Nelson Demille - The Quest

She nodded, but he could see she was close to collapse.

He took her arm and they began moving at a half run toward the rising ridge of red rock, which he could see was impassable for mounted riders.

They had to stop every few minutes and rest, and Vivian scanned the ground for water. At one rest stop she announced she saw a pool of water that turned out to be a flat rock. Purcell recognized the signs of severe dehydration, which were confusion and hallucination. Water, water everywhere. He thought of all those bloated bodies-ninety-eight percent water… but he wasn’t that desperate yet.

They reached the base of the ridge and continued up the exposed slope of sun-baked rock. Vivian suddenly scrambled away from him and he caught her by the ankle, but she kicked free and continued off to her left.

Purcell followed and saw what she’d seen; a clump of what looked like spiky cactus, nestled between two flat rocks.

She grabbed at the vegetation and brought it directly to her mouth. Purcell did the same and guessed, by the soft viscous flesh of the plant, that it was some sort of aloe. He squeezed some pulp into his hand and rubbed it across his burning face, then did the same for Vivian as she continued to chew on the plant.

Within a minute or two, the aloe plants were eaten and Purcell dug out the shallow roots with his penknife and they ate those as well.

Neither of them spoke for a while, then Vivian said, “Thank God…”

Purcell retrieved his bush jacket, which she’d let fall off her head, and covered both their heads with it as they sat and looked down onto the plateau below. He treated himself to a cigarette.

A few hundred yards away, he could see four Gallas on horseback, riding slowly through the elephant grass, heads down, still looking for the living and the dead.

Vivian followed his gaze and said softly, “Ghouls.”

Purcell looked across the plateau at the mountain they had descended, and where Henry and Colonel Gann were hopefully still alive. Possibly Gann was able to follow their progress through his field glasses, so Purcell waved his arms.

Vivian, too, was waving, and Purcell heard her murmur, “Hang on, Henry.”

Purcell didn’t want to attract the attention of the Gallas, who, if they spotted them, would start taking potshots at them-or they’d dismount and start climbing up the ridge. Assuming the Gallas were in better shape than he or Vivian, they would catch up with them before he and Vivian reached the army lines.

He glanced at Vivian. Her lips were cracked and her face was a mess, but her eyes looked more alert now. Her torn khakis were crusted with sweat salt, but not damp with new sweat. He guessed she had been very near heatstroke, but she should be able to finish the climb. He, himself, felt better. He’d had worse days in the Khmer Rouge prison camp, sick with dysentery and fever… Another interned reporter, a Frenchman, had saved his life, then died a few weeks later.

He asked Vivian, “How are you doing?”

She stood and moved up the ridge and Purcell followed.

They continued the climb, rock by rock. It would have been an easy climb if they’d had something in their stomachs aside from a few aloe plants. Also, their goal-the government forces-might not be a touchdown if Getachu was playing by his own rules.

Purcell stood on a flat rock, shielded his eyes with his hand, and scanned the jagged slope ahead. Less than two hundred yards up the ridgeline he spotted what looked like a revetment of stones. Then he saw a figure moving among the rocks. He said to Vivian, “I think I see an army outpost.”

They continued up the ridge. As they got closer to the piled stone, Purcell could see at least five men in camouflage uniforms sitting beneath a green tarp that had been strung between tent poles. The men seemed engaged in conversation and didn’t notice that anyone was approaching.

This was the critical moment, Purcell knew, the two or three seconds when the guys with the guns had to decide if you were friend or foe, or something else.

He motioned for Vivian to lie flat behind a rock, then he took his white handkerchief from his pocket and shouted one of the few Amharic phrases he knew. “Tena yastalann!” Hello.

A shot rang out and Purcell threw himself on the ground. More shots rang out and Purcell realized the shooting was coming from behind him-the Gallas-then return fire started coming from the soldiers. He put his hand on Vivian’s back and pressed hard to keep her from moving.

The exchange of gunfire lasted a few minutes, then abruptly stopped.

Purcell whispered to Vivian, “Don’t move.”

She nodded.

He raised his body slightly and craned his head around the rock to see if the Gallas were behind them. He didn’t see any movement below and he turned his head toward the army outpost. An arm’s length from his face were two dark feet in leather sandals. He looked up into the muzzle of an AK-47.

The soldier motioned with the barrel of his gun for him to stand.

Purcell got slowly to his feet. Keeping his hands up, he smiled and said to the man dressed in camouflage fatigues, “Amerikawi. Gazetanna.”

Vivian was also standing now and she asked, “Capisce Italiano?”

The soldier understood the question, but shook his head. He kept his automatic rifle pointed at them, but glanced down the ridge to see if the Gallas were still coming.

Purcell motioned up the ridge and said in English, “Okay, buddy, we’re here to see General Getachu.”

Vivian added, “Giornalista. Gazetanna.” She tapped her camera. “General Getachu.”

The soldier stared at her.

Two more soldiers in cammies came down from the gun emplacement carrying their Soviet-made AK-47s. The three men began conversing in what sounded like Amharic. As they spoke, they kept glancing at Vivian, who Purcell thought looked awful, but maybe not to the soldiers.

Vivian tapped her pants pocket to indicate she had something for them, then slid out her passport and press credentials.

One of the soldiers snatched the items from her hand and stared at the press credentials, which were written in several languages, including Amharic. He then opened Vivian’s passport, which Purcell knew was Swiss-a good passport to have-and flipped through it.

Purcell drew his American passport and press credentials from his pocket along with the safe-conduct pass wrapped in plastic. One of the soldiers took the documents from him and all of them gave a look, though it appeared that none of them could read even Amharic.

Purcell pointed to the safe-conduct pass and said, “Signed by General Andom.” He added, “Brezhnev is numero uno. Power to the people. Avanti.”

One of the soldiers looked at him, then motioned for him and Vivian to walk up the ridge. The soldiers followed.

On the way up, Vivian asked, “Are we going to get a bullet in the back?”

Purcell remembered the executions he’d seen in Cambodia; the victims were almost always naked so that their clothes wouldn’t he ruined. Also, the women were usually raped first. He suspected it was the same here. “No,” he replied. “Reporters can be shot only by the general.”

They reached the gun emplacement and Purcell could see an 81-millimeter mortar surrounded by piled stone. A fire pit held the charred wooden remains of ammunition crates and the blackened bones of small animals.

They stopped and Purcell said, in Amharic, “Weha.”

One of the soldiers indicated a five-gallon jerry can, which Purcell lifted and poured over Vivian’s head and clothes to bring down her body temperature. She took the can and did the same for him, saying, “Spa, Ethiopian style.” A soldier handed them a canteen and they drank.

Vivian smiled at the soldiers and thanked them in Amharic: “Agzer yastallan.”