Vixen 03 (Dirk Pitt 5)

"Can he talk?" Lusana asked.

"Yes, but each word drains his strength."

"How long-"

"-has he to live?" .

Lusana nodded.

"Marcus Somala has an incredibly strong constitution," the doctor said. "But I doubt if he can last out the day."

"Can you give him something to stimulate his senses, if even for only a few minutes?"

The doctor looked thoughtful. "I suppose speeding up the inevitable will not matter." He turned and murmured instructions to a nurse, who left the room.

Lusana looked down at Somala. The section leader's face was drawn and his chest rose shallowly with spasmodic breaths. A maze of plastic tubing hung from a rack above the bed and ran into his nose and arms. A large surgical dressing was taped across his chest.

The nurse returned and carefully handed the doctor a hypodermic. He inserted the needle and pushed evenly on the plunger. In a few moments Somala's eyes fluttered half o

pen, and he moaned.

Lusana silently motioned to the doctor and his nurse and they withdrew to the hall and closed the door.

He leaned over the bed. "Somala, this is Hiram Lusana. Do you understand me?"

Somala's whispered voice came out hoarse but with a trace of emotion. "I do not see well, my General. Is it really you?"

Lusana took Somala's hand and gripped it tightly. "Yes, my brave warrior. I have come to hear your report."

The man on the bed smiled thinly, and then a haunting, questioning look came into his eyes. "Why . . . why did you not trust me, my General?"

"Trust you?"

"Why did you not tell me you were sending men to raid the Fawkes farm?"

Lusana was shaken. "Describe what you saw. Describe everything. Leave out nothing."

Twenty minutes later, exhausted by the effort, Marcus Somala lapsed back into unconsciousness. By noon he was dead.

18

Patrick Fawkes stood alone and shoveled the molasseslike clay soil over the coffins of his family. His clothes were soaked through by a light rain and his own sweat. It had been his wish to dig the common grave and fill it himself. The burial services were long over and his friends and neighbors had departed, leaving him to his grievous task.

At last he patted smooth the last shovelful, stood back, and looked down. The headstone had not arrived yet, and the mound seemed stark and forlorn among the older grave sites that had been blanketed by grass and edged with rows of neatly kept flowers.

He fell to his knees and reached into a pocket of his discarded coat. His hand came out with a fistful of bougainvillea petals. These he sprinkled over the damp earth.

Fawkes let the grief flow. He wept until after the sun dipped below the horizon. He wept until his eyes could no longer produce tears.

His mind traveled back twelve years and ran off images like a movie projector. He saw Myrna and the kids in the little cottage near Aberdeen on the North Sea. He saw the looks of surprise and happiness in their faces when he told them they were all packing 27

up and heading to Natal to start a farm. He saw how sickly white skinned Jenny and Pat Junior were beside the other schoolchildren of Umkono, and how quickly they became tanned and robust. He saw Myrna begrudgingly leaving Scotland to alter her life-style totally, and then coming to love Africa even more than he.

"You'll never make a good farmer until you flush the salt water out of your veins," she used to tell him.

Her voice seemed so clear to him that he could not accept the fact that she lay beneath the ground he knelt on, never to see the daylight again. He was alone now and the thought left him lost. When a woman loses a man, he recalled hearing somewhere, she picks up her life as before and perseveres. But when a man loses a woman, he dies by half.

He forced the once-happy scenes from his mind and tried to conjure the shadowy figure of a man. The face had no distinct features, because it was the face of a man Fawkes had never seen: the face of Hiram Lusana.