say until you know we’re secure. Then just be yourself. Do whatever it is your orders told you to do.”
“When will we be secure?”
“When I say so. Your dress uniform in that bag?”
Jeffrey nodded.
“Change now. In here. You need to look the part when you arrive…. You were supposed to get an entry visa by radio.”
“Got a printout with me, and my military ID card.” The ID replaced a passport for U.S. servicemen and women on active duty.
“Fine,” Stewart said. “Everything has to be by the book. Can’t have you enter Brazil illegally.”
Jeffrey unsealed the bag and began to take out his rolled-up full-dress uniform.
“You brought your Medal?”
“The ribbon for it.”
“Good.”
Jeffrey stripped off his soggy wet suit. He’d brought a bath towel in his bag, and he dried himself. He pulled on his clothing and shoes; the navy-blue uniform jacket came last. He combed his hair and wished he had a mirror.
“Much better,” Colonel Stewart said. He threw Jeffrey a left-handed salute.
The stink from an exhaust leak somewhere in the M-113 got so bad that the frogman chief safed his weapon, then opened one of the vehicle’s top hatches and climbed up and manned the machine gun there. Now fresh air and sunlight came in through the roof. The frogman swiveled the heavy machine gun around.
“This protection really necessary?” Jeffrey asked.
Colonel Stewart pointed at the gashes on his own face, and at his bruised and broken right arm. “These answer your question?… Cheer up. Take a nice look outside. Enjoy the tour.” Then his face grew stern. “Wait. Use my sunglasses.”
Jeffrey put them on. They were very dark, and wrapped around to cover the sides of his face. He slid to the bulletproof viewing port vacated by the frogman who’d climbed up through the open hatch, and peered out at Rio de Janeiro.
He noticed that traffic was light, though a gaudy yellow electric trolley they passed was crowded with local people. The city had beautiful architecture, a mix of very old and very new. The ground floors of buildings that Jeffrey could see were open and airy, and bright colors were used everywhere. He knew Rio was mostly a resort city, and business was down with the war. But even so, the area had a population of about twelve million. Shops and food-vending carts were numerous and often frequented now that it was getting toward lunchtime. Most Brazilian men and boys were dressed in short-sleeve shirts and slacks or jeans. The women wore summer dresses, or blouses and skirts, and some wore jeans. Jeffrey saw billboard advertisements, many with themes and celebrities from Formula One car racing, or soccer.
He noticed that the police were everywhere, and heavily armed. But the populace seemed largely unconcerned. Pedestrians glanced at the M-113 more out of curiosity than fear. Rio had a reputation for being a relaxed and friendly place. The vehicle passed lovely gardens, pillared mansions, bustling shopping malls.
Jeffrey noticed more Japanese tourists.
