Clive Cussler - Sahara

"Not to muddy the mystery any worse than it already is," said Hopper. "But something else turned up in my analysis. I found very high traces of radioactivity."

"Interesting," Grimes said lukewarmly. "But if anything, long exposure to above normal radiation levels would have lowered the red cell count. I saw nothing during my examination to suggest chronic effects of radioactivity."

"Suppose the radiation penetrated the well water only recently?" Eva offered.

"A distinct possibility," admitted Grimes. "But we're still left with the enigma of an unknown killer substance."

"Our equipment is limited," Hopper shrugged. "If we're looking at a new strain of bacteria or some combinations of exotic chemicals, we may not be able to totally identify the causes here. We'll have to take samples back to our laboratory in Paris."

"A synthetic by-product," Eva murmured thoughtfully. Then she made a sweeping gesture around the desert. "Where can it possibly come from? Certainly not from around here."

"The hazardous waste disposal at Fort Foureau?" Grimes advanced.

Hopper studied the bowl of his pipe. "Two hundred kilometers northwest. A bit far to carry a contaminant against prevailing winds and deposit it in the town wells. And that doesn't explain the high radiation levels. The Fort Foureau facility is not designed to accept radioactive waste. Besides, the hazardous materials are all burned, so there is no way they could penetrate an underground water supply and then be carried this far without having any deadly chemicals absorbed into the soil."

"Okay," said Eva. "What's our next step?"

"Pack up and fly to Cairo and then on to Paris with our samples. We'll take our prime specimen also. Wrap him good and keep him cool and he should remain in decent shape until we get him bedded down in ice in Cairo."

Eva nodded. "I agree. The sooner we perform our research under proper conditions, the better."

Hopper turned and stared at Batutta who had said nothing but sat listening, pretending indifference while a tape recorder under his shirt monitored every word.

"Captain Batutta."

"Dr. Hopper."

"We have decided to push on to Egypt first thing in the morning. Is this agreeable with you?"

Batutta flashed a wide smile and twisted one end of his moustache. "I regret I must stay behind and report to my superiors on the plight of the village. You are free to continue to Cairo."

"We can't just leave you here."

"There is plenty of gas in the vehicles. I will simply take one of the Land Rovers and drive back to Timbuktu."

"That's a 400-kilometer trek. You know the way?"

"I was born and bred in the desert," Batutta said. "I will leave at sunrise and be in Timbuktu by nightfall."

"Will our change of plan place you in any difficulty with Colonel Mansa?" asked Grimes.

"My orders were to serve you," Batutta said patronizingly. "Do not give it another thought. I am only sorry I cannot accompany you to Cairo."

"That settles it," said Hopper, rising from his chair. "We'll load up our equipment first thing in the morning and take off for Egypt."

As the meeting broke up and the scientists headed for their tents, Batutta lingered by the heater. He switched off the concealed tape recorder, and then raised a flashlight and blinked it twice at the cockpit window. A minute later the chief pilot climbed down the boarding ladder and approached Batutta.

"You signaled?" he said softly.

"The foreign pigs are leaving tomorrow," replied Batutta.

"I must radio Tebezza and alert them of our arrival."

"And remind them to give Dr. Hopper and his people a proper greeting."

The chief pilot winced knowingly. "A disgusting place, Tebezza. Once the passengers are in custody, I don't plan to spend any more time on the ground than necessary."

"Your orders are to fly back to the airport at Bamako," said Batutta.

"Gladly." The chief pilot made a brief bow of his head. "Good night, Captain."

Eva had taken a short walk to enjoy the clear air and the carpet of stars across the sky. She returned in time to see the pilot walk toward the aircraft, leaving Batutta alone by the heater.

Too compliant and far too eager to please, she mused. There's going to be trouble. She shook her head as if to cast off the thought. There you go again with your suspicious female nature. What can he do to stop them? Once in the air there would be no turning back. They would be free of the horror and on their way to a more friendly and open society. She took satisfaction in knowing she would never return. And yet something deep inside, her intuition perhaps, cautioned her not to feel too secure.

"How long have they been on our tail?" Giordino asked, rubbing three hours of sleep from his eyes and focusing on the image emanating within the radar screen.

"I spotted them about 75 kilometers back, just after we passed into Malian territory," answered Pitt. He stood to one side of the wheel, casually steering with his right hand.

"You get a look at their armament?"

"No, the boat was concealed 100 meters up a branch of the river. I caught a hard reflection on the surface radar that looked suspicious. Soon as we passed out of sight around a bend, they pulled into the channel and began chasing our wake."

"Might be only a routine patrol."

"Routine patrols don't hide under camouflaged netting."

Giordino studied the distance scale on the radar. "They're making no attempt to narrow the gap."

"Just biding their time."

"Poor old gunboat," Giordino said sorrowfully. "It doesn't know it's about to go to that great scrap yard in the sky."

"Sad to say, there are complications," said Pitt slowly. "The gunboat isn't the only bloodhound on the scent."

"They have friends?"

"The Malian military has thrown out the steel welcome mat." Pitt twisted his body and looked up at the flawless blue, afternoon sky that was barren of clouds. "A flight of Malian fighter jets is circling the sky to the east of us."

Giordino caught sight of them at once. The blazing sun glinted off their cockpit canopies. "French Mirage fighters, the newer modified model, I reckon. Six-no, seven of them-less than 6 kilometers away."

Pitt twisted again and pointed across the river to the west. "And that dust cloud beyond that range of hills running along the shoreline. That belongs to a convoy of armored cars." '

"How many?" Giordino asked as he mentally inventoried his remaining missiles.

"I counted four when they raced across a stretch of open ground."

"No tanks?"

"Our speed is 30 knots. Tanks couldn't keep up with us."

"We won't be surprising anyone this time," said Giordino matter-of-factly. "Word of our bite has preceded us."

"An obvious deduction judging by their reluctance to come within our effective range."

"The question that comes to mind is when will old what's-his-name-"

"Zateb Kazim?"

"Whoever," Giordino shrugged indifferently. "When will he sound the charge?"

"If he's smarter than that comic strip Admiral of the Benin navy, and he wants to confiscate the Calliope for his own pleasure, all he has to do is wait us out. Eventually, we'll run out of river."

"And fuel."

"That too."

Pitt went silent and gazed at the wide, lazy Niger wandering through the sandy plain. The yellow-gold sun was creeping toward the horizon as blue and white storks winged the hot afternoon air or strolled the shallows on long stick-like legs. A school of Nile perch leaped in the air and sparkled like miniature fireworks as the Calliope chased them over the placid water. A pinnace glided past on its way downriver, hull stained black with colorful painted designs on its double-ender bow and stern, its sail barely filled under a whisper of wind. A few of the crew slept on a cargo of rice sacks under a frayed awning while others poled with the current. All was serene and picturesque. Pitt found it hard to believe death and destruction skirted their course up the river.