Sahara (34 page)

Giordino was in the midst of using the tools he’d found in the trunk of the car to remove the exhaust pipe and muffler to give the car more ground clearance. They had already reduced the tire pressure for better traction in the sand. So far the old Voisin moved through the inhospitable landscape like an aging beauty queen walking through the Bronx in New York, stylish but sadly misplaced.

They traveled during the cool of night beneath the light of the stars, groping over the barren expanse at no more than 10 kilometers an hour, stopping every hour to raise the hood and let the engine cool. There was no thought of using the headlights. The beams could have been caught by a keen observer from an aircraft far out of earshot. Quite often the passenger had to walk ahead to examine the ground. Once they almost drove into a steep ravine and twice they had to dig and scoop their way out of patches of soft sand.

Without a compass or a map, they relied on celestial navigation to record their location and trail as they followed the ancient riverbed from the Niger River north ever deeper into the Sahara. By day they hid in gulleys and ravines where they covered the car with a thin coating of sand and scrub brush so it would blend in with the desert floor and appear from the air as a small dune sprouting a few pieces of sparse growth.

“Would you care for a cold, sparkling glass of Sahara spring water or the refreshing fizz of a Malian soft drink?” Giordino grinned, holding out a bottle of the local pop and a cup of the warm, sulphur-tasting liquid from the water tap he’d found in the village garage.

“I can’t stand the taste,” said Pitt, taking the cup of water and wrinkling his nose, “but it’s best we drink at least three quarts every twenty-four hours.”

“You don’t think we should ration it?”

“Not while we have an ample supply. Dehydration will only come on that much quicker if we hoard and sip it a little at a time. Better to drink as much as we need to quench our thirst and worry when it’s gone.”

“How about a gourmet sardine for dinner?”

“Sounds jazzy.”

“The only thing missing is a Caesar salad.”

“You’re thinking of anchovies.”

“I never could tell the difference.”

After savoring his sardine, Giordino licked his fingers. “I feel like an idiot sitting here in the middle of the desert eating fish.”

Pitt smiled. “Be thankful you’ve got them.” Then he tilted his head listening.

“Hear something?” asked Giordino.

“Aircraft.” Pitt cupped his hands behind his ears. “A low-flying jet judging by the sound.”

He crawled up the side of the ravine on his stomach until he reached the upper edge and moved behind a small tamarisk shrub so his head and face merged with its broken shadow. Then he began a slow, deliberate observation of the sky.

The throaty roar of a jet turbine exhaust came very clearly now as he peered ahead of the trailing sound waves. He squinted into the blazing blue sky but failed to see anything at first. He dropped his gaze lower, and then spotted a sudden movement against the empty desert terrain about 3 kilometers away. Pitt recognized it as an old American-built Phantom, sporting Malian air force insignia, about 6 kilometers to the south, flying less than 100 meters off the ground. It was like some great vulture, camouflage-brown against the yellow-gray of the landscape, and flying in great lazy arcs as if a sixth sense was telling it there was prey in the neighborhood.

“See it?” asked Giordino.

“An F-4 Phantom,” answered Pitt.

“What direction?”

“Circling in from the south.”

“Think he’s onto us?”

Pitt turned and looked down at the palm fronds tied to the bumpers behind the rear wheels that were dragged along to cover the tire tracks. The parallel indentations in the sand that trailed off down the middle of the ravine were almost completely obliterated. “A search crew in a hovering helicopter might spot our trail but not the pilot of a jet fighter. He has no vision directly below his aircraft and has to bank if he wants to see anything. And he’s flying too fast, too close to the ground to detect a vague pair of tire tracks.”

The jet roared toward the ravine, close enough now so that its desert camouflage markings stained the pure blue of the sky. Giordino wiggled under the car as Pitt pulled the tamarisk shrub’s branches over his head and shoulders. He watched as the pilot of the Phantom made a soaring turn, scanning the seemingly blank and empty world of the Sahara below.

Pitt tensed and held his breath. The aircraft’s swing was bringing it directly over their gorge. Then it tore overhead, the air rushing past its wings like a wave cut by a ship’s bow, the thrust of its turbine swirling the sand. Pitt felt the heat of its fiery exhaust sweep over him. It seemed almost as if the aircraft had materialized right over the gorge, so low Pitt swore he could have thrown a rock into its intake scoops. And then it was gone.

He feared the worst as he watched it roaring away. But it continued on its slow, circling search as though the pilot had seen nothing of interest. Pitt watched it until the plane was out of sight over the horizon. He kept watching for a few more minutes, wary that the pilot might have spied something suspicious and entertained the notion of a wide sweep before whipping over the gorge in hope of catching his quarry by surprise.

But the sound of the jet exhaust finally faded away in the distance, leaving the desert dead and silent once again.

Pitt slid back down the slope of the gorge and regained the shade of the ancient Voisin as Giordino crawled from beneath its chassis.

“A near thing,” said Giordino, flicking a small platoon of ants from one arm.

Pitt doodled in the sand with a small, withered stick. “Either we didn’t fool Kazim by heading north or he isn’t taking any chances.”

“Must blow his mind that a car painted a color as loud as this one can’t be found in a wasteland against a flat and colorless background.”

“He can’t be jumping for joy,” Pitt agreed.

“I bet he went nuclear when he found out it was stolen, and figured we were the culprits,” Giordino laughed.

Pitt held a hand up to shield his eyes and gazed at the sun dipping into the west. “Be dark in another hour, and we can be on our way.”

“How does the ground ahead look?”

“Once we pass out of this gorge and back into the riverbed it continues as flat sand and gravel with a few scattered boulders. Good for driving if we keep a sharp eye and avoid jagged stones that can slice open a tire.”

“How far do you figure we’ve gone since leaving Bourem?”

“According to the odometer, 116 kilometers, but as the crow flies, I’d judge about 90.”

“And still no sign or trace of a chemical production or waste facility.”

“Not even an empty container drum.”

“I can’t see much sense in going on,” said Giordino. “No way a chemical spill could flow 90 kilometers over a dry riverbed into the Niger.”

“It does seem a lost cause,” Pitt admitted.

“We can still make a try for the Algerian border.”

Pitt shook his head. “Not enough gas. We’d have to walk the last 200 kilometers to the Trans-Saharan Motor Track to even catch a ride to civilization. We’d die of exposure before making it halfway.”

“So what are our options?”

“We push on.”

“How far?”

“Until we find what we’re looking for, even if it means doubling back.”

“And litter the landscape with our bones in either case.”

“Then at least we accomplish something by eliminating this section of the desert as a source for the contamination.” Pitt spoke without emotion, staring into the sand at his feet as if trying to see a vision.

Giordino looked at him. “We’ve been through a lot together over the years. Be a damn shame for it to end in the armpit of the world.”

Pitt grinned at him. “The old guy with the scythe hasn’t put in an appearance just yet.”

“This will be most embarrassing when we make the obituary columns,” Giordino persisted pessimistically.

“What will?”

“Two directors of the National Underwater and Marine Agency lost and feared dead in the middle of the Sahara Desert. Who in their right mind will believe it? . . . Did you just hear something?”

Pitt stood up. “I heard.”

“A voice singing in English. God, maybe we are already dead.”

They stood side-by-side as the sun began disappearing over the horizon, listening to a voice singing what they recognized as the old camp song, “My Darling Clementine.” The words became distinct as the off-key singing became very close.

“You are lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry Clementine.”

“He’s coming up the gorge,” Giordino murmured, clutching a lug wrench.

Pitt picked up several rocks as weapons. They took up positions silently on opposite ends of the sand-covered car, crouching in readiness to attack, waiting for whoever was approaching to appear around a nearby bend in the gorge.

“In a cavern, in a canyon, excavating for a mine . . .” The figure of a man shadowed by the wall of the gorge walked around the bend leading an animal. “Lived a miner forty-niner and his daughter Clementine . . .”

The voice trailed off as he spied the car blanketed by sand. He came to a halt at the unexpected sight of the camouflaged vehicle and studied it not so much from surprise as simple curiosity. He moved closer, pulling the stubborn-acting animal behind him on a tether. Then he stopped beside the car, reached out, and brushed the sand from the roof.

Pitt and Giordino slowly rose and confronted the stranger, staring at the man as if he was an alien from another planet. This was no Tuareg leading a camel through the wilderness of his native land. This apparition was totally inconsistent with the Sahara, completely in the wrong place and time.

“Maybe he doesn’t carry a scythe anymore,” muttered Giordino.

The man was dressed like an old American western desert prospector. Battered old Stetson hat, denim pants held up by suspenders and tucked into scrapped and faded leather boots. A red bandana was tied around his neck and covered the lower part of his face, giving him the appearance of an early bandit.

The animal behind him was not a camel, but a burro, its back loaded with a pack almost as large as he was, containing goods and supplies including several round water canteens, blankets, tins of food, a pick and shovel, and a lever-action Winchester rifle.

“I knew it,” Giordino whispered in awe. “We’ve expired and gone to Disneyland.”

The stranger pulled down the bandana, revealing a white moustache and beard. His eyes were green, almost as green as Pitt’s. His brows matched the beard but the hair that leaked from under the Stetson was still graying with streaks of dark brown. He stood tall, about the same height as Pitt and was more heavy than thin. His lips broadened into a friendly smile.

“I sure hope you fellas speak my language,” he said warmly. “Because I could sure use the company.”

29

Pitt and Giordino looked at each other blankly, and then back at the old desert rat, certain their eyes and their minds had run amuck.

“Where did
you
come from?” Giordino blurted.

“I might ask you the same thing,” replied the stranger. He gazed at the coating of sand on the Voisin. “You the fellas that airplane was lookin’ for?”

“Why do you want to know?” asked Pitt.

“If you two gents want to play question and answer games, I’ll be on my way.”

The intruder hardly wore the image of a nomad, and since he talked and looked like a fellow countryman, Pitt quickly decided to trust him. “My name is Dirk Pitt and my friend here is Al Giordino, and yes the Malians are looking for us.”

The old man shrugged. “Not surprised. They don’t take kindly to foreigners around here.” He gazed in wonder at the Voisin. “How in heaven’s name did you drive a car this far without a road?”

“It wasn’t easy, mister . . .”

The stranger moved closer and stuck out a callused hand. “Everybody just calls me the Kid.”

Pitt smiled and shook hands. “How did a man your age come to be called that?”

“Long time ago after, after I’d return from a prospecting trip, I’d always head for my favorite waterin’ hole in Jerome, Arizona. When I’d belly up to the bar, my old saloon pals used to greet me with, ‘Hey, the Kid’s back in town.’ The name just sort of stuck.”

Giordino was staring at the Kid’s companion. “A mule seems out of place in this part of the world. Wouldn’t a camel be more practical?”

“To begin with,” the Kid said with noticeable indignation, “Mr. Periwinkle ain’t no mule, he’s a burro. And a real tough one. Camels can go farther and longer without water, but the burro was bred for the desert too. Found Mr. Periwinkle roamin’ free in Nevada eight years ago, tamed him, and when I came to the Sahara I shipped him over. He’s not half as rotten as a camel, eats less, and can carry as much weight. Besides, standin’ lower to the ground like he does, he’s a helluva lot easier to pack.”

“A fine animal,” Giordino retreated.

“You look like you’re fixin’ to move on. I was hopin’ we might sit and talk a spell. I haven’t met up with another soul except an Arab takin’ a couple of camels to sell in Timbuktu. And that was three weeks ago. I never figured in a thousand years I’d run on to other Americans out here.”

Giordino looked at Pitt. “Might be smart to hang around and pump information from someone who knows the territory.”

Pitt nodded in agreement, opened the rear door of the Voisin, and gestured inside. “Would you care to take a load off your feet?”

The Kid stared at the leather seats of the car as if they were upholstered in gold. “I can’t remember when I sat in a soft chair. I’m much obliged.” He ducked into the car, sank into the rear seat, and sighed with pleasure.

“We only have a can of sardines, but we’d be happy to share it with you,” offered Giordino with a gracious generosity seldom witnessed by Pitt.

“Nope, dinner’s on me. I’ve got plenty of concentrated food packs. Be more than pleased to split them with you. How’s beef stew sound?”

Pitt smiled. “You don’t know how happy we are to be your guests. Sardines aren’t exactly our idea of a taste treat in the wild.”