There was something in his tone that made Race pause.
This was a command, not a question.
'I thought you said if I translated the manuscript before we landed I wouldn't even have to get off the plane.'
'I said that that might be the case. You'll recall that I also said that if you did have to leave the plane, you'd have a team of Green Berets looking after you. That is the circumstance now.'
'Why?' Race asked.
'I've arranged for a pair of helicopters to meet us at Cuzco,' Nash said. 'We'll be using them to follow Santiago's trail from the air. Unfortunately, I thought the manuscript would be more detailed in its description of the location of the idol, more precise. But now we're going to need you for the trip to Vilcafor, in case there are any ambiguities between the text and the terrain.'
Race didn't like the sound of this. He felt that he had ful filled his part of the deal, and the idea of going into the Amazon rainforest made him decidedly uneasy.
On top of that, the tone of Nash's request made him even more apprehensive. He got the feeling that now that Nash had him on board the Hercules and bound for Cuzco, his options—and his ability to say no—were extremely limited.
He felt trapped, railroaded into going somewhere he didn't want to go. This wasn't part of the deal at all.
'Couldn't I just stay in Cuzco?' he offered lamely. 'Keep in contact with you from there?'
'No,' Nash said. 'Definitely not. We're arriving through Cuzco, but we won't be leaving that way. This plane and all the U.S. Army personnel waiting for us in Cuzco will be leaving the city shortly after we head off into the jungle in the choppers. I'm sorry, Professor, but I need you. I need you to help me get to Vilcafor.'
Race bit his lip. Christ…
'Well… all right,' he said reluctantly.
'Good,' Nash said, standing. 'Very good. Now, did I hear you say earlier that you had some less formal clothes in that bag of yours?'
'Yeah.'
'Well, I suggest you get changed into them. You're going to the jungle now.'
The Hercules flew over the mountains.
Race emerged from the lavatory in the plane's lower cargo deck, now dressed in a white T-shirt, blue jeans and a pair of black sneakers—the clothes that he'd packed for his lunchtime baseball game. He was also wearing a cap—a battered, navy-blue New York Yankees baseball cap.
He saw the Green Berets on the deck in front of him, preparing and cleaning their weapons for the mission ahead. One of the commandos—a red-headed older corporal named Jake 'Buzz' Cochrane—-was talking animatedly as he cleaned the firing mechanism of his M16.
'I tell you, boys, it was fucking apples,' he was saying.
“Apples. Sweet sixteen with cheap Doreen. Gentlemen, mark my words, she is without a doubt, the most bang-for-your-buck whore in all of South Carolina—'
At that moment, Cochrane caught sight of Race standing—listening at the lavatory door and he cut himself off.
All of the other Green Berets spun around and Race felt instantly self-conscious.
He felt like an outsider. Someone who wasn't part of the brotherhood. Someone who didn't belong.
He saw his bodyguard—the tall sergeant, Van Lewen—hovering at the perimeter of the circle, and he smiled. 'Hey.'
Van Lewen smiled back. 'How's it going?'
'Good. Really good,' Race said lamely.
He walked past the now silent band of rugged Green Berets, reached the steep flight of steps that led back up to the main passenger deck.
As he climbed the stairs, however, he heard the Green Beret named Cochrane mutter something from the cargo bay.
He knew he wasn't supposed to have heard it, but he heard it anyway.
Cochrane had said, 'Fucking pansy.'
A voice came over the PA system as Race walked back down the centre aisle of the passenger compartment. 'Commenc ing our descent now. ETA Cuzco, twenty minutes.'
On his way to his seat, Race passed Walter Chambers.
The bespectacled little scientist was holding Race's notes alongside another sheet of paper. It was a map of some sort, marked with a felt-tip pen.
Bolognesi (Iparia }
MOUNTAINOUS
REGION
Chambers looked up at Race.