Ahead, the LED lamp from Kane’s camera bobbled deeper down the tunnel, outdistancing him as he scrambled on his hands and knees. Skin ripped from his knuckles as he clenched the walking stick. His knees pounded across rough rocks and hard stone.
He’d never make it.
He was right.
A grinding roar erupted ahead, accompanied a moment later by a thick rolling wash of dust and fine sand through the air.
The tunnel had collapsed.
Through the silt cloud, Kane’s lamp continued to glow, jostling, but not seeming to move forward any longer. Coughing on the dust, Tucker hurried to his partner’s side.
Past Kane, a wall of sand, rock, and pieces of broken timber blocked the tunnel. There was no way past. The shepherd clawed and dug at the obstruction.
Tucker pushed next to him. With his free hand against the wall, he felt the vibration of the earth. Like a chain of dominoes, more collapses were imminent. With his palm on the wall, his fingertips discovered a corner at the edge of the obstruction.
“HOLD,” he ordered Kane.
As the shepherd settled back, Tucker twisted the dog’s vest camera to shine the light on his hand, still pressed against the wall. He glanced over his shoulder, then back to his fingers, regaining his bearings.
He realized they had reached the intersection of the two tunnels.
The collapse had occurred in the passageway to the right, the one leading from the entry shaft to here. What blocked them was the flood of sand and rock that had washed into this intersection by the cave-in. That meant there was no way to get back out the way they’d come in. But with some luck, they might be able to dig through this loose debris to reach the tunnel on the far side. Of course, there was no guarantee that such a path would lead to freedom, but they had no other choice.
“DIG,” he ordered Kane.
Shoulder to shoulder, they set to work. Kane kicked rocks and paw-fulls of sand between his hind legs. Tucker grabbed splintery shards of wood and tossed them back. They slowly but relentlessly burrowed and cleared out the debris.
With raw fingers, Tucker rolled away a large chunk of sandstone down the slope of debris. He reached into the new gap and found—nothing. He whooped and scrambled faster. He soon had enough of a path for the two of them to belly-crawl through the wash of debris and into the far tunnel.
Kane shook sand from his coat.
Crouched on his hands and knees, Tucker did the same—though his shaking was a combination of relief and residual terror.
“SCOUT AHEAD,” he whispered.
Together, they set out into the unknown maze of subterranean tunnels of the old Boer fort—and it was a labyrinth. Passageways and blind chambers met them at every turn. Tucker paused frequently to run his fingertips along the roofs or to shine Kane’s lamp up.
Distant booms and rumbles marked additional cave-ins.
At last, he found himself standing in a square space about the size of a one-car garage. From the carved shelves and the decayed remains of smashed wooden crates, it appeared to be an old cellar. More tunnels led out from this central larder.
He bent down and turned Kane’s lamp up.
He sighed in relief.
The low ceiling was held up with wooden planks.
As he straightened, Kane growled, a sharp note of fury—then bolted for the nest of crates. He shoved his nose there, then came backpedaling, shaking his head violently. After a few seconds, he trotted back to Tucker’s side, something draped from his jaws.
Kane dropped it at his feet.
It was a three-foot black snake with a triangular head that hinted at its venomous nature.
Only now, past the hammering of his heart, did he hear a low and continuous hissing. As his eyes adjusted, he saw shreds of shadow slithering over the floor, wary of the light. From the other tunnels, more snakes spilled into the chamber. The trembling of the earth was stirring them out of their nests, pushing them upward.
Tucker used the butt of the walking stick to push one away from his toes, earning a savage hiss and the baring of long fangs.
Time to get out of here.
“PROTECT,” he ordered Kane.
He gripped the pole two-handed and slammed the stick upward, striking into the planks with a jangle of the rod’s bells. Wood pieces showered down. He kept at it, pounding again and again through the decay and rot above his head, while Kane kept watch on the snakes.
He continued to work on the ceiling, trying to force his own cave-in, knowing he had to be near the surface. He pictured Kane’s earlier cautious search of the plateau and Christopher tapping the ground as they crossed, watching for pitfalls underfoot. By now, debris had begun to fall faster: wood, sand, rock. The rain of rubble only served to further piss off the roiling snakes.
With his shoulders aching, he smashed the stick into the ceiling again, cracking a thick plank, splitting it in two.
That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
A good chunk of the roof collapsed, crashing down around Tucker’s ears. A piece of wood caught him in the face, ripping a gash. Sand and dirt followed. He did his best to shelter Kane with his body.
Then a blinding brilliance.
He risked a look up to see blue sky and sunlight, as the dome of his dark world broke open. He heard surprised shouts rise outside, from Anya and Christopher.
“I’m okay!” he hollered back.
Blowing out his relief, he sank to a knee next to Kane.
“We’re okay,” he whispered.
Kane wagged his tail, peacocking a bit, plainly proud of the scatter of dead snakes around him. The sudden sunlight had driven the rest into hiding.
“You’re enjoying all this a little too much,” Tucker scolded with a smile.
6:13 P.M.
In short order, using the nylon ropes in Christopher’s pack, Tucker helped evacuate Kane by hooking the rope through the dog’s vest, then he followed, climbing out, hand over hand.
Once topside, Anya cleaned the gash on his cheek, slathered it with antibacterial ointment, and pasted a bandage over it.
Any further ministrations could wait until they reached the hotel.
With the sun close to setting, they hurried out of the hills. As the way was mostly downhill, they made quick progress, goaded on by the distant huffing of lions.
“Did you get what you needed?” Anya asked, marching beside him.
“Down to the inch.”
This time, he had measured Christopher’s walking stick.
“Good,” she replied. “I’m starving, and I’ve had enough of a nature walk for one day.”
He couldn’t agree more.
Once they reached the SUV parked at Helman’s Garage, Christopher headed back toward Springbok. It was a quiet, exhausted ride. Christopher called his brother Paul, confirmed all was calm at the guesthouse. Or at least mostly calm. Bukolov had rested enough to become his normal irascible self, demanding to know everything about the day’s discoveries, irritated at being left out.
Tucker did not look forward to that. He wanted nothing more than a long, hot soak, followed by a dip in the guesthouse pool.
As they pulled into the parking lot, Christopher’s phone rang. He balanced it to his ear as he rolled up to the hotel’s steps.
Once stopped, he turned to Tucker. “It’s Manfred. He asked if he could speak to you at the church. Tonight. Says he has some news that might interest you.” He covered the mouthpiece. “I could put him off until tomorrow.”
“I should go,” Tucker said, postponing his bath and dip.
Anya rebuckled her seat belt, determined to come, too, but he leaned forward and touched her shoulder.
“I can handle this,” he said. “If you handle Bukolov. Someone needs to bring him up to speed, or he’ll be on the warpath.”
A look of uncertainty crossed Anya’s face.
Tucker said, “He’ll behave. Just keep it short.”
Anya nodded. “After your day, I’ll take the b
ullet with Bukolov.”
“Thanks.”
As Anya disappeared through the French doors, Tucker drove back with Christopher to the church. They found the good reverend lounging where they’d last left him: at the picnic table in the yard. Only now, he was fully clothed, all in colonial white, except he remained barefoot. He smoked a pipe, waving it at them as they joined him.
“How went the expedition?” Manfred asked.
“Very well,” Tucker responded.
“I believe that bandage on your face says otherwise.”
“Knowledge always comes with a price.”
“And apparently this one was blood.”
You have no idea.
Tucker shifted forward. “Reverend, Christopher mentioned you had news.”
“Ah, yes. Quite mysterious. It seems Springbok has suddenly become very popular.”
“What do you mean?”
“About an hour ago, I received a call from a genealogist. She was asking about your ancestor, Paulos de Klerk.”
“She?” Tucker replied, warning bells jangling inside him. “A woman?”
“Yes. With an accent . . . Scandinavian, it sounded like.”
Felice.
Manfred narrowed his eyes. “Tucker, I can see from your expression, this is not welcome news. At first, I assumed the woman was part of your research team.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Competition then? Someone trying to steal your thunder?”
“Something like that,” he said, hating to lie to a man of the cloth. “But can you tell me if this was a local call?”
He shook his head. “The connection was made through an international operator.”
So likely not local.
A small blessing there.
“What did you tell her about De Klerk?” Tucker asked.
“I told her I knew very little. He was a doctor, a botanist, and likely was stationed at Klipkoppie.”
He bit back a groan, sharing a glance with Christopher.
“What about me?” Tucker asked. “Did she inquire about us?”
“Not a word. And I wouldn’t have told her anything anyway. By midway into the conversation, I sensed something awry. I wanted to speak to you before I offered her any further cooperation. That’s why I called you.”
“Did she ask about Grietje’s Well?”
“Yes, and I did mention Klipkoppie fort.”
This was disastrous.
Sensing his distress, Manfred patted his hand. “But I didn’t tell her where Klipkoppie fort was.”
“Surely she’ll learn—”
“She’ll learn what you learned. That Klipkoppie fort is located in the center of Springbok. It’s in all the tour books.”
Tucker remembered Manfred’s earlier disdain for the tourist trap. He felt a surge of satisfaction. Such a false trail could buy them even more time.
He calmed down. Mostly. Knowing Felice was on her way, he wanted to immediately return to the hotel, haul out his maps, and calculate De Klerk’s coordinates to his cave based on the location of the spring.
But he also had a font of local knowledge sitting across from him, and he did not want to waste it.
“Reverend, you mentioned De Klerk was under the command of General Roosa. In your research did you encounter any mention of a siege in the Groot Karas Mountains. It was where, I believe, my ancestor died.”
“No, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It wasn’t like today’s wars, with embedded journalists and cameras and such. But I can look into it.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Manfred stared hard, releasing a long puff of pipe smoke. “From that hunger in your voice, I worry that you’re thinking of going up into the Groot mountains.”
“And if we are?”
“Well, if you discount the guerrillas, the Namibian military, the poachers, and the highway bandits, there’s always the terrain, the heat, and the scarcity of water. Not to mention the indigenous wildlife that would like to eat you.”
Tucker grinned. “You need to be hired by the Namibian tourist board.”
“If you go,” Manfred warned, eyeing him seriously, “don’t look like a poacher. The Namibian military will shoot first and ask questions later. If rebels or bandits ambush you, fight for your life because if they get their hands on you, you’re done. Finally, take a reliable vehicle. If you break down, you’ll never reach civilization on foot.”
He nodded, respecting the man’s wisdom. “Thanks.”
Tucker stood up and shook Manfred’s hand.
As he and Christopher headed across the yard, Manfred called after them, “If your competition comes calling, what should I do?”
“Smile and point her to that tourist trap in the center of town.”
It wasn’t exactly the trap he wished for Felice.
That was more of a razor-sharp bear trap.
But it would do for now.
31
March 20, 9:09 A.M.
Upington, South Africa
“Welcome to wine country,” Christopher announced as the Cessna’s tires touched down at the airport of Upington, a picturesque town two hundred miles northeast of Springbok. “Here is where you’ll find the production fields of South Africa’s finest vintages. Some quarter-million pounds of grapes are harvested each year.”
Tucker had noted the rolling swaths of vineyards hugging the lush banks of the Orange River. This little oasis would also serve as their group’s staging ground for the border crossing into Namibia. Not that he wouldn’t mind a day of wine tasting first, but they had a tight schedule.
Last night, he had completed his calculations and had a fairly good idea of the coordinates of De Klerk’s cave. Knowing Felice would not be too far behind, he had everyone up at dawn for this short hop to Upington. He intended to stay ahead of her.
Once they deplaned, Paul Nkomo chauffeured them in a black Range Rover. He drove them up out of the green river valley and off into a sweeping savannah of dense grasses, patches of dark green forest, and rocky outcroppings. After twenty minutes of driving, the Rover stopped before a steel gate. A sign beside the gate read SPITSKOP GAME PARK.
Leaning out the open window, Paul pressed the buzzer, gave his name, and the gate levered open. Paul followed the road into an acre-sized clearing and parked before a sprawling, multiwinged ranch house. A trio of barns outlined the clearing’s eastern edge.
They all got out, stretching kinks.
“Not nearly as hot here,” Bukolov commented cheerily, on an uptick of his mood swings.
“It is still morning,” Paul warned. “It will get hot, very hot.”
“Are there any lions around here?” Anya asked, staring toward the savannah.
“Yes, ma’am. Must be careful.”
She looked around, found Kane, and knelt down next to the shepherd, scratching his ear appreciatively, clearly remembering his heroics yesterday and intending to stick close to him.
Christopher drew Tucker aside as the others went inside. He led Tucker to one of the barns. Inside was another Range Rover, this one painted in a camouflage of ochre, brown, and tan. Stacks of gear were strapped to the roof rack or piled in the rear cargo area.
“Your ride, Mr. Wayne.”
“Impressive,” Tucker said. He walked around the Rover, noting it was an older model. “How’re the maintenance records?”
He recalled Manfred’s warning about the dangers of getting stranded in Namibia.
“You will have no problems. Now, as for when we should depart, I—”
Tucker held up a hand. “What do you mean by we?”
“You, your companions, and myself, of course.”
“Who says you’re going with us, Christopher?”
The young man looked puzzled. “I thought it was understood that I was to be your guide throughout your stay in Africa.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
And he wasn’t happy about it. While he would cer
tainly welcome Christopher’s expertise, the body count of late had already climbed too high. He and the others had to go, but—
“You didn’t sign up for this, Christopher.”
He refused to back down. “I was instructed to provide whatever assistance you required to travel into Namibia. It is my judgment that I am the assistance you will require most.” He ticked off the reasons why on his fingers. “Do you speak any of the dialects of tribal Namibia? Do you know how to avoid the Black Mamba? How many Range Rovers have you fixed in the middle of nowhere?”
“I get your point. So let me make mine.”
Tucker walked to the Rover’s roof rack, pulled down a gun case, and lifted free an assault rifle. He placed it atop a blanket on the hood.
“This is an AR-15 semiautomatic rifle with a 4x20 standard slash night-vision scope. It fires eight hundred rounds per minute. Effective range four hundred to six hundred meters. Questions?”
Christopher shook his head.
“Watch carefully.” Tucker efficiently field-stripped the AR, laid the pieces on the cleaning blanket, then reassembled it. “Now you do it.”
Christopher took a deep breath, stepped up to the Rover, and repeated the procedure. He was slower and less certain, but he got everything right.
Next Tucker showed him how to load, charge, and manage the AR’s firing selector switch. “Now you.”
Christopher duplicated the process.
One last lesson.
Tucker took back the weapon, cleared it, and returned it to Christopher. “Now point it at my chest.”
“What?”
“Do it.”
Tentatively, Christopher did as Tucker ordered. “Why am I doing this?”
Tucker noted the slight tremble in the man’s grip. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”
“No.”
“Never shot at anyone?”
“No.”
“Been shot at?”
“No.”
“Never killed anyone?”
“Of course not.”
“If you come along, all of those things will probably happen.”
Christopher sighed and lowered the AR to his side. “I am beginning to see your point.”
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