Over a breakfast of huevos rancheros, Mitch outlined the day's plan.

"I've got us set for the morning commuter flight to Puerto Ayacucho," he told Amanda. "From there, we'll meet up with Roberto, and he'll fly us into La Esmeralda."

"I just got through to the mission," added Amanda. "They'll have a boat for us, fueled, equipped, and ready to go."

"That's great. Each flight isn't more than a couple of hours. We should be there by lunch. With any luck, we'll be down the Casiquiare and up the Pamoni by the end of the day. One way or the other, we should be back home by week's end."

Of course, things didn't always go as planned.

After checking out they hurried back to the airport. Mitch returned the rental car and they made their way to the Conviasa terminal with a good fifteen minutes to spare.

They needn't have hurried, though. At the check-in counter, they were informed that their flight was delayed "momentarily," for a "minor technical reason."

"Probably just need to replace a malfunctioning LED on some indicator," surmised Mitch.

Forty-five minutes later, they were given clearance to board. "Ah, breathing room," said Mitch, noting that the forty-six-passenger plane was only about half full. He let Amanda settle into the window seat as he stretched a leg into the aisle. The twin-engine turboprop whirred to life with the buzzing drone of a thousand hornets. Minutes later, a quick take-off run led to the familiar freedom of the sky.

"So, tell me more about this grandfather of yours," Amanda said during the flight. "He seems like an interesting guy."

"Grandpa Russ passed away a few years ago," began Mitch. "Emphysema, from all those unfiltered Camels. By trade, he was a photographer for National Geographic. But beyond that, Russell Cassidy left behind quite a legacy as a world traveler and adventurer. He did it all, from finding ancient Polynesian idols to sunken pirate ships in the Moluccas. And in Belém, he found those Spanish journals that set him off on his Venezuelan adventure that you read about last night. Monte de Fuego Verde, it was called: The Mountain of Green Fire. In his later years, he set up endowments for museums and educational institutions in some of the out-of-the-way places he'd been: New Guinea, Bhutan, Honduras."

"So, what happened in Venezuela?"

"He didn't make it as far as he'd hoped. He came down with malaria and barely made it back to Caracas in one piece. While he was in the hospital, he met a nurse, Rosa Ramirez, who would one day become his wife, and my grandmother. He went on to many other adventures, including others in Central and South America, but he only made it back to Venezuela one more time, and that was just to Caracas, when her father was dying. My grandma, she told me once that while they were there, she saw something in his eyes whenever he looked to the South. A longing, a green fire, perhaps, for that quest for Fuego Verde."

"And that's what you were doing down here a month ago," said Amanda. "You'd come down to pick up where your grandfather left off, continuing his quest for him, in his memory."

"Well, yes and no," said Mitch. "In the first place, I'm not my grandfather. I may have inherited his adventurous spirit, but I could never hope to accomplish half of what he did. I'm just a bush pilot. I fly well-paying clients out along the Keys or over to the Bahamas for their adventures, and in the process, I live out my own. It's a good life, and a happy one. But exploring the backcountry of Amazonas, looking for something no one else has found, except for a band of 'fierce ones' who would just as soon shoot you first with their fancy arrows? A bit beyond what even I'd get myself into. A fool's errand, my father used to call it. No, what I'd hoped to do was simply to see the region for myself, to take a tour like a regular tourist, and mostly to just be there, to reconnect."

"And because you just wanted to be there, you found my father's plane. I'd say that was quite an accomplishment."

Mitch smiled. "Thank you, but really, I'm just out to see the sights and have a good time. Grandpa Russ, he had something to show for his adventures. He was somebody. He touched people's lives. Sure, my life is exciting and fun, and I wouldn't trade it for the world. But when it comes down to it, what do I really have to show other than a few happy tourists and fishermen? Just once, I'd like to feel like I'd really made a difference in someone's life." Truth was, at age thirty-nine, Mitch Cassidy was still wondering what he would be when he grew up.

"Well," said Amanda, "this mission you've put us on will make a difference in my life, no matter how it turns out."

After a short, hour and forty-minute hop from Caracas, they were approaching Puerto Ayacucho, situated on the Orinoco, across the river from Colombia. From the air, Puerto Ayacucho looked like a town cut out of the jungle, with rooftops peeking out between the treetops.

Once out in the open, they were hit with the full force of the tropical heat. The weather was clear, ninety degrees, with the humidity not much below that. Mitch could feel the damp stickiness on his forehead as he called Roberto to tell him they'd landed. "We've still got to pick up the permits, but it shouldn't be too long," he told him.

"Take your time," Roberto replied. "I'm ready when you are, amigo. I don't have any bookings until sábado."

"I'll call back and give you a heads-up when we're about ready to leave," Mitch said. "See you then."

Outside the main building, which looked more like it belonged to a small municipal airport than a state capital, they grabbed the nearest taxi, the one just in front of a gray Humvee. The driver introduced himself as Hector, as he placed their packs in the trunk. Amanda gave him their destination, "Oficina Gobernación, por favor. Oficina de Tourista."

The drive to the Government Tourist Office only took a couple of minutes. Mitch told the driver to wait for them.

"Diez minutos," Hector said. "Fifteen at most."

As if there were any other fares that might come along in ten or fifteen minutes.

Once inside the office, however, things didn't go quite as smoothly as planned. The girl at the desk informed them, while checking her computer, that Mitch had no pending permit application. "You should apply sixty days in advance," she told him. Which Mitch already knew, of course. "If you had applied, but not yet received your permits, I could get them for you now. But, as you can see, there is no application."

"There was no time," Mitch said. "This is something of an emergency."

Amanda went on to explain their situation. The girl thought for a moment and then said, "You should try La Guardia Nacional." The National Guard office. "Get them to write a letter of Emergency Exemption. Then come back here and I can write the permit."

Mitch sighed. This wasn't going to be as easy as he thought. But then, he should have expected red tape.

"La Guardia Nacional," Amanda directed Hector minutes later, reciting the address.

Mitch reminded himself that Amanda knew her way around this town. "Where is Isla Raton in relation to here?" he asked.

"About fifty or sixty miles downriver. I take the bus to Samariapo, then catch the ferry over to the island. It's the largest island on the Orinoco. The mission is way down near the far end. The road continues across the Rio Sipapo, then loses itself in the jungle beyond that. Of course, I've never been that far myself."

Driving the half-dozen miles into downtown, Hector acted as tour guide, pointing out that Puerto Ayacucho is the capital of Amazonas state. "It is the largest state in all Venezuela," he informed them, "but it's also the least populated."

The narrow streets wound with the lay of the land, the town laid out among a mix of flat land and low hills.

"The rapids are the dividing line between the lower and upper Orinoco," Hector went on, "and the very reason this town exists. This is the last port on the river, the farthest big boats can go. From here, all goods moving deeper into the interior must be unloaded onto trucks."

He pointed out the classic Spanish architecture of the Cathedral of Puerto Ayacucho, built in 1952. "The town itself was founded in 1924," Hector told them, "to serve the rubber plantations, and it wasn't until the 1970s when it was accessible by road, and then only in the dry season."

Looking around, Mitch could see how the town was showing its age, even as it continued to grow into the surrounding countryside.

They parked downtown outside the small office on Calle La Guardia. Again, Hector said he could wait ten or fifteen minutes. "No problem," he said this time. Mitch and Amanda were back out in less than five.

"Closed for lunch from noon to fourteen hundred hours," said Mitch, shaking his head. "Guess we'll have to do the same and be back after two p.m." He should have known. "At this rate, we probably won't make it farther than La Esmeralda today. I hope the mission can put us up for the night."

As they stepped back onto the street, they were approached by a powerfully built man with a swarthy complexion, short, dark hair and a thin mustache. He wore aviator sunglasses and an olive drab shirt that might have been some sort of uniform.

"You are in need of permits, no?" he asked. "Perhaps I can be of some assistance."

"I thought the office was closed," said Mitch. He didn't quite believe that a National Guard officer would help them out during his lunch break.

"That is la Guardia Nacional," said the man. "I am with the Secretary of Tourism." He produced a card from his shirt pocket and flashed it to Mitch, too quickly for him to get a good look at. "My office is just around the corner." He turned slightly, gently steering Mitch and Amanda that way by hand gestures. "Come, I can drive you over there. You'll have your permits and be on your way in minutes."

As Mitch turned and started to follow, he caught the sight of a gray Humvee about fifty yards away. The driver's arm was leaning out the window. It looked like he might be wearing the same shirt. The side windows were heavily tinted, Mitch noticed, as another man, similarly dressed, stepped out of the rear passenger door and onto the sidewalk. It looked like he might be carrying a sidearm in a holster and the Humvee could have been the same one they saw at the airport. In fact, Mitch was sure of it.

"It's okay," he told the man. "We've got it covered." He quickly turned Amanda around and headed for their taxi, three cars up the street. The man strode toward the Humvee as its driver started the engine and the armed man jumped back inside. Mitch opened the door and swept Amanda inside. "¡Vamanos!" he yelled, as he threw himself in.

Hector, reading the situation at once, sped away, glancing in the mirror. "¿Donde?" he asked, as he cut across traffic, narrowly missing a bus, and took a quick left down Calle Bolivar.

Looking back, Mitch saw the Humvee do the same. "Anywhere but here," he replied.

* * * * * * * * * *

Announcement! Mountains of the Macaw has been published and is now available on Amazon, in both e-book and paperback formats. Thank all of you for your support, encouragement and feedback during this story's work-in-progress runs, both on Wattpad and on WriteOn. Your input has truly made all the difference. If you're on the WP website or on a mobile browser, look for the link at the bottom of the page.