Keeping an eye out for any movement, I crept my way upwards, toward the rim of the small depression. Crawling through the jungle was a skill that I was becoming quite adept at, but it wasn't easy. My injuries, however, served as constant reminders that my fighting and escape skills were not so well honed.
Some of my injuries faded as I picked my way through the woods. My aching knees loosened up after a few dozen steps, as did my shoulder. I knew the dull pain of my bumps and bruises wouldn't fade for a few days, but they were manageable. The only injury that truly bothered me was my elbow. Moving it hurt. I didn't think I broke it, but the injury was painful enough for me to avoid using it unless I had to. I kept my arm close to my body to stabilize it as I limped my way uphill towards the voices that were growing steadily louder and more concise.
As I scrambled awkwardly up the hillside, the multiple voices became more distinct, solidifying until I could discern individual ones, and then eventually comprehensible words. The faint background sounds also came more into focus. Some of it was simply men doing manual labor, sounds common to anyone who had ever worked in the woods. The loud ringing clink of metal on metal, and the duller crack of wood being smashed. Underneath it all was the rustle of something that sounded like cloth. I could also pick out the low thrumming rumble of a truck engine. I had a bad feeling of what I would see once I crested the hill.
The going got tougher as I neared the top, turning from a steep grade to nearly a vertical rock-face. I clung to saplings and vines as I worked my way to the rim. One misstep and I would end up sliding back down the hill in a shower of loose rocks and leaves.
It was an eerie feeling, hearing voices that sounded so close when the jungle typically seemed to muffle and devour noise instead. I knew sound worked both ways. If I could hear them, they could most likely hear me. I could only hope that the noise level from the worksite was enough to drown out anything that would give me away.
Finally, at the top of the hill, I lowered myself into a prone position and crawled over the summit. It was not a village or a work camp that stretched out before me. It was a large military camp teeming with activity. Soldiers scurried about like worker ants. They had erected several tents, perhaps a dozen, throughout the makeshift complex. Two more were already being erected by the troops. Three enormous canvas tents dominated the center of the sprawling complex. The others, scattered throughout the camp, were all significantly smaller, though no less active. Soldiers moved equipment in and out of these smaller tents regularly. Beside most were stacks of barrels and crates.
The camp only had one permanent structure, a large triangular tower, twenty or thirty feet tall with what looked like a radio antenna mounted on top. Everything else was temporary, designed to be easy to pack and relocate. There wasn't even a full fence around the camp. A few barricades of what looked like barbed wire had been placed regularly around the perimeter, but in no way completely enclosed the clearing. The only respectable barricade was at the far end.
A set of movable gates, formed from gleaming razor wire, sat between two large concrete blocks, blocking the dirt path that terminated in the middle of the camp. At that terminus sat three vehicles, two covered trucks, and Bardales' personal jeep. Somehow in my escape I had swam past his camp unseen. It looked like my luck had changed for the better.
Those vehicles also meant that Jaye Mercury was probably down there too. At least I hoped she was. General Bardales did not strike me as a patient or kind man. If he had decided to kill her, it was very possible that she was already dead. But killing her would provide him with nothing. If I were him, I'd want to extract as much information from her as possible. And if he was half as bad as he appeared, he would probably want something more than that.
Settling in, I concealed myself with leaves and debris. I allowed myself to watch the activity below for quite some time, studying the movements of the men and waiting for nightfall and a chance to sneak around the encampment when I saw something that caught my eye. A waif of a man, dressed not in army apparel, but in a dress shirt and slacks, was being escorted at gunpoint to one of the larger central tents. Something about him looked familiar, but from this distance I couldn't put my finger on it.
The man looked up towards me an instant before the guard shoved him inside a tent. A glint of light reflected off the man's eyeglasses, and suddenly I knew why the man looked familiar. I had met him less than twenty-four hours ago back in the village. It was Miles Blatt, Pruitt's anthropologist.
An idea popped into my head, and typically in a situation such as this, those ideas are best ignored. Also, typically in these situations, I do everything but ignore it. Pruitt was my ticket out of Cuba. The man was a known and possibly even renowned scientist that had spent most of his life navigating the murky waters of banana republic politics in his search for history. If anyone could help me get off this god-forsaken island, it was him. I had to rescue him from Bardales. But how?
The encampment was far from Ft. Knox in terms of security.
