Текст книги "The Kill Switch"

Автор книги: James Rollins

Соавторы: Grant Blackwood
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Tucker frowned. On the flight down here, he had already studied the locations of various old forts, hoping for a clue. “Outside of town?” he asked. “But according to my research, the ruins of Klipkoppie are in the center of town.”

“Pah! That dung heap beside the shopping center? That was only a forward outpost, nothing more. The ruins of the real Klipkoppie are two miles to the northwest. Christopher knows where.”

“Then why—?”

“Easier to suck tourists into the gift shops and restaurants if it’s in the center of town. Besides, the real Klipkoppie isn’t much to look at, and it’s hard to get to. Can’t have tourists getting themselves killed.” He clapped his palms against his thighs. “Right. So tell me the name of this ancestor of yours.”

“De Klerk. Paulos de Klerk.”

Manfred leaned back, clearly recognizing the name, staring at Tucker with new eyes. “The famous botanist?”

“You know him.”

“I do. Though I can’t say more than that. I actually forgot until you reminded me just now that he was a field medic. He’s much better known for those flower drawings of his.”

“It’s actually one of his journals that drew us down here. In one of his diaries, he mentioned Grietje’s Well several times. It seemed important to him.”

“Water was back then. It was the difference between life and death. Especially during the wars. When the Brits laid siege to a Boer fort, one of the first things they did was try to cut off access to water. A man can go weeks without food, but only a few days without water. For that reason, the Boer started building forts atop natural springs. Because of the importance of such water sources, the troops came to name them after loved ones, usually women: wives, daughters, nieces.”

Anya stirred. “And Grietje is Afrikaans for ‘Wilma.’ ”

Manfred nodded. “Wilma must have been dearly loved by whoever named that spring. But like I said, the springs of most forts bore women’s names. The key is to find out which fort it might be. Because your ancestor was a doctor, I’d still start with the ruins of Klipkoppie.”

Anya stared out toward the horizon, at the dry hills. “Do you know of any wells or springs up there?”

“No, but if this spring hasn’t dried up, there’ll be evidence of erosion on the surface from where the waters seasonally rise and fall. Christopher will know what to look for.”

Christopher appeared less convinced. “It will be hard to find. And we’re still not certain Klipkoppie is the right fort. With all the old Boer strongholds around here, it could be like finding a needle in a haystack.”

“Still, it gives us somewhere to start,” Tucker said.

“And in the meantime,” Manfred said, “I will look more deeply into the local history of your ancestor. Paulos de Klerk. Come by tomorrow afternoon and we’ll talk again.”

2:55 P.M.

“Should we head to the Klipkoppie fort now?” Christopher asked as they pulled out of the parking lot.

“How hard is it to reach?”

“It’s not far to the base of the fort’s hill, but there are no roads to the top. We must hike. Very steep, but I know the way.”

Tucker checked his watch. “When does the sun set here?”

“Remember you are south of the equator. It is our late summer, the end of our rainy season. So the sun won’t go down until a bit past seven o’clock.”

“That gives us roughly four hours.” He turned to Anya. “We can drop you back at the guesthouse on the way out of town. Let you rest. I’m not sure your orthopedist would approve of you going hiking.”

“And miss this chance?” She lifted her bad arm. “It’s fine. Besides, I’ve got my boots on. Might as well use them.”

Tucker heard happy thumping on the seat next to him.

“Sounds like it’s unanimous.”

Christopher turned the SUV and headed away from the guesthouse. He wound through the streets to the edge of Springbok, then out into the sun-blasted countryside.

They had traveled a couple of kilometers when Christopher’s phone rang.

Tucker felt a clutch of fear, wondering if they should have checked on Bukolov before setting out. But there was no way the old man could make the hike in this heat.

Christopher spoke in hushed tones on the phone, then passed the handset over his shoulder. “It’s for you. It’s Manfred.”

Both surprised and curious, he took the phone. “Hello?”

“Ah, my good fellow, glad I was able to reach you.” His words were frosted with excitement and pride. “I did some digging as soon as you left. It seems General Manie Roosa, your old ancestor’s commander, had a daughter. Named Wilhelmina.”

“Another version of Wilma.”

“Quite right. And listen to this. In one of Roosa’s field reports, he states and I quote, ‘Without Wilhelmina, that British bastard MacDonald would have been successful in his siege of our fort.’ I suspect he’s referring to Sir Ian MacDonald, a British regimental commander back then. But I doubt Roosa’s young daughter had any hand in breaking that British siege.”

“He must be referring to the fort’s water supply! Named after his daughter.”

“And surely your ancestor would have known of this secret nickname for the well.”

Tucker thanked Manfred and hung up. He relayed the information to the others.

Christopher smiled. “It seems our haystack has gotten considerably smaller.”

29

March 19, 3:22 P.M.

Springbok, South Africa

Eleven miles outside of Springbok, Christopher turned onto a narrow dirt driveway that ended at a tin-roofed building. The billboard atop it read HELMAN’S GARAGE. Christopher parked in the shadow of the building, then got out and disappeared through an open bay door.

When he returned, he opened the passenger side for Anya and waved Tucker and Kane out. “Helman says we can park our vehicle here. If we are not back in three weeks, he says he will alert the police.”

“Three weeks?” Anya asked, then noted Christopher’s smile. “Very funny.”

Christopher pulled a trio of daypacks from the SUV’s trunk and passed them out. He also unzipped a rifle case and handed Tucker a heavy, double-barreled gun, along with a cartridge belt holding a dozen bullets, each one larger than his thumb.

“Nitro Express cartridges,” Christopher said. “Four-seventy caliber. Are you familiar with weapons, Mr. Wayne?”

Tucker broke the rifle’s breech, checked the action, and gave it a quick inspection. He pulled a pair of Nitros from the belt, popped them into the breech, and snapped the weapon closed.

“I’ll manage,” he said.

“Very good.” Christopher’s expression grew serious. “It is unlikely we will encounter anything, but there are lions in this area. I recommend that Kane stays close to us.”

“He will.”

“If we encounter lions, we shall try to back out of the area slowly. Lions are typically inactive during the day and mostly sleep. But if there is a charge, stay behind me. I will take the first shot. If I miss the shots with both barrels, or the lion fails to yield, I will drop to the ground to give you a clear field of fire. The lion will likely stop to maul me. When he does, take your shot. Do not hesitate. This is very important. Aim a few inches below the lion’s chin, between the shoulders, if possible. Or if from the side, just past the armpit.”

“Understood,” Tucker replied.

“And finally, if you miss your shots, do not under any circumstances run.”

“Why not?” asked Anya.

“Because then you will die exhausted, and that is no way to present yourself to God.”

With that, Christopher prepped his own rifle and donned his pack. He also pulled out a tall walking stick with a tassel of steel bells at the top.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Hold on,” Anya said. “Where is my gun?”

“I am sorry, missus. I did not think . . . I have very few female clients, you see. Plus your wrist. Please forgive me.”

“It’s okay, Christopher. Once one of you two drops from exhaustion, I’ll have my rifle.” Anya smiled sweetly. “Which way are we headed?”

“South to the trailhead, missus, then northeast into the hills.”

Anya turned on her heel and headed off. “Try to keep up, boys.”

She led them across a patch of scrubland to where the thin trail headed northeast. From that point, she wisely let Christopher take the lead. Almost immediately, the grade steepened, winding its way higher into the hills.

Tucker kept up the rear.

He tapped Kane’s side. “CLOSE ROAM.”

As was his habit, Kane trotted to either side, sometimes drifting ahead, sometimes dropping back, but he never strayed more than fifty feet in either direction. The shepherd’s ears looked especially erect, his eyes exceptionally bright. Here were smells he’d never before experienced. Tucker imagined it was something of a sensory kaleidoscope for Kane.

After a kilometer or so, they passed into a narrow ravine and found themselves in shadows. A riotous profusion of desert flowers in dusty shades of pink and purple bloomed from the rock faces around them, casting out a sweet perfume, not unlike honeysuckle. The deep thrum of insects greeted them as they moved through, amplified by the tight space.

Kane stood before the wall of blooms, watching petals and leaves vibrate, his head cocked with curiosity.

“Cape honeybees,” Christopher announced. “Fear not. If we do not bother them, they will not bother us.”

“There must be thousands,” Anya murmured.

“Many, many thousands, missus.”

A quarter of a mile later, they exited the ravine and found themselves on a plain of red soil and scattered scrub brush. To their left, rolling granite hills towered hundreds of feet into the air.

Abruptly, Christopher let out a barking yelp, then another one thirty seconds later, then one more. In between yelps, he shook his walking stick, tinkling the bells attached to the handle.

“What’s he doing?” Anya whispered back to Tucker.

“Letting everyone know we’re here. Most wildlife doesn’t want anything to do with us.”

Cocking his head, Christopher stopped. He held up a closed fist and pointed to his ear: Listen.

After a few moments of silence came a deep huffing grunt. It echoed over the hills and faded.

Without a sound, Kane padded to the head of the column, halting several feet in front of Christopher. The shepherd angled his body to the right and sat down, his eyes fixed in the distance.

The huffing came again, then stopped.

“Male lions,” Christopher said and pointed off to the left. “A few miles away. They should stay there until nightfall.”

Kane continued to stare—but in the opposite direction from where Christopher had been pointing. Tucker dropped to a knee next to his partner.

“Maybe those male lions will,” Tucker murmured. “But look beyond that line of scrub trees over there.”

“What? I do not see . . .” Christopher’s words trailed, ending with a whispered, “Oh, my.”

A hundred yards away, a trio of lionesses, each well over three hundred pounds, slipped from the brush and began slowly stalking toward their group. As if by some unseen cue, the trio parted to change their angle of attack. The largest of the group took the center position.

“This is unusual,” Christopher muttered. “They usually do not behave this way.”

“Tell them that. They’re trying to flank us.”

Anya said, “What should I do?”

“Stay still,” Christopher said. “Tucker, if they get around us—”

“I know.”

Even as Tucker said the words, Kane stood up. The shepherd arched his back, his fur hackling up in a ridge along his spine, bushing out his tail. He dropped his head low to the ground and bared his fangs. A deep, prolonged snarl rolled from his chest. He began padding toward the lead lioness.

Christopher said, “Tucker, stop him.”

“He knows what he’s doing,” he said, putting his faith in Kane. “Follow me. Gun ready. Anya, stay behind us.”

“This is ill-advised,” Christopher whispered.

Tucker rose to his feet and followed Kane, pacing carefully but steadily.

The center lioness suddenly stopped, a three-hundred-pound mountain of muscle, claw, and teeth. She crouched low, her tail slashing back and forth behind her. The other two also stopped, settling to Tucker’s two and ten o’clock positions.

“What’s happening?” Anya whispered.

“Kane’s letting them know we’re not an easy meal.”

“This is remarkable,” Christopher rasped. “Did you teach him this?”

“This isn’t teachable,” Tucker replied. “This is instinct.”

The lead lionesses began huffing.

Kane let out a snapping growl and took three fast paces forward. Saliva frothed from his jaws.

Tucker murmured, “HOLD.”

“Let’s give our visitors a little nudge,” Christopher said. “A single shot each, above their heads.”

Tucker nodded. “You call it.”

“Understand, if they do not bolt, they will charge.”

“I’m ready.”

Anya said, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Swallow it,” he warned.

Christopher turned to face the lioness to the left flank; Tucker did the same to the right. Kane stayed put, his gaze fixed to the beast in the center.

“Fire!”

Tucker lifted his rifle, propped the butt against his shoulder, and blasted over the lioness’s head. She jumped, then dropped low and slunk away, back through the line of scrub bushes. Christopher’s did the same as he fired.

The big lioness never budged, holding her ground as the others retreated. She stared at Kane for a few more seconds, let out another huffing grunt, then turned and walked after the other two. With a final backward glance, she disappeared from view.

Christopher wasted no time in leading them off. After putting a few hundred yards between them and the lionesses, they stopped for a water break under a rock ledge. Kane sat comfortably in the shade as though nothing unusual had happened.

No one spoke for a few minutes, then Anya said, “I’ve never been so terrified in my life. The look in those eyes . . . we were simply meat to them.”

“Essentially, yes,” Christopher said.

“I am not even sure I understand what happened.”

“Lions are to be feared, but they are not stupid. Given a choice between ambushing easy prey or engaging in a fight, they will always choose the former. It is a simple matter of practicality. An injured lion is a weak lion. Tucker’s dog was simply reminding them of that point. Plus it is just past the main rutting period, so plenty of young animals are around. They have abundant food. If prey had been scarce, our encounter back there would have ended badly.”

4:45 P.M.

Rehydrated and with nerves calmed, the group headed out again.

After another twenty minutes, Christopher stopped and pointed into the hills. “The ruins of Klipkoppie fort are over that ridge. Now we climb a bit.”

“How far?” asked Anya.

“Half a kilometer. As we go, stomp your feet occasionally so we do not surprise any snakes.”

Christopher led them up a shallow gully awash with boulders, scrub brush, and the occasional tree. The trees had wide trunks that narrowed to a cluster of leafless branches that ended in single star-shaped buds.

“Looks like broccoli,” Anya said.

“Kokerboom,” Christopher called over his shoulder. “Also called Quiver trees. The San people use the hollow branches as arrows.”

As the gully grew narrower, it eventually required hopping from boulder to boulder to continue the steep ascent. A few spots required Tucker to haul Kane up or assist Anya. Finally, clawing their way up the last few yards, they reached a half-crescent-shaped plateau overlooking Springbok.

They were all breathing heavily, gulping water, sweating.

“What a view,” said Anya, leaning over the edge.

A sheer cliff dropped away at her toes. Behind them climbed a steep-walled granite dome. Across the plateau, the stubbed ends of timbered pillars stuck up out of the ground. More sprouted across the curve of the dome.

Squinting his eyes, Tucker could almost make out the bases of old fortifications and the foundations of long-lost buildings.

“This is the Klipkoppie,” Christopher announced.

“Not much left of it,” he said.

“No. Time and erosion have done their job. A hundred twenty years ago, this was a massive fort. The watchtower sat atop the dome. From here, Boer soldiers could see the entire valley below. The only access was up that narrow ravine we climbed.”

“A natural choke point.”

“Exactly so.”

Tucker began to wander into the ruins, but a shout from Christopher halted him.

“Step carefully! This plateau is riddled with tunnels and old cellars.”

“Here?” Anya asked. “This looks like solid rock.”

Tucker knelt and probed the earth with his fingers. “Sandstone. Definitely workable. But it would’ve taken hard labor and patience to excavate here.”

Christopher nodded. “Two qualities the Boers were known for. The entrances are covered by old planks—probably very fragile by now. Below us are sleeping quarters and storage areas.”

Tucker called to Kane, who had wandered off to explore. “COME.”

The shepherd galloped over and skidded to a stop.

Kneeling, Tucker opened his canteen and filled his cupped hand. He rubbed the water over Kane’s snout and under his chin. He held his damp palm to his nose. “SEEK. EASY STEP.”

Nose to the ground, Kane padded off, following the edge of the plateau.

“What’s he doing?” asked Anya.

“Setting up a search parameter.”

Kane began working inward, crisscrossing the dirt with his nose to the ground. Occasionally he would stop suddenly and circle left or right before resuming course.

“Tunnel openings,” Tucker explained to Anya and Christopher.

“Remarkable,” Christopher murmured.

Kane suddenly stopped a quarter of the way across the plateau. He circled one spot, sniffing hard, stirring up dust eddies with his breath. Finally, he lay down and shifted around to face Tucker.

“He smells moisture there.”

The trio worked cautiously toward him. Christopher led the way, thumping his walking stick against the ground, testing each step.

Once they reached Kane, Tucker gave his partner a two-handed neck massage. “Atta boy.”

Christopher lifted his walking stick and drove the butt of it hard into the dirt, at the spot where Kane had been so vigorously sniffing.

There came a dull thunk.

“Impressive beast of yours!” Christopher said.

Unfolding the small spades in their packs, the trio dug and swept away the packed dirt until a square of planking was exposed. It looked like a trapdoor into the earth. Luckily, the rough-hewn wood was rotted, desiccated by a century of heat. Jamming their spades into crannies and splits, they slowly pried the planks free and set them aside, exposing a dark shaft, about a yard across.

Lying on his belly, Tucker pointed his flashlight down the throat of the tunnel. Kane crouched next to him, panting, sniffing at the hole.

“Looks to drop about eight feet,” he said, rising to his knees. “Then it branches off to the left.”

“Who goes first?” Anya asked.

As if understanding her, Kane gained his feet and danced around the hole, his tail whipping fast. He looked up at Tucker, then down at the shaft.

“Take a guess,” Tucker said.

“You’re sending him down there?” Anya crossed her arms. “That seems cruel.”

“Cruel? I think Kane was a dachshund in a former life, a breed built to flush badgers out of burrows. If there’s a hole, Kane wants to crawl in and explore.”

Tucker pulled the shepherd’s tactical vest out of his backpack. Anticipating what was to come, Kane shook and trembled with excitement. Tucker quickly suited up his partner, synching the feed into the new sat phone Harper had supplied. He ran through a quick diagnostics check and found everything working as designed.

“Ready, Kane?”

The shepherd walked to the shaft and placed his front paws on the lip. Tucker played the beam of his flashlight across the sides and down to floor of the tunnel. He pointed.

“GO.”

Without hesitation, Kane leaped into the darkness, followed by a soft thump as he landed at the bottom.

“SOUND OFF.”

Kane barked once in reply, indicating he was okay.

Tucker punched buttons on his phone, and Kane’s video feed came online. Shading the screen with his hand to reduce the sun’s glare, he was able to make out the horizontal tunnel that angled away from the shaft. The camera had a night-vision feature, but Tucker tapped a button, and a small LED lamp flared atop the camera stalk, lighting Kane’s way.

The sharper illumination revealed coarse walls, shored up by heavy timber. Out of the sun and wind, the wood looked solid enough, but looks could be deceptive. Back in Afghanistan, he’d witnessed several tunnel collapses while hunting for Taliban soldiers in their warren of caves.

Fearing the same now, he licked his lips, worried for Kane, but they both had a duty here.

Speaking into his radio mike, he said, “FORWARD. SEEK.”

Hearing the command, Kane stalks forward. He leaves the glaring brightness of the day and heads into darkness, led by a pool of light cast over his shoulders. His senses fill with dirt and mold, old wood and stone—but through it all, he fixes on a trail of dampness in the air.

It stands out against the dryness.

He needs no lights to follow it.

But he goes slowly, stepping carefully.

His ears pick out the scrunch of sand underfoot, the scrabble of chitinous legs on rock, the creak of timber.

He pushes through faint webs of dust.

He reaches another tunnel, one that crosses his path.

Which way?

A command whispers in his ear. His partner sees what he sees.

SEEK.

He steps to each direction, stretching his nose, breathing deeply, pulling the trail deep inside him, through his flared nostrils, past his tongue, to where instinct judges all.

He paces into one tunnel, then another, testing each.

Down one path, to the left, the air is heavier with moisture.

His ears hear the faintest tink of water falling to stone.

He heads toward it, his heart hammering inside him, on the hunt, knowing his target is near. The tunnel drops deeper, then levels. Several cautious paces farther and the passage opens into a cavern, tall enough to jump and leap with joy within.

He wants to do that.

But instead he hears, HOLD.

And he does.

He stares across the sloping floor of the cave, to a pool of glassy blackness. The sweep of his light bathes across the surface, igniting it to a clear azure blue.

Water.

“Eureka,” Christopher murmured.

Tucker turned to the others and passed Anya his phone. “I’m going down there. When I reach Kane, I’ll check in, using his camera.”

He turned, fished through his pack, and pulled out his handheld GPS unit. He stuffed it into a cargo pocket of his pants.

“I don’t understand,” Anya said. “Why do you have to go down there? It doesn’t look safe for someone as big as you.”

Tucker scooted to the hole and swung his legs over the edge. “We need accurate coordinates.”

“But why?” Concern shone on her face. “We know the well is below this plateau. Isn’t that close enough?”

“No. We need a compass bearing from that exact spot. Any miscalculation of the well’s location will be compounded exponentially two hundred miles away.” He pointed toward the horizon. “Make a hundred-yard mistake here, we could be off by a mile from De Klerk’s coordinates. And out in the broken and inhospitable terrain of the Groot Karas Mountains, we could spend months up there and never find it.”

Anya looked stunned. “I didn’t think about that.”

Tucker smiled. “All part of the service, ma’am.” He prepared to lower himself down, then stopped. “Wait, I just realized I can’t get any GPS lock underground. I’m going to have to go old school. Christopher, lend me your walking stick.”

Their guide understood. “To act as a yardstick. Very clever.”

“Give me thirty minutes. Unless there’s a cave-in.”

“If that happens,” Christopher said, clapping him on the shoulder, “I’ll alert the proper authorities to recover your body.”

“And Kane’s, too. I want him buried with me.”

“Of course.”

Anya frowned at them. “That’s not funny.”

They both turned to her. Neither of them was trying to be humorous.

That realization made her go pale.

Twisting around, Tucker lowered himself over the edge and dropped below. As his boots hit the ground, he crouched, turned on his flashlight, then ducked into the side tunnel. As he crawled on his hands and knees, he slid the walking stick end to end and counted as he went, mapping his route on a pocket notebook.

Occasionally, his back scraped the ceiling, causing miniavalanches of sand. In the confined quiet of the tunnel, the cascade echoed like hail peppering a sidewalk. He reached the intersection of tunnels and followed Kane’s path to the left. Working diligently, it still took him an additional five minutes to map his way down to the cavern.

Kane heard him coming, trotted over, and licked his face.

“Good boy, good job!”

Tucker shined his flashlight around the room. Clearly the Boer troops must have spent a lot of time down here. The surrounding sandstone walls had been carved into benches and rudimentary tables, along with dozens of pigeonhole shelves. Ghosts of men materialized in his mind’s eye: laughing, lounging, eating, all during one of the bloodiest and most obscure wars in history.

After jotting down the final measurements, Tucker lifted the page of his notebook toward Kane’s camera and passed on a thumbs-up to the others above. He wanted a visual record of his calculations, of the coordinates of Grietje’s Well, in case anything happened to him.

Satisfied, with his knowledge secure, he knelt and dipped his fingers into the water. It was cold and smelled fresh.

How long had people been using this spring?

He pictured ancient tribesmen coming here, seeking a respite from heat and thirst.

He decided to do the same. It felt like an oasis—not just from the blazing African sun, but from the pressures of his mission. The events of the past days came rushing back to him, a tumult of escapes, firefights, and death. At the moment, it all seemed surreal.

And now I am here, huddled in the bowels of a century-old Boer fort?

All because of a plant species almost as old as the earth itself.

He looked at Kane. “Can’t say our lives are boring, can we?”

Confirming this, a sharp crack exploded, echoing down to the cave.

Tucker’s first thought was rifle fire.

Another lion attack.

Then a deeper grumble came, a complaint of rock and sand.

He knew the truth.

Not a gunshot.

A crack of breaking timber.

A cave-in was starting.