From Thailand with Love Page 7

  I make a skeptical face, once it was clear the site was off-limits to the outside press, I’m pretty sure I spent more time obsessing over Brad and Angelina’s divorce.

  Tucker sees my expression and amends, “At least in the scientific community.” He picks up the stove’s instructions and searches the components scattered on the ground. “Do you see a rectangular tray thingy?”

  I pick up a piece and hand it to him. “Like this one?”

  “Exactly that.” He takes it from me.

  “What is it?”

  “Drip tray,” Tucker says, installing it below the rear of the grill.

  Eager to learn more, I return to our conversation. “Okay. So in short, this expedition is a massive, super-petty, ‘back at you bitch’ metaphorical middle finger?”

  Tucker can’t hide a little smile before he chides me, “No, it’s so much more than an ex-lovers’ spat.”

  “How?”

  “Logan is genuinely passionate about his work, and he’s spent years researching the legend of the lost city of gold. He has everything at stake on this trip. Screwdriver, please?” I hand the tool over and wait for Tucker to tell me more. He does. “Logan had to put his reputation on the line just to have the aerial survey taken. The pictures alone cost half a mil.”

  My head explodes. “Half a million dollars?”

  “Yep. Now, imagine if this turns into a fiasco. He’d be humiliated. And not just in front of Tara, but every single one of his peers.”

  “I still believe there’s an element of ‘I see your pharaoh tomb and raise you a lost city of gold’ archeology competition at play here.”

  “Maybe.” Tucker grins. “Logan is only human.”

  No, he’s Satan.

  “Done,” Tucker announces, screwing the last bolt. “Any other questions?”

  “Just one. Why is he so worried? If the satellite images clearly show there’s a city beneath the jungle canopy, what could go wrong?”

  “Oh, many expeditions have failed before reaching their target location.”

  “Why?”

  “Sudden, unpredictable weather, government upheavals, permits rescinded, too many crew members dying off before the destination could be reached…”

  “You’re joking?”

  Tucker stares me dead in the eyes.

  “You’re not joking.”

  His gaze drifts down to my unprotected shins. “Didn’t I tell you to wear your snake gaiters at all times?”

  I blush. “I thought you meant while we’re exploring.”

  “No, I said at all times, and meant at all times. Now go put them on before you become the first member of this expedition who dies off.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say as my stomach gives a low growl. “How long before dinner?”

  “Now that this baby is up”—Tucker pats the stove—“I’ll be done in no time.”

  “You want some help?”

  “Nah, you go relax a little… and put those gaiters on.”

  ***

  Tucker proves he’s a wonderful cook with a spectacular Pad Thai. He could give the locals a run for their money.

  We eat sitting around the table under the tarp roof, to which they’ve thankfully added mosquito netting walls. Tucker wasn’t kidding; the moment the sun disappeared below the horizon, the camp got swarmed with flying bloodsuckers. They’re vicious, especially the tiny ones that are almost invisible and have a stealthy bite you don’t feel right away, but that stings like a bitch immediately after. One of those stingers was enough for me to cave and soak myself in the chemical insect repellent.

  Once my belly is full, the day’s fatigue catches up with me and I’m ready for bed. I say a general goodnight, douse myself in DEET, and brave the short journey to my tent.

  The jungle is pitch dark, and the beam of light from my head flashlight—a circular elastic band strapped around my head with a lamp in the middle and another vertical strap crossing from my forehead to my nape—reveals only a few yards of terrain before me. But it’s enough to see where I’m going. Before I get inside the tent, I lower the external layer. The temperatures have dropped, so no risk of getting steamed.

  The thin fabric won’t provide much protection if an angry tiger decides to claw her way into my tent, but it gives me a false sense of security.

  I’m zipping in place the last flap when Archie’s voice makes me jump. “Hey, Snowflake.”

  I turn on him, blinding him with my flashlight. “Don’t you ever sneak up on me like that ever again. You’ll give me a heart attack.”

  “Sorry.” He winces and moves out of the direct light. Then, with an apologetic grin, he adds, “I brought you stakes.”

  The sweet Viking is holding two wooden sticks in his hands, about one inch thick and two-and-a-half feet long, and he has sharpened one end of each with a knife.

  “Oh,” I say. “Are we going vampire hunting? Is that what this expedition is really about? There’s an ancient covenant of the undead hiding deep in the jungle, and our real mission is to exterminate them?”

  Archie blinks, perplexed. “No.” He squats down. “These are for your boots.” He picks up a rock and uses it to drive the stakes into the ground. “We wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”

  I’m not sure if by “get in trouble” Archie means with scorpions crawling into my shoes at night, or if he means with Logan catching me not following Tucker’s safety directives. Either way, I’m grateful for my stakes.

  “Thanks,” I say, and give him a quick hug once he’s done.

  “No problem, Snowflake,” he says, and with a teasing grin, he adds, “And if you get lonely during the night, my tent is two over to your right.”

  I jokingly push him away. “And you almost made it ten whole minutes without propositioning me.”

  He puts a hand to his chest over his heart. “You can’t fault a man for trying.”

  In a mock stern tone, I say, “Goodnight.”

  “Night.”

  Archie waves and walks away. I watch him go, sensing we’re being observed. The night is too dark to actually see anything further than a few yards, but I can sense a shadow in the darkness watching us and disapproving. Satan is ever vigilant.

  Whatever.

  I spray the air in front of the mosquito zipper with repellent and then rush in, hoping no insects will dare to follow me inside. I zip myself in and collapse on the cot. Turns out I didn’t need those stakes after all. I’m so tired I pass out fully clothed and still wearing my boots.

  Seven

  Winter

  Jungle archeological expeditions are boring.

  This morning, I followed the vanguard on the first trip inland toward Area X. And, well, if nothing else, now I understand why Logan is so worried about the expedition failing. It has been a punishing ten-hour day of hacking through vines and branches. And we must’ve covered two, three miles tops. We had to wrestle every inch from the dense vegetation, chopping our way in with the machetes.

  I didn’t do any actual pruning, since I was documenting the day with photos, but some machete-chopping would have at least broken up the monotony of walking behind the guys at a snail’s pace while they waged war on the jungle. Plus, Tucker has forced everyone to wear gloves. And not just any gloves—thick, black, scuba-diving ones that apparently are state-of-the-art to deflect thorns and prevent cuts. Unfortunately, wearing neoprene gauntlets makes pushing the little buttons on my camera super awkward. So, even my favorite activity turned into a hassle today.

  Tonight, the morale around the dinner table isn’t the best. But at least the food is as good as Tucker promised. He cooked freeze-dried mac and cheese, and I can honestly say I wouldn’t have been able to tell this wasn’t made from scratch if he hadn’t warned me beforehand.

  “Are you sure there’s no easier way in?” Logan asks Archie for the third time since we sat down to eat.

  I can’t help but roll my eyes for the poor Viking
. If Satan is usually insufferable, Satan in a bad mood is a new shade of hell on earth.

  “Dude, I’ve flown the drone in every direction,” Archie patiently repeats. “From above, it all looks the same. Sorry, no shortcuts.”

  Logan shakes his head, disappointed.

  What did he expect? That if he kept on asking the same question over and over again, the answer would suddenly magically change?

  Logan switches targets and attacks Tucker next. “We should’ve brought a chainsaw.”

  “Man, I’ve told you already, chainsaws are heavy and need fuel—not to talk permits—to be operated in a natural reserve. It would’ve been a logistical nightmare.”

  “But at least it wouldn’t take us forever to reach Area X.”

  Archie finishes chewing one last gigantic forkful of mac and cheese and then says, “We planned for a week of jungle hacking. Nothing has changed.”

  “We projected a week at most,” Logan retorts. “At this pace, we’re talking a week at best. I can’t afford to lose ten days to cover less than fifteen miles.”

  Dr. Boonjan speaks next. “We should be grateful the jungle is so impenetrable, Dr. Spencer. The terrain’s inhospitality has been the only deterrent against the lost city being found and looted in the past.”

  “Of course, Dr. Boonjan, you’re right.” Logan’s expression doesn’t match the kindness of his words.

  Dr. Boonjan is lucky he’s not one of Satan’s friends, or he would’ve gotten his head bitten off like the others.

  Logan glares around the table in search of a new victim. Somchai isn’t with us—he left this morning at dawn with the animals, and he’ll sleep at the village tonight. He should be back tomorrow. The soldiers are keeping to themselves as usual. And I’m doing my best to be inconspicuous, so as not to give Satan an excuse to yell at me. I didn’t do anything wrong, but with him in such a bad mood, I’m sure he’d find something to lash out about.

  Out of sacrificial lambs, Logan has no choice but to finish his dinner in silence. Although I imagine he’s switched to berating people inside his head instead, judging by his thunderous expression. Thankfully, as soon as he’s done eating, he excuses himself and retires to his tent, bringing with him all his toxic energy.

  The relief must show on my face, because Archie feels compelled to defend his best friend. “Logan is under a lot of stress,” he says.

  “I didn’t say anything,” I retort.

  Archie grins. “No, but you were thinking it.”

  “Oh, so now you’re a mind reader?”

  “Ah, Snowflake, women are such an open book for me.” He winks.

  “Not gonna happen.” I scowl, and then turn to Tucker. “Hey, Wallace?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is it true we have a laptop connected to the internet?”

  Tucker squirms in his chair, uncomfortable. “Mm-hm, why?”

  “Think I could use it to let my folks know I’m okay?”

  “The connection is expensive; each crew member gets one hour every week.”

  “One hour a week, that’s all?”

  “Yep. If you want to spend yours now, I can bring it over.”

  “Do I have to use it all at once?”

  “Yes, once the countdown starts, it can’t be stopped.”

  “Oh, okay. Now is good, then.”

  Tucker collects the dirty dishes in a plastic basin—we’ll wash them at the river tomorrow—and exits the mosquito netting to return ten minutes later with a rugged laptop.

  “Okay,” he says. “The connection is timed, a little countdown window will appear by the corner here”—he points to the lower-left corner—“once you log on.”

  “All right,” I say. “I’ll write a few emails first, and only connect when I’m ready to send them. How do I go online?”

  With a few clicks of the mouse, Tucker opens another window with a red connect button in its center. “Click here and the countdown will start.”

  “Thank you.”

  I open a writing app and compose three short emails: for my parents, Summer, and Lana. Then I push the dreaded connection button, triggering the countdown.

  59:59

  I log into my email account, check the inbox for urgent messages—there are none, but I have to comb through a flood of unopened spam, wasting so much precious time—and then copy and paste the emails and send them to the respective recipients.

  When I’m done, the clock shows I still have time to spare.

  32:02

  And since opportunity makes a thief, I could use the spare half an hour to make a little side search. I peek at Archie and Tucker, they’re at the other end of the table engrossed in conversation and not paying attention to me. There’s no one else around, so I quickly open a Google search page and type:

  Tara archeologist Egypt tomb

  I’m lucky and get a ton of hits.

  About 2,350,000 results (1.00 seconds)

  I don’t waste time with the articles and click on the image tab right away.

  25:48

  Several landscape images of sand dunes and pyramids fill the screen, about half of which feature a beautiful woman with brown hair and blue-green eyes. I scroll for a while, then enlarge two pictures. The first is a book cover. Wearing all khakis, the woman is standing proudly on a dune under the word PHARAOH written in all caps across the page and TARA DOUGLAS printed underneath in a smaller font.

  11:23

  The other picture is a headshot. Logan’s ex is stunning. She has that girl-next-door adorable look, with cute freckles scattered over her nose and cheeks. But she also appears fierce and smart, and her looks couldn’t be any more different from mine.

  Why do I care?

  I don’t!

  And I’ve also run out of time.

  2:04

  With a few fast clicks of the mouse, I erase the search history and close all the windows just as the countdown reaches its end.

  Phew!

  “Managed everything you needed?” Tucker asks.

  I shut the laptop and hand it to him. “Yeah, thanks. I’m going to bed now.”

  Archie immediately stands up. “I’ll walk you to your tent.”

  “It’s twenty yards away, I don’t need an escort.”

  “What if you run into a venomous snake?”

  I roll my eyes but take Archie up on his offer.

  We don’t talk on the way over, and when we get to my tent, he only gives me a quick wave, saying, “Night.”

  I wave back as he walks away.

  Standing on the small mat in front of the entrance, I unlace my boots, balancing on one leg then the other, and hook them on the wooden stakes. Shoes stashed, I repeat the ritual from last night: spray the air with repellent, rush inside, close the rainproof flaps, and collapse on the cot.

  ***

  The next day, I don’t bother following the guys in their fight against the thicket. Sorry, but there’s only so many pictures one can take of dudes handling a machete. So it’s not the alarm that displaces me from my tent, but rather the suffocating heat levels the interior reaches by mid-morning.

  After a quick breakfast, I swap jungle trekking with helping Tucker manage the camp. And when Somchai gets back from the village, I help him unload the mule and care for the animal.

  In the afternoon, Tucker and I go for a bath, escorted by Montgomery. “Showering”, even if I have to do it while wearing a bikini, is the highlight of my day. The water is crisp but not too cold, and a great relief from the oppressive heat of the jungle. Plus, we find a wide, flat rock where we can sunbathe. Without any snakes or wild animals in sight, the soldier leaves us his rifle and he, too, takes a dip in the river.

  When the main crew gets back, the general mood isn’t much improved. But Logan seems resigned to having to be patient, so dinner goes more smoothly than yesterday, and without Satan berating anyone. Then we go to bed, wake up, and the cycle starts anew in the mo
rning.

  Over the next few days, we settle into a routine. Sometimes I follow the guys inland, other times I stay back and help Tucker. The days go by swiftly and, before I know it, an entire week has passed.

  That’s when disaster strikes.

  Our slow but steady progress in the jungle comes to an abrupt stop when we find a wall of solid rock in our path. Short of blowing the embankment off—and we obviously can’t since we’re in a natural reserve—there’s no obvious way forward. With half the day already gone, we trace our steps back to the base early. Tomorrow, Archie will have to deploy the drone and scout for an alternative route around the obstacle.

  But today, everyone takes advantage of the unexpected break. That is, everyone except Logan. I’m walking across the camp to join the others at the river when I spot him bent over a map, studying it intently. He’s standing under the tarp, but the sun rays are already low enough to filter underneath horizontally. The light is perfect. It hits Logan’s face just right, accentuating the planes and rises of his features. The warm rays crown his disheveled brown hair, giving him a glowing golden halo. The bastard has never looked more handsome.

  So unfair.

  Cheekbones like that are such a waste on Satan.

  Still, the photographer in me can’t resist. Of their own volition, my hands reach for the camera slung around my neck and I snap one shot after the other. I capture the small frown of his brows, the barely-there dimple of his chin, the concentrated pout of his lips, the cute freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks… I’m in his thrall. I can’t stop.

  Suddenly, smoldering green eyes stare directly at me, threatening to smash the camera’s lens with the force of their glare.

  Click.

  This is going to be one fierce shot.

  I lower my camera and meet Logan’s unfiltered scowl.

  “Are you taking my picture?” he demands.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to keep cool, but feeling my cheeks already heating.

  “Why?”

  “It’s my job,” I snap.

  “To take my picture?”

  “To document everything. You were standing in a beautiful pose.”

  He seems surprised and scratches the back of his head. “Yeah, sorry, I don’t like to have my picture taken.”