“We know that early today they were at an abandoned mine,” Paul said. He picked up a key with a large plastic tag on it, lying on the desk. He showed it to Howell. “Randi left this for us to find near an old tunnel. We checked it. It's the key to her cabin.”
“Clever girl.”
“And this evening a camper's report puts them near that ghost town — here.”
He poked a finger at the map.
“They seem to be traveling in the direction of this area here — the black desert. And we can make sure they go there by keeping that part of the valley clear and sending our choppers and search teams in behind them.”
“Why that particular area?” Howell asked.
“Because of the old volcanic craters,” Paul explained. “There's a small crater on the black desert. We know we have to corner Tom in a place where he can't hurt himself. The crater fills the bill.”
He rummaged on the desk and came up with an aerial photograph. He handed it to Howell.
“The crater is a couple of hundred feet across and about one hundred feet deep,” he explained. “The inside walls are very steep. Unscalable. Except here—” he pointed to the photograph—“where there's a natural break in the ridge. A shallow incline down to the bottom.”
He turned to the wall map. He studied it for a moment.
“Go on,” Howell said, caught up in the plan.
“The little crater is surrounded by a field of volcanic ash. The black desert. Once Tom and Randi are out on that field — using the ESTs and existing search teams, we can herd them toward the break in the crater rim. Like a big-game drive. And corner them in the crater itself — like in a giant trapping pit.”
“As long as they don't slip through your cordon.”
“We can't afford to let them do that,” Paul said firmly. “They wouldn't survive.”
Howell looked at the photograph in his hand. “You say the walls inside the crater are too dangerous to scale?”
“That's right.”
Howell looked soberly at Paul. “What if Tom should try the impossible? Again?”
Paul returned his gaze. “Sir,” he said solemnly, “a little while ago you reminded me that Tom's reactions are those of a wild animal.”
Howell nodded.
“I think we've found a way to keep him from trying to scale those walls.”
Day Six
1
Since before dawn trucks and personnel carriers had grumbled into Death Valley to disgorge National Guard troops in the marshaling area set up near Furnace Creek.
Howell himself had briefed the Guard officers on the plan of action worked out by Paul, while Paul had given the men of his Air Force Emergency Service Team their orders. The thirteen-man strong EST had come up from Edwards in three “six-packs” and a jeep. Rugged, expertly trained to cope with the dangerous and unusual, the men had listened to him eagerly and had grasped at once what was needed of them.
It had been a hectic night. Neither Howell nor Paul had slept.
Now all was ready for the crucial drive. Both men knew it would be their last effort.
The narrow dirt road snaking up into the hills was steep and bumpy. The two scouts groaning up the grade in four-wheel drive came to a halt below a small ridge. Paul, alone in his vehicle, dismounted and walked up to Ward, getting out of his scout. Already they had scoured ridge after ridge in the area. They had seen nothing.
Paul glanced up the hill. “We should get a pretty good view from up there,” he said. He turned to the driver of Ward's scout. “Stay with the radio. Sing out if anyone spots them.”
“Yes, sir.”
The two men started to climb up the bluff.
From the crest they had a sweeping view of the barren and forbidding foothills stretched out before them. Below was the flat, cracked expanse of a dry lake, and in the distance — the black desert.
Paul lowered his field glasses. He wiped the eyepiece with a damp handkerchief. The sweat trickling down his brow had fouled the lenses. He glanced up at the broiling sun high above. The morning was already coming to an end and they had not as yet had any success. Time was running out.
Again he searched the hills with his binoculars. The ground shimmered, baking in the heat.
Suddenly he froze.
Movement! On that far slope.
He searched among the rocks.
Two figures.
Tom and Randi!
“I got them!” he cried, keeping his excitement in check. “Over there. Two o'clock.”
Ward whipped his field glasses across. “I see them,” he said.
He watched. Tom was kneeling on the ground, beating on something with a rock. Randi sat close by.
“He's cracking open a cactus,” Paul said. He scanned the area. “OK,” he said. “If we send in the choppers from over there, low, we can drive them down to the black desert.” Without looking at Ward, he issued his orders. “Get Howell on the radio. Fill him in. I'll stay here. Keep them in sight.”
“Right!”
Ward quickly started down from the ridge. Paul fixed his field glasses on the two figures on the far slope. Tom and Randi had scooped the crushed cactus pulp into their hands and were sucking out the moisture.
Suddenly Tom spun around. He clutched his side and fell to the ground. Almost at once a faint, sharp crack reached Paul's ears. Two little geysers of dust erupted close to the supine Tom — and two more cracks sounded from the distant hills.
Paul was frozen in shock.
“Jesus!” The exclamation was wrenched from his throat. “He's been shot!”
Randi threw herself over Tom's body, even as Paul whipped his binoculars to a distant hill across from her and Tom.
There was the glint of sun on metal, a fire flashpoint — and another faint crack.
Paul leaped to his feet. He rushed headlong down the steep slope. He shouted at the startled Ward: “Tom's been hit! Someone's shooting at him! Get help!”
He ran for his scout.
“Get to him, Quent. Fast! Do what you can for him.”
He tumbled into his scout. In a cloud of sand and dust he slewed it around and roared off, whamming down the washboard road…
Scrambling across the rugged ground, Randi helped Tom painfully drag himself behind a big rock. He leaned against it. He touched his hand to his side. It came away wet with blood. Uncomprehendingly he stared at it. Randi watched him, wide-eyed.
“Oh, dear God!” she cried out, incredulous horror making her voice hoarse. “They are hunting you! They are shooting at you!.. Oh, dear God!”
Without thought for her own safety she reached out and peeled the blood-soaked cloth from Tom's wound. He stiffened, but he did not stop her. The bullet had grazed him, leaving a long, shallow gash in his skin. It bled profusely.
Randi turned to glare hatefully out over the dead and desolate hills. Her eyes blazed with anger.
“Damn you!” she whispered tightly. “God damn you!”
Hayden shifted his eye from the rifle scope. He peered at the distant hill. Hell! He couldn't see them. He'd winged the guy. He was certain of it. He'd seen him spin around at the impact. But he knew it hadn't been a clean kill. And the fucking girl was still alive.