small stream that drained toward the river behind them seemed to be heading in the same direction. They found an old game trail paralleling it and made better time.
Nate noticed footprints along the trail. Old prints almost obscured by the rain. Barefooted. He pointed one out to Private Carrera. 'The Indians must've fled this way.'
She nodded and waved him onward.
Nate pondered this oddity. If panicked, why flee on foot? Why not use the river?
The scouting party climbed the trail, following the streambed. Despite the hard pace, Nate kept up with the Rangers in the lead. The forest around than was unusually quiet, almost hushed. It was eerie, and suddenly Nate regretted leaving his shotgun back at camp.
So occupied was he with keeping his footing and watching for any hidden dangers that Nate almost missed it. He stumbled to a stop with a gasp.
Private Camera almost collided into him. 'Damn it. Give some warning.
The other two Rangers, failing to notice the pair had halted, continued up the trail.
'Need a rest?' Camera asked with a bit of playful disdain.
'No,' Nate said, panting heavily to catch his breath. 'Look:'
Soaked and pinned to a small branch was a scrap of faded yellow material. It was small, half the size of a standard playing card and roughly square. Nathan pulled it free.
'What is it?' Camera peered over his shoulder. 'Something from the Indians?'
'No, not likely.' He fingered the material. 'It's polyester, I think. A synthetic:' He checked the branch upon which the scrap had been impaled. The thin limb had been cut, not naturally broken. As he examined the end, crude markings on the tree's trunk caught his attention. 'What's this?'
He reached and brushed rainwater from the trunk. 'My God. . :'
'What?'
Nathan stood clear so his escort could see. Deeply inscribed into the bark of the tree's trunk was a coded message.
Private Camera whistled appreciatively and leaned closer. 'This G and C near the bottom. . :'
'Gerald Clark;' Nathan finished her thought. 'He signed it. The arrow must indicate where he had come from . . . or at least where his next marker might lie:'
Camera checked her wrist compass. 'Southwest. It's pointing the right way.'
'But what about the numbers? Seventeen and five:'
The Ranger scrunched up her face. 'Maybe a date, done the military way. The day, followed by the month:'
'That would make it May seventeenth? That's nearly three months ago:' Turning, Nate started to question her assessment, but Camera had a palm raised toward him. Her other hand pressed her radio earpiece more firmly in place.
She spoke into her radio. 'Roger that. We're on our way.'
Nate raised an inquiring eyebrow.
'Conger and Kostos,' she said. 'They've found bodies ahead.'
Nate felt a sickening lurch in his belly.
'Come on,' Camera said stiffly. 'They want your opinion:'
Nodding, Nate continued up the trail. Behind him, as they marched, Private Camera reported their discovery to her captain.
As Nate hurried, he glanced down and realized he still held the bit of faded yellow material. He remembered Gerald Clark had stumbled out of the jungle barefoot, wearing only pants. Had the man used the scraps of his own shirt to flag these sites? Like a trail of bread crumbs back to wherever he had come from?
Nate rubbed the bit of cloth between his fingers. After four years, here was the first tangible bit of proof that at least some of his father's team had survived. Up to this point, Nate had not entertained any hope that his father was still alive. In fact, he had refused even to contemplate that possibility, not after so long, not after coming to some semblance of peace with his father's death. The pain of losing his father a second time would be more than he could handle. Nate stared at the scrap in his hand for a second longer, then stuffed it into a pocket.
As he trekked up the trail, he wondered if there were more such flags out there. Though he had no way of knowing, Nate knew one thing for certain. He would not stop looking, not until he discovered the truth of his father's fate.
Camera swore behind him.
Nathan glanced back. Camera had an arm over her nose and mouth. Only then did Nate notice the stench in the air. Rancid meat and offal.
'Over here!' a voice called out. It was Staff Sergeant Kostos. The older Ranger stood only ten yards farther down the trail. In full camouflage, he blended well with the dappled background.
Nate crossed to him and was immediately assaulted by a horrible sight.
'Jesus Christ,' Camera gasped behind him.
Corporal Conger, the young Texan, was farther down the trail, a handkerchief over his face, in the thick of the slaughterhouse. He waved off vultures with his M-16 as swarms of flies rose around him.
Bodies lay sprawled everywhere: on the trail, in the woods, some draped halfway in the stream. Men, women, children. All Indians from the look of them, but it was difficult to say for sure. Faces had been chewed away, limbs gnawed to bone, entrails ripped from bellies. The carrion feeders had made quick work of the bodies, leaving the rest to flies, other insects, and burrowing worms. Only the diminutive sizes of the corpses suggested they were Yanomamo, the missing villagers. And from the number, probably the entire village.
Nathan closed his eyes. He pictured the villagers with whom he had worked in the past: little Tama, noble Takaho. With a sudden burst, he rushed off the trail and hunched over the stream. He breathed deeply, fighting in vain the rising gorge. With a sickening groan, his stomach spasmed. Bile splattered into the flowing water, swelled by the recent rains. Nate remained crouched, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
Kostos barked behind him. 'We don't have all day, Rand. What do you think happened here? An attack by another tribe?'
Nate could not move, not trusting his stomach.
Private Camera joined him, placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. 'The sooner we get this done,' she said softly, 'the sooner we can leave:'
Nathan nodded, took a final deep breath, and forced himself to climb back within view of the slaughter. He studied the area from a few steps away, then moved closer.
'What do you think?' Camera asked.
Gulping back bile, Nate spoke quietly. 'They must've fled during the night.'
'Why do you say that?' Kostos asked.
Nate glanced to the sergeant, then nudged a stick near one of the corpses. 'A torch. Burned to char at the end. The village took flight in full darkness:' He studied the bodies, recognizing a pattern to the carnage. He pointed an arm as he spoke. 'When the attack came, the men tried to protect the women and children. When they failed, the women were a second line of defense. They tried to run with the children:' Nate indicated a woman's corpse deeper in the woods. In her arms rested a dead child. He turned away.
'The attack came from across the stream,' Nate continued. His hand shook as he pointed to the number of male bodies piled near or in the stream. 'They must have been caught by surprise. Too late to put up an adequate defense.'
'I don't care in what order they were killed,' Kostos said. 'Who the hell killed them?'
'I don't know,' Nate said. 'None of the bodies are pierced by arrows or spears. But then again, the enemy might have collected their weapons after the attack-to conserve their arsenal and to leave no evidence behind. With the bodies so torn apart, it's impossible to tell which wounds are from weapons and which from the carrion feeders.'
'So in other words, you have no damn clue:' Kostos shook his head and swung around. From a few steps away, he spoke into his radio.
Nate wiped his damp forehead and shivered. What the hell had happened here?
Finally, Kostos stepped forward, raising his voice. 'New orders everyone. We're to collect a body for Dr. O'Brien to examine-one that's chewed up the least-and return it to the village. Any volunteers?'
