Stone and his two companions carried their gear off the plane while the pilot eased up on the throttle, which helped lessen the noise level.
Stone surveyed the surrounding terrain. Sunrise was still a half hour away and the desert had yet to reveal its colors. The morning temperature had to be in the low 40s and by noon they could expect it to reach the high 70s. Not bad for winter.
Stone called out to Frederick in a raised voice, “How much time do we have?”
“Only five minutes on deck. Then we’re wheels up.” Turning to Sandra and Lange, he yelled, “Important thing is to make sure your radios are working. After that, get these bikes ready.” Frederick held a satellite phone to his ear.
The front and back fenders of three Suzuki DS80s were loaded with packs containing water and provisions. The female CIA technician quickly went over the specifications of the dirt bikes used by the special operations units. They learned the motorcycles could hit fifty miles per hour but had limited range.
“They’re easy to handle.” The technician proceeded to show them how to brake and shift gears. “We fabricated special mufflers. They sound like the wind on a blustery day in Chicago.”
The other CIA technician handed them rifles with shoulder straps — Browning BARs to Stone and Lange, a Browning BLR Stalker to Sandra. “They’re all .308 calibers, so you can exchange rounds if necessary.”
Stone examined one of the .308 Winchester rounds knowing it to be effective, but the bullet had more drop at long range than the .30–06 Springfield he was accustomed to.
“They look like the 7.62 NATO rounds I’m familiar with,” Lange remarked as he loaded a box magazine and inserted it into his rifle.
Frederick, still holding the phone to his ear, shouted over the plane’s engines, “Remember. If you meet any locals, you’re on safari. That’s why we gave you hunting rifles.”
“What are we hunting for?” Sandra asked as she strapped the rifle across her back.
Colonel Frederick shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe elephants?”
Dirk Lange said, “No. The desert elephants are farther north. We’ll say antelope or gemsbok. We have a lot of game here,” Lange continued. “Lions and cheetahs. Watch out for the hyenas. They’re nasty.”
“You said we’d be here two days max?” Stone asked.
“No more,” Colonel Frederick said. “In a nearby country, which for the time being shall remain anonymous, we’re preparing to stage a takeout of the bomb.” Frederick held up the phone. “One thing I just learned that might complicate things. Last night the satellite people back in Virginia detected activity at the Bruin Karas airport. A plane landed and they saw a number of people on the airstrip.”
“What’s unusual about that?” Sandra asked.
“Planes don’t normally land there at night,” Lange said. “The airport is just a dirt strip with a windsock. No airport lights.”
“We have company,” Stone said.
“Yes,” Colonel Frederick shouted as he rubbed some dust from his eye. “We’re flying up to Windhoek. I’m bringing in people from the station in Pretoria and the base in Cape Town. By tonight we’ll be able to provide backup if you need it.” He slapped Stone’s shoulder. “Meantime, keep low and avoid contact with strangers.”
The technicians and Colonel Frederick climbed back into the plane and as the tailgate rose, Frederick yelled, “Good hunting.”
The plane took off, and at the moment the sun broke over the horizon, it dipped its wing to the east, and staying low to the ground, disappeared.
Following the last sounds of the plane’s engines, Stone took in the quiet of the surrounding land. The clear, dry air allowed an unobstructed view of nearly fifty miles to distant blue-tinted mountains. Even in the morning, an almost full moon bright in the hard blue sky prepared to drop below the horizon.
Stone and his two companions took a gray gravel road that ran to the base of a six-hundred-foot ridge. After a half hour their programmed GPS beeped the alert to turn. They left the road and proceeded cautiously over the countryside toward the ridge, and began a careful climb. At one point they had to dismount and push their motorcycles up the hill over boulders and rock ledges. An hour later, exhausted, Stone and his companions reached the crest and rested, cautious to remain out of sight.
On the other side of the ridge, in the valley below, Stone saw the hamlet of Bruin Karas scattered along a paved road and a parallel railroad track. Further searching through their binoculars, they found to the right the airstrip with a twin-engine plane parked off to the side. Turning to the far left, he spotted a lone brown boxcar sitting on an isolated rail siding about two miles from the main road.
“Pretty quiet down there,” Stone said. “No signs of activity.”
“Got a bakkie along the road to the right.” Lange pointed.
Sandra said, “Excuse me.”
“That pickup truck kicking up dust.” Lange touched her shoulder. “Hello. Look over at the landing strip. We have some people walking around that two-engine plane. Dark clothes and beards. Can’t quite see what they’re doing.”
“The plane Colonel Frederick talked about coming in last night.”
The three continued to scope the valley and saw another truck drive away from what resembled a general store. A lone Wahlberg’s eagle hovered below them, using the currents rising from the warming air.
Stone asked the question that always came to mind when passing through isolated towns and villages: “What do people do around this godforsaken place?”
Lange answered him. “A bit of mining. Mostly farming. Farmers drive in to buy petrol and goods.” He lowered his binoculars. “They enjoy the place like their fathers before them. Afrikaners have a need to plant things.”
“Where are the Bushmen?” Sandra asked.
“You mean the San people. They have settlements all about.” Lange searched again with his field glasses. “Can’t see any. Their villages look like clumps of thatched haystacks. Only rectangular in shape. They blend in with the countryside.” He stretched and looked at Stone. “What’s the plan, mate?”
“If we go down into the valley now, we may be spotted. Maybe we should wait for dusk. Just enough light to make our way without breaking our necks.”
After a moment, Lange said, “A suggestion. The locals hereabouts have sharp eyes. They can pick up movement in the hills because they hunt, but strangers like Wahab and Asuty probably wouldn’t. I would suspect that plane brought in those two along with Mr. Van Wartt.”
“If so, they’ll make a move on that boxcar,” Sandra said. “I haven’t seen any activity there, but we’re too far away.”
The breeze had become a light wind. The cloudless sky warmed Stone’s head. “If we walk our bikes down slowly and don’t kick up dust, we have a chance of not being seen,” Stone said. “I’d like to get closer to that boxcar.”
The others agreed and they started their descent using shrubs and boulders as cover. An hour later they were on the valley floor with line of sight to the settlement and airport gone, but with the advantage of using the low hills and vegetation as concealment. They drove the mini-motorcycles toward the railroad siding where the boxcar sat.
About a half mile away from their target, Stone signaled to make camp. “From here we have sight of the railcar and to the right, part of the village. We should be able to see anyone approaching.”