Operation: Amazon

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“I’ll give you this much, Cap,” Wiggins said from the belly of the flat-bottomed boat, “you sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

Captain John Banks swiped half a dozen lazy black flies away from his face, wiped sweat from his brow for the fourth time in as any minutes, and turned his gaze away from the river. Wiggins and McCally were in the process of brewing up a pot of tea on the portable solid fuel stove from the private’s kit bag.

“What are you moaning about this time, Wiggo? I promised you something warmer, didn’t I? It doesn’t get much hotter than this.”

“Warm shite is still shite,” Wiggins said.

Banks laughed.

“Aye, I can’t argue with that logic.”

The flight into the Amazonian interior from the coastal airport had promised verdant greenery, shining waters, and a profusion of wildlife at first glance, but the bay they’d landed in had given Banks the first hint of what was in store for them on their trip upriver. Thick cloying mud banks lined the shores on both sides, choking the green out of the vegetation and leaving it gray and dead as far as 10 to 15 yards into the canopy. The river water was the color of milk chocolate — or warm watery shite as Wiggins would have it — as far as you could see. They’d transferred at the village from seaplane to fishing boat and now, with two river guides, were heading up the Amazon to their destination, slowly, through increasingly murky waters.

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