Nothing is impossible to him. But if he thinks it is good to call us to him, do not be afraid. We will not be separated.”
Stoke just looked up at the scrawny geezer and shook his head. You never knew.
“Where’s the shooter, boss?” Luis asked, the two of them peering over the gunwale.
“Got to be that little island over to port,” Stoke said. “See? Where all that debris is washed up. I thought I saw something moving over there just before we splashed. Shit! You got any weapons on this boat?”
“Yeah. We keep a gun up forward, under Papa’s berth.”
“Pistol or rifle? Say rifle.”
“We got semiautomatic rifle. It’s mine. Special stock and grip so I can fire it with one hand. A Ruger mini-14. Mags hold thirty rounds.”
“Perfect. I want you to go up there and get it. But you stay down below the gunwales, Luis. I don’t want any heroics here. Just go forward and get me that gun.”
Sharkey crawled on his belly toward the open door. Stoke hadn’t liked the look on his face. The kid was obviously scared shitless.
In case Luis needed any more incentive to keep his head down, the shooter fired two more rounds and took out the portside windows in the pilothouse, showering the two men with bits of glass. The shooter was either a lousy shot or he had a shitload of ammo and didn’t care. In any case, he had to be dealt with in a hurry. Stoke did not want to pass out and leave Luis and his father to deal with this alone.
Two minutes later, Luis was coming back with the rifle and a soggy cardboard box full of shells. His hand was shaking so bad, when he handed Stoke the ammo, the whole thing disintegrated and all the cartridges spilled out all over the damn deck. What were you going to do? Luis was his partner and he was getting some high-level on-the- job training, that’s all. Call this the live fire exercise. Stoke checked the chamber and the mag. Loaded.
“Hey, I got it,” Luis said. “Don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. This way I don’t have to get shot again.”
“Think of what?”
“We just split, man!”
“Split?”
“Leave! Papa’s up there at the helm! He cranks her up and we split. Leave this bastard out here to rot in the sun. Fuck him, you know?”
“What about the hook?”
“You mean the anchor?”
“Yeah, I mean the anchor. Who gets to go up on the bow and stand there to haul up the anchor? Papa? You?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right, the anchor. Man, I forgot all about that.”
“You got to think this stuff through under pressure, Luis. Business you’re in now.”
“Right. So what do we do?”
“I’m thinking about that. Give me a second, I’ll come up with something.”
“Just keep me out of it,” Sharkey said.
23
LA SELVA NEGRA
S turdy hemp bridges had been built connecting the numerous roundhouses that comprised Muhammad Top’s domain. The largest of bridges was the one that spanned a ribbon of black mirror snaking through the middle of La Selva. This bridge spanned the river and was built of steel.
The river was named Igapo, Black Water, and it fed into the great Rio Negro. The Igapo divided the Top’s fortress compound neatly in half. It provided a natural boundary for the two discreet sections of the terrorist village. The river also formed a very necessary lifeline with the outside world. Save an isolated airstrip or two, camouflaged and hidden deep in the jungle, it was the only way in or out of his world. A vicious stretch of rapids protected the approach from the east. And seamines had been deployed to both east and west.
Top had chosen this site carefully. La Selva Negra had to be erected where no man would dare to venture, even if he were able. First, because of the canopy, it was completely invisible from the air by day. At night, strict blackout rules were enforced on the odd chance that an airplane would ever stray over this trackless expanse.
No drones or spy satellites would ever differentiate this green patch from the trackless millions of acres that surrounded it. Because of the great height of the trees, even thermal imaging could not accurately pick up the living creatures below. Yet here below the canopy lay another world entirely. A world of his own making.
A primary village, Centro, stood at the center of this hidden universe. Arrayed around it, over a span of many miles, like great orbiting moons, were the various camps. Military camps where his troops lived and worked. And also secret training camps and forced labor camps that sustained his armies and protected the center.
And then the river. Although dark in color, the waters of the Rio Negro and its tributaries, like the Igapo, were pure, in fact, very nearly distilled. Because of its extremely low salt content, the river had the softest waters of any large river in the world. But that’s not why he chose this exact location. His sensibilities were too refined for that. No, it was just here, at this precise location, where the waters ran deep and cold, here, that the low nutrient content and the high acidity so greatly decreased the number of biting flies and mosquitoes.
Papa Top was a passionate man, but he was also a supremely pragmatic being who happened to loathe bugs.
The Black Water was spanned by a steel bridge strong enough to support the small, unmanned tanks which patrolled continuously. This bridge, a vital link, connected the two halves of his world. One side was about sustaining life and worship, the other death and destruction. This bridge that connected the two sides of his equation he had named La Qantara in honor of a mythical bridge connecting his beloved homeland of Syria with its neighbors Lebanon, Jordan, and Palestine. Qantara was the fantastical bridge of unity that one day, God willing, he himself would build between these nations.
This mission of Qantara, the bridge of the holy, was his life’s work. But Papa Top had sworn he would only complete it at the end of his life. He would turn to this effort only after he and his armies had rained death and destruction upon his enemies to the north and brought them begging God’s mercy to their knees.
Now the wide, flowing river was quiet beneath the nearly invisible leafy camouflage netting strung above it for miles in either direction. Here in Centro, the primitive existed side by side with the latest technology. Dugout war canoes, rafted together, were moored at the eastern ends of the docks. Later in the day, Indian war parties who served Papa Top would board them to begin patrolling the vast network of tributaries that fed into the Igapo. Intruders were discouraged or killed if they got too close.
Farther along were wider canoes, riding deep in the water and loaded with vegetables and other supplies. They had arrived some time during the night and were still waiting to be unloaded.
SLOWLY, the sleepy village below came to life. Shaded windows glowed faintly with light from within. The proud House Guards, in their uniforms of forest green, streamed across wide bridges and descended by trams to the jungle floor below. There waiting generals and lesser commanders ordered them massed in formation for the drills.
In a nearby clearing could be seen the headlights of a convoy of armored ATVs forming up. This motorized group would be traveling to the airstrip to receive an important visitor when he arrived at mid-morning. His first business of the day was to prepare to receive his honored guest.
Papa Top took great satisfaction that this supremely powerful being, Mullah Khan, was coming to him. Khan, the brilliant Iranian physician and scientist, was making his way on a long journey from Tehran. He would enter the country with counterfeit passports he himself had issued. He would arrive at Buenos Aires and then be ferried to a small air-field on the outskirts of the city. From there he would be flown at treetop level to the concealed landing strip that served La Selva Negra.
“The mountain is coming to Muhammad,” Top laughed aloud to himself, his rumbling voice deep and soft.
