White Jungle

By Robert White

Jungles can be some of the most treacherous places on earth, but the plots of men can be even more dangerous. White Jungle is a fast paced and action packed novel that finds pilot William Blake crash landed in a full scale drug war in the vastness of the Colombian rain forest. Out manned and out gunned, he must not only root out the corruption within the Colombian Government, but amongst his own colleagues before it’s too late. Blake battles mercenary soldiers and ruthless drug lords on multiple fronts to save the lives of countless innocents. Aviation enthusiast and action lovers alike will most definitely enjoy White Jungle.

About the Author

Robert White, born in 1977, started out as a corporate pilot before beginning his writing career. He spent over four years of his aviation career living in remote areas of Africa and the Middle East. This unique experience gives him the insight and technical expertise to correctly depict the characters and situations that he most vividly describes in his books.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert White
• Release date: Mar 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9780615470771

Book preview

WHITE JUNGLE

By Robert White

Copyright 2011 by Robert White

Smashwords Edition

Prologue

The Colombian Rainforest

A thin layer of mist clung to the tree tops of the Colombian rainforest as the morning light began to trickle through the forest canopy. Bird sounds and animal calls seemed to emanate from everywhere. John Franks had taken many excursions into the Colombian rainforest and ordinarily he enjoyed exploring the jungle and being one with nature. This time was different. He wasn’t concerned about the beauty and life that surrounded him. He was more concerned about the men with guns that were tracking him relentlessly.

John was in good physical condition but still sweating profusely in the humid air. He jogged at a steadily measured pace, careful not to overexert himself and sap his dwindling energy reserves, but the trees and vegetation made his progress very difficult. He was wearing a one-piece, olive drab military style flight suit that was completely covered in a sweaty layer of dirt and filth.

An unseen tree root snagged John’s foot as he jogged and sent him sprawling awkwardly to the ground. For two days he had been on the run. No matter in what physical condition a person might be, two days of constant motion in 100 degree heat and 90 percent humidity was more than enough to exhaust even those in the best of shape. Sucking in a lung full of air, he shook the dirt from his face and pushed himself up off the ground as he had done many times before. Red welts from stinging insects and scratches from pushing his way through the dense forest covered his exposed skin on his hands and face. Every sound spooked John as he thought it might be the men after him, however the men perusing him weren’t his only concern. He had three times narrowly missed being bitten by what he only assumed were poisonous snakes and he wasn’t quite sure what other animals might find him a tasty meal. He was coming to his physical and emotional breaking point.

John reluctantly began jogging again. After a few minutes he came to a small clearing in the forest canopy that had been made by a large fallen tree. He stopped and stood still for a moment, listening intently, trying to hear if his pursuers were closing in on him. After only hearing the forest around him and satisfied that he was safe for at least a while, he gingerly sat down on the fallen tree and rubbed his sore legs for a moment. John then pulled out a hand held Garmin 230 GPS unit from one of his flight suit pockets and turned it on to let it boot up. The time it took for the unit to find enough satellites to come up with a position seemed to pass excruciatingly slow, but John was grateful at the chance to catch his breath. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a dirty streak across his forehead. Finally the GPS unit beeped letting him know it was ready to use. He quickly punched in his destination coordinates, and the Garmin drew an onscreen map to his rendezvous. To his amazement he found that he was only about a half a mile away. For the first time in a long while a smile crossed his face, his two days of hell in the rain forest were almost over. He would be home soon.

John’s thoughts of home were cut short by a noise that didn’t quite mesh with the normal sounds of the rain forest and he hushed his breathing to better hear it. He located the sound and the smile quickly faded from his face, John turned and looked in the direction from which the sound was coming. The sound was of barking dogs and that could mean only one thing, his pursuers were getting close. At that moment a single gunshot echoed through the trees, it had to be a signal that the dogs had picked up his scent. John shoved the GPS unit back in his pocket and launched himself off of the fallen tree in a panicked run toward his destination. He tried unsuccessfully to push the thought from his mind of what would happen to him if there were no one at the rendezvous point to meet him.

The going was rough but John pushed himself as hard as he could. He was in a panicked state and breathing rapidly. His lungs burned and his muscles ached but the alternative to his temporary pain was death from the men following behind him, though the dogs would catch him first and the things that they would do to him would not be pleasant. John’s vision began to narrow, the edges turning dark from overexertion and exhaustion. His muscles were screaming at him to stop. He felt as if he might pass out

John shook his head and growled, No!

Through an enormous feat of will power his vision began to clear though the jungle was so thick that he was essentially running blind anyway. His muscles still screamed to stop but he pushed on, ignoring the pain. He held his arms out in front of him feebly trying to keep most of the branches from scratching his face. His hands took most of the abuse, leaving droplets of blood on the vegetation as thorns and sharp branches dug into his skin. The trail that John left behind him was hard to miss, although the dogs didn’t need a visual trail, they had his scent now. John could see more light ahead of him. He knew from experience over the past two days that it meant that there was a clearing of some sort ahead of him. Suddenly John felt the ground fall away from his feet and he was sent tumbling end over end down a sharply sloping hill. He reached out futilely for anything to help slow or stop his fall. He began sliding feet first down the hill. He rolled on to his stomach and dug his fingers into the dirt, scraping them raw as he tried to slow his out of control descent. His feet hit something hard and his body was leveraged up into the air. John struck his head hard on a low tree branch. The rest of his fall was a blur as he barely clung to consciousness. After what seemed like minutes of tumbling and sliding out of control, he finally came to a stop face down in a puddle of muddy water. He brought himself to his hands and knees and shook the water from his face. With his head still spinning, he tried to orientate himself to his surroundings and found he was on and old dirt road. It took John a moment through his dizzy and bruised head that he was at his rendezvous point and scanned the road. Only two hundred yards to his left he could see the brake lights of a Jeep sitting at idle in the road.

With a grunt John pushed himself to his feet and began an uncoordinated trot toward the vehicle, yelling to the driver as he went, Hey! I’m here! They’re right behind me! The edges of his vision began to go dark again, he was physically exhausted and had no food or sleep in close to three days. John kept pushing himself. He was tough.

As he finally neared the Jeep, the driver side door opened and a man stepped out. John came to stumbling to a stop, panting with his hands on his knees, wavering and trying not to collapse.

Oh thank God, John said between gasps of air as he looked up and recognized the man. Come on, we need to get out of here, they’re close. It was only then that John saw the gun that the man held by his side. John straightened up; he was trying to figure out what was happening.

Come on, let’s just get out of here, John said motioning to the man’s gun. We can’t fight them off with just that, but the man just stood there, motionless. Then after a few tense moments the man slowly raised his gun level with John’s chest.

Wait! What the hell is this? What are you doing? John pleaded.

I’m Sorry John, the man said and pulled the trigger.

The force from the bullet knocked John from his feet. He fell to his back and felt a sharp pain in his chest as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He couldn’t breathe. He just lay there on his back staring up at the sky gasping for air like a fish out of water. Things seemed to slow down for John. He could hear footsteps slowly walking away from him. He heard the door of the Jeep slam shut, the vehicle start up, and then drive away.

At first John felt a surge of rage and confusion at what had just happened to him. He was so close to getting away only to be shot by his friend. It wasn’t fair, he thought. John struggled to breathe as his own blood poured into his lungs, drowning him from the inside. His anger began to subside and he could see clouds floating lazily on the summer breeze in the sky above him. The sounds of the rain forest seemed to fade away. He began to feel almost peaceful. Then there was a darker sound, the sound of dogs barking with bloodlust as they drew closer. John Franks prayed that he would die before the dogs reached him.

Chapter 1

The Atlantic Ocean off the Ivory Coast

Onboard the aging freighter Ibn Mustapha, the Stench of human sweat and animal waste seemed to ooze from every crevasse of the ship. It was only amplified by the nearly unbearable heat and humidity of the Ivory Coast. The Ibn Mustapha should have been destined for the scrap yards countless years ago but was pressed in to service by greedy owners and a total disregard for safety. What paint still clung to the sides of the vessel was old and flaking off in large rusty pieces. The seemingly ancient ship was packed to the point of overflow with various goods and freely wandering animal life, not to mention the wide variety of humanity on board. Although primarily black African, people of every race and creed were packed tightly on board. Only two people did not quite fit in with the rest, the only two westerners on the ship. William Blake and Dusty Abrams sat leaning up against a rusty bulkhead trying unsuccessfully to fade into their surroundings of piled crates and heavily gowned men and women. They were each dressed in sweat soaked olive drab fatigues with matching caps and next to them were two large duffle bags containing all that each of them now possessed.

William Blake looked about, appraising his surroundings and wondering for not the first time if he should have stayed home in the United States instead of coming to this forsaken part of the world. When he turned to Dusty Abrams, Dusty gave him a reassuring wink, knowing what he was thinking. The two had been friends for over five years now. They had met in the Air force and had grown close enough to be able to communicate without even saying a word to one another.

Blake removed his cap revealing his dark blonde hair, wiped the sweat from his brow, and nudged Abrams while nodding to the rail of the ship, motioning his intentions. Blake rose and walked over to the rail to relieve his bladder over the side. The sea smelled clean and salty and was a relief from the sweltering stench that surrounded him back toward the center of the ship. The breeze felt cool as it washed over him. William Blake was a fairly handsome man, with dark blonde hair, and brown eyes. He was 6’1" and trim but muscular. As he gazed out from the ship, he once again knew that he had made the correct choice in coming here. The water was a deep blue and filled with life. This was what he was searching for, something different from the everyday mundane of back home. A chance to do something that most would never dream of, let alone do.

When he finished relieving himself, he turned around to find a rather large and unpleasant looking Arab man grinning at him with yellow tobacco stained teeth, blocking his way. The man was at least two inches taller than Blake and had a good fifty pounds on him. What was most noticeable about the man was that he had a fresh pink scar cutting through the left side of his unshaven face from just below the temple all the way down to his jaw giving him the effect of looking like some grotesque apparition.

Not desiring what was probably coming Blake said with his usual twinge of a southern accent, Excuse me, I didn’t see you there partner.

In broken English the Arab man replied, You American huh? pausing for a moment. I no like Americans. You all greedy like de Jews. He gave a rather smug laugh and looked over to where his three comrades were waiting ten yards away, waiting for the chance to spring forward incase there was trouble.

Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, now if you will excuse me. Blake began to step to the side and walk around the man, but the man stopped him by putting a hand on Blake’s chest.

"Wait my friend. I not finished wit you yet. I think I get something from you to let you go, like maybe some American dollars?

I thought you didn’t like Americans, Blake Replied.

The man laughed again, You are right friend, I do not, but I do like American dollars. Now you give me dollars, the man said and poked Blake in the chest with a large meaty finger to emphasize his point.

"Look friend it’s not going to happen, so I’ll just be moving on." Blake brushed the man’s hand away and tried to move around him once again, but this time the man shoved him heavily back into the railing.

Blake winced at having his back wrenched into the railing of the ship, but was gratefully that the well rusted ship railing had held him from falling into the warm sea a good thirty feet below.

Angrily the Arab man said, No, you give me money now! and threw a hard right punch which caught nothing but air as Blake swiftly ducked under it and countered with a strong left hand to the man’s kidney, doubling the big man over. Then Blake took a quick step to the left and with his full strength kicked the man in the side of the knee, buckling it and tearing any number of tendons, which sent the big man screaming to the deck of the ship. Blake turned to face the rest of the men, who were now slowly moving in his direction, cursing him in all matter of insults.

A single gun shot rang out and everyone on the ship immediately froze. Dusty Abrams, who had been watching the entire ordeal stepped forward holding his Smith and Wesson .38 Revolver.

The three men who had been intent on doing terrible things to Blake were now staring at Abrams. They were a ragtag group that looked like they were used to being in control and threatening to lesser men, but they were no match for a .38 caliber piece of lead, and knew