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accomplished young man, full of pride; piss and vinegar, as McCarter’s dad used to say. He claimed to be an expert in the native languages of Central and South America. As he’d informed everyone, he also spoke Russian, French, German, Spanish and Latin and had authored a pair of books on what he called language mutation. Though exactly what that was McCarter had pointedly avoided asking.
    Devers leaned in closer. “This is the NRI,” he said, shouting to be heard above the noise. “We don’t do things like normal people. We have to show off—especially when we’re overseas.” He examined their surroundings. “To be honest with you, this chopper is a piece of crap compared to the last one I was in: a brand-new Sikorsky or something. That thing had leather seats, air-conditioning and a fully stocked wet bar.” His eyebrows went up and down for emphasis and he looked directly at McCarter. “NRI, it stands for
Nice Rides Incorporated.
” He turned to Polaski. “You should know that.”
    Polaski shook his head. “This is my first time in the field.”
    Devers’ face wrinkled with suspicion. “I thought you had five years with us?”
    “I do,” Polaski said. “But I’m with STI. We don’t get out much.”
    As the concern grew on Devers’ face, McCarter and Susan exchanged glances. McCarter asked the obvious. “What’s STI?”
    “Systems Testing and Implementation,” Devers said, beating Polaski to the punch, and then looking at him disgustedly. “What the hell are you doing here?”
    “We’re running a field test on a new satellite transmission protocol.”
    “I knew it,” Devers said. “You’re a damn section five!”
    McCarter looked at Susan, who shrugged. “What’s a section five?” he asked.
    “Last page of the logistics manifest,” Devers said. “And the place where we stick untested prototypes when we want to burden another project with them. It’s supposed to hold research costs down, but all it usually does is screw up the main operation.”
    “It’s not that bad,” Polaski insisted.
    “Don’t tell me that,” Devers said. “I spent last summer in Siberia on a pipeline project. Instead of good old four-by-fours we got stuck with something called a Surface Effect Vehicle.” He turned to McCarter. “It’s a type of hovercraft that’s supposed to replace good old box trucks in places with bad terrain or no roads. Like Siberia in the middle of summer, after the permafrost melts.”
    “Permafrost doesn’t melt,” Polaski said. “That’s why they call it
perma
frost.”
    “Well, something damn well did,” Devers replied. “And whatever the hell it was, we were supposed to ride over the top of it. Only that piece of crap kept breaking down and crashing face-first into the mud. Nine times in three months we ended up sitting on the roof, praying we wouldn’t sink and waiting on a truck from the Khrushchev era to come bail us out. Let me tell you, itimpressed the hell out of the Russians. They kept calling it the Yugo—as in, you go and we’ll come get you later.”
    Polaski scratched his balding pate. “Yeah, I heard about that one. Things didn’t go exactly as planned out there.”
    “Hell no, they didn’t. Tell me we have some type of backup to your satellite protocol.”
    “Standard shortwave,” Polaski said.
    Devers settled back a bit. “Well, that’s better. Even I can work an old-fashioned radio.” He turned to Susan and McCarter. “What about you two?”
    McCarter nodded. Susan said proudly, “I built a ham radio when I was fourteen.”
    Devers scrunched his face. “I bet that made you popular with the boys.”
    For an instant she shrunk back, but then replied, “It did. With the boys in Australia.”
    All of them laughed at that, as Devers turned back to Polaski. “Don’t take this the wrong way. But who’d you piss off to get stuck on this deal anyway? I mean, a beta test in the middle of the jungle?”
    “I volunteered,” he said proudly.