IN THE LAND OF DRAGONS by RICHARD L. HUMMEL To dragon lovers everywhere, never give up the dream. CHAPTER I The Learjet began its decent about 06:45 with first rays of the rising sun glittering off the planes metallic skin. I could feel the plane touch on the small runway in the Brazilian jungle. The roughest part of the trip came on the bumpy ground, as equipment and supplies careened about the cargo hold. I pulled forward against my restraints as Carl; the pilot leaned on the plane's brakes. I have known Carl for many years. He has been in my father s employ for over ten years. He takes his job seriously and he doesn t take unnecessary risks, so I knew that if this is the best he can do to get the plane down then the situation here is worse then we planned. The plane is crammed with crates and boxes on every seat and most of the floor space. In fact, we are carrying so much weight for such a small plane we were marginal for takeoff out of Mexico City. The jet taxied to a stop and I sighed with eager relief to disembark. I had been on many flights, but this was the worst by far and I definitely didn't want my father's company plane damaged in some god forsaken jungle. Carl emerged from the cockpit and sighed heavily; apparently, this flight is no picnic for him either. He had his blond hair tucked under his captain s hat and straightened his white shirt and black tie that my father insisted the flight crew wear. Carl is only about forty-five years old but he has a certain wisdom that I ve come to trust. Sorry for the rough ride, Greg. They haven't used this runway in years and it's a bit short for a plane this size, Carl said in a mid-west drawl that seems more indicative to a farmer then a corporate pilot. I had heard that the Brazilian military made the runway during the Second World War but even this is too remote for them to maintain and after only about three years, they abandoned it. However, I hadn t expected the concrete runway to deteriorate so badly. The concrete was cracked and buckled with large weeds growing through the cracks. I grabbed the rosewood box by my side and headed for the hatch. Bill the copilot, waited by the door. He is Carl s prot?g?, about twenty-two years old, with jet-black hair and aviator style glasses. He was not long out of collage and had his commercial pilot s license for two years. I m not sure why, but I avoided contact with him. I guess I see him as being too young and inexperienced to be second to a seasoned pilot like Carl, and he is definitely too energetic for my tastes. He ran around like a squirrel on a sugar high, trying to find anything that needed to be done. Sorry to be so rough with you, Mr. Rinehart. Bill said, in a cheery smile. I stopped and faced him squarely. Let s get one thing straight. My father is Mr. Rinehart. I m Greg. Got that! I probably sounded off with more force than I had intended. I didn't exactly get along with my father. We constantly argued over everything; what I should do with my life, where I should go to school. It didn t seem to take much these days and I guess I am a like defensive about the association; however, I had meant to make a point and felt sure he wouldn't make the same mistake again. I spied Carl watching us from outside the plane and felt I should explain. Bill went into the hold to unload the supplies, and I began to apologize to Carl for my outburst. Forget it, Carl said, with a wave of his hand. That's how I learned to call you by your first name. Don't worry. I understand your stress. Your father isn't the easiest person to get along with. Carl and I started unloading the plane and stacking the boxes and crates just outside on the runway. Bill unloaded the supplies in the baggage compartment in the belly of the plane. Your right about that. I told Carl. Last month the expedition I was on was having financial problems and a mysterious benefactor donated a large sum of money. I later found out it was my father. I also caught him buying the artifacts we found only to give them away to museums, and sometimes people think I had something to do with it. And now the corporate jet just happens to be available to fly me to the middle of nowhere. I shook my head and sighed, I just want to make it on my own for who I am, and not who my father is. Every time I enter a room, people stop talking, or give me odd looks from across the room. It s because of this that I have few friends I can trust, in fact I think I can count them all on one hand, but at lest I can count you among them. I appreciate your vote of confidence, but I wouldn t be too hard on your father. He only wants you to succeed in whatever you do. I don t agree with his methods, but at least he is letting you find your own path. You know he would rather have you running one of his companies and this must be very hard for him. Have patience, things will work out. Before I could thank him for his understanding, Bill came out with a load of parcels. Steam rose from the runway as a light fog still pocketed the area. I could smell the richness of the trees and could hear the birds and animals in the treetops from here. I looked around at the jungle surrounding the landing field like a giant picket fence. Vertical stratification of trees and plants is a characteristic feature of rain forests with trees reaching heights of 100 to 165 ft. A variety of Animals occupied the upper canopy, many of whom I knew never leave the upper reaches for the forest floor. At the level of the forest floor, I could see relatively few plants. The small amount of sunlight able to pass through the upper canopies is sufficient only for seedlings but is adequate for mold and fungus to thrive in the high humidity. Why can t we ever have a site on a beach in the Bahamas? I thought to myself. I entered the cargo hold where the stench of hydraulic fluid filled my nostrils. Combined with the sudden darkness, I became light-headed. I started to fall, and grabbed one of the three heavy crates that contained the seismographs. The crates are no more then two-foot square and are light. The seismographs themselves are fairly small and state-of-the-art equipment. Most of what is in the crates is to protect the sensitive equipment from damage in transit. The seismographs! I wondered what had been bothering me ever since we loaded them in Mexico City. It's true we were on an archaeological expedition, but why three? There was little time to sit and daydream with all we had to do. Besides, I'd probably find out soon enough. I helped finish the unloading. Although it wasn't hot yet, the humidity was unbearable. Carl and Bill took a break while I finished checking the supplies against the manifest. We had everything from gasoline to soda pop but beer, like all liquor Temminick never allowed. A mistake in the jungle meant almost certain death. I glanced at my watch and saw it was almost 1400 hours. Our transportation was half an hour late; never fails. Just then I heard the sound of an engine coming, two engines. A jeep and a two and a half-ton surplus army truck emerged from the underbrush, weaving past the pits in the runway. The jeep pulled up, and I felt surprised to see Ed Barlow, my old friend. We went through school together and now it seemed we were to be Dr. Temminick's assistants on this expedition. Ed was shorter than I by about four inches and with darker skin and dark brown hair that he had tucked under an Australian bush hat. We are the same age, thirty-three and finished collage together. He was a good conversationalist and always had something to say for any occasion and this seemed no exception. Never thought you'd see me again, did ya? He said showing a band of perfect white teeth as he shook my hand. Nope. I thought our days were over, guess this means I won't have to face Temminick alone. With that note, Ed lost his cheery smile and rolled his eyes in jest as he got out and leaned against the jeep's fender. You're lucky you haven't been here for the past few days. He pointed over his shoulder at the truck that had backed up to the plane and added in a subdued tone, Casualties. What happened? I didn't know the expedition could be so dangerous, after all you've only been here two weeks. He pointed to an individual on a stretcher. They found him mauled by a jaguar. Apparently, he found a cub and mother decided to take it back . . . rather forcefully. The wounded man looked about twenty-two. The bandage on the right side of his face barely covered his curly blonde hair, matted with blood. The bandage on his right arm went up to his shoulder with the rest of his body obscured by a blood-stained sheet. The others had broken limbs, illnesses like one person ate a bad mushroom and suffered from poisoning, and another had an infected insect bite. Their injuries were stable but we need to get them to the hospital in Caracas, Venezuela as soon as possible. I picked up my baggage, loaded the jeep and went back for the rosewood box. I climbed into the jeep and carefully set the box at my feet. I jumped when a native hopped into the back of the jeep and had a seat on my bags. This is Yammo, our helper, said Ed as he returned to the jeep. What's in the box, Greg? Oh that, that's ole man Temminick's gramophone. The one he used to play during finals. He requested, or rather, he ordered me at the last minute to bring it along. Jesus, that old thing. I'll bet you brought those damn scratchy seventy-eights too. I thought we h...
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