Kill Switch (9780062135285) (26 page)

33

March 20, 10:11
P.M.

Borderlands of Namibia

“Should be just over that next dune,” Tucker said.

He had a map on his lap and his GPS unit in hand.

“What are we looking for?” Anya asked, leaning forward between the two front seats, careful of her cast.

After their flight across the border, Christopher kept the Rover at a cautious pace, proceeding overland, using the terrain to cover as much of their movement as possible.

“There should be a paved road,” Tucker replied. “One heading west into the mountains.”

“Is that wise?” she asked. “Won't there be traffic?”

“Perhaps, but a vehicle with South African plates in Namibia isn't unusual. As long as we don't attract attention to ourselves, the odds are in our favor.”

Christopher glanced over to her. “And on the road, we're less likely to encounter guerrillas or bandits.”

“That is, until we reach the mountain trails,” Tucker added. “Once we're off the paved roads and climbing into the badlands, then all bets are off.”

With his headlamps still dowsed, Christopher picked his way over the last of the dunes. A blacktop road appeared ahead, cutting straight across the sands. They waited a minute, making sure no traffic was in sight, then bumped over the shoulder and out onto the smooth pavement.

Christopher flipped on his lights and headed west.

Despite its remote location, the road was well maintained and well marked but completely devoid of traffic. For the next twenty-­five miles, as the road wound higher into the mountain's foothills, they saw not a single vehicle, person, or sign of civilization.

The road finally ended at a T-­junction. Christopher brought the Rover to a stop. In the backseat, Bukolov was snoring loudly. Anya had also fallen asleep, curled in the fetal position against the door.

“She is lovely,” Christopher said. “Is she your woman?”

“No.”

“I see. But you fancy each other, yes?”

Tucker rolled his eyes. “It's complicated. Mind your business.”

Still, he considered Christopher's words. Anya certainly was attractive, but he hadn't given much thought to any sort of relationship with her. She would need a friend once she reached America, and he would be that for her, but beyond that . . . only time would tell. He felt pity for her, felt protective of her, but those feelings might not be the healthiest way to start a romance. And, more important, this was the wrong place and time to think about any of it.

Especially in guerrilla-­infested Namibia.

Tucker checked their GPS coordinates against the map. “We're on track,” he said. “We should turn right here, go a quarter mile, then turn northwest onto a dirt trail.”

“And then how far to our destination?”

“Eighteen miles.”

At least he hoped so. If his bearing and range measurements were off by even a fraction of a degree, the cave could be miles from where he thought it was. Plus even if his calculations were accurate, the landmark they needed to find—­the Boar's Head—­could have been obliterated by time and erosion. He felt a flicker of panicky despair. Tucker tried to shove it down.

Deal with what's in front of you, Ranger,
he reminded himself again.

“That's a long distance to cover,” Christopher said. “And the terrain will only get rougher.”

“I know.” Tucker checked his watch. “It's almost midnight, and I don't want to tackle the mountains until daylight. Once we're a little higher in the foothills, we'll start looking for a place to camp and get some rest. At dawn, Kane and I will do some reconnoitering.

In the backseat, Bukolov snorted, groaned, then muttered, “My ears hurt.”

“We're at three thousand feet of elevation, Professor,” Christopher said. “Your ears will adjust soon. Go back to sleep.”

A short time later, they were off the blacktop and bouncing slowly along a rutted dirt road. They followed the ever-­narrowing tract higher into the foothills.

After an hour of this, Tucker pointed to a craggy hill with a clump of scrub forest at the top. “See if you can find a way up there.”

“I'll do my best.”

Christopher turned right off the trail and down an embankment. He followed a dry riverbed that wound to the hill's southern face and discovered a natural ramp that headed up. After another hundred yards, they reached a clearing surrounded by a crescent of boulders, shaded by stubby trees.

“This'll do,” Tucker said, drawing Christopher to a stop.

Tucker climbed out with Kane and pointed. “S
CO
UT AND RETURN.
”

The shepherd trotted off into the darkness, exploring the edges of the clearing and what looked like several game trails. Tucker did the same, circling completely around the Rover. In the distance, he heard the huffing grunt of lions, accompanied by several roars. Other creatures screeched and howled.

He waved Anya and Bukolov out and turned to Christopher.

“Let's get the tents set up. But what do you think about a fire?”

“The flames are good at keeping curious animals at bay, but also good at attracting rebels and bandits. I vote no.”

Tucker agreed. They quickly set up camp; even Bukolov pitched in before finally retiring, almost collapsing into the tent. Anya soon followed him.

“I'll take first watch,” Tucker said to Christopher. “You've been driving all day. Get some sleep.”

“I don't need much sleep. I'll relieve you in a ­couple of hours.”

Tucker didn't argue.

He drifted to the Rover and leaned a hip against the bumper. Overhead, a brilliant display of crisp stars flushed the sky, accompanied with the glowing swath of the Milky Way. He listened to the cacophony of the African night: the trill of insects, the distant hoots and hollers, the rustle of wind.

It was hard to believe such beauty hid such danger.

March 21, 1:24
A.M.

As Tucker kept a drowsy guard, Kane stirred from where he'd curled beside the Rover's tire.

Tucker heard the
zip
from the tent.

He turned to see Anya push out, wrapped in a blanket. Her breath misted in the cold desert air. She slowly, shyly joined him.

“Couldn't sleep?” he whispered. “Is your wrist bothering you?”

“No. It's not that—­” She ended in a shrug.

He patted the hood next to him.

She sat down, shifted closer, and tugged the blanket around Tucker's shoulders. “You looked cold.”

He didn't object. He had to admit the warmth was welcome . . . as was the company.

Kane glanced at them and made a deep
harrumphing
sound, then lay back down.

“I think someone is jealous,” Anya said, hiding a grin.

“He can get grumpy when he's tired.”

“You know each other's moods very well.”

“We've been together a long time. Since Kane was a pup. And after the years of training, we've learned each other's tics and idiosyncrasies.”

He suddenly felt foolish talking about this with a beautiful woman at his hip.

But she didn't seem to mind. “It must be nice to have someone so close to you in life, someone who knows you so well.”

At that moment, he realized how little he knew about the real Anya Averin—­and how much he wanted to know more.

“Speaking of getting to know someone,” he whispered, “I don't know anything about your past. Where did you grow up?”

There was a long pause—­clearly it was hard for her to let her guard down, especially after so many years of wearing a false face.

“Many places,” she finally mumbled. “My father was in the Russian Army. He was a . . . a hard man. We moved around a lot.”

He heard pain there as she looked down. After a long awkward silence, she shifted away. He had clearly touched a sore point.

“I suppose I should try to sleep,” she mumbled, hopping down and drawing the blanket with her. With a small wave of a hand, she headed back to the tent and ducked inside.

The night was suddenly much colder.

34

March 21, 5:16
A.M.

Groot Karas Mountains, Namibia

Christopher shook Tucker awake while it was still dark. He instantly went alert, muscles going hard, shaking off the cobwebs of fitful dreams.

“It's okay, Mr. Wayne,” the man reassured him. “You asked me to wake you before the sun was up.”

“Right, right . . .”

He slithered out of his sleeping bag and grabbed the AR-­15 rifle resting next to it.

As he followed Christopher out of the tent, Bukolov snorted and woke from the commotion. “What's going on? What's happening?”

“Nothing, Doctor,” Tucker said. “Go back to sleep.”

“I could if you two would stop bumbling around like a pair of elephants.” He rolled over, putting his back to them.

Across the dark tent, Anya's eyes shone toward him, then she turned away, too.

With Kane in tow, Tucker pushed out into the predawn chill. He stomped circulation back into his feet, while Kane darted over to a bush and lifted his leg.

Once the shepherd had returned, Christopher asked, “Which way will you two go and how far?”

He pointed east. “We'll scout a few miles ahead. We can move quieter than the Rover. We'll make sure nothing stands between us and the coordinates. If it looks safe, we can continue with the Rover. I should be back before noon. If I run into any trouble or you do, we've got our radios.”

“Understood.”

“Have the Rover packed and ready. Run if you need to. Don't fight unless you have no other choice.”

“I would much prefer to come with—­”

“I know you would, but someone has to guard Anya and Bukolov. That's why we're here. They're more important than me.”

“I don't agree, sir. Every life is precious in the eyes of God.”

Tucker knew it was foolish to argue with the young man. He just prayed that when it came to a firefight that Christopher placed
his
precious life above that of his enemy's.

With matters settled, Tucker suited up Kane, then thoroughly checked his rifle and strapped a Smith & Wesson .44-­caliber snubnose to his belt. As an additional precaution, knowing he might encounter guerrilla forces, he wanted something extra in his back pocket, something with a little more bang. He fished out a block of C-­4 plastic explosive from their reserves and shoved it into the cargo pocket of his pants.

That'll have to do.

Ready now, he and Kane took to a game trail that led them down the steep north face of the hill and into a short valley. He took a compass bearing, marked his map, then they set out east. The terrain of the Groot Karas Mountains was as unique and strange as the desert that bordered it. From satellite images, it appeared as though a giant hand had poured molten metal across the mountain's slopes: rock formations looped and whorled around one another forming a flowing maze, all of it broken up by plateaus, boulder-­strewn ravines, and tiny crescent canyons tucked tightly against steep cliffs.

It was no wonder rebels and bandits had marked off this harsh terrain as their base of operations. Hidden here, they would be difficult to find, and harder still to root out and destroy. It seemed in both real estate and guerrilla warfare, one maxim ruled them all: location, location, location.

Tucker continued picking his way eastward, studying the detailed topographical map, judging the best course to keep parallel to the dirt road without being seen, searching for any evidence of a trap set by bandits or a bivouac of guerrilla forces. He wanted no surprises when he brought the others through here in the Range Rover.

He also relied heavily on Kane, outfitted with his tactical Storm vest.

The shepherd became an extension of his eyes and ears.

R
OAM
. S
COUT
. R
ETURN
.

Those were Kane's standing orders as they moved through the maze of cliffs, scrub brush, and sand. Padding silently, the shepherd explored every nook and cranny. He scaled slopes, peeked over crests, ducked into blind canyons, and sniffed at cave entrances, returning every now and again to pass on an
all clear
.

After three miles, the first glimmer of the new day appeared. He pictured the sun rising above the distant Kalahari Desert, firing the sands and stretching its light into the mountains. Tucker paused for a water break, sharing his canteen with Kane. He performed another compass check and updated his map.

Kane suddenly jerked his head up from the collapsible water bowl. Tucker froze, his eyes on the shepherd. Kane tilted his head left, then right, then took a few paces forward.

Though Tucker heard nothing, he implicitly trusted Kane's ears. Quietly, he tucked away their items and donned his pack.

“C
LOSE LEAD
. Q
UIET SCOUT
.”

While the shepherd's gait was naturally quiet, this order put Kane into a covert stalk mode. The shepherd took off at a fast walk, with Tucker following five paces behind. Kane slowly worked his way up a sandy ridge, moving from stone to stone so as not to trigger an avalanche of sand that could give away their position.

Tucker followed his example.

At the crest of the ridge, Kane lowered flat and stopped moving. From the intensity of the dog's gaze and the angle of his ears, Tucker knew his partner had homed in on the source of the noise.

Tucker joined him, dropping to his belly and crawling the last few feet. He peeked over the ridgeline.

Before them spread a fan-­shaped valley a quarter mile long. The far side vanished into a scatter of ravines that broke through a tall, flat-­topped plateau. The site had great potential to serve as a guerrilla base or a bandit hideout. It was hidden and defensible, with several escape routes nearby.

As if on cue, a pair of dark compact pickup trucks rolled into the valley from the neighboring dirt road. The two picked their way overland across the floor below. Jutting from the bed of each truck was a tripod-­mounted machine gun. The hair on Tucker's neck tingled. Whether these were bandits or guerrillas, he didn't know, not that it really mattered. They were a force of armed men.

That was enough.

That, and they're right where I don't want them.

He watched the trucks continue past his position, then vanish down one of the ravines. Tucker waited a few more minutes to ensure they weren't turning back. Once satisfied, he and Kane scaled down into the valley and made their way to where the trucks had first appeared. Down a short slope, he found the remains of a still-­warm campfire not far from the dirt road. Refuse littered the area, including what looked like ­fly-­encrusted entrails, the discards of a field-­dressed deer or ­antelope.

Tucker approached the campfire. It was small and the coals only a few inches deep. That told him the site had not been used many times. It wasn't a regular base.

Just passing through then. Maybe hunting food before returning to their main base deeper in the badlands.

“Hopefully,” he muttered.

He checked his watch, recognizing it was time to head back to the others.

At his side, Kane growled, hackles rising.

Tucker dropped low next to him.

Then he heard another growl—­but not from Kane.

From across the neighboring road, a fleet of dappled shadows sped over the dirt tract, a pack of dogs—­from their rounded ears and spotted flanks, they were African wild dogs,
Lycaon pictus,
the second-­largest canid predators in the world, topping off at eighty pounds each. As a necessity, Tucker had read up on the natural threats he might face out here. These beasts had the highest bite strength relative to body size of any carnivore. Their most common means of attack: disembowelment.

He stared at the pile of entrails, at the trickle of smoke still rising from the embers. The scent had clearly drawn them. Until now, intimidated by the larger group of men from the trucks, the pack had kept hidden, biding their time. But now, with the larger force gone, the pack was not going to tolerate a single man and a shepherd stealing from their larder.

As the pack reached the far side of the road, Tucker quickly retreated, drawing Kane with him. He shouldered the AR-­15, sweeping the rifle's barrel across the pack as they burst through the scrub and into the clearing.

He didn't want to shoot—­not because they were dogs, but because the gunfire would surely be heard by the departing guerrillas, likely drawing them back to the road.

He continued to retreat, hoping such a nonthreatening act would appease the dogs. Most of the pack went straight for the food, scattering a cloud of heavy flies to reach the entrails. Growls and yips rose from the feasting, amid much shouldering and complaints.

Two dogs ignored the easy pickings, clearly wanting fresh meat. They sped at Tucker and Kane. The first reached Tucker and lunged, leaping toward his groin. Expecting such an attack, he reversed his rifle and slammed the stock into the skull, catching the beast a glancing blow. The dog fell, tried to get up, stumbling and dazed. It was a male.

The female hesitated, shying from the sudden attack, juking to the side, watching them, stalking back and forth. Her lips rippled into a snarl, her hackles high. Kane paced her move for move, growling from deep inside.

Tucker knew that packs of African wild dogs were different from many other canids. An alpha female always led the pack, not a male.

Here was that leader.

Confirming this, she let out a short chirping burst from her throat, calling for support. Several of the pack lifted bloody muzzles from the feast.

Tucker knew running wasn't an option. The pack would be on them in seconds. They had to make a stand here—­and make it before she got her pack fully rallied, which meant taking her out.

Still, he dared not shoot her, knowing the blast would echo far, likely to the wrong ears.

But he had another weapon.

He pointed toward the female.

“A
TTACK
.”

Kane moves before the command leaves his partner's lips. He anticipates the instruction—­and charges. Aggression already rages through him, stoked to a fiery blaze by the other. He has smelled her fury
, read the territoriality in her posture, heard the threat.

She does not back down, lunging at him at the same time he leaps.

They strike hard, chest to chest, teeth gnashing at each other, catching air and fur. They roll, entangled, first him on top, then her.

She moves, fast, powerful, going for his exposed belly. She bites hard—­but finds no flesh, only tough vest. He slides free from under her confusion and dismay. He lunges, snapping, shredding her ear.

She leaps back.

Now wary.

He smells her fear.

He growls deeper, from his bones. His ears lie back, his hackles trembling. He sets his front legs wider, challenging her. Saliva ropes from his curled lips, redolent with her blood.

It is enough.

She backs from his posture, from the toughness of his false hide.

One step, then another.

A new command reaches him, cutting through the crimson of his rage.

C
OME
. F
OLLOW
.

He obeys, retreating but never backing down, locking eyes, still challenging the other until she falls out of view.

Tucker hurried away from the campsite, putting several hundred yards between them and the pack before slowing. He paused only long enough to run his fingers over Kane. Except for a few missing puffs of hair, he appeared unscathed.

As he'd hoped, Kane's tactical vest, reinforced with Kevlar, had not only protected the shepherd, but also clearly spooked the female with its strangeness. She was happy to let them retreat.

Backtracking along their old trail, the return journey went much faster. They arrived at the camp shortly before noon and were greeted happily by Christopher and Anya.

Bukolov offered a gruff but surprisingly genuine “Glad you are not dead.”

While Anya and Bukolov prepared a cold lunch, Tucker recounted for Christopher his encounter with the guerrillas and wild dogs.

“You were lucky to survive that hungry pack, Mr. Tucker. And let us hope you are right about the soldiers, that they were simply passing through. Show me how far you mapped and we can plan the best course to avoid trouble.”

Half an hour later, they were all gathered over a set of maps and charts. Christopher and Tucker had settled on the safest route to reach De Klerk's coordinates. But that was only
one
problem solved.

“Once there,” Tucker said, “we need to find that landmark De Klerk mentioned, something shaped like a boar's head near a waterfall.”

He turned to Bukolov and Anya. They knew De Klerk's history better than anyone. “In his diary of that siege, did De Klerk give any further clues about that waterfall. Like maybe some hint of its height?”

“No,” Bukolov said.

“How about whether it was spring fed or storm runoff?”

Anya shook her head. “De Klerk described the troop's route into these mountains in only the vaguest terms.”

“Then we're just going to have to get there and check every creek, stream, and trickle, looking for that waterfall.”

Christopher considered this. “We are at the end of our rainy season. That highland region will likely be flowing with many small creeks and waterfalls. Which is good and bad.
Bad
because there will be many spots to explore.”

Making for a long search . . .

Tucker pictured Felice closing in on them.

How much time did they have?

“How is it
good
?” Anya asked.

“The terrain here is hard and unforgiving. As a consequence, the creeks and river basins rarely change course. Year after year, they are the same. If the waterfall was flowing when your man was here, it is probably still flowing now.”