Commando

“Yeah, they call it the village of the pink dolphins.”

Nodding sagely, the skipper waved to the children onshore, who, for a few coins, would untie the tug and push it away from the wharf. “I know the village. There’s a Catholic hospital and mission there.”

Jake dropped his duffel bag on the deck and moved up front as the tug chugged in reverse. The hollow sound of the engine, and the blue smoke pouring from it, permeated the humid air. Narrow strips of wooden planking served as benches along the tug’s port and starboard sides. Jake sat down near the captain and looked out across the bow.

“What else do you know about the village?” Jake asked.

The captain laughed and maneuvered the tug around so that the bow was now pointed toward the huge expanse of the headwaters, which were nearly a mile in width. “We hardly ever see an American who speaks fluent Portuguese.” The man eyed the gun at Jake’s side. “You go for a reason, eh?”

“Yeah.” Jake decided the skipper wasn’t going to answer his question—at least not on the first try.

The crystal-clear tea-colored water of the Solimoes was beautiful in its clarity. Its color was caused by the tannin contained in the tree roots along its banks, which seeped out and tinted the water a raw umber. The Solimoes’s temperature was far lower than the Rio Negro’s. As a result, the river’s depths were clear, icy and pretty in comparison to the milky brown waters of the warmer Rio Negro, which Jake could see beginning to intersect it up ahead. Soon, the water surface around the tug mingled patches of tea-colored water with lighter, muddied water, reminding Jake of a black-and-white marble cake Bess used to bake.

“They say there’s trouble at that village,” the captain said as he maneuvered his tug against the powerful currents of the two rivers mixing beneath them.

So the skipper was going to answer him, if obliquely. Jake was pleased. “What kind of trouble?”

The captain shrugged his thin shoulders, his hands busy on the wheel as he kept the tug on a straight course for the Amazon River. “Pai Jose—Father Jose—who runs the Catholic mission there at the village, is said to have trouble. That’s all I know.”

Rubbing his jaw, which needed a shave, Jake nodded. He knew that the Catholic missionaries had had a powerful influence all over South America. The Indians had been converted to Catholicism, but the numerous missions along the rivers of the Amazon Basin were places not only of worship, but also of medical help—often the only places such help was available.

“You know this priest?” Jake asked.

“Pai Jose is balding,” the skipper said, gesturing to his own shining head, “like me. He’s greatly loved by the Indians and the traders alike. If not for his doctoring, many would have died over the years.” The skipper wrinkled his nose. “He is a fine man. I don’t like what I hear is happening at the Tucanos village where he has his mission.”

Jake ruminated over the information. Communications in this corner of the world were basically nonexistent outside of Manaus, except by word-of-mouth messages passed from one boat skipper to another. Few radios were used, because the humidity rusted them quickly in the tropical environment. Was Shah involved with Pai Jose? Was she even at the village? Jake didn’t know—the information Travers had provided was sparse.

“They doing a lot of tree-cutting in this area?” Jake wanted to know.

“Yes!” The man gestured toward the thick jungle crowding the banks of the Amazon. “It brings us money. My tug is used to help bring the trees out of the channels along the Amazon to the Japanese ships anchored near Manaus.”

It was a booming business, Jake conceded—and the money it supplied could mean the difference between survival and death to someone like the skipper.

“Besides,” the man continued energetically as he brought the tug about thirty feet away from the Amazon’s bank, where the current was less fierce, “the poor are streaming out of the cities to find land. They must clear the trees so that they can grow their own vegetables. No,” he said sadly, “the cities are no place for the peasants. They are coming back, and we need the open land. Manaus no longer needs the rubber trees, and the farmers need the land. So, it is a good trade-off, eh?”

Jake didn’t answer. He knew that the terrible poverty of Brazil, both inside and outside the cities, was genuine. Here and there along the muddy banks he could see small thatched huts made of grasses and palm leaves. Curious children, dressed in ragged shorts or thin, faded dresses, ran out to stare at them. He looked out across the enormous expanse of the Amazon. It made the Mississippi River look like a trickle.

“Look!” the skipper shouted with glee. “Dolphins!”

Sure enough, Jake saw three gray river dolphins arc into the air then disappear. They were playful, and soon they saw many more.

“This is a good sign,” the skipper said, beaming. “Dolphins always bring luck. Hey! If you are truly lucky, you may get to see a pink dolphin near that village! They are very rare.”

“What do the Indians say about pink dolphins?” Jake was enjoying the antics of the sleek, graceful gray animals that were now following the tug, playing tag.

“There is an old legend that if a pink dolphin falls in love with a beautiful young village girl, he will, at the time of the full moon, turn into a handsome youth. Once he has legs and lungs, he leaves the river to court this beautiful girl. He will lie with the girl, get her with child, then walk back into the water to become a pink dolphin again. A girl who has such an experience is said to be blessed.”

Jake wondered about that legend, but said nothing. The legend could have been created to explain a young girl’s sudden and unexpected pregnancy. Heaving a sigh, he allowed himself to relax. There was nothing to do for the next two and a half hours, until they reached the village. Stretching out on the narrow wooden seat, Jake decided to see if he could catch some badly needed sleep.

“Hey!” the skipper called. “We’re here!”

Groggily Jake sat up. He was damp with sweat. He untied his neckerchief and mopped his face and neck. The tug was slowing, the engine’s forward speed checked as they aimed at a dilapidated wooden dock where several Tucanos children waited.

Wiping sleep from his eyes, Jake stood up and rapidly sized up the small village huts thatched with palm fronds. The tall trees of the Amazon still lined the riverbanks, but just inside them the land had been cleared for homes for the Tucanos. He counted roughly fifty huts, and saw a number of Indian women near fires tending black iron cooking kettles. The women were dressed in colorful cotton dresses, their black hair long and their feet bare. The children raced around, barely clad. The short, barrel-chested, black-haired men held blowguns. Machetes hung on belts around many of their waists.

The odor of wood smoke combined with the muddy stench of the river. As the tug gently bumped the dock, Jake could also smell fish frying. About a dozen Tucanos children gathered, wide-eyed as Jake leaped from the tug to the dock. He set his duffel bag down on the gray, weathered surface of the poorly made dock.

“How can I get a ride back up the river to Manaus?” he asked the skipper.

Grinning toothily, the skipper pointed to the village. “Pai Jose has a radio. He knows the name of my tug. He can call the wharf at Manaus, and someone will find me.”

That would have to be good enough, Jake thought. He lifted his hand to the skipper and turned to find the Indian children looking solemnly up at him, curiosity shining in their dark brown eyes. They were beautiful children, their brown skin healthy-looking, their bodies straight and proud. He wondered if Shah, because of her native ancestry, felt at home in the village.

“Pai Jose?” he asked them.

“Sim! Sim!” Yes! Yes! The oldest, a boy of about ten, gestured for Jake to follow him.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Jake followed the boy through the village. The ground consisted of a whitish, powdery clay base that rose in puffs around his boots. Most of the village was in the shade of the trees overhead, and the smoke purled and made shapes as it drifted through the leafy barrier. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the trees here and there, and Jake’s skin burned. Tropical sunlight was fierce.

A well-worn path through the vegetation wound away from the village and up a small incline onto a rounded hill that overlooked the river, and Jake could see a rectangular adobe brick structure near the top of it. Palm trees, both short and tall, bracketed the path. The calling of birds was nonstop, and sometimes, Jake would catch sight of one flitting colorfully through the brown limbs and green leaves of the thousands of trees.

The path opened into a small, grassy clearing. At the other end was the mission. It wasn’t much, in Jake’s opinion—just a grouping of three or four structures with a white cross on the roof of the largest building. That had to be the church. The place was well kept, and the path obviously had been swept, probably with a palm-leaf broom. Pink, white and red hibiscus bloomed around the buildings in profusion. Orchids hung down from the trees, turning the air heady with their cloying perfume.

Just as the Indian boy stopped and pointed at the church, Jake heard angry, heated voices. One was a woman’s. He turned, keying his hearing to the sound. Giving the boy a few coins in thanks, Jake set his duffel bag on the ground and followed the sound. Turning the corner, he spotted a small wooden wharf down by the river, with several canoes pulled up onshore nearby. Five people stood on the wharf.

Frowning, Jake lengthened his stride down the sloping path. As he drew closer, he recognized Shah Travers in the center of the group. His heart started to pound, and it wasn’t because of the suffocating humidity or because of fear. Shah was tall—much taller than he’d expected. Her hair hung in two black, shining braids that stood out against the short-sleeved khaki shirt she wore. Mud had splattered her khaki trousers, and she wore calf-high rubber boots that were also covered with the thick, gooey substance.

What was going down? Jake saw the Catholic priest, an older man with wire-rimmed glasses, dressed in white pants and a shirt, plus his clerical collar, standing tensely. The other three made Jake uneasy. Two of them looked like goons hired by the well-dressed third man. Shah’s husky voice was low with fury, and he couldn’t catch what she said, but she was squaring off with the man in the light suit and white panama hat.

“I will not stay off that land!” Shah told Hernandez heatedly. “You can’t make me!”

Hernandez’s thin-lipped smile slipped. He touched the lapel of his cream-colored linen suit, where a small purple-and-white orchid boutonniere had been placed. “You have no choice, Miss Travers! That is my land, and I can do whatever I please with it—and that includes cutting down the trees!”

Shah tried to control her anger over the confrontation. She saw both of Hernandez’s bodyguards come forward, trying to intimidate her. Well, it wouldn’t work! She was aware that Pai Jose was wringing his hands, wanting to make peace. Her own heart was pounding with fear. She dreaded this kind of conflict. She’d been raised in a family of screaming and shouting, and she hated it.

“Look,” she said between gritted teeth, “you can’t stop me from going onto that land! I know my rights, and I know Brazil’s laws!”

Hernandez glowered down at her. “You are impertinent, Miss Travers. You Americans think you can come down here and cause trouble. Well, you can’t! I forbid you to come into the area where we are going to log.” He turned and looked at his men. “And if you so much as set foot on my land, I can assure you, my men will take care of you!”

Permanently, Shah thought. Before she could respond, the larger of the two men, a blond, German-looking hulk, moved forward. He gripped her by the collar of her shirt. Gasping, Shah froze momentarily. She heard Pai Jose give a cry of protest.

“Please,” Pai Jose begged, “this isn’t—”

Suddenly a hand appeared on the hulk’s shoulder. “Now, where I come from, you treat a lady like a lady,” the new man growled, pinching the man’s thick muscles enough to let the lout know he meant business.

Shah’s eyes widened considerably. Who was this man? Confusion clashed with her shock. He was tall. Taller than any of them, and bigger, too, if that was possible. Momentary fear sent a frisson of warning through her. He looked like an American, yet he’d spoken in fluent Portuguese. Her heart pounding hard in her chest, Shah gulped. His face was rugged and lined. When her gaze flew to his, something happened. Her heart snagged, a rush of wild feelings tunneling through her. His gray eyes were narrowed and nearly colorless, and for a brief second, Shah saw them thaw and felt an incredible sense of safety.

Instantly her heart and head denied those feelings. Men didn’t protect, they abused. “Get your hand off me!” she snapped at the blond man, and started to take a step back.