The Martian Pendant (19 page)

The Shard Race

At that night’s meeting, Max was jubilant. “We can all concentrate on the hulk, now that we’ve cleaned up the sensitive stuff scattered around. All we have to do is finish our exploration of the ship.”

“Don’t forget the oil drilling,” Ballard said. “That remains the reason the oil interests are paying for the dig.”

Diana was surprised at this, exclaiming, “Haven’t you chaps forgotten something? You don’t think that a few bags of fragments comprise all the debris from the destruction of the other ship, do you?  We literally have scratched merely the surface. Aside from the nuclear engine wreckage, there must be at least ten times as much sensitive material just waiting to be dug up out there.”

Max replied impatiently, “You don’t propose that we also post guards out there too, do you?”

“Of course not,” she enjoined, “but we can safeguard the buried debris by staking a claim with the government for exclusive rights to mine or to explore the entire section.”

Looking at Ballard, she asked, “Jon, isn’t it fairly standard in the oil and mining industries to secure the rights for land surrounding sites where their efforts have produced results?”

Ballard nodded, saying, “Quite so, and in fact, it is equally standard for competitors to file claims surrounding a successful strike as well. It’s a case of first come, first served.”

“Then there’s no time to lose!” Diana said. “I’ll fly to Dar in the morning and file the papers with the Ministry there. At least we’ve neutralized the Soviets for the time being.”

Dan agreed that with Dragunov disabled, they had a window of opportunity. The meeting then broke up with everyone happy with the idea.

*    *    *

The head
Mafioso
driver was happy too when one of his men, who had been eavesdropping, reported on what he had heard. “This means another trip,” Staltieri said, “this time all the way to Dar-es-Salaam. If we leave now, we might be able to get to the Ministry of Oil and Minerals in the morning before the
signorina
can. She won’t be able to fly until daylight. But we must drive all night. Go now and refuel the machine, and get some food to eat on the way.” As the driver left, he added, “And see if you can take care of the plane. That would make our success automatic.”

Sabotage

The waning moon, a week past full, was low in the west when the Mafia driver furtively arrived at the airstrip. Creating major structural damage to the L-5 would be too noisy, he decided, and would be discovered immediately. Tinkering with the oil, fuel or coolant systems would show up immediately on the instrument display, so he used a file to partially cut through the rudder cables. He left enough intact so that a preflight check in the pre-dawn light would fail to detect the sabotage. The cables, with only a couple of strands, would most likely part after the stresses of flight had been placed on them.

He was so satisfied with himself on the job done that he thought of creating a gambling pool with the other drivers, betting on how many kilometers the plane could be flown before the cables snapped. But there was no time, and as ordered, he hurriedly prepared sandwiches and coffee for the race to Dar. While profit was always the aim of all Mafiosi, duty came first. Not because of dedication to the organization, but because of the penalty for failure. He shuddered at the thought.  

Realizing that the matter was time-sensitive, Diana flew out well before daylight, planning on the moon to help her pick up the railroad tracks, thus homing in on her destination to the east. She took off after a short warm-up of the Lycoming engine, as the horizon to the east became washed ever so faintly in a greenish glow, diminished only slightly by the moon. It was crisp and windless, a perfect morning for flying, as the cool, heavy air lifted the plane easily. The Stinson responded to the controls beautifully as she flew over the dim lights of Arusha, careful to skirt the dark shadow of the lofty volcano. She banked eastward, putting her on the course to pick up the wheel-polished railroad tracks that she would follow. It was still not light enough to see the ground well, despite the yellowish promise of dawn in the east. The engine droned smoothly on, and by the time the moon set, the tracks could be seen clearly as they stretched off in either direction across the plain.

Correcting her course with a little right rudder, she heard a sharp “Ping” as the rudder cable suddenly parted. As the pressure of her foot sent the pedal to the firewall, the plane, momentarily under the influence of the ailerons alone, slipped sideways and down. Her heart in her mouth, she corrected the sideslip with left rudder and stick, leveling the craft, but ended up flying in the wrong direction.  There was no way she could turn right, so in desperation, she continued the left turn through a further 180, correcting her heading. Throttling back, she looked for a suitable spot for landing, after she ineffectively tried to compensate by cranking the rudder trim tab all the way to the right. Holding the nose down to avoid stalling, she knew she would have to land immediately, or circle until some other failure occurred. As the plane slowly settled, she found a stretch that seemed free of obstructions, but, unable to “drag” over it first to be certain, she crossed her fingers and set it down, switching off the magneto, cutting the engine.

It was not the landing that she had grown to love in the cool of the evening. It was hot, magnified by the adrenaline and sweat caused by her fear and excitement. Relief at the first touchdown of the wheels was short-lived. A small hidden gulley lay directly ahead, and when the plane hit the opposite bank, it came to an abrupt stop, nosing over with a jolt. The brief shattering sound made by the still-spinning propeller reminded her of splintering bones.

Hanging upside down in her harness, her first thought was to get out fast in case leaking fuel started a fire. She struggled with the releases of her seat and shoulder straps, until she was suddenly deposited upside down at the top of the cabin. From there she was able to get to the door and release it. Grabbing her bag and the emergency kit from its compartment, she then dropped the few feet to the rocky bed of the gulch below, twisting her ankle painfully on a rock as she landed.

*    *    *

Not more than six hours later, the Mafia men arrived at Dar-es-Salaam. They headed immediately to the office of their contact there, Cavalieri, an Italian importer and entepreneur. They glowingly outlined their plan to lay claim to the exploration rights for the sections surrounding the American site. Seeing that time was critical, after taking the map with the co-ordinates needed to define the sought-after sections, Cavalieri hastily dismissed them. It didn’t take long for his secretary to create the necessary document, which he then took to the Ministry of Oil and Mineral Exploration.

Kindred previously had dealings with the man, and didn’t like him one bit. His manner was too unctuous for the Englishman, who also regarded him with some suspicion. However, his request was reasonable and the papers were all in order. Still, the Assistant Minister was skeptical, because the claim entirely surrounded the American site. He was reminded of Diana’s previous accusation regarding his superior, Krueger, as being a Soviet agent, but he yet had to hear from British Intelligence.

Kindred was certain that the oily Italian couldn’t have had the least connection with the KGB. Because of that, the rights to secure the adjoining sites were lost to the American Oil Cartel, and thus to the dig people as well. This not only gave the Mafia the rights to any buried shards that might be found, it also brought them the possibility of controlling the road from the dig to Arusha, the nearest town.

                                                         
FIFTEEN

                                                            
Kidnapped

Climbing out of the gulley, Diana could see a line of telegraph poles that marked the presence of the railroad a mile away. She knew that the road that passed for the main highway between Dar and Dodoma paralleled that. She reckoned that she had landed about a quarter of the way to her destination, and it might be possible to hitch a ride the rest of the way.

Limping in pain, she immediately headed for the road. It was only half a mile, as it turned out, and would have been an easy hike through the tall grass and rocky hillocks, but for her ankle. It took her over an hour, as the pain increased with weight bearing. She thought of fashioning a walking stick with her knife, but neither bush nor tree was to be seen. By the time she made it to the roadside, the sun had risen. The heat waves seemed to impart motion to everything, even the grasses of the windless plain.

By noon, her ankle, swollen and discolored, was throbbing increasingly.
Where is all the traffic one usually sees on this rout,
she asked herself, recalling the original trip to their encampment. At that moment she saw a truck heading in her direction. As it approached and slowed, she struggled to her feet and waved, happily anticipating help.

Her joy was short-lived. The vehicle was filled with a dozen blacks wearing camouflage fatigues and holding rifles.
Good God,
she thought, t
hey must be remnants of the Mau Mau who attacked us! What could be worse?
She didn’t know that they had stolen the truck in Arusha, fleeing in that direction after the debacle at the dig compound, but had failed to get fuel in Dodoma.

As the driver brought the truck to a stop, the passenger in the cab hopped down to where Diana stood. Displaying a toothy grin, he grabbed her arm and easily threw her down, hampered as her balance was by her injured ankle. This brought cheers from the men in back, hungering for revenge against whites. Their enthusiasm was quickly dispelled by crisp Swahili from the driver. Diana recognized the words for “Prisoner” and something about money. At his command, she was roughly lifted by two of the men into the passenger seat. Before slamming the door, they stripped her of her bag and kit. Being captured by terrorists, escape impossible due to her injury, totally occupied her thoughts.

It wasn’t long before they turned off the road and headed north toward the Kenyan border over one of the many bumpy, rutted wagon trails that intersected the main highway. She glanced at the fuel gauge, which was wavering at empty.
They would never find petrol along that desolate track,
she thought
. Walking would be necessary, and soon. But how long would they tolerate her inability to keep up?

Another mile, and that was it. The engine sputtered and bucked, then quit altogether. There was a tumult in the rear as the driver looked at her with bloodshot eyes. She saw only hatred there. As the men in back piled out of the truck and surrounded the cab, for the first time she saw what a ragtag mob they were. Only three of the ten appeared totally healthy, and less than half were armed. Seven had been wounded, some hobbling around on makeshift crutches. She noted that of those still carrying rifles, ammunition belts hung loosely, indicating a shortage of bullets. They were apparently ravenous and thirsty, as a struggle ensued over her emergency kit, which contained chocolate bars and water. She could see they were far from an effective fighting unit.
It did occur to her that what they lacked in ability would be made up in desperation. And desperate men were dangerous.

After a good deal of talk, the leader pointed north, and, saying something to the other two able-bodied men, motioned toward Diana. She was seized by one of the riflemen, while the other produced a thin rawhide rope, binding her wrists in front of her. As the man set off up the track behind the others, he gave the rope a yank, almost pulling her off her feet. In that way she was forced to limp painfully after him in the dust raised by the shuffling troop.

They stumbled along, as the sun heated their dry surroundings, the men reeking with sweat. The ever-rising terrain made the trek more difficult. Her swollen ankle created agony at every step. That led to the hope that a rest stop would be forced by presence of wounded among them. No such luck. Their leader drove them mercilessly, until one by one, the weakest fell out in the shade of one of the increasing numbers of scrubby thorn trees beginning to dot the plain.

She felt she would soon collapse as well, and would have gladly stumbled into the shade, parched and in agony, except for the tether dragging her on. She hoped that they would have to slow to a more reasonable pace to allow the stragglers to catch up, but that was not to be. Tears would not come because of dehydration. She had to clench her teeth to avoid screaming.

It was after sunset when their leader signaled they stop for the night. She had not been given water all day, and her mouth was so dry that her tongue seemed swollen, coated with dust. She had remained silent through it all, uncertain that she could talk even if she tried. Besides, there was the fear that she might be abandoned along the trail and left to die, as apparently the weakest of the wounded had been.

The three able-bodied men promptly selected a campsite, building a fire from the ample fallen wood littering the ground under the trees. One grinned at Diana as he lit the pile with a match taken from her emergency kit. The job of fire making, often a laborious affair with flint and steel, had been made easy for him. Nights were cold in the Tanganyikan highlands, and they would all sleep close to the fire. All but their prisoner. Not about to free her for the night, she was tethered to a tree, like a grazing animal, within the relatively safe circle of light given off by the flames, but not close enough for its warmth to reach her. One of her captors remained awake to tend the fire, but after an initial check of her bonds, he remained close to the welcome warmth for the rest of his watch.

The moon was in the west in the very early morning darkness when the guard was changed. After that, no further attention was paid to her at all. She had heard of the loosening effect of water on rawhide, but had no water, and was too parched even to make saliva when she tried unsuccessfully to chew the thongs. She was so tired that she wouldn’t have remained awake, but for her working through the night rubbing the rawhide rope against the thorn tree. She seemed to be making progress in thinning her restraints, but they remained tight. It was not until her incessant effort started bleeding from one wrist, that her blood loosened the rawhide. In the process, it also lubricated her wrists just enough to at last enable her to slip free.

Elated,
her first thought was escape, but in which direction?
She considered fleeing south--if her halting limp could be termed fleeing--back to the highway.
But that would bring her into contact with the men who had been left behind, who could still prove dangerous. J
ust then she heard the lowing of cattle to the west, and looking in that direction, she saw a momentary flash of metal in the moonlight, not a half mile away.
Probably a herdsman,
she thought.
If he was a Maasai, he might be helpful in her flight from the Kikuyu terrorists.

Rescue

At that moment, two tall Maasai warrior-herdsmen had risen from their position around the remnants of their small fire. One was a man of around twenty-five, the other an adolescent. Both had wrapped themselves in the colorful red cloaks of their kind to keep warm, the younger one with a long spear, the other holding a hunting rifle. There had to be a reason for the cattle awakening well before daylight.

“Maybe a hyena or a leopard,” the boy offered in a whisper. 

Shaking his head, the other replied, “No, you would hear a cough or some other hunting noises. And listen to her bawling in pain. She’s probably that cow that just lost her calf, and needs her milk taken.”

With that, he picked up the Maasai equivalent of a milking pail, a brown gallon-sized leather pouch, and handing it to his young companion, pointed in the direction of the little herd. “I’ll be near you with my rifle if needed.”

By the time the boy returned with the nearly full bag, dawn was beginning to paint the eastern skies.

“Breakfast time,” the warrior exclaimed in the tribal tongue, pulling out his knife. “Get out the flatbread and restart the fire, while I drain some cow blood to go with our milk.”

At that moment Diana stumbled into the clearing, literally falling at their feet, as her swollen ankle gave out. “Help me,” she cried hoarsely. Searching for words that would be understood, she pointed to the trail she had just taken, and in a raspy voice croaked, “Mau Mau, Kikuyus, Kenya!”

The two Maasai stood dumbfounded for a moment, until the older one spoke rapidly in Maa. The boy grunted and nodded, grabbed his spear, and took off running in the other direction. The man gazed down at Diana, puzzled at first by her appearance. He had never seen a white woman in such a wretched condition. Then a big smile came over his face, and he blurted out, “Bwana Lady?”

Somehow the word had spread among his people about the yellow-haired, green-eyed, pale young woman who had helped save the life of one of their number. That her captors were of the same band that had attacked their kinsman he couldn’t know, but he resented the Kikuyus, encroaching on Maasai lands, and hated the Mau Mau for the murders they had committed, not only of whites, but also of blacks content to live peacefully among the settlers.

As frightened as she was of pursuit by her captors, thirst took precedence. When she opened her mouth, pointing a finger to it, he quickly picked up the leather pouch and put the opening to her lips. In her haste, and unaccustomed to the container, a good bit spilled down her neck, but at the same time, more was swallowed. Still warm, it was for her a liquid banquet.

In her relief, after searching for the Swahili word for thank you, she whispered, “
Asante
!”

At that moment, they heard screaming, and then a single shot, fired from the direction of the Mau Mau campsite. Evidently, Diana thought, her escape had just been discovered. The Maasai grabbed his rifle, poised to run in that direction. Diana put her hand on his arm to get his attention, holding up three fingers and then using two of them to signify walking men. Actually, there now were only two, but he recognized the unfavorable odds. Motioning her to follow, he turned to take the path used by the boy.

“Stop!” she cried plaintively, crawling after him, pointing to her swollen and now purple ankle. Seeing that, he put his rifle down, picked her up and slung her effortlessly over his shoulder. Stooping, he grabbed the firearm and the milk, and began trotting up the trail.

*    *    *

After their enraged leader had shot the man responsible for her escape, it took ten minutes before her two erstwhile captors could become organized. They had expected her to return south along the dusty track, and followed it for a few minutes. When they failed to detect fresh footprints, they headed back, circling the last night’s campsite, where they picked up her trail. The two, carrying rifles, hastily loped westward. Soon they encountered the scraggly cattle, causing them to slow to a wary, crouching walk. Cattle meant Maasai, and every herdsman was a warrior, usually armed with both spear and rifle to ward off predators. Because of their caution, they missed catching their quarry, although easily tracking her. Despite their stealth, their progress across the plain was betrayed by dust raised by the herd, as it followed them in the direction of the Maasai village.

The tall Maasai continued trotting up the trail, his breathing only slightly labored under the weight of his burden. He had done the same for newborn calves, and once, for an injured fellow tribesman. After a mile, they reached the clearing that contained the tribal compound of huts and the large thorn-bush-enclosed Kraal where their cattle usually spent the night. It was Diana’s good luck that the herd had not been led home at sunset the evening before. She could never have made it all the way to the safety of the
village otherwise.

On entering the village circle, she was gently deposited on a bed of hides under the overhanging thatch of the biggest hut in the compound. There she was immediately tended by a number of women, who bound a poultice around her ankle, dulling the pain immediately. After they had removed her tattered clothing, and tenderly washed away the encrusted dirt, she was dressed in a bleached white doeskin wrap. As one of the women placed a large hide pillow under her head, another offered a smaller leather pouch, resembling a bota bag, indicating that she drink. It was more milk, still a little warm, but with a familiar flavor--iron, she thought--that she had not noticed earlier. She was hungry and thirsty, and so drank deeply, well aware of the Maasai mixture of cow’s blood and milk.

As she finished drinking, a white-haired elder, evidently their Chief, emerged from the hut, smiling broadly at her for a moment. He seemed about to speak, but instead gestured toward the door for another to join him. She was overjoyed to see the tall, thin adolescent whom she had helped save, first in the rescue from the ambush, and then by flying him to Dar for the needed surgery. When he saw her, his face lighted up with a dazzling grin. His right arm was in a sling, but as he fell to a kneeling position next to her, with his good arm he took her hand and put it to his lips.