Dismayed, she read the legend inscribed on it:
BADWATER
280 FEET BELOW SEA LEVEL
IN THIS AREA IS THE LOWEST LAND IN THE
WESTERN HEMISPHERE.
ON THE CLIFF IS A SIGN INDICATING SEA LEVEL
THE WATER SEEN FROM THIS POINT CONTAINS
FIVE PER CENT SALTS
THE SHRUBS NEAR THE WATER
ARE PICKLEWEED.
She looked at Tom, wonder on her face. He had tried to save her from the salty water.
She looked at her still-wet hands.
Little beads of moisture were forming at her fingertips. She wiped them on her blouse…
Paul replaced the water bag, hanging it on its hook on the side of the scout. He had been drinking only sparingly. He was always amazed at how cool the water stayed even in the most scorching heat simply from the evaporation through the porous canvas. His hands were wet from the droplets that formed on the bag and slowly trickled down the outside. He wiped them across his hot forehead.
He walked back to Hays, who stood frowning over a map spread out on the hood of the scout. It was the master map with every location already searched checked off and all team sectors, both Ranger and Air Force, marked. He looked up as Ward and Wilson drove up in another scout. He went over to talk to Ward. Wilson joined Hays.
“Hot enough for you, Sarge?” the airman asked. He wiped his brow and tried to loosen his sweat-clinging shirt from his skin. Hays, studying the map, merely grunted.
Wilson looked with interest at the map with its markings and notations. He glanced at Hays.
“Say, Sarge,” he drawled, “we been all over this godforsaken place. Where're we at now?”
Hays put his finger on the map. “Right — there!”
Wilson leaned over to look. “Death Valley,” he read. “Funeral Mountains. Coffin Canyon… Jeez!” He shuddered melodramatically as he eyed the map.
Hays glanced at him. “Superstitious?”
“Naw,” Wilson dead-panned. “Just don't go putting me on no graveyard shift.”
Hays groaned. Wilson unhooked his canteen cup from his belt. He filled it with water from the canvas bag. He drank long and deep. He shook the last drops from the cup out on the ground. The dry sand sucked them up immediately.
It was late afternoon when Paul and Hays arrived at the last rendezvous spot of the day for the teams in their sector. The desert shrubs were letting their shadows out after having kept them tucked in beneath them during the midday hours.
They were the first to arrive. There had been no signs of Tom and Randi; no reports from any other teams in the other sectors — nor from the search helicopters. And no word as yet from Beale on the results of the SR-71 overflight. It must have been carried out by now, Paul thought. He was itching with impatience. He was growing increasingly worried. Were Tom and Randi still alive?
Two more Air Force scouts joined them, one with Ward and Wilson, and two Ranger vehicles, a jeep driven by Ranger Gordon and a pick-up. The men all looked dejected and grim. Paul gathered them around him, leaving Hays and Wilson with their scouts and radios.
Paul looked gravely at the men. “We've still got a few hours of daylight,” he said, desperately trying not to sound discouraged. “Here's what I plan to do.” He started to unfold his master map.
The radio in Paul's scout sputtered. Hays acknowledged. He turned toward Paul.
“Beale, sir!” he called.
Paul hurried over. He snatched the receiver from Hays and listened intently. He turned to the others.
“That was Beale Photo Analysis,” he shouted. “They picked them up! The choppers are already looking for them. As of 1640 hours they were headed for the Devil's Golf Course.”
He jumped into the scout. Hays was already behind the wheel and the vehicle took off in a spurt of desert dust.
The others followed…
Hays brought the scout to a halt on a dirt road that skirted the forbidding area known as the Devil's Golf Course.
Paul dismounted and walked to the edge of the vast expanse. For a moment he stood looking out over the nightmarish landscape that lay before him. There was nothing to be seen. No movement. Only a vast sweep of hard, fantastically contorted, razor-sharp salt-and-mud crags and crusted pinnacles up to two feet high. It was the sun-baked bottom of an ancient ocean left by the primeval convulsions of a changing world; a hellish area that stretched before him, seemingly to the far mountains.
The other vehicles arrived and the men gathered around Paul, silently staring in dismay over the incredible expanse.
A sudden faint sound insinuated itself upon the oppressive quiet around them. They all looked up. Far out over the salt flats a helicopter wheeled low over the craggy expanse in a tight circle.
Hays called from the scout. “Sir! They've spotted them!”
At once Paul ran for the scout. The others followed.
“They're crossing the salt flats,” Hays called. He picked up the binoculars.
Paul came up to him. “Where?”
“Almost across.” Hay handed the field glasses to Paul. “It's too far to see good.”
Paul looked.
The radio sputtered.
“Armadillo One… Armadillo One… This is Skybird Four… Come in… Come in…”
Paul grabbed the mike. “Go ahead, Skybird Four.”
“Returning to base. Repeat. Returning to base,” the voice came tinnily over the radio. “Low on fuel… Can't land on those damned crags. They're sharp as spikes… Got ’em spotted for you, Armadillo One… Hope you get to them. Out.”
“Roger, Skybird… Out.”
Paul put the mike down. Again he scanned the distant salt flats with the binoculars. Suddenly he started.
“There they are!” he cried.
In his field glasses he watched the two ant-like figures in the far distance stumbling across the treacherous, knife-edged salt-and-mud ridges. The image glimmered in the heat rising into the heavy air like a portentous mirage.
“Sergeant!” Paul snapped. “Get the other choppers.”
Hays was already making contact.
Ward turned to Paul. “Can we get to them?” he asked anxiously.
Paul shook his head. “Not much of a chance. From here.” He looked at the near-impassable salt flats. “We sure as hell can't drive across. We'll have to go around. By the time we get there, they'll be God-knows-where in the mountains.”
Dismally he watched the helicopter flying off in the far distance. “And we've got no search teams over there,” he added.
Wilson had gone down to the edge of the rugged salt-and-mud flats.
“Sir!” he called. “There's a path here! Across the flats! I can head them off!”
He ran for the nearest vehicle. It was Ranger Gordon's jeep. He jumped in, and, spurting gravel, he raced toward the salt flats.
Gordon shouted after him. “Hey! Wait! It's dangerous! It only goes a little way!”
“Wilson!” Paul shouted. “Wilson! Come back!”
But the words were drowned out by the roar of the jeep in low gear careening down the narrow, rugged path.
Aghast, the men watched the jeep bounce along the rocky, pot-holed trail, perilously close past the knife-sharp, distorted salt-and-mud formations. It was obvious that Wilson was having trouble keeping the vehicle under control; it lurched and bucked, skimming past the wicked spikes.
Wilson was hanging on to the wheel with a vise-like grip. It took all his strength to keep from spinning out of control. He was sweating — the sweat of fear rather than heat. He regretted his hasty action. It had seemed the perfect thing to do. He could have reached the two fugitives before anyone else. Followed them. He wanted to stop his headlong rush — but now that he'd started, he couldn't chicken out.