The Jungle (Oregon Files 8)

“Thanks, guys. Good job as usual. How are you coming along with getting maps of the Burmese jungle?”

“Hah,” Murph barked. “There are none. Where that girl got herself lost is one of the remotest places on the planet. Other than the major rivers, no one knows what the hell’s in there. For all the good they’ve done, the maps we’ve found should all be labeled ‘Beyond this point, there be dragons.’”

Those turned out to be prophetic words.

8

SORRY ABOUT THE ACCOMMODATIONS,” CABRILLO SAID, swinging open the door to one of the cabins in the Oregon’s superstructure. “But with Smith aboard we have to keep up the appearance that this is all the old girl has to offer.”

MacD Lawless sniffed, made a face, then shrugged. “Y’all said my bein’ here was probational. I guess this is the price I pay.”

“When things quiet down, I’ll personally give you a tour of the parts of the ship we can’t let Smith know about. Oh, and he has the cabin next to yours. Keep your ears open. I’m sure he’ll be in touch with Croissard, and these walls are paper-thin.” There were microphones in every room and cabin in this part of the ship, but Juan wanted MacD to feel like he was already doing something to earn his pay.

Lawless threw his duffel bag onto the cabin’s single cot, where it sagged a good six inches into the near-springless mattress. The porthole was grimy, so the room was cast in shades of shadow and murk. The deck was covered in a mouse-brown carpet with such a thin nap that it could be mopped, and the walls were bare metal painted battleship gray. There was an adjoined private head with stainless steel fixtures like those seen in prisons and a medicine cabinet without a door.

“This place has the charm of an old Route 66 trailer court a decade after they closed the road,” Lawless said, “but I’ve slept in worse.”

He and John Smith had just been heloed to the ship from Chittagong Airport, and the Oregon was already steaming east at sixteen knots, heading for the northern coastline of Myanmar.

“I noticed you’re not limping,” Cabrillo said.

MacD slapped his leg and intentionally thickened the Big Easy lilt in his voice. “Feelin’ fine. A couple days’ R and R, and Ah heal good. My chest still looks like a Rorschach test, but it doesn’t hurt. You let Doc Hux check me out, and Ah’m sure—Can Ah ask you somethin’?”

“Fire away,” Juan invited.

“Why me? Ah mean, well, you know what Ah mean. You just know me one day and offer me a job.”

Cabrillo didn’t need to think of a response. “Two reasons. One was the way you handled yourself when we were in Pakistan. I know how you think and fight when the bullets start flying. That’s something I can’t get from just reading a résumé. The second is just a gut feeling. I was a NOC for the CIA. Do you know what that is?”

“Non-official cover. You went into foreign countries and spied on ’em without any embassy help.”

“Exactly. I recruited locals. It’s one of those jobs where you learn to get a feel for people quickly or you end up dead. As you can plainly see I’m not dead, so I must have a pretty good sense about who I can and can’t trust.”

Lawless held out his hand. “Thank you,” he said simply, but the words were loaded with meaning.

“Thank you. We’re holding a briefing after chow in the mess hall, one deck down on the starboard side. Follow your nose. Dinner’s at six.”

“Black tie,” MacD quipped.

“Optional,” Cabrillo called over his shoulder.

* * *

THE KITCHEN OFF the mess hall was still filthy, but it didn’t matter since the food was being prepared in the main galley and delivered via a dumbwaiter. Juan had reminded the chefs not to display too much of their culinary skill so that John Smith wouldn’t suspect any of his surroundings. It wouldn’t do for a five-star meal to come out of a two-roach kitchen.

Crew members, dressed like engineers, deckhands, and a couple of officers filled the spartan room but gave Cabrillo a table for himself, Lawless, Smith, Max Hanley, and Linda Ross. Linda was going to be the fourth on this mission. She was more than capable of handling herself, and she spoke some Thai, which might come in handy.

Smith was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with matte-black combat boots on his feet. His disposition was little improved from the first meeting in Singapore. His dark eyes remained hooded and were in constant motion, scanning each face at the table and occasionally sweeping the room. When they’d entered prior to a meal of baked lasagna and richly buttered garlic toast, Cabrillo had allowed Smith to choose his own seat at the round table. Not surprisingly, he took one so his back was to a wall.

When he was told that Linda Ross would be joining the team searching for Soleil Croissard, a small, contemptuous sneer played at the corners of his mouth before his expression returned to a blank mask.

“As you wish, Mr. Cabrillo.”

“Juan will be fine.”

“Tell me, Mr. Smith,” Linda said, “your name is English, but your accent is something else.”

“It is the name I chose when I joined the Legion. As I recall, there were about eight of us in my basic training class.”