Black Rain

McCarter understood the situation. He’d questioned their odds before, but now he knew what it meant to cling to even the thinnest ray of hope. They couldn’t hold out for a good chance or for even a fair one. It seemed prayers would be wasted on such grand requests. But a hundred-to-one shot, the smallest mistake by their captors, perhaps it was less foolish to ask fate for that, perhaps they’d get that type of chance before it was over.

McCarter tried to stretch his legs. He stared up at the night sky once more. The stars were so ridiculously bright that they seemed to be mocking him.

“The Mayan people cut holes in the jungle like this one,” he said. “Just to see the stars. They aligned their temples with the Equinox and the Solstice and even the very center of our galaxy—though no one knows how they determined that. They carved whole sections out of the rainforest, just to study the heavens, the realm of their gods.”

McCarter continued to scan the sky above the clearing. “Over time, the jungle crept in and swallowed the other places whole. But the land is still barren here, the stars still shine. A small refuge for the old gods, I guess.”

McCarter glanced at Danielle and then Verhoven, waiting for a derogatory comment or some quip about useless philosophy. But despite what McCarter thought, Verhoven actually smiled. “Then let’s hope the old gods favor us,” he said.

Out in the clearing the activity had stopped.

McCarter let his body grow still. His own quiet seemed to heighten his senses and he soon recognized a soft glow at the center of the camp and the dimly lit outline of a face, bathed in a strange, fluctuating glow. It took a moment before he understood: the soft light came from the perimeter warning system. The screen was flashing.

Verhoven saw it too. “Our friends are here.”

His voice was low, but loud enough to wake the only other survivor from his team: Roemer.

McCarter thought to wake Susan, only to remember that she was gone. Another loss he hadn’t come to grips with.

“Things could get ugly,” Verhoven said. “If you see them, don’t move. If they realize that we’re prisoners, they might take pity on us. Or they might attack anyway. But if we fight, they’ll slaughter us.”

“And if they set the trees on fire?” McCarter asked, voicing his earlier fear.

“Then hope they kill you first.”

As McCarter tried to block out the possibility, he looked toward the command center. He could make out Devers’ face now; he was pointing into the distance.

A flare shot off directly to the west. It carried a half mile into the sky before deploying a small parachute and beginning a gentle float across the camp to the south.

“White flare,” Verhoven said. “Trip-wire flare, not from the console. Something’s in the forest out there.”

The burning flare illuminated the camp. “I see eight soldiers,” McCarter said.

“I counted eight as well,” Danielle said.

“There are more,” Verhoven said. “I know it. They just have their heads down, waiting for the attack.

“Any sign of the Chollokwan?” Danielle asked.

Verhoven twisted around for a better view of the forest behind them. “Not yet.”

McCarter’s eyes went from the clearing to the forest and then back again, as another flare shot upward to the north. This time a red one, triggered by the sensors, or manually from the laptop. A rifle cracked, shattering the silence. A second later other weapons joined in, opening up at full tilt.

Things looked bad, and a minute later, when one of the Germans came bounding over to them, McCarter wondered if they were about to get decidedly worse.

The soldier who approached them had been sent at Kaufman’s bidding. With an attack from the natives or the animals likely, the prisoners had suddenly become a problem for him. Kaufman didn’t want to leave them at the tree, but he had nowhere else to secure them, and he didn’t want them causing any problems in the middle of the battle. He’d chosen a compromise: leave them where they were, but send protection. This soldier had drawn the short straw and the unenviable task of guarding them during whatever was about to occur.

He walked up and kicked McCarter’s legs.

“I’m awake,” McCarter said, pulling his legs back.

“Good,” the guard said. “Now be still.” He waved the barrel of his rifle at the others. “All of you.”

McCarter’s eyes tracked the soldier. He was sick of being a prisoner, sick of being afraid. Verhoven had said something earlier about bringing one of them down to the ground, and from that point, a solid kick to the neck or temple would finish him. Maybe now was the time.

In the distance, Kaufman’s men began firing again, staccato bursts here and there, probing, searching. The soldier guarding them glanced back toward the center of camp, and as he did, McCarter lunged at him, hoping to tackle him and pin him down.