Page 24 of Clive Cussler's Quantum Tempest

13

Panama

By the end of the first day the ragged line of migrants had made their way deep into the rugged jungle terrain. The thick roots and sharp rocks poking through the muck took their first victims early, twisting ankles and breaking bones before the journey had even really begun. A few hobbled on. Others turned back in tears.

Heavy rains dogged them through nightfall until they finally encountered a smuggling camp. It was littered with more trash than a city dump. The gangster smugglers served up a hot meal of rice and beans on soggy paper plates, standing under tarps lit with flashlights. The few sheltered spaces—more plastic tarps strung between branches—were flooded with rainwater. Hundreds of cheap tents carried by the best-prepared migrants blossomed like a colorful nylon garden. The foolishly unprepared huddled together under trees, sleeplessly braving the storm. Raven and Linc, like a half dozen others, strung tented hammocks between the trees, suspended comfortably above the water and filth.

Everyone else bedded down as best they could, but few were able to sleep with the drumbeat of rain hammering their gear and the puddling water soaking them to the bone.

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Just before sunrise the gangster guides woke them with banging pots.

Everyone gathered their things as quickly as they could and they all set off without a meal toward a steep, fog-shrouded summit. The trees and bushes got thicker with each passing step as they made their way up the narrow trail in single file.

Raven and Linc fought to keep their balance on the slippery mud and loose rocks. A steel cable had been haphazardly affixed along the rock wall, but it was broken or rusted away in too many spots to be useful.

A panicked shout behind them meant someone else hadn’t been able to negotiate the hazards. The two operators exchanged a glance from beneath their hoods, each reading the other’s thoughts. Their instincts told them to race back and render aid to the injured.

But their training told them to stay focused on the mission. There were a thousand other people on the trail that could offer help, including the guides, if they were so inclined. Besides, the two operators would raise suspicions if they started deploying their paramedic skills. While they had witnessed a few small acts of kindness shared between the migrants, in the end it was every man, woman, and child for themselves. A pair of selfless do-gooders would stand out like sore thumbs.

The guides marched ever upward, seemingly undeterred by the near-vertical climb. They must have been born to it. Linc had witnessed aged Afghani men, stick-thin and white-bearded, speed up similar mountain inclines like alpine goats, their young grandchildren hot on their heels. The weaker migrants were already struggling to breathe and their legs burned with lactic acid. The only relief was that the rain had stopped, but the humidity clung to their bodies like steaming blankets.

Thirty minutes into the mountain climb, the guides stopped abruptly—just as the rain began again.

One of the guides pointed at the muddy trail beneath his feet. He had to shout over the rain-swollen river roaring forty feet below them.

“This is Panama now,” he said in broken English. “It is against the law for us to go more. We will be arrested. But you will be okay.”

“You are abandoning us?” a Venezuelan woman shouted in Spanish.

Another guide pointed his machete to the far distant summit still shrouded by dense morning fog.

“Keep climbing to the top, then head down to the other side. The trail is clearly marked. You will be okay.”

“How many days until we reach the refugee camp?” a Haitian asked in cultured English.

“Two days, perhaps three at most.”

Raven and Linc knew he was lying. It took at least nine days and often more. The migrants would encounter several rivers that could overflow their banks at any time and prevent an immediate crossing.

And, of course, there were bandits.

More questions were shouted, but the guides ignored them all as they marched back down the mountain toward the morning’s camp. One of them muttered, “Vaya con Dios”—Go with God—as they passed down the line, ashamed to look at the faces of the terrified mothers and children watching their retreat.

A few young mothers cried out in anguish and several elderly men threw curses as the gangsters disappeared around the first bend.

Raven and Linc saw two dozen young men up front already launching up the trail, determined to cross the mountain with or without the guides. A toothless old Venezuelan standing next to Raven bowed his head and crossed himself.

Raven laid a comforting hand on his narrow shoulder as the migrants behind them inched their way around them and headed up the rocky path.

“It will be all right,” she said. “You can stay with us.”

The old man shook his head and whispered something that Linc couldn’t quite make out before he turned and marched along behind the others.

“What did he say?”

“He doesn’t want our help. He wants a priest to pray for him. He’s heard rumors that demons inhabitLa Montaña de la Muerte.”