A photographer on her first big assignment with an archeological expedition plunges into the high-stakes world of illicit antiquity trafficking in this action packed thriller filled with treachery, danger, and love.
Carly Arden’s entire future rests on this assignment of a lifetime—her chance to become a world-famous photographer. The editor assigns her to a routine excavation at a Belize tourist site.
The expedition leader abruptly changes destination, promising the greatest Mayan archeological discovery of the century. But someone wants to stop them—sabotaging the expedition at every turn. Carly hopes it’s not the intriguing British archeologist.
Deep in the jungle, the expedition dodges drug cartels clashing over arms, cocaine and antiquities. And they encounter a phantom society guarding an ancient Mayan mystery. Carly’s photography uncovers a cartel munitions cache and something far more deadly. In a desperate race through the jungle, she risks everything to save the man she loves and the future of a nation. But nothing prepares her for photographing the Secret of the Scarlet Macaw.
A photographer on her first big assignment with an archeological expedition plunges into the high-stakes world of illicit antiquity trafficking in this action packed thriller filled with treachery, danger, and love.
Carly Arden’s entire future rests on this assignment of a lifetime—her chance to become a world-famous photographer. The editor assigns her to a routine excavation at a Belize tourist site.
The expedition leader abruptly changes destination, promising the greatest Mayan archeological discovery of the century. But someone wants to stop them—sabotaging the expedition at every turn. Carly hopes it’s not the intriguing British archeologist.
Deep in the jungle, the expedition dodges drug cartels clashing over arms, cocaine and antiquities. And they encounter a phantom society guarding an ancient Mayan mystery. Carly’s photography uncovers a cartel munitions cache and something far more deadly. In a desperate race through the jungle, she risks everything to save the man she loves and the future of a nation. But nothing prepares her for photographing the Secret of the Scarlet Macaw.
My grandmother used to say, It’s chicken today and feathers tomorrow. My life has been all feathers lately. So, I’m waiting for the chicken to arrive. But sometimes when you ask for a thing, you get a lot more than you bargained for.
I trotted through my chilly photography studio, careful to step over cables, and caught the morning mail spilling through the door slot. Last warning from SMUD, the Sacramento electric company. I glanced at the studio lights, camera batteries, computer. No way could I run my photography business without electricity.
My heartbeat increased, worrying the eviction notice arrived in this handful of envelopes. I hadn’t counted on the recession that hit northern California so hard. Junk mail. Junk mail. Junk mail. My hand stilled.
The famous red logo summoned images of lions lounging in trees, tree roots strangling Mayan temples, jaguars slipping through night jungle. I ripped the envelope open.
“Dear Ms. Arden, your photographs certainly meet National Shofield standards, an interesting combination of wildlife and architecture, but at this time I regret...”
The letter fluttered to the floor. Their second rejection. I inhaled a ragged breath into the emptiness expanding in my chest. The row of camera lenses I cleaned last night pointed at me like a firing squad.
I trailed a finger across the cool surface of Dad’s old light meter. How old had I been? About eight, already an avid photographer. Like now, reds and yellows blushed the leaves through the Sierra Nevada gold hills. We sat on the porch swing with a National Schofield open on Dad’s lap. He had pointed to zebras thundering across the Serengeti. “Someday that will be your picture in here.”
What would he tell me now?
***
I tossed my cell phone from hand to hand, deciding, before I called my court of last resort.
“Um, Tom,” I cleared my throat, trying to figure out how to ask. It was so hard for me to call him, much less ask for anything.
“What is it this time?”
“They’re going to turn my electricity off at 5:00 o’clock.”
“Goddamn it, Carly. You haven’t paid me for the last two loans.”
“I should have a check coming in sometime next month.” I pressed the W key for wishful thinking on my computer keyboard.
“When have I heard that before? You don’t have what it takes, Carly. You’re not tough enough. I’ll see you at mother’s this evening.” He hung up.
Not tough enough? My shoulders slumped. Maybe I was crazy to think my dreams could ever come true, that I deserved a break. I shook myself. Time to call the deadbeats. I steeled myself to be polite or June would hang up on me again. She did anyway.
Well, being nice didn’t work, I chided myself. My photographs had brought in a lot of donations for June’s charity, but she hadn’t paid me in three months. Damn it anyway.
Camera slung around my neck, I locked the studio and strode through dappled morning sunlight toward my used Jeep more rust than red. I pulled up next to June’s charity office. No way was I leaving without a check.
I strolled around their blue-carpeted office shooting original artwork, computers, furniture—anything saleable.
“What are you doing?” June followed me.
“Our phone conversation this morning wasn’t very successful, was it? So, I’m documenting what the sheriff should seize after I file with small claims court. Unless you want to pay me now?”
She pursed her mouth and pulled out her checkbook.
Next, I parked downtown under Sacramento’s fabled elm and sycamore trees a half block from the sleaze ball's office. I sat in the Jeep working up my nerve.
Five minutes later, Ed left for lunch. I watched him walk to his car. Sky blue. Still had dealer plates. That jerk bought a new Caddy, but he hadn’t paid me for six months. And I just went along with it. I was going to lose my studio, my livelihood, and that deadbeat bought a new car. I sat there getting more steamed by the minute.
Why do I have to get so damn mad before I can stand up for myself? Not tough enough, huh? I’d show Tom.
An hour later, Ed returned. This time I crossed the street and followed him into his office.
“Hi, Wendy. Is the boss busy?”
“Yeah, he’s with a client.” She glanced at the baseball bat in my hand. A frown furrowed her forehead.
I took a deep breath before pushing into Ed’s walnut paneled office. I slapped the baseball bat against my palm.
“Ed, that’s a nice new Caddy. You know, the blue one parked in front of the bakery.” The slapping continued. “Sure, be a shame if it didn’t have any windows.”
The client looked at Ed and back at me.
Ed’s jaw clenched, but he reached into a desk drawer and pulled out his checkbook.
After the electric company, my last stop was the property manager’s office. Anna, the secretary, handed me a receipt for the cash. “You know, Carly, your rent will be due again in two weeks.”
“Need any Thanksgiving pictures?”
***
Late in the afternoon I parked in front of Mom’s bungalow, its gables hanging over the broad wrapping porch. I waited a moment before switching the ignition off. How can you love people so much and dread seeing them?
Twenty minutes later, platters laden with ham and dressing made the rounds of Mom’s guests through a hubbub of chatter. Mom, her red hair so much like mine, a little faded now, regarded me across the white linen tablecloth. Candlelight softened her features.
“Carly, did you know Penney’s is taking holiday help applications?”
I pushed mashed potatoes around my plate like opposing pieces on a chessboard. Tom must have told her I asked him for another loan this morning.
Mother’s mouth flattened into a thin line of disapproval when I didn’t reply.
Tom said, “You know, I’d consider making you that loan if you use it to go to paralegal or secretarial school.”
His blueprint for my life horrified me. I stared through the dining room window at red, gold and orange leaves tumbling in the wind, like me.
“Pete, what kind of article are you doing on Belize?” Tom leaned back, pale Chardonnay swirling in his wine glass.
I sighed with relief inside, careful not to show it outside, so glad Pete had come. Pete Avila, my best friend since childhood, was also my brother Tom’s best friend—Tom who wore his bill cap forward and Pete who wore his cap backwards. Tom now a corporate attorney. Pete, a news photojournalist for Time.
“See the next issue of Time,” Pete said. “The Sinaloa and Los Zetas cartels are warring over illicit antiquities and cocaine fields in Belize.” He explained how the cartels move people, animals, cocaine, armaments, and antiquities along the same global transport lines.
“Illicit antiquity profits are right behind drugs and armaments now,” Pete said, passing the Brussels sprouts to my sister, Patricia.
“With no documented provenance?” Patricia’s tone matched her personality, a little too superior, a little too quick to give unwanted advice.
“The cartels forge provenance documents. Reputable auction houses are caught in the middle. Traffickers also use middlemen—often well-known people—to negotiate with private buyers.”
Mom entered the dining room carrying plates of apple pie and vanilla ice cream. She was careful to give me the slice without ice cream. I didn’t touch it.
Patricia watched me. I knew what she was thinking: Dad died a long time ago. Get over it. Move on. I stopped myself from glancing at the empty chair at the other end of the table. My father and I had interrupted a robbery in progress at a convenience store. The robber, crazed on drugs, shot and killed my father.
“You know, Carly,” Tom said, “instead of drifting through your life, you need a real job with a stable source of income. Something, safer. More enterprising.”
My jaw tightened, but we were at mother’s. I didn’t want to ruin it for her. She had gone to so much trouble. And, to be truthful, I had difficulty standing up to Tom, nine years older.
I’d sent him this year’s cover shots and articles in Sunrise and California Wildlife. Nothing dangerous there. And he knew about my teaching at Sac State next quarter. Guilt pricked my conscience. I shifted in my chair. I hadn’t sent him The Stevsonian article.
“Photography’s been pretty lucrative for a lot of women.” Pete glanced at me.
“This family already had one news photographer killed on the job,” Tom said. “We don’t need to make it two.” He gave me a pointed look.
My shoulders tightened, rolling forward. Time to change the subject. “Tom, not all photog—”
“I saw that article in The Stevsonian.”
The fork stilled in my hand.
“And the editor’s forward to that same article praising their photographer for her courage. And I quote, bravery in the face of grave danger.”
Shit. Why couldn’t he be proud of me? Just this once.
Tom turned to mother and Patricia. “Looters with high-powered rifles arrived at an Anasazi dig. The plucky photographer—one Carly Arden—risked coming back to untie the archeologist and her two graduate students.” Tom glared at me. “While armed men looted the site.”
I straightened my shoulders, looking into the accusing eyes of Mom, Patricia, and Tom. We already lost one news photographer in this family. The rest remained unspoken—and it’s all your fault.
Dad was always the elephant in the room when my photography came up. I was so much like him—another dreamer—born to be a photographer, cameras an extension of my hands, of my heart. He had been a news photojournalist for CBS. My family had asked me not to follow such a dangerous profession. They had no idea wildlife photography wasn’t any safer.
Tom sat back with his arms crossed, waiting.
I wasn’t going to take the bait. “This is just a dry patch. This spring I’ll start making money again on my underwater photography and—”
“Keep photography as a nice hobby,” Tom said.
I jumped up, the chair scraping behind me. I might have trouble standing up for myself, but the profession of photography was another matter.
“You may think it’s just a hobby, but photographs changed the civil rights movement. Photographs stopped the Vietnam war. And photographs caused Intel, Apple, and Microsoft to reject conflict minerals from the Congo for microchips.” I looked around at the open mouths and shocked eyes of my family before plopping in my seat, lips pressed tight, eyes cast down.
Dad always told us, if it’s worth doing, do it well. Maybe I had done it too well.
The silence was broken by the trilling of a cell phone that saved my brother from a reply. Everyone rummaged in pockets and bags. The culprit was mine. Lucky Tom. I answered it, hoping for a job offer, but hung up disappointed.
“Just Lindsay, playing one of her practical jokes. Pretending to be Maggie someone or other at National Schofield.” My tone of voice had been more irritated than I intended. It wasn’t like Lindsay to be mean. But she didn’t know about the second rejection letter this morning.
Tom waved a dismissive hand. “No, of course not. National Schofield wouldn’t call you.”
I crushed my napkin.
Pete leaned forward. “That wasn’t Maggie Maguire with the Central America desk, was it?”
Oh. No. I stared at the cell phone sitting on the linen tablecloth like a big black tarantula. A hollow place bloomed inside. I couldn’t breathe. How could I have...
My phone rang again.
***
“Ms. Arden, I assure you, this is National Schofield calling. My name is Maggie Maguire. And I am the photography editor for the Central America desk. This is no hoax.”
She ignored my stumbling apology.
“The photographer assigned to cover an archeology excavation has been hospitalized. Are you available to leave for Belize tomorrow morning? This would be a one-week assignment.”
My breathing wouldn’t coordinate with my speech. “Ye… Ye… Yes.”
“You don’t have asthma, do you? This may be physically demanding.”
“No… no asthma.” I wheezed.
Maggie Maguire reviewed the assignment and the travel arrangements with me. “I expect a full photo layout. If not, we only pay travel expenses. Do you understand?”
Yeah. I understood big time. If I didn’t come through, National Schofield would never hire me again. I glanced at Tom. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
***
I clapped a hand against my chest to get my breathing restarted. “Oh my God… that was… National Schofield. The real National Schofield. Calling me.” I slapped my chest again. “Me!”
Pete grabbed my waist and swung me in a circle, just missing Mom’s oak buffet with her Hummel figurine collection. “Holy cow. The big time. Way to go, Chula.”
We danced around the dining table, rising and dipping like a merry-go-round past my astonished family, singing California Here I Come at the tops of our lungs, changing it to National Schofield Here I Come.
When we stopped, winded and laughing, I bent over to catch my breath. I still couldn’t believe that call had been for me. For me. I tried to hang on to the initial elation already slipping away.
Getting this assignment was heaven sent—the first major hurdle. Producing the goods was a daunting second. I would have one chance to get it right, only one. So many things could go wrong: equipment, lighting, exposure, humidity, weather.
“Wait just a minute,” Tom said. “After what Pete just said about cartels, Belize is way too dangerous.”
Pete raised a placating hand. “The Caracol Archeological Reserve is a major tourist destination. Protected by the Belize military. Couldn’t be a safer, nicer, first assignment.”
My equipment worried me more than any cartel. “Pete, those old camera bodies you sold me might not take that humidity.”
“Not those antiques.” Pete shook his head. “Want me to pick up new camera bodies tonight?”
My eyes settled on Tom.
“As long as it’s not dangerous, I’ll front the costs. But, for God’s sake, insure them.” Tom reached for his wallet.
Pete whispered in my ear. “Your Dad would be so proud of you.”
I looked away, had difficulty swallowing.
Tom turned to me. His expression hardened. “I’m tired of supporting your pipe dreams. First it was the damn camera gear. Then the studio equipment. So, this isn’t just another damn loan. Here’s the deal.”
My stomach tightened.
“If you publish this assignment in National Schofield, I’ll forgive all the debt you own me. If not, you agree to get a full-time job and pay back every single cent.”
“That would end my photography career,” I protested. “I’d have to close my studio.”
He shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”
Mother laid a cautionary hand on his arm. “Tom.”
“For Christ’s sake, Mom, she’s twenty-six years old.” He waved an arm in frustration. “I was out of law school and Patricia finished medical school at her age. All on scholarships, I might add.” He turned to me. “All you have is that little Sacramento Photography School Certificate.”
I straightened my shoulders, tucked my chin. “That little photography certificate took me all the way to the best of the best—National Schofield.”
“I want you to promise me, if you don’t publish these pictures, you’ll give up this photography nonsense, get a genuine job. Stop drifting through your life.”
“Nothing will stop me from bringing those pictures back. Nothing.”
Vivid imagery - lyrical with exceptional detail!
From aspirations in fulfilling goals in becoming a professional photographer and the underestimation of one's own potential, a dismissal of the subject's worthiness lies the vastness of potential, beauty, and immense opportunity and risk. What at first sounds like an ecological tour to pursue artistic excellence in photography ensues trekking through the jungle with men with AK-47s strapped to their backs and a slew of other more dangerous and nefarious situations.
To a native like Enrique, doctoral studies about Mayan culture and language don't impress much until they immerse - develop an understanding of the degree of ruthlessness. The significance of dialogue and how people converse and how they perceive situations and events is made clear through the narrative - why accounts as such still matter in an ever-increasing digital world in answering the why and dissecting the reasons things are the way they are.
Scarlet Macaw's representation is both of poetic beauty as well as a warning of danger, and The Temple Scarlet Macaw - a place of worship.
The sophistication of the global academic and intelligence network spanning prestigious doctoral researchers from the U.S. and Europe working on the Latin American cross-border front is not to be under-estimated.
The eloquence of description in capturing the essence and beauty of the surroundings and of her subject matter: shooting the jaguar, with her camera and the scarlet macaw is exhilarating. Among peers of researchers and practitioners in Archaeology, Banking, Intelligence and Military operations - Border strifes between Guatemala and Belize, they trek through
military burrows among cocaine smuggling Mexican cartels.
The use of LiDar for 3D pictures in the jungle is considered amidst a thick carpet of the jungle. "There are poisonous spiders, scorpions, and snakes in the trees as well as the ground.”
He didn’t mention twelve-foot boa constrictors, pumas, jaguars, El Fantasma, or the cartels. All tree climbers.
All against the backdrop of more severe circumstances - Somali pirates intercepted a freighter - ship’s cargo included a consignment of NATO armaments. Grenades, M-16s, C-4 plastique, surface-to-air missiles.” Belize future at stake as she is advised to "Forget that artistic crap".
She hurries to save the murals and artifacts that might disappear forever.
She reflects on why at one time, Tom loved photography.
The harshness of circumstances - fending off the debris 'pelting us like Sierra Nevada hail': a steady barrage of leaves, twigs, coils of vine, insects, spiders, and rain. Having to perform Red Cross emergency care.
Abduction by rogue militia, vessels of cocaine, NATO weapon, explosives.
Tracing Zeta's through the jungle entangled in corruption.
The discovery of hidden value - Belize’s national treasure estimated at three hundred and sixty million dollars. Worth far more than everything stored in those resort buildings. It is when they are confronted about the intersection of the ancient world and the modern context that they are reminded, "The Maya religion is a current religion. Do you understand?” It holds both religious and cultural significance in their customs.
The revealing of blame between self and others over their father's death that they come to open up about years of grievances - forgiveness and feelings of abandonment. A moment of catharsis and bonding.
Beyond the more life-threatening risks was a professional one as well that if she didn't produce something of high quality that she would not receive another assignment for the National Schofield and aspirations they shared for such publications as Time - extreme starkness between success and failure.
The revealing of history and the family's assumptions she and Duncan would marry until the interruptions and grief over his deployment to Afghanistan interrupted things. And, she headed to Paris. From photoshoots to forensic archaeology and big game hunting as opposed to Parisian beauty ensued for her and Duncan respectively. However, their progression evolved as their respective pursuits meant they came into their own instead. And, in enduring one of the most important opportunities of their respective careers together opened something up that delights and inspires.