Bradley was shaking his head. "Terrible. Just terrible. But look down there," he said, pointing. "There's a village has actual thatched huts. Is that the old style, the old way of doing things, still kept alive?"
"No man," Henry said. "That's a rebel village. That'snew style. Big thatchhaus, very impressive, big house forchif. " He explained that Sambuca had instructed the people in every village to build these huge, three-story structures of thatch, complete with ladders going up to high walk-ways at the third level. The idea was to give rebels a view over the jungle, so they could see the arrival of Australian troops.
But in the old days, Henry said, the people never had such buildings in Gareda. The architecture was low and open, erected mostly to protect against rain and let smoke out. There was no need for high buildings, which were impractical since they would blow down in the next cyclone anyway. "But Sambuca, he wants them now, so he makes theyangpelas, the young fellows, build them. There may be six or eight on this island now, in rebel territory."
"So we're going over rebel territory now?" Bradley said.
"So far, so good," Henry said. And he giggled again. "Not so long now, we'll see the coast in four, five minutes and--Oh damn shit!"
"What?" They were skimming the forest canopy.
"I made a big mistake."
"What mistake?" Bradley said.
"Tumas longwe es."
"You're too far east?" Kenner said.
"Damn shit. Damn damn shit. Hang on!" Henry banked the helicopter steeply, but not before they all glimpsed a huge clearing, with four of the enormous thatch structures interspersed with the more common houses of wood and corrugated tin. There were a half-dozen trucks clustered in the muddy center of the clearing. Some of the trucks had machine guns mounted on their backs.
"What is this?" Bradley said, looking down. "This is much bigger than the others--"
"This Pavutu! Rebel headquarters!"
And then the clearing was gone, the helicopter moving swiftly away. Henry was breathing hard. They could hear his breath over the earphones.
Kenner said nothing. He was staring intently at Henry.
"Well, I think we're all right," Bradley said. "It looks like they didn't see us."
"Oh yeah," Henry said. "Nice wish."
"Why?" Bradley said. "Even if they did see us--what can they do?"
"They have radios," Henry said. "They're not stupid, theseyangpelas. "
"What do you mean?"
"They want this helicopter."
"Why? Can they fly it?"
"Orait orait!Yes! Because they want me, too." Henry explained that for months now, no helicopters had been allowed on the island. This one had been brought over only because Kenner had pulled some very important strings. But it was specifically not to fall into rebel hands.
"Well, they probably think we're going south," Bradley said. "I mean, we are, aren't we?"
"These boys know better," Henry said. "They know."
"They know what?" Bradley said.
Kenner said, "The ELF would have had to buy off the rebels in order to land on the island. So the rebels know there's something going on at Resolution Bay. When they saw this helicopter, they knew where it was going."
"These boys aren't stupid," Henry said again.
"I never said they were," Bradley protested.
"Ya. But you think it. I know you,waitman. This in the back of your tongue. You think it."
"I promise you, I did not," Bradley said. "Really. I have no such feelings at all. You simply didn't understand me."
"Ya," Henry said.
Sarah was sitting in the middle of the second seat, wedged between Ted and Jennifer. Peter and Sanjong were behind in the little backseat, with all the boxes. She couldn't really see out the windows, so she had trouble following the discussion. She wasn't sure what it was all about.
So she asked Jennifer. "Do you understand what's going on?"
Jennifer nodded. "As soon as the rebels saw the helicopter they knew it was going to Resolution. Now, whatever we do, they'll be expecting it to show up in that area. They have radios, and they're in different groups scattered around. They can keep an eye on us. And they'll be there when we land."
"I am very sorry," Henry said. "So very sorry."
"Never mind," Kenner said. His voice was neutral.
"What do we do now?" Henry said.
Kenner said, "Continue exactly as planned. Go north and put us down on the coast."
There was no mistaking the urgency in his voice.
In the backseat, pushed up against Sanjong, smelling the grease that coated the machine guns, Peter Evans wondered where this urgency came from. He looked at his watch. It was nine in the morning, which meant that of their original twenty-four hours, only twenty remained. But this was a small island, and it should allow plenty of time--
And then he had a thought. "Wait a minute," he said. "What time is it in Los Angeles?"
Sanjong said, "They're on the other side of the dateline. Twenty-seven hours behind."
"No, I mean elapsed time. Actual time difference."
"Six hours."
"And you calculated a transit time of what?"
"Thirteen hours," Sanjong said.