The Ares Decision

44

“Give me your hand.”

Smith never thought he’d actually be happy to have the Ugandan sun pounding down on him, but he was having a hard time remembering anything feeling so good. The hole he was hovering over was about the same size as the one they’d entered but had the benefit of opening over a pile of shattered boulders that reached to within six feet of it.

He grabbed Sarie’s hand and pulled her through, making sure neither of them rose higher than the top of the grass. She lay on her back for a few moments, staring into the sky and gulping at the humid air.

“Thank you, Jon.”

“It was a team effort.”

A single shot sounded in the distance and he peeked over the grass in the direction it had come from.

“They’re still shooting,” Sarie said. “It never stops…”

“Yeah, but that’s exactly what we wanted to hear.”

“What do you mean?”

“If someone’s still shooting, it means there’s still someone to shoot at. At least one of the good guys is still alive.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“We’re not going to do anything. You’re going to wait here. I’m going to see if I can get to them.”

“No way. We stay together. When it comes to Caleb Bahame, you’re better off going down fighting than sitting around waiting to get caught.”

It was hard to fault her logic. Leaving her in the middle of guerrilla-controlled territory wasn’t exactly an act of chivalry.

“Fine,” Smith said, starting to drag himself through the grass with his elbows. “Stay right behind me. Remember: low and slow.”

Their luck held and no more shots were fired in the hour and a half it took them to cover what he calculated was no more than a quarter mile.

Cover became more sparse as they approached the cave entrance, forcing him to signal Sarie to stop and continue on without her. He flattened himself on the ground, timing his advance with the movement of the wind over the grass. After another fifteen minutes, the ground cover thinned to the point that going any farther would be guaranteed to expose him. Fortunately, it was far enough. He could see Peter Howell sitting with his back against a low boulder next to the man who had so wisely tried to convince them to go back to Kampala.

The brief flash of pride Smith felt at having managed to sneak up on his friend was short-lived. Howell’s head suddenly swiveled in his direction, the concern visible in his eyes as he reached for his rifle.

Maybe next time.

“Don’t shoot,” Smith said in a loud whisper. “It’s me.”

Howell turned as far toward him as he could without breaking cover. Behind, the African held up a hand in greeting and then began dialing his sat phone — undoubtedly to inform Sembutu that Smith was still alive.

“Is Sarie all right?” Howell said.

“A little beat-up, but nothing serious.”

“I was starting to think you’d buggered off back to Cape Town.”

“Stopped for lunch. What’s the situation?”

“Not good, mate. We’ve lost two men and we’re pretty well pinned down. Every once in a while they fire off a round to remind us they’re still there, and I reckon they’re either sending men around to try to flank us or waiting for reinforcements.” He thumbed toward the African speaking urgently into his phone. “Okot and I figure our only chance is to wait until dark and try to get out to the east. But I doubt they’re going to let the sun go down without throwing something at us we’re not going to like.”

Okot stuffed the phone back in the pocket of his fatigues and picked up his weapon. Howell never saw the rifle butt that smashed into the back of his head and sent him pitching face-first into the dirt.

Smith tried to raise his pistol, but the African was already lined up on his head. He called back to his men, and a moment later one of them was waving a dirty white handkerchief above the grass.