Collins spoke over the PA: “I guess you folks know this because you’re geologists, but this area north of the river is known as the Orinoco Petroleum Belt where all of this country’s heavy crude is located.” He added, “The largest reserves of petroleum on the planet.”
Brodie called out over the sound of the engine, “I sometimes dream about the Orinoco Petroleum Belt.” He said to Taylor, “Don’t we, dear?”
She had no reply.
Brodie looked down at the oil fields scattered among the rich agricultural land, finding it hard to believe that this country was an economic basket case. Venezuela, like much of South America, was blessed by nature and cursed by men. Totally fucked up.
Brodie continued to peer out the window, and he could now see the muddy waters of the Orinoco River snaking through the countryside, and up ahead he got a glimpse of Ciudad Bolívar clinging to its southern bank. It was a small city laid out in a grid, and as they got lower and closer he could see the buildings, a mix of picturesque colonial and slapdash modern. Beyond the city to the south, there was less farmland and more forest, and he recalled that Ciudad Bolívar was called the Gateway to the South—a frontier town, beyond which were vast tracts of sparsely populated land, indigenous people, jungle, and Kyle Mercer.
Sunlight was filling the cabin now, and he looked at Taylor, who was staring out her side window. He wondered what was going on inside her head. Possibly she regretted telling him about her complicity in Operation Flagstaff—unwitting complicity, according to her version of the story. It occurred to him that only actors stuck to the script. But maybe he shouldn’t be so cynical and untrusting. Her admission had the ring of truth—though not the whole truth. Maybe she’d truly been in love with Trent, and maybe she still was. And now she was on a CID assignment to track down Kyle Mercer, America’s most infamous deserter and a possible participant in Flagstaff. So maybe this assignment was calling up the ghosts that Maggie Taylor thought she’d left in Afghanistan.
Empathy was not one of Brodie’s many strong points, but he’d seen those ghosts himself, at unexpected times and in unexpected places, so maybe he and Taylor had an unspoken bond—the brotherhood of war. She certainly had balls. He knew lots of men who would not have agreed to this mission into the heart of darkness. He made a mental note to write a glowing letter of commendation for her file. But then Dombroski and everyone else would think he’d had sex with her. So he should preface the letter by stating that he hadn’t. And on that subject, he wondered if she had regrets that she’d let that moment pass. Since the beginning of time, men had said to women, “I’m going into battle. I could be dead tomorrow. Let’s fuck.” That approach had a good success rate. But in this case, they were going into battle together—at his suggestion—so maybe she reasoned that if she’d agreed to the dangerous mission, she didn’t have to agree to the sex. His father had once told him, “If you can learn how to think like a woman, you’ll get laid more.” Good advice. Better than the old man’s advice on how to roll a joint.
Collins contacted the control tower and was cleared for the low approach toward Tomás de Heres—a.k.a. Tommy Can You Hear Us?—which Brodie saw was a small airport with a single runway, maybe a mile long, suitable for large aircraft, probably built when tourism to the south was big. But now there was only one large aircraft on the tarmac—a military transport. He also noticed a few smaller aircraft parked near the small terminal, probably carrying government oil people or adventure tourists, or maybe cartel kingpins.
Collins lined the Cessna up with the runway and communicated with the control tower. He passed over the outer marker, and within seconds he made a smooth touchdown. Brodie said to him, “Those people down there look like ants.”
Collins knew the old joke and said, “They are ants. We’re on the ground.”
They both laughed. Brodie knew how to bond with men. Women were more of a challenge.
Collins contacted ground control, then turned the plane onto a taxiway and headed toward a row of hangars where other small craft were parked. He steered toward a tanker truck and the propeller spun down as he stopped and cut the engine.