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Partially for ease of navigation and partially to increase their chances of rescue should the Chetak crash, the pilot followed the serpentine course of the Siang River. The few pockets of habitation that lay north of Yingkiong were situated along its banks, Ajay explained. With luck, someone would see the Chetak go down and report the incident.
“Oh, that’s just fantastic!’” Karna shouted over the rush of the engine.
“Squeeze your ball, Jack,” Remi replied. “Ajay, do you know this pilot?”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Fargo, very well. We served together in the Army. Gupta now runs a cargo business—brings supplies to the far parts of Arunachal Pradesh.”
The Chetak continued north, skimming a few hundred feet above the brown waters of the Siang, and before long they found themselves flying through knife-edged ridges and plummeting valleys, all of it covered in jungle so thick Sam and Remi could see nothing but a solid carpet of green. In most places the Siang was wide and sluggish, but several times, as the Chetak passed through a gorge, the waters were a maelstrom of froth and crashing waves.
“Those are Class VI waters down there,” Sam called, staring out the window.
“That’s nothing,” Karna replied.
“Where we’re headed, the Tsangpo River Gorge, is known as the Everest of Rivers. There are sections of the Tsangpo that defy classification.”
Remi said, “Has anyone ever tried traversing those?”
“Oh, yes, a number of times. Mostly extreme kayakers, right, Ajay?”
Ajay nodded. “Many lives have been lost. Bodies never found.”
“They don’t wash downstream?” asked Sam.
“Bodies are usually either trapped forever in hydraulics, where they are ground into pulp along the bottom or they are ground into pulp while being dragged down the gorges. There is not much left to find after that.”
After they had traveled forty minutes, Gupta turned in his seat and called, “Coming up on Tuting Village. Prepare for landing.”
Sam and Remi were surprised to find that Tuting had a dirt airstrip partially overgrown with jungle. They touched down, and everyone climbed out. To the east, higher up the valley, they glimpsed a few roofs peeking above the treetops. Tuting Village, Sam and Remi assumed.
“From here, we hike,” Karna announced.
He, Sam, and Remi began unloading their gear.
“Pardon, just one moment,” Ajay said. He was standing ten feet away with the pilot. “Gupta has a proposal he wishes you to consider. He asked me how far into China we are going, and I told him. For a fee, he will fly us very close to our destination.”
“Isn’t he worried about the Chinese?” asked Sam.
“Very little. He says they maintain no radar in the area, and from here to our destination the valleys only deepen, and that there is almost no habitation. He can fly unseen, he believes.”
“Well, t
hat’s a damned sight better than a six-day march in and back,” Karna observed. “How much does he want?”
Ajay spoke to Gupta in Hindi, then said, “Two hundred thousand rupees—or roughly four thousand U.S. dollars.”
Sam said, “We don’t have that much cash on us.”
“Gupta assumed this. He says he will happily take a credit card.”
They agreed to Gupta’s terms, and in short order the pilot was on the helicopter’s radio, transmitting Sam’s Visa information to his home base in Itanagar.
“This is surreal,” Sam said. “Standing here, in the back of beyond, while an Indian pilot runs our card.”
“As I said back in Nepal, never a dull moment,” Remi replied. “I know my ankle will appreciate this itinerary change.”
Ajay called, “Gupta says you are approved. We can lift off whenever you are ready.”
Airborne and heading north along the Siang again, they soon passed over the last Indian settlement before the border. Gengren disappeared behind them in a flash, and then Gupta announced, “We are crossing the McMahon Line.”
