The Seventh Scroll tes-2
Page 30
He ran now with fresh strength and determination as he left the trail
and climbed up towards the deformed tree and the beginning of the goat
track up, the cliff.
Exactly where he expected it, he found the start of the track and
followed it upwards. The higher he climbed, the steeper it became. Often
he had to use both hands to haul himself up a gradient, or to work his
way along a narrow traverse.
The first time he had climbed this mountain he had been following the
blood spoor of the wounded ibex, but now he did not have those
splattered droplets to guide him, and twice he missed the path and found
himself in a dead end on the cliff face. He was forced to edge back from
the drop and retrace his footsteps until he found the correct urning.
Each time he did so he was aware that he was losing time, and that Mek
Nimmur might pass before he was able to intercept him.
Once he startled a small troop of wild goats which were lying on a ledge
halfway up the cliff. They went bounding away up the rock face, more
like birds than animals bound by the laws of gravity. They were led by a
huge male with a streaming beard and long spiral horns, which in its
flight showed Boris a direct route to the top of the cliff.
He tore the skin off his fingertips dragging himself up the last steep
pitch, but finally he reached the top and wormed his way over the
skyline, never lifting his head. A i human form silhouetted against the
clear, eggshell-blue sky would be visible from miles around. He moved
along behind the crest until he found a small clump of sanseveria to
give him cover, and used the erect, spiny leaves to break up the outline
of his head as he surveyed the valley a thousand feet below through the
binoculars.
From this height the Nile was a broad, glittering serpent uncoiling into
the first bend of the oxbow, its surface ruffled by rapids and rocky
reefs. The high ground on either bank formed standing waves of up-thrust
basalt, turbulent and chopped into confusion like a storm sea in a
tropical typhoon. The whole danced and shimmered in the heat and the sun
beat down with the blows of an executioner's axe, pounding this universe
of red rock into heat exhausted submission.
Though the air danced and trembled with the mirage in the tenses of his
binoculars, Boris traced out the rough trail beside the rier, and
followed it down the valley to the point where it was hidden by the
bend. It was deserted, with no sign of human presence, and he knew that
his quarry had moved on out of sight. He had no way of telling how far
down the trail they had travelled - he knew only that he must hurry on
if he were to cut them off on the far side of the mountain.
For the first time since he had left the'river, he drank sparingly from
the water bottle. He realized how the heat and the exertion of the climb
had dehydrated him. In these conditions a man without water might be
dead in hours. It was not in the least surprising that there was so
little permanent human habitation down here in the gorge.
When he backed off the skyline he felt rejuvenated, and set out to cross
the saddle of the mountain. It was less than a mile across, and without
warning he came out on the top of the cliffs on the far side. One more
unwary pace and he would have stepped off into space and plunged down a
thousand feet. Once again he moved along the crest until he found a
concealed vantage point from which to spy the terrain below.
The river was the same - a wide and confused expanse of white-ruffled
rapids, running back towards him as it turned through the leg of the
oxbow. The trail followed the near bank, except where it was forced to
detour inland by the rugged bluffs and stone needles which rose out of
the Nile waters.
In the great desolation of the gorge he could pick out no movement other
than the run of wild waters and the ceaseless dance of the heat mirage.
He knew it was not possible that Mek Nimmur had moved fast enough to
have passed completely ahead of him; therefore he must still be coming
around the bend of the oxbow.
He drank again, and rested for almost half an hour.
At the end of that time he felt strong and fully recovered.
He debated with himself whether to descend immediately and stake out an
ambush on the' trail, but in the end decided to keep to the high ground
until he had his quarry in sight.
He checked his rifle carefully, making sure that the telescopic sight
had not been bumped out of alignment during the climb, and then emptied
the magazine and examined the five cartridges. The brass case of one of
them was dented and discoloured, so he discarded it and reloaded with
another from his belt. He chambered a round and setthe safety-catch.
He set the weapon aside while he changed his sweat, dampened socks with
a fresh dry pair from his pack and retied his bootlaces with care. Only
a novice would risk blistered feet in these conditions, for within hours
they would be infected and festering.
He drank once more, and then stood up and stung the 30/06 on his
shoulder. Ready now for anything that the goddess of the chase could
send his way, he moved off along the crest to intercept the war party.
From every vantage point along the rim he glassed the valley below, each
time without spying his quarry, and the afternoon passed "swiftly. He
was just beginning to worry that Mek Nimmur had somehow managed to slip
past him unseen, that he had crossed the river at some secret ford or
taken another path through a hidden valley, when there came a plaintive
and querulous cry on the heat-hushed air.
He looked up. A pair of kites were circling over one particular clump of
Thorn scrub on the river bank.
The yellow'billed kite is one of the most ubiquitous scavengers in
Africa. It exists in close symbiotic association with man, feeding off
his rubbish, picking up his leavings, soaring and circling over his
villages or his temporary campsites, watching for his scraps or waiting
patiently for him to squat in the bushes and then dropping down
immediately he has finished his private business, acting as a universal
sewage disposal agent.
Boris studied this pair of birds through his binoculars as they sailed
idly in the heated air, always circling directly over that same patch of
river in bush. They had a distinctive manner of steering with their long
bifurcated tails, twisting them from side to side as they flirted with
the breeze. Their bright yellow beaks showed clearly as they turned
their heads to look down at something in the scrub.
He smiled coldly to himself. "Da! Nimmur has gone into camp early.
Perhaps the heat and the pace are too fierce for his new woman, or
perhaps he has stopped to play with her a little."
He moved on along the rim until he could look down directly into the
patch of bush. He studied it through the binoculars, but without picking
out any signs of human presence. After almost two hours he was becoming
uncertain of his original assumption. The only thing that retained his
attention was the pair of kites, which had settled in a treetop
overlooking the patch of scrub. He had to trust that they were watching
the men hidden in the scrub.
He glanced at the sun anxiously. It was sliding down towards the horizon
at last and losing its furious heat. Then he looked down into the valley
again.
Directly below the patch of bush was an indentation in the river bank
that formed a backwater, almost a small lagoon, When the river was in
flood it would be inundated, but now there was a small strip of gravel
bank exposed. On this bank stood a number of boulders that had tumbled
down from the cliff above. Some of them were lying on the beach, while
others had rolled into the river and were half, submerged. The largest
was the size of a cottage, a great round mass of dark rock.
As he watched, a man emerged unexpectedly from the scrub. Boris's pulse
quickened as he watched him scramble down on to one of the smaller
boulders and jump from there on to the gravel bank. He knelt at the
water's edge and filled a canvas bucket -with water, then climbed back
and disappeared into the bush again.
"Ah! The heat is too much even for them. They must drink, and that gives
them away. If it had not been for the birds I would never have known
that they were there." He clucked softly with reluctant admiration.
"Nimmur is a careful man. No wonder he has survived so long. He keeps
tight control. But even he must have water."
Boris kept watching through the glasses as he tried to guess what Mek
Nimmur would do next. "He has lost much time here by sheltering from the
heat. He will march again as soon as it is cooler. He will make a night
march," he decided, as he looked at the sun again. "Three hours until
dark. I must make my move before then. Once it is dark it will be
difficult to pick my targets."
Before he stood up he wriggled back from the skyline.
He retraced his steps back along the Mountainside until a bluff shielded
him from the eyes of Mek Nimmur's sentries.
Then he started down. There was no goat track here and he had to make
his own going, but after a few false starts he discovered an inclined
rock shelf that afforded him a fairly easy path down the face. When he
reached the bottom of the gorge, he took careful stock of the lie and
run of the . stratum so as to be able to find it again in an emergency.
It was a good escape route, and he knew that he might soon be under
pursuit and duress.
It had taken him over an hour to negotiate the descent, and he knew that
he was running out of time. He reached the trail at the water's edge,
and started back along it towards Mek Nimmur's camp. He was in a hurry
now, but even then he was careful to take anti-tracking precautions. He
walked on the edge of the trail, stepping only on the stony ground,
careful to leave no sign of his passing.
But despite his caution, he nearly walked right into them.
He had not covered the first two hundred metres when in the back of his
mind he registered the low, mournful whistle of a pale-winged starting,
and almost ignored it until alarm bells sounded in his mind. The timing
was all wrong. The starling only gave that particular call at dawn when
it left its nesting site high up in the cliffs. This was late afternoon
down in the heated depths of the gorge. He guessed that it was a signal
from one of the scouts coming up the trail towards him. Mek Nimmur's
party was on the move.
Boris reacted instantly. He slipped off the trail, and ran back the way
he had come until he reathed the beginning of the pathway along which he
had descended the cliff. He climbed just high enough to be able to
overlook the trail. However, he realized that he had lost Much of the
advantage that he had built up by cutting across the mountain. This was
not the ideal ambush position, and his escape route was exposed to enemy
fire from below - he would be lucky to make it to the top. But the .
idea of abandoning his vengeance never occurred to him. As soon as his
targets were in'his sights, he would shoot from this stance.
However, he acknowledged to himself that Mek Nimmur had taken him by
surprise. Boris had not anticipated that he would move before the sun
had set. He had expected to be able to take up a position above the camp
in the thorn patch and to be able to get off two careful, well-aimed
shots before he was forced to run.
It was also part of his calculations that, once he had dropped Mek
Nimmur, his men would not be eager to follow up with too much despatch.
Boris planned to make a running retreat, stopping at every defensible
strong point to fire a few shots, knock down one or two of them, and
keep the pursuit circumspect and cautious until they eventually lost
their taste for the game and let him go.
However, all that had now changed. He would have to take the first
opportunity that presented itself - almost certainly a moving target -
and as soon as he had fired he would be exposed on the path up the cliff
face. His one advantage here was that his hunting rifle was a superbly
accurate piece, whereas Mek Nimmur's men were all armed with AK-47
assault rifles, rapid-firing but notoriously wild at longer range, and
more especially in the hands of these shufta. With proper training, the
fighting tribesmen of Africa made some of the finest troops in the
world. They possessed all the necessary skills, with one exception -
they were notoriously poor marksmen.
He lay flat on the ledge, and the rock under him was so hot from the
direct sunlight that it burned painfully even through his clothin - He
pulled the pack from his 9 back and set it up in front of him, settling
the forestock of the, rifle over it to give himself a dead rest. He
peered through the telescope, wriggling into a comfortable position,
sighting on a small rock beside the main trail and then swinging the
barrel from side to side to make certain that he had a clear arc of
fire.
Satisfied that this was the best stance he could find in the short time
left to him, -he set the rifle aside and picked up a handful of dirt. He
rubbed this gently into his face, and the sweat turned it to mud that
coated his pate skin and dulled the shine that an alert scout might pick
out at long range. His last concern was to check the angle of the sun,
and to satisfy himself that it was not reflecting off the lens of his
scope or off any of the metal parts of the rifle.
He reached over and pulled at the branch of the shrub beside him so that
it cast its shadow over the weapon.
At last he settled down behind the rifle and cuddled the butt into his
shoulder, regulating his breathing to a deep slow rhythm, dropping his
pulse rate and steadying his hands. He did not have long to wait. He
heard the bird-call again, but this time much nearer at hand. It was
answered immediately from the far side of the trail, down closer to the
river bank.
"The flankers will be having difficulty maintaining station over this
terrain." He grinned w
ithout hurriour, a death's-head grimace. They will
be bunching and straggling." As he thought it, a man came into view
around the bend of the trail, about five hundred metres, dead ahead.
Boris picked him up in the magni of ens.
He was a typical African guerrilla, a shufta dressed in a tattered and
faded motley of camouflage and civilian clothing, festooned with pack
and water bottle, ammunition and grenades, carrying his AK at high port.
He hatted the moment he came through the turn, and crouched into cover
behind a boulder at the side of the trail.
For a long minute he surveyed the lie of the land ahead of him, his head
turning slowly from side to side. At one point he seemed to be staring
directly at Boris, who held his breath and lay as still as the rock
beside him. But finally the shufta straightened up and gave a hand
signal to those out of sight behind him. Then he came on down the trail
at a trot. When he had covered fifty metres the rest of the party began
to appear, keeping their intervals as precisely as beads on a string. It
would not be possible to enfilade this line even with an RPD from a
prepared position.
"Good!" Boris approved. "These are crack troops. Mek must have
hand-picked them." He watched them through the lens, examining the
features of each man as he came into view, searching for Mek Nimmur.
There were seven of them spread out down the trail now, but still no
sign of their leader. The man on the point drew level with Boris's
position and then went on past him. A pair of flankers passed directly
beneath where he lay, rustling softly by in the scrub not more than a
dozen paces from him. He lay like a stone and let them go. The rest of
them passed his position, well spaced and moving swiftly. For some
minutes after the last of them had gone, the gorge seemed deserted and
devoid of all human presence. Then there was another stealthy movement
out there.
"The rear guard," Boris grunted softly. "Mek is keeping the woman at the
rear. His new plaything."He is taking great care of her."
He slipped the safety-catch on the rifle gently, making certain that no
alien metallic sound fell on the heated and hushed air.
"Now let them come," he breathed. "I will take Mek first. Nothing fancy,
no head shots. Squarely in the centre of the chest. The woman will
freeze when he goes down.