Harpy

By T. Mullen

In Panama’s Darien jungle, Colombian rebels kidnap American wildlife biologists tracking a harpy eagle – the most ferocious raptor alive. In Maryland, researchers at the NASA/Goddard Space Flight Center discover this eagle has vanished. The link between these abductions unfolds in a story of smuggling wildlife, running drugs, tracking clues via satellite, and succumbing to unlikely romance. This story about facing the past in order to handle the future skips from Central America to Dubai, and then across the United States - from northeastern suburbs to windy high peaks in Colorado.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T. Mullen
• Release date: Apr 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988354029

T. Mullen

T. Mullen was born in sunny St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands, and then moved to the suburbs north of Chicago, where he lived until he was seven. His family then moved to Ireland, which became home base for the next eighteen years. He studied architectural and civil engineering as well as business administration and spent fifteen years working outside the U.S. as a consultant regarding water resource and environmental projects in Africa, Asia, the Middle East, and Latin America. Spending half his life in the U.S. and half outside influenced the topics Mullen writes about - including travel, history, and cultural clashes. He has written several magazine articles related to environmental issues and has also written a few books, including Wine and Work - People Loving Life, as well as Rivers of Change - Trailing the Waterways of Lewis and Clark. For more about T.Mullen and his books, check out www.RoundwoodPress.com.

Book preview

World Map

Map of Panama

Map of U.S.A

Section One – Darien

Year 2000

1

The Darien Wilderness

Panama, Central America

Friday, 12:49 PM

Carmensa wanted to know how the killer raised her family.

She slipped her tanned shoulder from under a nylon strap, then laid her backpack on the soil. The surrounding high foliage blotted out the glare of tropical sunlight. The humidity felt thick.

From behind, a stocky blonde man handed her a pair of binoculars.

Up, he said, pointing. Left.

Carmensa clasped strands of her black hair between a thumb and forefinger, then tossed these over her right shoulder. She tilted the lenses higher. A minute passed before she lowered the binoculars.

Not home yet, she said. Let’s wait.

She turned to the man beside her.

Two years?

Two years, Chris replied. Sometimes longer.

He scratched a single mosquito bite on his sunburnt, muscle bound thigh. He was pleased that during their three hour hike through the jungle, few mosquitoes had bothered them. Chris wanted to leave before dusk, when the female anopheles mosquito took to the air. The purpose of their trip, he reminded himself, was to take notes and photographs, not to catch malaria.

Why is that a problem? she asked.

What?

Two years. Why such a problem?

Chris ignored her words. Movement caught his attention. He scanned the forest canopy.

Coming home, he said, and pointed to the top of the silk cotton tree before them.

Up front and right. See?

Carmensa raised the binoculars, then marveled at what passed over the jungle canopy.

I see her.

Since dawn, Carmensa and Chris had traveled via a small plane and a dugout canoe and had hiked through rough, muddy segments of jungle to arrive at this tree. In light of the majesty she now witnessed, Carmensa considered these tribulations petty. She watched the figure land on a thick branch, then turn still.

She’s so quiet, Carmensa whispered.

He, corrected Chris. A silent killer.

2

Applied Information Sciences Branch

NASA/Goddard Space Flight Center

Greenbelt, Maryland

Friday, 12:55 PM

Matt Barker shook his head. He folded the New York Times newspaper closed and glanced at the cafeteria clock. It was five to one. He swallowed the last chunk of a chocolate chip cookie and stood. He considered the crossword clue again. Eight letter word. Beginning with T, ending with S: Thirsty, punished Greek. He whacked the curled newspaper against his thigh and paced out of the room.

In the hallway Barker ran fingers through his curly brown hair and pulled up his sagging trousers. It bothered him that the only clue he missed concerned Greek mythology. He should know the answer, he quipped under his breath. His teachers in England had pelted him with Greek history while he prepared for his A and O level exams before college. Later, while he studied at Durham University, he sat through long lectures on Trojan heroes, Peloponnesian architecture and Spartan battles. Now, a simple Greek name eluded him. That fact did not irritate Barker. What bothered him was that the apparently rather uncultured and opinionated Yank he worked with would likely know the answer. He always did. His workmate was a master of trivia, a walking encyclopedia. Barker did not consider his forgetting of mythology as an insult to his intelligence. It bothered him, though, that the graduate of some liberal university – undoubtedly filled with tanned surfers courting buxom beach bunnies in Santa Barbara, California – might recall more than he did about the very roots of western civilization.

Barker turned left. He ascended a flight of stairs and opened a plain white door. A sign in the center of the door read:

CODE 935

DIRECT SATELLITE READOUT GROUP

Inside, Barker eased himself in a chair before his computer monitor. He dropped his bulky glasses on a crumpled napkin on the desk. Seeing that one shoe lace hung loose, he swatted it with the newspaper rather than tie it.

Crossword clue, Dale, he said. Ready?

His bearded workmate sat upright. In his late twenties, Dale Armstrong’s appearance contrasted sharply to that of Barker. He wore pressed khaki trousers that fit his waistline perfectly; his hair was impeccably combed. He cocked a gleaming smile with calculated charm as he turned sideways and removed his silver rimmed glasses.

Shoot, said Dale. One at a time, he tucked both hands behind his head.

Barker raised his eyebrows and watched the action, fascinated that his workmate was even organized about relaxing. He next lifted his mug. His lips did not make full contact. A dribble of cold Earl Grey tea careened down his chin, then plunged onto his shirt. He pulled the mug away, gaped at the moist fabric, and ignored it.

Eight letter clue, said Barker. ‘Thirsty, punished Greek’ Begins with T.

And ends, Dale quickly added, with S.

Barker sighed. Again, the Yank knew the answer.

Well? he asked.

Well what?

The answer? he asked. Want me to beg?

I’ll tell you for a beer, Dale replied.

Wonderful, thought Barker. He reached to his desk and pushed aside newspaper funnies, a gum wrapper and one soggy paperback. He leaned one elbow on a clear space. Did he really want to forge a friendship with this up-tight American? Probably not. Still, the weekend was close. He had no other plans.

Right, he agreed. One beer.

Tantalus, said Dale. Punished for trying to deceive the Greek gods. They hung him from a tree in the underworld of Hades, then put a pool of water below his waist and a fruit tree above his head. Whenever he reached up to grab fruit, wind blew the branches out of his reach. When he got thirsty and bent down…

The water slipped away, said Barker, finishing his workmate’s sentence. The first tantalized human.

Exactly. One beer. Tomorrow night?

Barker nodded.

Smiling, Dale tilted his bearded, semi-gloating face toward a computer monitor. He tapped his fingers on the keyboard. A beer. One cold beer with the somewhat sloppy but affable Englishman. He suddenly wondered - what would the two of them talk about?

He clicked the image of a yellow envelope on his monitor. A list showed that he had two new e-mail messages. One came from the kayaking club. The other came from an address he did not recognize that began with GLIDE. He clicked out of the mail program. He could read both later.

Dale looked at the monitor again. His expression changed. He jabbed a sequence of keys and pulled his chair forward. The geographical image on the monitor showed the country of Panama in Central America. The colored map outlined the isthmus touching both Costa Rica and Colombia, linking Central to South America. Dale pulled his other hand from his beard and punched more keys. Parallel columns of numbers scrolled rapidly upward across the monitor.

Barker noticed his workmate’s intensity.

There, said Dale. He placed one finger on the monitor. Something’s wrong.

What’s up? Barker asked.

This transmitter. Hasn’t moved for over forty hours.

Barker stayed in his chair, but wheeled it to Dale’s side. He inspected the monitor that displayed columns of numbers on the left and a map image on the right. His face turned serious as he focused on the data.

Whose transmitter? he asked.

Nice coincidence, Dale answered. Named after another Greek. Female.

Athena?

You got it.

Not moving? What do you make of it?

What else? Dale said. Looks like we’re tracking a dead eagle.

3

Carmensa stayed silent for half a minute, then whispered.

Magnificent.

First time to see a harpy eagle? Chris asked.

Second. Saw one in Soberania Park in Panama City. Looks different in the wild though. Rougher. More powerful. Its talons are huge.

She scrutinized the raptor perched high on a branch, admiring its wide frame and regal gaze.

Why is two years such a problem? she asked again.

That’s a long time to raise one chick, Chris answered. Females incubate a single egg for two months, then spend six months teaching their newborn to fly. Meanwhile, both parents feed the chick for over a year.

So?

So it depends on how you look at it. It’s such a big effort to raise a chick that parents only raise one at a time. That’s good for the young – it gives them the opportunity to learn how to hunt and survive. But harpies are endangered. Time is something they don’t have. The rate at which they’re repopulating is too slow for the species to survive. They need help.

Endangered. From deforestation? Carmensa asked.

Mostly. Poaching too.

Chicks are bred in the United States, then brought here and released. Right?

That’s the idea. Chris said. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

They always stay in pairs?

Monogamous. Harpies mate for life.

Nodding, Carmensa kept her eyes on the raptor.

Where’s the transmitter?

Strapped to his back. See? Custom fit harness. Put it there myself.

Must be a pain for the eagle to carry, Carmensa said.

Not bad. That one weighs a half ounce. Only takes a few milliamps to power it every day.

Amazing.

Not any more, Chris said. He rested one hand on the flaking bark of a naked Indian tree. The newest systems receive signals as well as transmit them. Japanese and European space agencies are in the game now too, working with NASA and NOAA to track these birds.

NOAA?

National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. You should know. Another of your US government agencies. Big office in Colorado. Isn’t that where you’re from?

Close. Wyoming.

Rocky Mountains, right?

You got it.

Though he did not remember the location of Carmensa’s home, Chris Harrington recalled every detail about tracking eagles in the wild. After the young adults were sent to Panama from the Peregrine Fund in the state of Idaho, Chris had strapped transmitters to their backs. He then spent six months in Soberania Park, monitoring the harpy eagles after they were temporarily released into the jungle. He later took these same harpies to the Darien and released them there permanently.

Just one satellite collects the signals? Carmensa asked.

At least two always track these birds. The program got started in the 80s with humpback whales. Now NASA and the National Biological Service track harpies as well as Siberian, sandhill, and Eurasian cranes.

So a satellite picks up a signal from an eagle and transmits its location to researchers, right?

Almost. Satellite signals get sent to ground stations first. From there they’re sent to a company named Data ARGOS. There are over six thousand of these transmitters around the world and ARGOS sends the signals to places like the NASA Goddard Center to be processed. From there the information gets passed to organizations tracking wildlife.

How many times have you been up here, in the Darien?

This is my third trip. I came over a year ago to release these eagles, then a few months later to find their nest.

Days earlier, when the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute phoned Chris to ask if he could assist one of their field researchers, he seized the chance. He met Carmensa Ramirez in Panama City and was surprised by the beauty of the Cuban-born American woman. Her deep brown pupils radiated vigor. Her high cheekbones affected her stature in the same way that six inches of added height alter the presence of a man. She controlled the movements of her slender body with a refined, though confident grace that gave her a paradoxical presence – both intimidating and warm. The strands of silky black hair flowing over both shoulders, Chris thought, suited her like the groomed mane of a prizewinning racehorse.

Within days of meeting, Chris and Carmensa grew comfortable around each other. Although she was in her late twenties and more than five years his junior, Chris knew this partner could challenge his wits. Yet she seldom did. Her smooth face appeared angelic or bewildered, but rarely threatening. Chris also respected her incessant curiosity. Carmensa’s hunger to learn about harpies made up for her lack of previous experience in tracking wildlife.

How close can you pinpoint eagles with a transmitter? she asked.

"With satellite information, about five hundred feet or better.

That’s how you found the nest?

Right. We released the eagles and I checked the tracking coordinates of where they spent nights. I came back months later to find them with a map and GPS. The global positioning system identifies their latitude and longitude using satellite coordinates, and is small enough to fit in your hand.

And when you found them, they had a chick.

Right.

"Where is the other eagle then, his mate?

Good question, Chris answered. He furrowed his brow.

Maybe out hunting for food, though that’s unusual in this midday heat.

Carmensa handed the binoculars to Chris. With tall and confident strides she walked past Tico – their hired Emberá Indian guide. Tico came from a jungle outpost near the remote town of El Real. Short and silent, he watched Carmensa maneuver close to the silk cotton tree. Her slender neck stretched upward. With tanned fingers she blocked sunlight from her face, then looked directly downward. She eyed the earth for debris that fell out of the nest – bones of prey or scat. Instead, a glint of silver distracted her. Carmensa winced, then reached down to a clump of leaves and picked up two metal objects.

Jesus, she said, kneeling.

What’s up? Chris asked.

Did both eagles have transmitters?

Right.

Carmensa twisted a metal box no more than three inches long in her fingers. One strand of silver cable stuck out of it. Except for two angled corners, the box was shaped like a miniature brick. The other object she held was a metal identification collar that had been cut open.

Carmensa’s surprise transformed to anger. Seething, she clenched the transmitter between fingers. Her voice was curt.

Someone took the other eagle.

The thought of separating a mother from its young infuriated Carmensa. She exhaled through clenched teeth. Chris stared at the transmitter, then looked into her wide eyes.

Who? he asked.

Uncertain, Carmensa shook her head.

Behind, a click pierced the air. Carmensa wheeled around. She looked at the faces of five youths who had walked through the jungle and stood in a semicircle. Each wore a dirty uniform and clutched a rifle. Their obvious leader, probably no more than twenty two years old, motioned his rifle barrel at the researchers.

"Manos arriba," he said, and jerked his gun high. Hands up.

4

Dale reached forward. He pointed to a single yellow dot on his computer monitor. The circle highlighted a location in eastern Panama.

Hasn’t changed position in two days.

Barker crouched low. He eyed the country that was shaped like a horizontal S, then moved back to view Panama in context of the larger map of Central and South America. He counted fourteen yellow dots on the monitor: eight in Venezuela, four in Guyana, two in Panama.

Dale tapped the keyboard again. A new image flashed across the monitor, showing parallel columns of data. The fourth and fifth columns showed dates and times. To their right, another column displayed geographical coordinates.

See? The coordinates have stayed the same.

No motion? Barker asked.

Nothing. Looks like Athena took a hunter’s bullet.

You sure?

No. But that’s what usually happens. Harpies are huge – they make good food for hungry hunters. They also hunt for the same types of birds that poachers want. To get rid of competition, poachers shoot the harpies. That’s what I’m told, at least.

Barker nodded. He looked down and noticed cookie crumbs stuck to his shirt. He leaned over and tried to blow them away. When the action failed he shook his shirt. When that failed, he just looked back at the monitor.

Their talons are worth a fair bit too, Dale added. For amulets or medicine. Some people think the talons of such a powerful bird carry strong magic.

Dale kept inspecting the monitor.

Maybe it wasn’t a hunter, Barker added.

What else?

Give you a clue. Classic book, written by Robert Louis Stevenson. One word title with, uh, nine letters.

Dale considered this for no more than six seconds. His eyes widened.

You think? he said, leaning back. He articulated the title slowly, trying to grasp the implication of Barker’s riddle.

"Kidnapped."

Dale picked up the telephone.

Who are you phoning? Barker asked.

Patuxent.

Operated by the US Geological Survey in Maryland, the Patuxent Wildlife Research Center uses tracking coordinates supplied by Goddard Space Flight Center to identify wildlife migration routes.

After the phone rang three times, an overworked, pug-nosed researcher named Dr. Keller answered. When Dale explained that an eagle was missing she scribbled down the details.

Keep me informed, she said.

Dale hung up, then dialed a second contact.

This time? Barker asked.

Panama City. Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute.

Outside the office of Fernando Sanchez, rain battered the foliage of Ancon Hill. This trapezoidal topographical lump coated by greenery dominates Panama City’s skyline and serves as its unofficial weatherman. The view of the hill gives perspective to the height and distance of rainclouds, indicating their likelihood of spilling. Today, Ancon was engulfed by low, muggy cumulus. From his second story office above the intersection of Calle Francisco Morales and Portobello Street, Fernando wiped his sweating forehead and switched on the air conditioning. The sticky humidity of June had peaked.

Sanchez laid a felt tip pen on his well ordered desk. Each item had its place in his office. He knew – exactly – where to find any paperclip, pencil, or file immediately. The sparseness of his desk reflected Fernando’s uncluttered thought processes. His shirt was always tucked in tight; his penmanship looked impeccable. Only two items hung on his office walls. As the air conditioning started to blow, Fernando adjusted the frame of one such object – a photograph of his smiling wife and two shy daughters. Below this hung a second frame – a reverse appliqué mola fabric hand stitched by Kuna Indians from the Caribbean San Blas islands. The custom made mola showed a map of Panama with all ten provinces delineated in separate colors.

The telephone rang. Fernando lifted the receiver.

"Quién me habla?" he asked. Who’s this?

Fernando - it’s Dale Armstrong at Goddard. How’s life?

Dale! Fine. ‘N you?

Not bad, but summer is late. Can you fax us some of your sunshine?

Fernando laughed. Our humidity will clog your machine.

Listen Fernando, we’re still tracking those harpies in the Darien. Looks like one stopped moving. Means its collar fell off. Or it’s dead. Or – maybe – someone took the eagle and threw the transmitter away. Thought I’d check if you had any researchers near the nest who could tell us more.

Fernando’s answer was swift.

We sent a team to the Darien this morning. A biologist and a field engineer, some guy who does contract work for the Peregrine Foundation. Their first stop is to visit that nest.

Dale exhaled a gasp of relief. Within days he would have field verification about the transmitter. There would be no more speculation after that, just facts and solid information tagged to precise numbers. Beautiful, thought Dale. He hated fuzziness.

Great Fernando. Can you phone me when you know what happened? We need official confirmation of what’s happened before we can stop tracking this transmitter.

I’ll call you when I know.

"Hasta pronto, Fernando." Until soon.

After he hung up Fernando looked through the narrow window of the yellow building he worked in, the Instituto Smithsonian de Investigaciones Tropicales. He knew that in the past years Panama had lost too many harpy eagles, the country’s national symbol. He picked up the receiver again and made a long distance call. When there was no reply he swiveled his chair to a computer and typed a simple e-mail message explaining the situation. He addressed the message to the address GLIDE, then pressed send.

5

Elevation: 14,150 feet

Mount Sneffels, Colorado

Friday, 1:27 PM

Kurt Reed sucked in thin air from where he stood at over fourteen thousand feet above sea level. He rested his legs on the steep snow covered slope, then rotated his shoulders and looked behind. The thin air of altitude affected his view. With each breath forced into his lungs the vista before him appeared to contract slightly before it dilated again. Gazing at distant mountains was like watching images painted on the skin of a balloon that rhythmically puffed up before deflating.

Almost up! a blonde woman called from the summit above. She stretched her arms wide and shook both clenched fists.

Celebration time! she hollered, eyeing Kurt. Secretly, she marveled at how his agile figure moved with the stealth of a reptile.

Kurt smiled. He turned and looked at other nearby peaks in Colorado’s San Juan mountain range. In the past decade he had climbed fifty three of the fifty four Colorado peaks that tower above fourteen thousand feet elevation. As his feet plunged through snow and his fingers eased their grip on the shaft of an ice axe, Kurt anticipated the joy of reaching the rocky summit of his final ‘fourteener.’ Reed recalled the bliss and agony that climbing these peaks had brought to him during the past decade. He remembered lightning strikes near the summit of Red