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the drone of airplane engines that would mean the smugglers were leaving the
island. Until those men were gone, the shipwrecked crew of the Phoenix could
not light signal fires, or write distress messages in the sand. They would
never be rescued if they continued to be forced into hiding.
"When are they going toscram ?" asked Lyssa in exasperation. "They've got
their tusks and their horns. What are they waiting for?"
"That's what we have to find out," Luke said decisively.
So the next morning, Luke and Charla set off for the other side of the island
to spy on their un-wanted neighbors. Two hours later, they returned,
trembling.
"They're searching the jungle!" Charla rasped. "They've got that Doberman
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sniffing the ground to pick up our scent!"
"You mean they know we're here?" asked Lyssa in horror.
"The dog definitely smells something when it sniffs someplace we've been,"
Luke told them. "But those guys can't be sure what they're looking for."
"The island's not that big," Ian said nervously. "Sooner or later, I mean,
even if it's just by dumb luck - "
He never finished the sentence. He didn't have to. The five castaways stood
rooted in the sand as the thought began to sink in.
They were being hunted.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Day 9, 10:10 a.m.
They called it the two-minute drill.
The signal came from Charla, atop a palm tree  the hooting of an owl, a
sound that would never be heard on a tropical island. That set the vanishing
process in motion. The fires were extinguished, the stills folded up and
buried in the sand. A few sweeps of a giant fern and their footprints were
gone too, leaving a deserted beach.
Two quick kicks took care of the supports for the sun canopy, and the
lifeboat lay flat. Ready hands drew a leafy blanket of woven vines and palm
fronds over it. Suddenly, the black rubber craft was gone, replaced by the
green-brown colors of the jungle. Finally, the castaways themselves
disappeared, melting into the dense underbrush.
There was the electronic beep of a digital stopwatch. "One-fifty-seven," Ian
reported. "Our best time yet."
Subdued cheering and a few backslaps as the heads popped up again.
Luke wasn't happy. "We can make ourselves disappear, but we can't hide our
smell. The dog's nose won't be fooled."
Ian looked thoughtful. "What if we set out a few fish heads and tails and
guts on the beach? That would be a strong enough scent to confuse the dog."
"It'll also gas us out of here," Lyssa noted, making a face.
"We can keep it wrapped up in one of the ponchos," Luke decided. "We'll open
it only when we hear the signal."
It was agreed that two-person scout teams would be dispatched to keep an eye
on the smugglers. Lyssa objected. This would distract them from the search for
Will. But the others overruled her. They hadn't seen Will in five days and had
no idea where he was. For all they knew, he was on the other side of the
island where the floatplanes were beached. They were as likely to spot him
there as anywhere.
"That's another reason to spy on those guys," Luke argued. "To make sure they
haven't found Will."
Luke and Ian had been scouting for over an hour before they spotted the
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Doberman. They immediately pulled back, ducking behind a dense stand of ferns.
Red Hair had the dog on a leash, and two other men were with him. All three
were armed.
"You were right," whispered Ian. "They're looking for something."
They followed along for a while, making sure that nothing was moving in the
direction of the castaways' camp. When the dog began to run in circles,
barking excitedly, they knew they had to retreat.
Ian frowned. "Three of them out here. How many are with the planes?"
Luke shrugged. "One way to find out."
They backtracked. Staying low, they eased themselves down the slope to their
spying place overlooking the cove. The two boys counted and delivered their
tallies at the same time: three  two men on the beach, and Mr. Big sitting
half in and half out of the smaller plane. They couldn't see his face, but his
thick legs and white suit identified him.
In all this time, not one of the traffickers had changed clothes. Which
meant&
"They weren't planning to stay here," Luke whispered. "They're only hanging
around to make sure there's no one else on the island."
Ian was confused. "Where do they sleep? There's no campsite. And they can't
all fit in the planes  not lying down, anyway."
It was a good question. They eyeballed every inch of the cove. There was the
lagoon, the rocky jetty, a narrow beach, and coral bluffs leading up to the
edge of the jungle. No camp.
"We're missing something," Luke murmured.
And then he saw the footprints in the sand. They were mostly heading in one
direction. They ended where the beach did, of course. But Luke could envision
the trail leading up the slope and into the jungle. The entry point was
perhaps a quarter mile from where he and Ian lay hidden.
There had to be something there  something that was important to these men.
Carefully, silently, they picked their way around the apron of the cove. The
jungle became so dense that they were doing more wading than walking. Their
progress slowed to almost nothing. That was why Luke didn't injure himself
when he bumped straight into it.
"A wall?" Ian gasped.
Three steps before, it had been invisible, knit into the fabric of the rain
forest. But here it was, the curved corrugated metal siding of a Quonset hut.
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