But as he did so a dense array of tangled branches appeared and he yanked down fiercely on one side to turn away, using what little control he had left. The chute’s fabric scraped against branches as Stratton swung in a tight arc. His legs struck them hard and they clung to him like grabbing hands. The reduction of weight took the air out of the cells and the parachute threatened to collapse. A violent and desperate kick released him but not before the chute had almost dropped level with him. He fell and for a moment was unsupported, but as he swung beneath the canopy his weight snapped the risers taut once more, the cells reinflated and he sailed on inside the jungle.
He was through the worst part of the descent but the dangers were not over. The tree trunks stood like vast pillars in a cathedral, the spaces between them barely wide enough to turn in. Littered across the jungle floor lay the decaying remains of past generations of trees. He pulled and released the chute’s toggles, using all his concentration and skill to weave between the massive columns.
The parachute flapped noisily as Stratton kept the speed as low as he dared without stalling, making the turns like a slalom skier, sometimes grazing a tree trunk.
The ground rushed towards him and as a small clearing appeared he lined it up. He released the toggles in order to eject his backpack, which he kicked off while he grabbed for the controls again. The pack dropped several feet before it jerked to a halt at the end of a line that was secured to Stratton’s harness. He took the lift out of the chute to stall it. The backpack hit the ground as his forward momentum ceased, and he dropped onto his toes beside it as if he was stepping down from a chair.
The parachute collapsed and once Stratton had unclipped it he slumped down to recover. One near-disaster after another within seconds was more than he had bargained for. He looked up at the hole in the almost solid roof of jungle, wondering how the hell he had managed to get through. If he’d ever needed a reminder that he’d been born lucky, the last few minutes had been it.
The sheer beauty of the forest was captivating. For as far as Stratton could see the trees stood majestically, higher than telegraph poles. In places the sun’s rays broke through to light up patches of the jungle floor. The air smelled sweet and tangy and he could practically taste the moisture in it. It was eerily quiet too but that was only to be expected. Every creature in the area would have scattered when he crashed through the jungle canopy and they were probably now silently watching him from cover.
Stratton would have been content to sit where he was for a while and even make himself a brew but he didn’t have the time. This was hostile country and a multi-bundle drop could have been seen for miles around. On top of that the intended recipients would show up at some stage, he hoped. The rendezvous procedure he’d been given was terrible. ‘You’ll know ’em when you see ’em,’ Steel had said. When Stratton had asked for a little more info, the American had replied sarcastically, ‘On one side are soldiers and on the other side are rebels. Don’t give ’em to the soldiers. And if you do, make sure they pay for ’em.’ He’d amused himself, at least. It had heightened Stratton’s suspicion that this was a cowboy operation. So had missing the drop zone by several hundred metres. The good news was that as soon as the rebels showed up he would have one small task to do and then he could get out of there.
He unclipped his M4, untied the line to his pack and took a walk to check out the immediate area. Satisfied that he was alone, he leaned his gun against a tree and removed his chute harness. He took a nylon bag from his pack and folded the chute into it, then removed a smaller pack that contained a semi-automatic pistol, a change of clothing and boots, medical equipment, some money, a passport, GPS, a bottle of water and some rations, all inside a waterproof bag. He dug a hole between two large roots at the base of the tree, placed the small pack inside and covered it up. He pulled his knife from its sheath, cut a large triangle into the bark at head height and stood back to memorise the tree’s characteristics. He used his compass to note the bearing from the clearing, which he could see through the trees, and felt confident that after he had paced the distance to the edge of it he would be able to find the tree again, in daylight at least.
Stratton secured the parachute bag to the top of his pack, heaved it onto his shoulders, grabbed his gun and started to march to the clearing, counting the paces as best he could while stepping over dead trees.
As he reached twenty steps his senses screamed out a warning and he stopped dead. He was being watched. He was not a hundred per cent certain - he wasn’t psychic - but he was experienced enough never to ignore such warnings.
A glance around revealed nothing and he eased the pack off his shoulder, lowering it soundlessly to the ground.
As Stratton turned he saw a young man, an Indian by the look of him. The youth wore only a pair of trousers that were cut off just below the knee and he held a bow in one hand, with an arrow placed lightly against the string: his fingers gripping the nocked shaft in readiness to pull it back. A quiver filled with more arrows hung by his side. Stratton guessed that he was about sixty metres away. The Indian would have to be good to get him at that range, especially if he were moving. Stratton needed to know if the youth was alone so he turned slowly. Directly opposite the young man, about the same distance on the other side of Stratton, stood a near-duplicate figure who was watching him with the same calm intensity, a bow and arrow in his hand too. Stratton had to respect their ability to get so close to him, and from opposite directions at that. So much for his keen senses, he thought. Defending himself against two bowmen who’d bracketed him like this would be that much more difficult. Cover from one would be exposure to the other. And if their shooting skills were anywhere near as good as their stealth technique, Stratton was in trouble. But they had not yet drawn back their bowstrings. With any luck, he thought, they did not mean to hurt him. He suspected that he would already have a couple of arrows in him if they did.
Stratton rested the M4 on his pack and held out his open hands, a smile spreading across his face. ‘Hola,’ he called out.
The young men did not move, their hawkish stares fixed on him. Stratton swivelled his own gaze from one side to the other, keeping them both in view. They didn’t appear to want to communicate in any way. It was all a little weird. As he pondered his next move a sound that grew louder by the second came from the trees. It was the unmistakable noise of people moving through the undergrowth. He could only hope it was the men he was supposed to meet and that these Indians weren’t working for the other side. If it was government forces he didn’t think they would allow him to leave. In that case he would have some explaining to do.
Stratton kept his hands in view as he looked in the direction of the new visitors. Another half-naked Indian appeared but this one was older and stockier and carried his bow across his back. The heavy trudging sound came from behind him - it sounded like there were a lot of men.
The next man to appear was not an Indian but a dark-skinned Latino wearing military fatigues and carrying an AK47. Behind him walked half a dozen others and when they saw Stratton they stopped to allow two more men through. The one in front looked similar to the Latinos but seemed seriously intense. He walked as if he expected someone to shoot at him any second and looked like he was ready to fire back. The man just behind him was short and stocky, in his forties and with European features. He wore a multi-pocket fishing waistcoat over his camouflage shirt, a floppy hat on his head and the only weapon he appeared to have was a pistol in a holster on his hip. His dress and bearing alone singled him out from the others. It appeared that he was the one in charge. Stratton would have been surprised if he turned out to be a local.
The man in the fishing jacket said something to one of the others who walked back towards the main group shouting at them to halt. The order was repeated for some distance back into the jungle. His intense-looking colleague stopped to let the leader pass. The man eyed Stratton as he approached. When he stopped a few metres in front of Stratton he took a good look around, in particular up at the trees. Stratton maintained a pleasant smile. He felt sure these were rebels and not government troops.
‘My scout says you came through the canopy?’ The man’s accent was distinctly French.
‘Yes,’ Stratton replied in a tone that conveyed regret.
‘I would have thought that since this time they were also dropping a man they might make an effort to hit the clearing.’ The group’s leader looked and sounded irritated. His face had not seen a razor in days. ‘I’ve been up there too so I know what it’s like. It was difficult enough in a balloon. By parachute I would have said it was suicidal.’
Stratton could only puzzle over what he meant about the balloon. ‘It wasn’t by choice,’ he said.
‘Did they push you out of the plane?’
‘Good point,’ Stratton conceded.
‘I hope they’re paying you enough.’ The man scrutinised him more closely. ‘You’re English?’
Stratton nodded, wondering what his story was and how he came to be here.
The man remained moody but he seemed to become less stand-offish. ‘My name is Victor,’ he said by way of
