Sahara (Dirk Pitt 11)

"Then you'll have to prevail upon her to use them again if Pitt and Giordino are caught."

"God knows I'll be crucified," said the President, "if I send in American men to strew the desert with French nationals."

Sandecker's face reflected disappointment. "I doubt if 1 can convince her to send them back in a second time."

"I'll make the request myself," the President promised.

Willover was curt. "You can't have it all your way, Admiral."

Sandecker gave a tired sigh. The horrible consequences of the mushrooming red tide had not totally sunk in. His mission was becoming more grueling, oppressive, and frustrating with every passing hour. He stood up and looked down on the President and Willover. His voice came like the arctic cold.

"Be prepared for the very worst, because if we can't stop the red tide before it reaches the North Atlantic and spreads into the Pacific and Indian Oceans, our extinction will surely come."

Then Sandecker turned and quietly left the room.

Tom Greenwald sat in his office and computer enhanced the images received by a Pyramider spy satellite. Through ground command he had shifted its orbit slightly to pass over the section of the Sahara where he discerned the car and figures of Pitt and Giordino on the old GeoSat photos. No one above him had given him permission, but so long as he could send the satellite back over the Ukrainian civil war in another couple of passes, nobody would be the wiser. Besides, the fighting had fizzled to a few rebel ambushes and only the Vice-President seemed to find the intelligence images interesting. The President's National Security Council had their minds focused elsewhere, like the secret nuclear arms buildup of Japan.

Greenwald flew against orders purely out of curiosity. He wanted to examine sharper pictures of the two men he had discovered earlier as they boarded the train to enter the project. Using the Pyramider he could now make a positive identification. Now his analysis revealed a tragic reversal of events.

The images of the two men being led under guard to a helicopter were little short of astounding. Greenwald could easily compare them to identification photos given him by Chip Webster from NUMA files. The images taken from hundreds of kilometers out in space clearly showed the capture of Pitt and Giordino.

He moved from the viewing monitor to his desk and dialed the phone. After two rings, Chip Webster over at NUMA answered.

"Hello."

"Chip? This is Tom Greenwald."

"What have you got for me, Tom?"

"Bad news. Your men were captured."

"Not what I wanted to hear," Webster said. "Damn!"

"I have excellent images of them being loaded into a helicopter, in chains, and surrounded by a dozen armed security guards."

"Determine a heading for the copter?" asked Webster.

"My satellite had passed out of view only a minute after it lifted off. My guess is that it was heading to the northeast."

"Further into the desert?"

"Looks that way," answered Greenwald. "The pilot might have made a wide swing in a different direction, but I have no way of knowing."

"Admiral Sandecker isn't going to like this turn."

"I'll stay on it," said Greenwald. "If I turn up anything new, I'll call immediately."

"Thank you, Tom. I owe you a big favor for this one."

Greenwald hung up and stared at the image on the monitor. "Poor bastards," he muttered to himself. "I wouldn't want to be in their shoes."

The welcoming committee at Tebezza stayed home. Pitt and Giordino clearly didn't rate a reception by the local dignitaries. Two Tuaregs greeted them silently from behind automatic rifles as a third locked iron shackles around their hands and ankles. The worn condition of the chains and cuffs gave the impression they had passed through several owners.

Pitt and Giordino were shoved roughly into the back of a small Renault truck. One Tuareg drove while the other two climbed in the back, held their rifles across their thighs, and kept wary eyes on the prisoners through the slit in their indigo litham headdresses.

Pitt paid the guards only the slightest attention as the engine was started and the truck moved away from the landing field. The helicopter that had flown them from Fort Foureau quickly lifted into the furnace-baked sir for its return flight. Already Pitt was weighing chances for escape. His eyes were studying the surrounding landscape. No fences stretched anywhere, no guard houses rising from the sand. Any attempt to cross 400 kilometers of open desert while restrained by manacles made security obstacles entirely unnecessary. Successful escape seemed impossible, but he quickly thrust aside thoughts of total hopelessness. Prospects of escape were dim, but not totally gone.