MICHAEL CRICHTON

Munro said, “You think she hears something?”“Her hearing is very acute.”And then they heard the drone of a distant aircraft, approaching from thesouth. As it came into view, they saw it twist, maneuvering among the brilliantyellow-red explosions that burst in the moonlight and glinted off the metal body ofthe aircraft.“Those poor bastards are trying to make time,” Munro said, scanning the planethrough field glasses. “That’s a C-130 transport with Japanese markings on thetail. Supply plane for the consortium base camp—if it makes it through.”As they watched, the transport twisted left and right, running a zigzag coursethrough the bursting fireballs of exploding missiles.“Breaking a snake’s back,” Munro said. “The crew must be terrified; they didn’tbuy into this.”Elliot felt a sudden sympathy for the crew; he imagined them staring out thewindows as the fireballs exploded with brilliant light, illuminating the interior of theplane. Were they chattering in Japanese? Wishing they had never come?A moment later, the aircraft droned onward to the north, out of sight, a finalmissile with a red-hot tail chasing after it, but it was gone over the jungle trees,and he listened to the distant explosion of the missile.“Probably got through,” Munro said, standing. “We’dbetter move on.” And he shouted in Swahili for Kahega to put the men on theriver once more.2. Mukenko154