It’s always hot in Ecuador

“You knew the risk before you got on board! So tell every one to buckle up, sit down and shut the hell up”. I had been watching him since we took off. He was pretending to be asleep but I had never seen one so aware of his surroundings, other than Asaiy Mahler that is, and he was watching me. The sudden jar of the plane, the raised voices, the change in the sound of the engine abruptly forced him to arise from his feigned slumber. An instinctual animal like awareness that came over him immediately. Yea, he was definitely awake now, wide awake. With only a glance he summed up the situation. The look on the faces of the five other passengers . The smoke pouring out of the starboard engine. The low altitude apparent by the treetops now visible from the windows. All of this took a fraction of a second for he and I both to take in. Jordan Scott leapt to his feet and in two steps was in the cockpit. One of the seats was empty as Ron, the co-pilot, tried to secure the passengers and everything within the fuselage as best as he could. Jordan’s actions were as instantaneous as a knee-jerk reflex. The pilot started to object but as he quickly became aware of the expertise of the man next to him as he began apprising him of the situation. “A bird took out the starboard engine. Landing gear down” Jordan said nothing; his hands were on the control pulling forcefully back as he scanned the horizon. “Any place to land this thing? Road? Field? Anything?” Jordan asked. “10 miles ahead, 20 degrees west. If we can keep her steady for a few more minutes we can coast in.” The men banked west, perspiration breaking out on the brow of each of then.  It was hot; it’s always hot in Ecuador. Jordan knew they were too low even to make it 10 more miles. He could see the clearing but the landing gear was already just feet from the treetops. This was all too familiar.

“Not again.” He said, the words only barely audible “I will not let this happen again!” He was talking as if to the past, as if trying to reject an inevitability. He had been here before and was determined to create and alternate ending.

There was no distress call, no mayday sent, no flares launched, no beacon signal turned on. Three on board knew why, one speculated, the rest never even noticed. Jordan’s eyebrow arched as he remembered this little oddity among the string of interesting turns of events. Now was not the time to solve that puzzle, now their survival posed the challenge.

The scene unfolding before me in slow motion sat me straight up in my seat.. The sudden jerk of the plane, the man from across the isle moving to the cockpit, the co-pilot scurrying about the cabin. Feelings rushed in on my consciousness. Shock, anger, indignation. “Damn it!” I demanded. “What happened?” Maher Security had paid these men very well to make sure I and my cargo made it in one piece.  I couldn’t help but scream with the others at the sound of treetops snapping and mettle twisting. There was a moment of silence then impact…pain…darkness.

The rain on my face brought me back. There was pain in my right temple throbbing in pace with my heart beat. The taste of blood swam around my mouth. Spitting, I went though a mental check list; feet, legs, hips, arms, breathe in, breathe out, look left, look right.

A hand reached to steady me, it was covered in mud. There was blood on Jordan’s face; he had a rough sling securing his left arm to his body made out of belt and rope.

“Don’t try to move yet,” he said. His own pain was audible in his pinched, unsteady, breathless voice.

 “My head hurts, but I’m OK.” I assured him while trying to focus on his face, illumined is the faint emergency lighting still functioning in the dismembered hull of the wrecked plane.  Reaching for my seat belt I heard someone moan in the darkness. The fuselage shifted and debris began to fall from somewhere above. Jordan moved quickly to shield me with his own body and growled in pain as something struck his back.

“Shit!. We need to get out of here now and look for help. Quick, can you move? The pilot never sent a mayday or distress call.” He was talking through his questions, thinking out loud as he shifted debris out of my path, “They were carrying something or someone illegal, I don’t know what, but I don’t think anyone will be looking for us any time soon. That is anyone we would want to meet anyway.”  His voice trailed off as he thought of the drug traffickers, warlords and regional militia that patrolled these mountains.

“My case, I have to find my case!” Suddenly alarmed, to the point of panic, I became more and more aware that the cargo I was commissioned to hand carry to Sao Paulo was gone. “It’s silver, it has a diamond design on the front that says Maher Security, the size of a large laptop computer…” I talked into the air and searched with my eyes, crawling away from my seat and over the scattered debris of the crash. My hand landed on something warm and soft. The feel of it was startling as I recognize that it had once been one of my co-passengers, dead in the wreckage.  Moving gingerly around the body I continued my desperate search. The rain was starting up again. Heavier, there was thunder now.

“Leave it!” Jordan commanded. He had more strength in his voice now, probably bolstered by anger. Looking at the sky darkening through the treetops, “We need to find some shelter,” he said. “There is nothing left here. Your case could be a mile away or in the top of a tree somewhere. It’s not worth you life!”

“It’s worth my life and yours to! I have to find it. I can’t let anyone get a hold of it.”

Jordan’s eyes narrowed as he watched her growing anxiety. “You’re the reason for all the secrecy, why they couldn’t call for help.”

Thunder clapped loudly overhead, the sky lit up, sheets of rain began to fall. Jordan grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the tail section of the plain that had broken off and sat some 100 feet away. There was a tarp, a blanket and some clothing strewn about.  He pushed me ahead of him toward a temporary shelter that he must have constructed while I was still out. He gather up a few more items along the way.

We collapsed next to each other on the wet, slick, ground. The effort exhausted us both. All we could do was sit huddled together, wet and in pain, waiting for the rain to stop. The sound of the storm must have masked the sound to the helicopter.  The sound of stomping boots crunching through the bush was little different from the heavy rain drops on the rainforest canopy.

“Carmen March! Is your name Carmen March, ma’am!” came the command from a camouflaged form suddenly standing before the dazed crash survivors.

“Yes.” Was all I could manage in response.

“Your name, sir!

“Major Jordan M. Woods, CIA, U.S. Air Force retired.”

The form in green snapped to attention, saluted briefly “Are their any other survivors sir?,

“No one, just us that I can find.” Jordan’s eyes moved to the base of the boulder sheltering them, sure the darkness and rain would disguise the disturbed earth.

“The case is missing, from the crash.” I explained, to whom or why I was not sure. I was loosing consciousness and I just needed someone to know. “You need to find it…” I was loosing ground rapidly.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Was the response. “Please come with us quickly.”

Someone was helping me to my feet. Voices were shouting commands. The rain was easing up. There was a flash of light and heat from behind me as I moved toward a clearing where two helicopters sat, blades slashing through the thick hot air overhead. Turning to look, men were spraying the crash area with flamethrowers, three small explosions lit up the scene. Blackness was engulfing me once again. Next Jordan and I were onboard one of the helicopters, lifting gently away from the earth.

 “Sir?” One of the men on the helicopter inquired of the Major. “You were not listed in our rescue orders. Were you her escort, Sir?” He probed gently, not sure exactly how much he was authorized to know.

Jordan grimaced, or was that a wry smile. “No.”

 “Then why were you out here on that plane. Sir?”

“Going fishing.”

The airman just looked at him puzzled,

“I was going deep sea fishing, airman, that’s all, just fishing.” The stern look in his eye and his set jaw indicated there would be not further discussion.

The airman shook his head, made a note on his report log and turned to tell the pilots of the Major’s answer.

Aware for a moment again as if I was moving in and out of a dream. I called out. “The briefcase!” A whisper strained from lips where a shout was intended.

His voice was reassuring. “Rest Carmen March, you did good, now rest.” And I did.