I twisted around to lie on my back. I could feel the nape of my neck beginning to blister. The entire dune seemed to be pouring under my bush jacket and down my pants, caking on my sweating body. But on my back, at least, my face was out of the sand.
Lying backward on that mountain of sand, I began to inch my way uphill slowly, using my arms in wide sweeping motions and my legs in froglike kicks. It was as if I were swimming on my back.
The bare power of the sun beat at me implacably. Between the sun pouring out of that, trackless sky and the reflected heat of the sand, the temperature as I struggled up the hill must have been around 170 degrees. According to the Landsman Ratio, desert sand reflects roughly one-third of the heat of the surrounding air.
It took me a full twenty minutes before I reached the crest, panting, dehydrated, thirsty, and covered with sand. Cautiously, I peered over the top. If either the Dutchman or Hamid Raschid happened to be looking in my direction, they would spot me in an instant, but it would be a difficult shot for them, shooting upward.
It was just as I had figured. There was the truck, angled crossways across the road, both doors open. Hamid Raschid, a small figure in his white galibeah and red-checkered kaffiyeh, trotted from the side of the road back toward the truck, and positioned himself so that he could aim down the road through the open doors of the cab.
The Dutchman had already taken up a defensive position underneath the truck, protected by the big rear wheel. I could see the sun glinting on his glasses as he peered around the overblown sand tire, his white linen suit and striped bow tie incongruous against the battered body of an aged truck in the empty desert.
Both men were concentrating on the highway. They weren't expecting me at the top of the dune.
I leaned back behind the protection of the crest and got ready for action.
First I checked Hugo, the stiletto I always wear in a chamois sheath strapped to my left forearm. One quick twist of my arm and Hugo can be in my hand.
I eased Wilhelmina out of her holster and checked the action, making sure she wasn't clogged by sand. An exploding Luger would rip a gunman's hand from his wrist. Then I took the Artemis silencer from my bush jacket pocket and carefully brushed the sand from it before fitting it over the muzzle of the pistol. I wanted the extra precaution of the silencer so I'd be able to get off three or four shots before Raschid and the Dutchman realized where they were coming from. The bare explosion of the Luger would give my position away prematurely.
There was one more operation to perform before I was ready to go into action. I unscrewed the top from the canvas-covered canteen, twisted my handkerchief into a six-inch rope and jammed it into the spout. My mouth and throat were rasping dry. Without water I wouldn't last five hours in that desert heat, but I had good reason for replacing the water with gasoline. The canteen now made a fine Molotov cocktail.
I lit the makeshift wick and watched with satisfaction as the gasoline-permeated handkerchief began smouldering. If I could get far enough down the slope before I threw it, the sudden motion of the actual throwing should slosh enough gasoline out of the mouth of the canteen to explode the whole thing. But if my descent turned into a wild plunge down that slope of sliding sand, the gasoline would slosh out of the can while I held it — and it would explode in my hand. I said a silent prayer and set my smouldering bomb in the sand beside me.
Then I rolled over on my stomach in the blazing sand and inched my way to the crest, keeping as flat as I could, Wilhelmina extended before me.
I was ready.
Hamid Raschid and the Dutchman were still in place, but they must have been getting restless, wondering what I was up to. The sun glinted off Raschid's rifle, extended out the open door of the cab, but I could see nothing of Raschid himself except a small patch of the red and white checkered kaffiiyeh he wore on his head.
The Dutchman offered a better target. Crouched down behind the rear wheel of the big truck, he was at a bit of an angle to me. Part of his back, his side and his hip were exposed. Shooting downhill through shimmering heat waves didn't make him the world's best target, but it was all I had.
I sighted carefully. A lucky shot would crush his spine, a very good one would smash his hip. I aimed for the spine.
I squeezed the trigger slowly and deliberately.
Wilhelmina bucked in my hand.
Sand spurted at the Dutchman's feet.
Involuntarily, he jerked backward, partially upright. That was a mistake. It made him a better target. The second shot hit him, and he spun halfway around before he dived again for the cover of the truck wheel. The third shot kicked up more sand.
I cursed and put my fourth shot through the cab of the truck. A lucky ricochet just might put Raschid out of action.
I was up and over the crest of the hill now, plunging, sliding, half up to my knees in pouring sand; I was straining to keep from pitching forward in the loose footing, with Wilhelmina clutched in my right hand, and my canteen firebomb in the other, held gingerly aloft.
Three shots from Hamid Raschid's rifle thundered in the desert stillness. They spat into the sand ahead of me in rapid succession. The range wasn't too bad, but a man lurching downhill from above is an almost impossible target. Even the finest marksmen in the world will invariably shoot low in such circumstances, and that's what Raschid was doing.
But now I was closing in and nearing the bottom of the hill. I was within thirty yards of the truck, but still I could not see Raschid as he fired again through the open doors of the cab. Bullet-wind ripped at the pocket of my bush jacket.
Twenty yards now. The ground was suddenly level, and much harder. It made running easier, but it also made me a better target. A rifle boomed to my right, then again. The Dutchman had gone back to work.
Now I was fifteen yards from the cab of the truck. The muzzle of Raschid's AK-47 extended across the front seat spouting flame. I threw myself to the right and onto the hard-baked ground just a half second before a bullet whined overhead.
As I went down to my knees, I swung my left arm in a long, looping arc, lofting the canteen firebomb gently into the cab of the truck.
It landed perfectly on the seat, tumbling across the barrel of Raschid's rifle toward the wiry Saudi.
It must have been only inches from his dusky, highboned face when it exploded in a roaring geyser of flame. One earsplitting shriek of agony ended eerily, cut off at the high crescendo as Raschid's lungs turned to ash. I was already moving, leaping for the shelter of the big SAMOCO truck hood.
I leaned against the heavy front bumper for a minute, gasping for air, the blood pulsing in my forehead from super-exertion, my chest heaving.
It was the Dutchman and me now. Just the two of us playing cat and mouse around an old blue stake truck in the middle of the empty Saudi Arabian desert. Only a few feet away I could smell the acrid stench of burning flesh. Hamid Raschid was no longer a player in this game, only the Dutchman.
I was at the front of the truck, exhausted, winded, covered with sand, frying in my own sweat. He was nicely positioned behind the rear wheel of the truck. He was wounded, but I had no way of knowing how badly.
He was armed with a rifle. The chances were also damned good that he had a pistol. I had Wilhelmina and Hugo.
There were only two choices open to each of us: Either stalk the other or sit and wait for the stalker to make the first move.
I knelt quickly to peer under the truck. If be were moving, I would be able to see his legs. He wasn't. The tiniest bit of pant leg, just a glimpse of white linen, peeked out from behind the right wheel.