Here and there in the pale morning light, a few fragile wisps of fog clung like cotton to the canopy of trees. And occasionally they passed the dark snaking curve of a muddy river, or the straight deep red gash of a road. But for the most part they looked down upon an unbroken expanse of dense forest, extending away into the distance as far as the eye could see.
The view was boring, and simultaneously frightening - it was frightening to be confronted by what Stanley had called "the indifferent immensity of the natural world." As one sat in the air-conditioned comfort of an airplane seat, it was impossible not to recognize that this vast, monotonous forest was a giant creation of nature, utterly dwarfing in scale the greatest cities or other creations of mankind. Each individual green puff of a tree had a trunk forty feet in diameter, soaring two hundred feet into the air; a space the size of a Gothic cathedral was concealed beneath its billowing foliage. And Elliot knew that the forest extended to the west for nearly two thousand miles, until it finally stopped at the Atlantic Ocean, on the west coast of Zaire.
Elliot had been anticipating Amy's reaction to this first view of the jungle, her natural environment. She looked out the window with a fixed stare. She signed Here jungle with the same emotional neutrality that she named color cards, or objects spread out on her trailer floor in San Francisco. She was identifying the jungle, giving a name to what she saw, but he sensed no deeper recognition.
Elliot said to her, "Amy like jungle?"
Jungle here, she signed. Jungle is.
He persisted, probing for the emotional context that he was sure must be there. Amy like jungle?
Jungle here. Jungle is. Jungle place here Amy see jungle here.
He tried another approach. "Amy live jungle here?"
No. Expressionless.
"Where Amy live?"
Amy live Amy house. Referring to her trailer in San Francisco.
Elliot watched her loosen her seat belt, cup her chin on her hand as she stared lazily out the window. She signed, Amy want cigarette.
She had noticed Munro smoking.
"Later, Amy," Elliot said.
At seven in the morning, they flew over the shimmering metal roofs of the tin and tantalum mining complex at Mas?isi. Munro, Kahega, and the other porters went to the back of the plane, where they worked on the equipment, chattering excitedly in Swahili.
Amy, seeing them go, signed, They worried.
"Worried about what, Amy?"
They worried men worry they worried problems. After a while, Elliot moved to the rear of the plane to find Munro's men half buried under great heaps of straw, stuffing equipment into oblong torpedo-shaped muslin containers, then packing straw around the supplies. Elliot pointed to the muslin torpedoes. "What are these?"
"They're called Crosslin containers," Munro said. "Very reliable."
"I've never seen equipment packed this way," Elliot said, watching the men work. "They seem to be protecting our supplies very carefully."
"That's the idea," Munro said. And he moved up the aircraft to the cockpit, to confer with the pilot.
Amy signed, Nosehair man lie Peter. "Nosehair man" was her term for Munro, but Elliot ignored her. He turned to Kahega. "How far to the airfield?"
Kahega glanced up. "Airfield?"
"At Mukenko."
Kahega paused, thinking it over. "Two hours," he said. And then he giggled. He said something in Swahili and all his brothers laughed, too.
"What's funny?" Elliot said.
"Oh, Doctor," Kahega said, slapping him on the back. "You are humorous by your nature."
The airplane banked, making a slow wide circle in the air. Kahega and his brothers peered out the windows, and Elliot joined them. He saw only unbroken jungle - and then a column of green jeeps, moving down a muddy track far below. It looked like a military formation. He heard the word "Muguru" repeated several times.
"What's the matter?" Elliot said. "Is this Muguru?"
Kahega shook his head vigorously. "No hell. This damn pilot, I warn Captain Munro, this damn pilot lost."
"Lost?" Elliot repeated. Even the word was chilling.
Kahega laughed. "Captain Munro set him right, give him dickens."
The airplane now flew east, away from the jungle toward a wooded highland area, rolling hills and stands of deciduous trees. Kahega's brothers chattered excitedly, and laughed and slapped one another; they seemed to be having a fine time.
Then Ross came back, moving quickly down the aisle, her face tense. She unpacked cardboard boxes, withdrawing several basketball-sized spheres of tightly wrapped metal foil.
The foil reminded him of Christmas-tree tinsel. "What's that for?" Elliot asked.
And then he heard the first explosion, and the Fokker shuddered in the air.
Running to the window, he saw a straight thin white vapor trail terminating in a black smoke cloud off to their right. The Fokker was banking, tilting toward the jungle. As he watched, a second trail streaked up toward them from the green forest below.
It was a missile, he realized. A guided missile.
"Ross!" Munro shouted.
"Ready!" Ross shouted back.
There was a bursting red explosion, and his view through the windows was obscured by dense smoke, The airplane shook with the blast, but continued the turn. Elliot couldn't believe it: someone was shooting missiles at them.
"Radar!" Munro shouted. "Not optical! Radar!"
Ross gathered up the silver basketballs in her arms and moved back down the aisle. Kahega was opening the rear door, the wind whipping through the compartment.
"What the hell's happening?" Elliot said.