Clive Cussler - Fast Ice

Kurt and Joe lifted the man and slid him onto the bench seat of the truck. Joe used the seat belt to bind his feet and Leandra threw an old blanket over the top of him.

She closed the door quietly, but another sound was heard.

“Say again, two-eight, you were cut off.”

The security guard’s radio lay on the ground demanding a response. Joe cleared his throat and pressed the talk button. “This is two-eight,” he said, doing his best to sound like the South African. “Disregard. Just a guest who can’t hold his liquor. Helping him to the washroom.”

“Better you than me,” the voice from base said . “Update us when you’re back on patrol.”

“Wilco,” Joe said.

“That was quick thinking,” Kurt said. “But no one says ‘wilco’ anymore.”

“Let’s hope you’re wrong about that,” Joe said.

With nothing more coming from the radio, Joe turned toward the work shed. “They went in there. I think we should find out why.”

“Lead the way,” Kurt said.

Joe went for the shed’s door and eased it open. As he peeked inside, the sound of a finely tuned engine coming to life reverberated off the metal walls.

“Sounds like the safari tour is about to begin,” Leandra said.

Joe saw lights near the front of the building but nothing nearby except silent machinery and farm equipment. He moved inside. Leandra and Kurt followed.

Picking his way through, Joe led them to a spot beside a front-end loader. The hulking piece of construction equipment was half covered with mud, but it made for a good hiding spot. Crouching behind it, they could see most of the room, including the taillights of a rugged but modern-looking vehicle.

“Mercedes G63,” Joe whispered.

The G63 was an extended version of the topflight Mercedes SUV. The six-wheeled chassis added a third axle and a short pickup-style bed on the back. Joe noticed the wheels had been shod with large off-road tires. This was a workhorse of a machine, one that could drive over the roughest terrain while keeping its passengers comfortable in the luxury of its spacious cabin.

As the garage door in front of it rattled up and out of the way, the driver revved the engine. The twin-turbo V-8 made a throaty sound and the gleaming vehicle drove through the open bay and out into the park.

“We’ll never keep up with that on foot,” Leandra said.

Joe pointed to a small dump truck being loaded and attended to by a pair of Ryland’s game wardens. “We could steal that one.”

“Stealing it would cause more trouble than it’s worth,” Kurt said. “If it’s going anywhere near where they went, however, it couldn’t hurt to hitch a ride.”

“While I’m not against getting dirty,” Leandra said, “don’t you think one of us should stay behind? In case that truck isn’t going where you think it is? Or in case the guests come back and go somewhere else?”

Kurt nodded.

“Good idea,” Joe said. He handed Leandra the radio.

“I was thinking one of you two would hang back,” she said. “But if you insist . . .”

“Rudi would kill us if anything happened to you,” Joe said.

“So I’m going to miss all the fun?”

“What follows will be less than fun,” Joe said. “Of that I have no doubt.”

Kurt nodded. “Keep your ears open,” he said, pointing to the radio. “If they discover us, you’ll hear about it. And if that happens, get out of here and away from the danger. We’ll link up with you back in Johannesburg.”

Leandra gave the thumbs-up and Kurt and Joe turned and crept within spitting distance of the truck.

Taking cover behind a support girder, they watched as Ryland’s workers pushed a wheelbarrow up a ramp for at least the tenth time and dumped its contents into the back of the truck.

“That’ll do it,” one of the men said, sounding exhausted. “Let’s move. Ryland doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

One man made his way toward the cab of the truck and climbed in on the driver’s side. The second man shoved the wheelbarrow to the side and then walked around the truck and climbed in on the passenger’s side.

“We can ride in the back,” Kurt suggested.

“You realize it’s probably filled with manure,” Joe said.

“Good thing these tuxes are rentals.”

The diesel engine rumbled to life, with black smoke pouring from the stack behind the cab.

“Go,” Kurt said.

Joe took off, running, with Kurt right behind him. They cut in directly behind the truck, raced up onto the loading ramp and leapt in the air just as the dump truck lurched forward.

Joe landed on its bed and slid awkwardly. Kurt dropped in behind him with more grace, but he just about lost his balance as the truck lurched again when the driver shifted gears.

Joe remained still despite the awkward position. He heard the men in the cab speaking.

“Where’d you learn to drive?” the passenger joked. “You’ll strip the ruddy gearbox like that.”

“This truck has had it,” the driver replied. “One of these days it’s going to strand someone out in the bush with those bloody lions. You know they almost killed Vance the other day. Rushed him in a blink as soon as he turned his back.”

Even with the windows open, the men hadn’t heard Kurt and Joe. Nor had they felt the impact of their awkward landings. The roaring engine, straining to pull the heavy load, combined with the creaks and groans of the truck’s suspension as it bounced along the dirt track, had drowned out every sound.

Relieved that they were safely aboard, Joe turned his attention to the contents of the truck’s bed. His hands were going numb where they rested, a cold aura soaked his body.

He moved to a more comfortable position and studied the material below him. It wasn’t manure after all.

He looked over at Kurt and whispered a single word. “Ice.”

20

The dump truck was filled with ice, from large blocks that might have been good for building igloos to piles of cubes and crushed ice good for drinks.

Timing his movements with the next shift of gears, Kurt moved nearer to Joe. “It seems we can’t get away from the stuff.”

Joe was busy getting in a more comfortable position than the one he’d landed in. “Now I know what it feels like to be a shrimp cocktail.”

There was little chance they’d be discovered. There was no rear view into the dump truck’s bed from the cab and the roar of the engine and constant jostling along the bumpy dirt track they were on made it impossible for the driver or passenger to hear them.

“What do you suppose they’re doing with all this?”

Joe offered a thought. “When I was a kid, I worked on a ranch in New Mexico during the summer. They used to dump blocks of ice into the drinking troughs so all the water wouldn’t evaporate. This is a game park. It’s hot out there. They might be doing something similar.”

“Meaning we could be on our way to a watering hole surrounded by lions,” Kurt asked.

“Or a crocodile pond in need of a temperature reduction.”

“Hard pass on either experience,” Kurt said. He moved to the front, where the lip of the dumping bed extended out over the top of the cab.

Popping up over the top, he found they were traveling on a dirt road, with wild grasses lining both sides. The main lodge and the maintenance shed were now far behind them. “We’re out in the bush and heading deeper.”

“Any sign of our guests?” Joe asked.

Kurt could see the taillights of another vehicle out in front. “That’s got to be them. They’re heading for a small building.”

Thankfully, the dump truck followed. Heading for the same destination.

“Probably the reptile house,” Joe said. “Remember the Komodo dragons in Japan?”