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Back Whirlwind Save as PDF
Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. 85
  87. 86
  88. 87
  89. 88
  90. 89
  91. 90
  92. 91
  93. 92
  94. Also by DAVID KLASS
  95. Copyright Page

The sun is high overhead now, an orange-yellow blowtorch firing through the narrow gash the river rends in the tree cover. P.J. rides in the front of our canoe, her long hair blowing back toward me as we gather speed. She’s getting the hang of paddling, splashing less and digging in more. She bends and straightens, and I watch the muscles of her back and legs flex and release, enjoying her every graceful movement.

With three strong paddlers, and helped by the swift current, our canoe shoots forward. Even though I know the small city is still far away, we’re traveling so fast that part of me expects to see a shack or a motorboat around every bend. But we see no one—no rubber tappers, no fur traders, not even a native fisherman.

The river narrows between rocky banks and the current picks up even more. “At this rate we’ll be home before supper,” P.J. shouts back to me.

“You gonna invite me in for cookies?”

“If you behave yourself.” She turns and flashes me a grin.

And that’s when the trouble starts.

First I hear the roar. I recognize the sound immediately. But this roar is of a whole different magnitude from the rapids we traversed earlier.

Then we round a bend and I see the forest floor all around us fall away into a deep rift valley. The river drops with it. Steam boils up and hangs in the air at the spot where the gleaming water starts its several-hundred-foot descent.

The chief steers us closer to a bank, and from this angle we get a little better view of what lies ahead.

It’s not Niagara, but it’s plenty big and outrageously loud, a liquid rock concert with drums and bass and a light show. There are four separate stretches of white water, spanning a distance of more than a mile. The first two feature spectacular cataracts, with tons of water cascading over rocks, sending up tall geysers of silvery spray.

“No way I’m going down that!” P.J. says.

“We’ll have to portage,” I agree.

Ernesto has paddled over to us. “Yes. We’ll lose a day, maybe more, but there’s no alternative,” he agrees sadly. “Let’s get everyone over to the bank and we’ll start cutting trees to use as rollers for the canoes—”

And that’s when the guns open up.

58

58

A loud rat-tat-tat erupts from the far bank and bullets whistle into the water near us.

“Must be hunters … or tribesmen … But those sound like semiautomatics!” Ernesto shouts in confusion, his usually calm face panicked. He rips off his white shirt and waves it back and forth, desperately trying to signal that we come in peace.