“Vultures,” Nate said, lowering the binoculars.
Kouwe edged nearer. “So many…”
“Turkey vultures, yellow-heads, even king vultures.”
“We should investigate,” Kouwe said. In his eyes, Nate saw the worry shared by all. The missing Indians…the vultures…It was a dire omen.
“Not until the unit gets here,” Private Carrera warned.
Behind them, the roaring of the other boat drew abreast of their location and choked out. In a few minutes, Captain Waxman and another three Rangers were entering the shabano. Private Carrera quickly updated the others.
“I’ve sent the Rangers stationed in the woods back to camp,” Captain Waxman said. “They’ll gather everyone here. In the meantime, we’ll scout what lies out there.” He pointed to three of his unit: Private Carrera, Corporal Conger, and Staff Sergeant Kostos.
“I’d like to go with them,” Nate said. “I know this jungle better than anyone.”
After a short pause, Captain Waxman sighed. “So you’ve proven.” He waved them off. “Keep in radio contact.”
As they left, Nate heard Kouwe approach Waxman. “Captain, there is something I think you should be made aware of…”
Nate ducked out of the shabano’s low door, glad to escape. He imagined Captain Waxman would not be pleased that he and Kouwe had kept hushed about the nighttime prowlers around their campsites. Nate was more than happy to leave such explanations to the diplomatic professor.
Out in the woods, the two men, Conger and Kostos, took the point, leaving Private Carrera to dog Nate’s steps and maintain a rear guard.
They half trotted through the wet woods, careful of the slippery mud and dense layers of sodden leaves. A 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 them 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 Carrera 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?” Carrera 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?” Carrera 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 Carrera 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.”
Carrera 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 Carrera 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,” Carrera said stiffly. “They want your opinion.”
Nodding, Nate continued up the trail. Behind him, as they marched, Private Carrera 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.
Carrera swore behind him.
Nathan glanced back. Carrera 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,” Carrera 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.