The Lost World - Michael Crichton [45]
Thorne looked out at the runway, where, in the soft dawn light, the cargo containers were being clamped to the bellies of two big Huey helicopters. Eddie Carr was out there in the rain with Malcolm, shouting as the workmen secured the clamps.
Rodríguez shuffled the papers. “Now, Señor Thorne, according to this, your destination is Isla Sorna. . . .”
“That’s right.”
“And your containers have only vehicles?”
“Yes, that’s right. Research vehicles.”
“Sorna is a primitive place. There is no petrol, no supplies, not even any roads to speak of. . . .”
“Have you been there?”
“Myself, no. People here have no interest in this island. It is a wild spot, rock and jungle. And there is no place for a boat to land, except in very special weather conditions. For example, today one cannot go there.”
“I understand,” Thorne said.
“I just wish that you will be prepared,” Rodríguez said, “for the difficulties you will find there.”
“I think we’re prepared.”
“You are taking adequate petrol for your vehicles?”
Thorne sighed. Why bother to explain? “Yes, we are.”
“And there are just three of you, Dr. Malcolm, yourself, and your assistant, Señor Carr?”
“Correct.”
“And your intended stay is less than one week?”
“That’s correct. More like two days: with any luck, we expect to be off the island sometime tomorrow.”
Rodríguez shuffled the papers again, as if looking for a hidden clue. “Well . . .”
“Is there a problem?” Thorne said, glancing at his watch.
“No problem, señor. Your permits are signed by the Director General of the Biological Preserves. They are in order. . . .” Rodríguez hesitated. “But it is very unusual, that such a permit would be granted at all.”
“Why is that?”
“I do not know the details, but there was some trouble on one of the islands a few years ago, and since then the Department of Biological Preserves has closed all the Pacific islands to tourists.”
“We’re not tourists,” Thorne said.
“I understand that, Señor Thorne.”
More shuffling of papers.
Thorne waited.
Out on the runway, the container clamps locked in place, and the containers lifted off the ground.
“Very well, Señor Thorne,” Rodríguez said finally, stamping the papers. “I wish you good luck.”
“Thank you,” Thorne said. He tucked the papers in his pocket, ducked his head against the rain, and ran back out on the runway.
Three miles offshore, the helicopters broke through the coastal cloud layer, into early-morning sunlight. From the cockpit of the lead Huey, Thorne could look up and down the coast. He saw five islands at various distances offshore—harsh rocky pinnacles, rising out of rough blue sea. The islands were each several miles apart, undoubtedly part of an old volcanic chain.
He pressed the speaker button. “Which is Sorna?”
The pilot pointed ahead. “We call them the Five Deaths,” he said. “Isla Muerte, Isla Matanceros, Isla Pena, Isla Tacaño, and Isla Sorna, which is the big one farthest north.”
“Have you been there?”
“Never, señor. But I believe there will be a landing site.”
“How do you know?”
“Some years ago, there were some flights there. I have heard the Americans would come, and fly there, sometimes.”
“Not Germans?”
“No, no. There have been no Germans since . . . I do not know. The World War. They were Americans that came.”
“When was that?”
“I am not sure. Perhaps ten years ago.”
The helicopter turned north, passing over the nearest island. Thorne glimpsed rugged, volcanic terrain, overgrown with dense jungle. There was no sign of life, or of human habitation.
“To the local people, these islands are not happy places,” the pilot said. “They say, no good comes from here.” He smiled. “But they do not know. They are superstitious Indians.”
Now they were over open water, with Isla Sorna directly ahead. It was clearly an old volcanic crater: bare, reddish-gray rock walls, an eroded cone.
“Where do the boats land?”
The pilot pointed to where the sea surged and crashed against the cliffs. “On the east side of this island,