18

As the AeroLibertad Cheyenne II lifted off from Lima airport in the first gray light of dawn, some words remembered from an earlier time came back to Crawford Sloane: If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea …

Yesterday, Sunday, they had taken the wings of morning, not to the sea but inland, though without result. Today they were heading inland again—toward the jungle.

Rita was beside Sloane in the aircraft’s second row of seats. Ahead of them were the pilot, Oswaldo Zileri and a young second pilot, Felipe Guerra.

During the preceding day’s flight, which lasted three hours, they had flown over all three prearranged points. Though Sloane was informed of their arrival at each, he had difficulty distinguishing one from another, so continuous and impenetrable did the Selva seem when viewed from above. “It’s like parts of Vietnam,” he told Rita, “but more tightly knit.”

While circling each point, all four aboard scrutinized the area for any signal or sign of movement. But there was no activity of any kind.

Sloane hoped desperately that today would be different.

As dawn changed to full daylight, the Cheyenne II climbed over the Andes peaks of the Cordillera Central Range. Then, on the far side, they began a slow descent toward the Selva and the Upper Huallaga Valley.