she wouldn’t last a week.
For now, at least, Susan’s face was beaming. She sat closest to the open door, gazing out at the terrain flying past.
McCarter tapped her on the shoulder. “You look like you’re actually enjoying this.”
“Aren’t you?” she said, her eyes round and innocent.
He shook his head.
“Well, maybe you should check out the view.” She waved him over.
As Susan spoke, the man to her right turned toward them: Mark Polaski, somewhere around fifty, sporting a five o’clock shadow since early morning and in the midst of a losing battle with male pattern baldness. He took one glance out the door and then looked at McCarter. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he said.
“You see,” McCarter said, triumphantly. “I’m not alone in this.” He looked Polaski’s way. “Don’t you think we should be a little bit higher?”
Polaski nodded. “Or in a bus, on the ground, like normal people.”
McCarter and Susan both laughed. And across from them, William Devers did the same. Though he’d just turned thirty-five, Devers was a fairly accomplished young man, full of pride; piss and vinegar, as McCarter’s dad used to say. He claimed to be an expert in the native languages of Central and South America. As he’d informed everyone, he also spoke Russian, French, German, Spanish and Latin and had authored a pair of books on what he called language mutation. Though exactly what that was McCarter had pointedly avoided asking.
Devers leaned in closer. “This is the NRI,” he said, shouting to be heard above the noise. “We don’t do things like normal people. We have to show off—especially when we’re overseas.” He examined their surroundings. “To be honest with you, this chopper is a piece of crap compared to the last one I was in: a brand-new Sikorsky or something. That thing had leather seats, air-conditioning and a fully stocked wet bar.” His eyebrows went up and down for emphasis and he looked directly at McCarter. “NRI, it stands for
Polaski shook his head. “This is my first time in the field.”
Devers’ face wrinkled with suspicion. “I thought you had five years with us?”
“I do,” Polaski said. “But I’m with STI. We don’t get out much.”
As the concern grew on Devers’ face, McCarter and Susan exchanged glances. McCarter asked the obvious. “What’s STI?”
“Systems Testing and Implementation,” Devers said, beating Polaski to the punch, and then looking at him disgustedly. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“We’re running a field test on a new satellite transmission protocol.”
“I knew it,” Devers said. “You’re a damn section five!”
McCarter looked at Susan, who shrugged. “What’s a section five?” he asked.
“Last page of the logistics manifest,” Devers said. “And the place where we stick untested prototypes when we want to burden another project with them. It’s supposed to hold research costs down, but all it usually does is screw up the main operation.”
“It’s not that bad,” Polaski insisted.
“Don’t tell me that,” Devers said. “I spent last summer in Siberia on a pipeline project. Instead of good old four-by-fours we got stuck with something called a Surface Effect Vehicle.” He turned to McCarter. “It’s a type of hovercraft that’s supposed to replace good old box trucks in places with bad terrain or no roads. Like Siberia in the middle of summer, after the permafrost melts.”
“Permafrost doesn’t melt,” Polaski said. “That’s why they call it
“Well, something damn well did,” Devers replied. “And whatever the hell it was, we were supposed to ride over the top of it. Only that piece of crap kept breaking down and crashing face-first into the mud. Nine times in three months we ended up sitting on the roof, praying we wouldn’t sink and waiting on a truck from the Khrushchev era to come bail us out. Let me tell you, it impressed the hell out of the Russians. They kept calling it the Yugo—as in, you go and we’ll come get you later.”
Polaski scratched his balding pate. “Yeah, I heard about that one. Things didn’t go exactly as planned out there.”
“Hell no, they didn’t. Tell me we have some type of backup to your satellite protocol.”
“Standard shortwave,” Polaski said.
Devers settled back a bit. “Well, that’s better. Even I can work an old-fashioned radio.” He turned to Susan and McCarter. “What about you two?”
McCarter nodded. Susan said proudly, “I built a ham radio when I was fourteen.”
Devers scrunched his face. “I bet that made you popular with the boys.”
For an instant she shrunk back, but then replied, “It did. With the boys in Australia.”
All of them laughed at that, as Devers turned back to Polaski. “Don’t take this the wrong way. But who’d you piss off to get stuck on this deal anyway? I mean, a beta test in the middle of the jungle?”
“I volunteered,” he said proudly. “It sounded like an adventure. My youngest daughter just left for college in the fall and she made me promise to have more fun in my life.”
“Fun?” Devers asked. “You call this fun?” He turned to McCarter. “What do you think, Professor, you having any fun yet?”
McCarter’s face was grim. The helicopter had started a steep turn to the right, tilting him toward the open cargo door. He gripped the rails of the seat with both hands, fearing that his belt might give way at any moment and send him tumbling out the hatch. “This flight’s only a short one,” he managed. “I’m sure things will be a lot more enjoyable once we get in the field.”
“Right,” Devers said. “Sweating our balls off in a hundred degrees of heat and humidity—that’s when the fun starts.”
Devers leaned back in his seat, laughing even harder at his own comment.
“Don’t listen to him,” McCarter said. “It’s probably no more than ninety-five degrees out there. Ninety-six, ninety-seven, tops.”
As another wave of laughter moved through the group, McCarter thought of his own reasons for joining the expedition. For a moment he felt the grip of sadness creeping in, but then the helicopter began to slow and the treetops gave way to acres of manicured grass and sculptured botanical gardens. A leisurely turn to the left revealed the main buildings of the Hotel San Cristo, and a moment later they were touching down on the helipad.
McCarter climbed out, thankful to be stretching his legs. He saw a young woman in black slacks and a sleeveless khaki shirt walking toward them from the hotel.
“Welcome to Brazil,” she said. “I’m Danielle Laidlaw.”
CHAPTER 5
That night, Danielle brought the team together for dinner in one of the hotel’s private dining rooms. The atmosphere was pleasant, the food outstanding and the camaraderie genuine. As far as she could tell, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves … everyone except for Professor McCarter.
She watched him as he grew progressively more introspective, and when he left the table before dessert, stating he wanted to get to bed early, she excused herself and followed him, trailing him to the hotel’s main bar.
A drink before going to bed, she thought. Not a bad idea.
She walked up behind him as the soft music swirled around them and the bartender rushed off to grab a new bottle of whatever McCarter had ordered.
“Can I pay for that?” she asked. “The prices at this place are outrageous and the dollar’s not what it used to be.”
He turned, leaning against the polished mahogany and looking at her with a glint in his eye. “I should be ashamed to ask,” he said, smiling. “But what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
She laughed lightly at the cliche. It was something Bogart might have said, something her own father might
