waters, gun pointed. 'I don't see-'
It happened fast. The rear boat jarred about three feet in the air. Nate caught the barest glimpse of the thick scaled tail. The soldier who had been standing tumbled headfirst into the water. The others grabbed rubber handholds and held tight. The boat slammed back to the river.
Captain Waxman crouched by the outboard motor. 'Graves!'
The fallen corporal suddenly popped out of the water, ten meters downstream from the trio of boats, carried by the current. The man's hat was gone, but he still had his gun. He began to kick and swim toward the nearest boat.
Behind him, like a submarine rising, the head of the caiman crested the waters, its eyes two periscopes.
The Rangers scrambled to bring their weapons to bear. But before a single shot was fired, the caiman had sunk away again.
Nate imagined the giant creature slashing its thick tail, sweeping through the muddy depths toward the kicking soldier, drawn by the man's thrashing. 'Damn it,' he said under his breath, then yelled with all his lungs. 'Corporal Graves! Don't move! Stop kicking!'
He was not heard. By now, everyone was yelling for the man to hurry. His panicked thrashing grew worse. Captain Waxman motored the boat backward, trying to meet the frantic swimmer.
Nate yelled again, 'Stop swimming!' Finally, more in frustration at not being heard than any true bravery, Nate tossed his gun aside and dove into the river. He glided smoothly, eyes open. But the murky depths hid everything beyond a few feet. He gave one solid kick and sweep of his arms, then simply let his momentum and the current propel him forward. Under the water, he heard the motor of the rear boat pass off to the left.
Arching up, his head broke the surface. Rodney Graves was only a yard to his right. 'Corporal Graves! Quit kicking! You've gotta play dead.' Nate kept his own limbs unmoving. He half floated on his back.
The soldier turned to him, his eyes wide with panic. 'Fuck . . . that!' he screamed between gasping breaths. He continued to thrash and kick. The rescue boat was now only three yards away. Already others were stretching out to grab him up.
Nate sensed movement nearby, a sudden surge against the current. It swept between him and the corporal. Something large and swift.
Oh, God . . .
'Graves!' he cried out one last time.
One of the Rangers-Nate recognized him as the swimmer's brother, Thomas Graves-leaned far over the pontoon. He was supported by two others holding his belt. Tom lunged out with both arms, straining with every muscle in his body, his face a mask of fear for his brother.
Rodney kicked and reached, fingers scrambling out.
Tom caught his hand. 'Got him!' he yelled. The muscles of his fore-arm bulged like corded iron.
The two soldiers yanked Tom back as he hauled Rodney forward. With his free arm, Tom snatched a handful of his brother's soaked field jacket for extra purchase, then fell backward, yanking his brother over the pontoon.
Rodney flew up out of the water, landing belly-first onto the pontoon. He laughed in relief. 'Goddamn crocodile!'
He twisted to pull his feet out of the water when giant jaws, already gaped wide open, shot out of the water and swallowed both booted legs up to his thighs. The jaws clamped over their captured prey, then fell back into the river. The ton of armored beast could not be fought. Rodney was torn out of his brother's hands, a cry on his lips.
Rodney disappeared under the water, but his last scream echoed over the river. Soldiers, on their knees, had rifles pointed toward the river, but no one shot. Any blind round could take out their fellow unit member rather than the caiman. Yet from their expressions, Nate knew they all understood the truth. Corporal Rodney Graves was gone. They all had seen the size of the monster, had seen the jaws snap him away.
And Nate knew they were right.
The caiman would take its prey deep and merely hold it clamped until the waters drowned its victim. Then it would either eat or store the body in the submerged mangrove roots where it would rot and be easier to tear apart.
There was no way to rescue the man.
Nate remained floating in the water, keeping his limbs still. The caiman was probably content with its meal, but where there was one, there might be other predators, especially once the blood flowed down the cur-rent. He took no chances. He rolled to his back and floated quietly until he felt hands grab him and haul him back aboard the boat.
He found himself staring into the stricken face of Tom Graves. The corporal was staring at his hands, as if blaming them for not being strong enough to hold his brother.
'I'm sorry,' Nate said softly.
The man glanced up, and Nate was shocked to see the flash of anger in the man's eyes, anger that Nate had survived, anger that his brother had been taken instead. Tom turned away stiffly.
Another of the unit was not so reticent. 'What in God's name were you trying to do?' It was Captain Waxman, his face almost purple with rage. 'What sort of asinine stunt was that? You trying to get yourself killed, too?'
Nate swept the wet locks of hair out of his eyes. It was the second time in a week he had dived into the Amazon's waters to rescue someone. Without doubt, it was becoming a bad habit. 'I was trying to help,' he mumbled.
The fire in Captain Waxman's voice burned down to dull coals. 'We were sent to protect you. Not the other way around:'
By now, Nate's own boat had drawn abreast of the Rangers: He clambered over the pontoons to resume his original seat.
Once settled, Captain Waxman waved an arm for them to continue forward. The pitch of the motors rose.
Nathan heard a protest raised by Tom Graves. 'Captain . . . my brother . . . his body.'
'Gone, Corporal. He's gone:'
So the trio of boats continued on. Nate caught Professor Kouwe's gaze across the waters from the other boat. Kouwe shook his head sadly. In the jungle, no amount of military training or arsenal could completely protect you. If the jungle wanted you, it was going to take you. It was called the Amazon Factor. All who travelled the mighty green bower were at the jungle's mercy and whim.
Nate felt a touch on his knee. He turned and saw Kelly seated beside him. She sighed, staring forward, then spoke. 'That was a stupid thing to do. It really was, but'-she glanced at him-'I'm glad you tried:'
After the sudden tragedy, Nate didn't have the strength to muster more than a simple nod, but her words helped warm the cold hollowness inside him. She took her hand from his knee.
The rest of the day's journey was made in silence. There was no more whistling by Corporal Okamoto as he manned the craft's outboard motor. They travelled until the sun was near the horizon, as if trying to put as much distance as possible between them and the death of Rodney Graves.
As the camp was prepared, the news was passed back to the base at Wauwai. The somber mood stretched through a dinner of fish, rice, and a platter of jungle yams Professor Kouwe had found near the campsite.
The only topic of discussion was the sugary yams. Nathan had asked from where such an abundance had come. 'It's unusual to find so many plants:' The professor had returned with an efficiently constructed back-pack of palm leaves filled to the brim with wild yams.
Kouwe nodded toward the deeper forest. 'I suspect the site where I found these was an old Indian garden. I saw a few avocado trees and stumpy pineapple plants in the same area:'
Kelly straightened with a fork half-raised. 'An Indian garden?'
For the past four days, they had not encountered a single soul. If Gerald Clark had obtained his canoe from a Yanomamo village, they had no clue where he got it.
'It was long abandoned,' Kouwe said, dashing the hope that had briefly shone in Kelly's eyes. 'Such sites dot the riverways throughout the Amazon. Tribes, especially the Yanomamo, are nomadic. They plant gardens, stay a year or two, then move on. I'm afraid a garden's presence here does not mean anything significant:'
