Trinidad, West IndiesOne month earlier
January 20, 1964
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The great monster in the sky cast a shadow on the rain-forest canopy. In the trees, a male capuchin monkey shrieked a warning and the members of his troop reacted instantly. While younger males mimicked the bitonal call, a dozen females knotted together and shielded their young. Juveniles that had lately begun to explore their arboreal habitat now clung shivering to their mothers' hair with both hands and feet. The adults shifted position on the branches, craning their necks to see the jagged patches of sky that showed through holes in the ceiling of foliage. After reaching a terrifying pitch, the cries of the winged hunter faded quickly. The bird was moving off. There would be no attack. The juveniles braved a look upward, then scurried away from their parents, posturing and chattering to send a message that they hadn't been frightened at all. The adults in the troop ignored them; they had already resumed their incessant search for fruits, nuts, and flowers.
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As the U.S. Army CH-21C Shawnee followed the Aripo valley south, the mountain forest of Trinidad's Northern Range gave way to savanna, with its scattered assortment of shrubs and stunted trees. In the cockpit, and nearly five hours out of San Juan, Captain Slate Bold gripped the joystick of the camouflage-colored Piasecki helicopter with aggravated impatience, unaware of the havoc his aircraft had caused for the capuchins living below.
The CH-21C Shawnee was a single-engine, tandem rotor transport helicopter, with flight crew of three with one or two gunners, capable of carrying up to twenty soldiers under ideal conditions. However, on this trip, there was only one passenger----a Major Schoen, who seemed happy to sleep through the whole flight. As a result, Bold hadn't spoken for several hours---which might've been a record, had anyone bothered to keep track of such things. Although his favorite topic of discussion was zoology, Bold was known to range at a moments notice from the mechanics behind kangaroo jumps to what might've existed in the seconds before the birth of the universe. Whether he was debating the existence of the Loch Ness Monster with someone he'd bumped into on the street, or lecturing a classroom full of sixth graders on the dangers of the new hallucinogenic drugs, it didn't matter. It was all so interesting. But recently not everyone appreciated the breadth of Bold's knowledge or his oratory skills. "The man's sense of wonder has been replaced by something dark and sinister," said an anonymous academic, quoted in the press. The article went on to call him "an oratorical and conversational sniper." Outwardly, Bold referred to his new title as a strong aversion to bullshit. Inwardly, however, he would've given up all of life's triumphs and titles, including his Ph.D. from Cornell, if even one passion he truly loved were still alive.
As they began their descent toward Waller Field, Bold radioed the tower for clearance. Schoen was finally showing sings of life, pressing his face against the cabin window as the U.S. Army base loomed nearer, eating up more and more of the horizon.
To Bold, Waller Field resembled a series of ragged scars ripped into Trinidad's Caroni Plain. He wondered how long it would take for the savanna to reclaim the base if the Cold War ever ended and the Americans went home. Too long, probably.
Bold received his landing clearance, but as he took the Piasecki down for a final approach, something (likely a bird) thudded against the aft rotor. Simultaneously, the helicopter was yanked hard to Bold's right.
Bold reacted automatically, feathering the aft rotor. The blades angled into the wind, reducing drag, and he gunned the fore rotor, simultaneously slamming hard on the rudder. The Piasecki responded---pulling back to port until finally, it was holding a straight line toward the helipad. The whole episode had occupied all of five seconds.
"Now that's something you don't experience every day," Bold called back to the cabin.
There was no response, so he shot a quick glance at his passenger----and while he couldn't be absolutely sure, it appeared that Schoen had somehow curled himself into a fetal ball.
"Aw, hell with you," Bold said to himself.
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Crewchief Gil Yeager knew that the wet season was ending because his men had quit bellyaching about the rain and mud and started bellyaching about the heat and humidity. His groundcrew at Waller Field had staked out the available shade around the landing strip and now the game was to see who could stay out of the sun the longest. Although it was only 10:00 A.M., the temperature at the base ---a center for American military operations in the South Atlantic since the beginning of World War II---had risen to 90 degrees Fahrenheit, with humidity to match. As the Piasecki descended to the helipad, Yeager had been alone on the tarmac, shielding his eyes against the glare.349Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEbYhjmnEMo
"Uh-oh," he said to himself; then he whistled loudly to signal his crew. The Army's "Shawnee" was struggling. The drone from the aft rotor had suddenly shifted from a high-pitched whine to a sputter and it appeared that the helicopter wanted to sway and stagger in its course. Keeping his gaze skyward, Yeager sensed someone approaching from behind.
"Sounds like he's comin' in with a bum rotor." The drawl belonged to Private Cohen, who'd been stationed at Waller Field for a year but was still known as N.G.----New Guy.
Yeager ignored the man and kept his eyes on the helicopter, which seemed to have straightened itself out. "N.G., who's flying that thing?"
Cohen fumbled with a clipboard before pointing to a spot at the bottom of a sweat-stained sheet of paper. "Bold, sir."
Yeager glanced at the flight manifest and relaxed a bit. "They'll be fine."
A flash of movement caused him to look up. It was accompanied by the sound of another engine in distress. And this one was bearing down on them at unnatural speed.
"What the----?" Yeager cried, and the two men dove off the runway and into the brush, barely avoiding being run down by a speeding jeep that blew past them.
Rising to his knees, Yeager could see that he'd been right about the landing; the pilot had managed to ease his copter down. He touched ground lightly, despite the engine trouble, and despite the vehicle that had lurched onto the blacktop and threatened to clip the pilot's wings if he needed more runway.
"Who's the asshole?!" Yeager asked, rolling his eyes again as the terminally puzzled Cohen scanned his clipboard for an answer.
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The driver of the jeep was Corporal Jeff Dodd, whose short stature and hangdog expression gave him an uncanny resemblance to comedian Phil Silvers. Having scattered Yeager's groundcrew, Dodd brought the jeep to a skidding, gear-grinding halt, before running to intercept the helicopter's passenger, who had flung open the cabin door and was racing away from the Shawnee as if it had suddenly burst into flames.
Corporal Dodd held a large envelope in one hand and saluted with the other. He backpedaled quickly, speaking in a high-pitched voice: "Good morning, Captain Bold. Welcome to Trinidad, sir. Major Simpson has been expecting....."
The officer jerked a thumb over his shoulder and toward the plane. "You got the wrong guy, buddy," he said, brushing past the puzzled corporal without breaking his stride.
Dodd hurried to the helicopter, clutching the envelope. Struggling up to the hull, he peered into the cavernous twenty-seat hold. It was empty, so he backed up and turned toward the pilot. The man was looking up at the aft rotor and whistling The Beatles' new hit, "She Loves You, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah."
"Captain Bold?"
"You got him," the pilot replied while still looking at the now-still 44-foot-long aft rotor.
Dodd hesitated, glanced past the open hatch a final time, and took a few tentative steps towards the man. "Sir?"
"Shit!" the pilot said. Bold shielded his eyes against the sun and scanned the buildings nearest to the helipad. "Hey, you haven't seen the groundcrew anywhere, have you?"
Dodd glanced around but the helipad was deserted, except for two men, plastered with dirt and briars. They were walking away at a brisk pace, pausing only long enough to flip Dodd their middle fingers.
Bold smiled. "They friends of yours?"
"No, sir," the corporal replied.
Returning his attention to the helicopter, the pilot reached into a small air intake vent with a gloved hand and began wrestling with something. Grunting and cursing, he yanked out a glistening red mass and held it out to Dodd.
"Corporal, meet Eudocimus ruber!"
Dodd took a step back and grimaced. "Eudo-see-what, sir?"
"It's a scarlet ibis."
The scent of engine-seared flesh and feathers was overpowering in the thick, humid air; the corporal could feel his breakfast shifting uneasily. "It's----a beaut-----a real beaut."
Dodd had been about to hand over a large envelope, but instead he hesitated, swallowing the gorge that was rising in his throat like a sour tide.
"Yeah, but this one has definitely seen better days. Say, those papers for me?" Bold asked, reaching for the manila envelope. But the corporal was either unwilling or unable to let go of the envelope, even as he held it out, arm extended.
"Thanks a lot, Corporal." Bold tugged again, harder this time. Dodd finally relinquished his grip. With one eye on the corporal, Bold tore the envelope open with his teeth and withdrew several sheets of paper. In one oil-and blood-smeared glove he still held the turbine shredded remains of the bird.
Dodd took a deep breath. "Good morning, Captain Bold. Welcome to Trinidad, sir. Major Simpson has been expecting you. I'm supposed to drive you to the meeting room on the double."
Bold looked up from the papers and acknowledged him with a nod, strolling to the jeep's far side.
"Say, you're the explorer guy, aren't you, sir?" Dodd said, before easing himself behind the wheel.
The pilot tucked the papers into his field vest and climbed into the rear of the jeep. "I've done some bushwhacking. But I'm really just a tropical zoologist, although was a tropical zoologist might be a better description."
"Why's that, sir?"
"Well, let me put it this way: somebody's got to protect the folks back home from the Reds. I just decided that I was the right man for the job."
Corporal Dodd punched the stickshift forward, jerking the vehicle loudly into gear. The jeep shuddered, then started to pick up speed.
"You'll wanna try out that clutch one of these days, Corporal. Some folks say it makes shifting easier."
Dodd shot Bold a look in the rearview mirror, but any reply he might've made was lost in the metallic death throes of second gear.
As the jeep lurched through the camp, Bold noticed that Waller Field was even larger than it looked from the air. More like a little city than an airfield, he thought as they passed row after row of prefabricated buildings. Each had been elevated off the ground by a series of eight-foot wooden beams. There was a baseball field as well, and Bold could have sworn he saw two officers carrying golf clubs. Strangest of all, though, was the fact that Waller Field seemed to have been built upon (and primarily of) asphalt. Runways, landing pads, even rooftops were tarred. Men, buildings, and mountains of crated supplies were shimmering in waves of late morning "mirage air." Bold guessed that the ambient temperature had to be fifteen degrees higher than the already tropical surroundings, and because of this, most of the soldiers were stripped to the waist.
Bold shouted over the sound of the jeep. "Jeez, they built this place outta tar, huh? I'd have never thought of that."
"Got it all for free, sir," the corporal shouted back. "Pitch Lake----three hundred feet deep."
Bold shook his head. "Now there ya go, Corporal, military intelligence at work. Lucky it wasn't Dog Shit Lake."
The driver made no reply and so Bold turned his attention back to the handful of burnt bird. He carefully separated several of the brilliant, though slightly singed, primary feathers from the bloody connective tissue---flicking the grizzle out the side of the jeep. Looking up, he noticed that the corporal was watching him out the corner of one eye but the driver quickly shifted his attention to the road and gripped the steering wheel ever more tightly.
"Nice furcular," Bold said to himself, holding the wishbone between his thumb and index finger as if it were a miniature divining rod.
Dodd took another peek backward, feeling increasingly uneasy as he wondered whether Bold was complimenting his furcular?
"And what the hell is a furcula, anyway, he muttered.
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