Alongside the clearing Davis saw a half dozen fifty-five gallon drums, discarded and rusting, and nearby piles of trash in which he could identify pipes, sheet metal, and an old tire. The airstrip was grass and dirt, and looked smooth from two miles overhead. In the infrared image, however, cooler splotches gave away large puddles that might be trouble spots — a pilot landing a jet would have to either steer around them or be lucky enough to miss.
“I see tracks where airplanes have landed,” he said. “Is there any way to tell how long ago they were made?”
McBain replied, “It’s hard to tell from this altitude, but there’s definitely been activity — I’d say in the last two weeks.”
“You guys have been to places like this. Would the ground be stable enough to support a forty-thousand-pound airplane?”
“It depends on the conditions,” Jorgensen answered. “If the rains have been heavy, no way. This strip looks in decent shape, but it’s impossible to say for sure without having boots on the ground. We have come up with one way to approximate.” On a separate computer screen he added an overlay to the map, irregular blobs that varied from green to amber to red. Parts of the airfield were completely blotted out.
“What’s that?” asked Davis.
“Rainfall,” said Jorgensen. “Last year Colombia got a nice upgrade to its national weather radar — it was paid for by an environmental organization that wants to track rainfall in the Amazon. Good information, and open source.”
“So, by quantifying how much rain you’ve had, you can predict how soggy a given patch of dirt is going to be?”
Jorgensen stepped the rainfall back one week and the blobs altered. “More or less. We’ve only been doing this for a few months, but it’s surprisingly accurate. We were looking for a method to study road conditions. It should work just as well on unimproved airstrips.” When the screen settled, he said, “There you are. This place got eleven centimeters of rain last week — about four inches. That’s a lot if you’re in Texas or Virginia, but here it’s nothing out of the ordinary.”
“I could take the drone lower to get a better look, but, like I said, without actually standing on dirt there’s always going to be some guesswork involved.”
“Actually,” said Davis, “I don’t think there’s going to be any guesswork at all.”
The two DEA men looked at him. Davis pointed to the screen that was still displaying a real-time feed from the Predator. They all watched a small single-engine propeller plane turn onto final approach, skim over the high tree line, and make a gentle touchdown in the clearing.
Kehoe got out of the Cessna Caravan and stepped squarely into a puddle of mud. Fortunately he was prepared, having worn jungle boots and waterproof hunting pants. The stewardess on the G-III had given him an odd look when he’d boarded in Virginia, being clearly more accustomed to Armani suits and diamond-clipped ties. Kehoe couldn’t have cared less. He was a soldier, and soldiers knew the value of function over form. He’d stepped off the G-III immediately after landing in Bogotá, and walked no more than twenty steps to board the Cessna, a connecting flight arranged by whomever had brought him here. His new pilot’s only words had been, “Kehoe?” and after getting a nod, “Come with me.” Thirty minutes later, here he was.
It took ten full strides to reach dry land, a plot of crusted dirt and grass that looked surprisingly level. Behind him the pilot of the Cessna — the only other person in sight — stepped down from the cockpit, circled his aircraft, and kicked a heel into the soft earth. He gave Kehoe a woeful frown.
Kehoe called back in Spanish, “Will there be any problem taking off again?”
“No, is okay. The sun will be high soon and things get better. But we should not stay long. This afternoon will be hot. If big storms come… could be grounded for days.”
Kehoe had no intention of staying that long. “I’ll make it quick. Be ready.”
The pilot waved to say he would, and Kehoe turned away without another word. He had long ago concluded that specialists worked most effectively when you let them do their jobs. Pilots in particular became unmanageable if you tried to tell them their business. They were also consistently rational when put in difficult situations — in no small part, because their lives were at stake too.
The forest was still on the breezeless morning, the only noise the tic tic cool down of the Cessna’s engine, the only smell the faint burn of spent avgas. Ahead of him a lone dirt road curved away into the emerald wall, and he walked in that direction with the suitcase in hand. Kehoe had gone no more than twenty yards when a muffled roar broke the silence. A pair of jeeps rumbled into the clearing. Right on time.
So far, so good, he thought.
He made an effort to stand straight and tall, well aware of the delicacy of his situation. Kehoe had crossed the point of no return when the Cessna landed five minutes earlier. He was alone in the middle of a foreign jungle, about to engage a group of well-documented killers, and chained to his wrist was an oversized briefcase containing seven million U.S. dollars.
The odds of complications were, to say the least, significant.
He walked toward the jeeps through what felt like a steam bath, the early sun already torrid, sucking moisture from the ground and infusing it into the air. The jeeps looked identical, some kind of Chinese knockoff of the classic World War II U.S. Army Willys. He counted seven men — at least he guessed they were men, a point left in question as they were all wearing ski masks.
Kehoe knew instantly who was in charge. Lead vehicle, passenger side. He wore fatigues that were cleaner than the rest, and was the first to dismount. A stocky man, his long hair extended out the back of his knit mask, which had to be a miserable thing to wear in this kind of heat. By his build and movement Kehoe knew he was young, and he would say the same about the others. He also saw they were not well trained, written in the way they held their weapons and the fact that everyone’s eyes were locked on him. None of it came as a surprise.
The armies here were like those in so many other jungles he’d seen, comprised of kids who had been recruited — if that word could be used — either at the point of a gun or, in the best case, because their families had taken fifty dollars for the contribution of an able-bodied young male. Seventeen-year-old kids, who should have been in school or plowing hillsides, were instead fed, given a gun and fatigues, and issued a few rounds of ammunition to shoot at a tree stump. Basic training complete.
And having sorted through all that, he knew there was only one man who mattered right now.
The commander approached him and drew to a stop. “Welcome to Colombia. I hope your journey was uneventful.”
The first surprise — his English was good, nearly without accent. It made Kehoe think the man had a heavy hand in the scheme. He’d like very much to see the face behind the mask, since that was his secondary mission. All he needed was one glimpse. Tactical abilities aside, Kehoe had been selected for this op for one very specific reason — he had an astonishing memory, particularly when it came to faces.
“I’d like to do this as quickly as possible,” Kehoe said, his eyes quietly snapshotting details as best he could. An old serial number on one jeep, a bracelet on the leader’s wrist.
“I’m sure you would,” said the commander.
“I don’t see the girl,” said Kehoe in the most casual voice he could muster.