Sahara (Dirk Pitt 11)

Pitt held a hand up to shield his eyes and gazed at the sun dipping into the west. "Be dark in another hour, and we can be on our way."

"How does the ground ahead look?"

"Once we pass out of this gorge and back into the riverbed it continues as flat sand and gravel with a few scattered boulders. Good for driving if we keep a sharp eye and avoid jagged stones that can slice open a tire."

"How far do you figure we've gone since leaving Bourem?"

"According to the odometer, 116 kilometers, but as the crow flies, I'd judge about 90."

"And still no sign or trace of a chemical production or waste facility."

"Not even an empty container drum."

"I can't see much sense in going on," said Giordino. "No way a chemical spill could flow 90 kilometers over a dry riverbed into the Niger."

"It does seem a lost cause," Pitt admitted.

"We can still make a try for the Algerian border."

Pitt shook his head. "Not enough gas. We'd have to walk the last 200 kilometers to the Trans-Saharan Motor Track to even catch a ride to civilization. We'd die of exposure before making it halfway."

"So what are our options?"

"We push on."

"How far?"

"Until we find what we're looking for, even if it means doubling back."

"And litter the landscape with

our bones in either case."

"Then at least we accomplish something by eliminating this section of the desert as a source for the contamination." Pitt spoke without emotion, staring into the sand at his feet as if trying to see a vision.

Giordino looked at him. "We've been through a lot together over the years. Be a damn shame for it to end in the armpit of the world."

Pitt grinned at him. "The old guy with the scythe hasn't put in an appearance just yet."

"This will be most embarrassing when we make the obituary columns," Giordino persisted pessimistically.

"What will?"

"Two directors of the National Underwater and Marine Agency lost and feared dead in the middle of the Sahara Desert. Who in their right mind will believe it?. . . Did you just hear something?"

Pitt stood up. "I heard."

"A voice singing in English. God, maybe we are already dead."

They stood side-by-side as the sun began disappearing over the horizon, listening to a voice singing what they recognized as the old camp song, "My Darling Clementine." The words became distinct as the off-key singing became very close.

"You are lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry Clementine."

"He's coming up the gorge," Giordino murmured, clutching a lug wrench.

Pitt picked up several rocks as weapons. They took up positions silently on opposite ends of the sand-covered car, crouching in readiness to attack, waiting for whoever was approaching to appear around a nearby bend in the gorge.

"In a cavern, in a canyon, excavating for a mine . . ." The figure of a man shadowed by the wall of the gorge walked around the bend leading an animal. "Lived a miner forty-niner and his daughter Clementine . . . "