Without a compass or a map, they relied on celestial navigation to record their location and trail as they followed the ancient riverbed from the Niger River north ever deeper into the Sahara. By day they hid in gulleys and ravines where they covered the car with a thin coating of sand and scrub brush so it would blend in with the desert floor and appear from the air as a small dune sprouting a few pieces of sparse growth.
"Would you care for a cold, sparkling glass of Sahara spring water or the refreshing fizz of a Malian soft drink?" Giordino grinned, holding out a bottle of the local pop and a cup of the warm, sulphur-tasting liquid from the water tap he'd found in the village garage.
"I can't stand the taste," said Pitt, taking the cup of water and wrinkling his nose, "but it's best we drink at least three quarts every twenty-four hours."
"You don't think we should ration it?"
"Not while we have an ample supply. Dehydration will only come on that much quicker if we hoard and sip it a little at a time. Better to drink as much as we need to quench our thirst and worry when it's gone."
"How about a gourmet sardine for dinner?"
"Sounds jazzy."
"The only thing missing is a Caesar salad."
"You're thinking of anchovies."
"I never could tell the difference."
After savoring his sardine, Giordino licked his fingers. "I feel like an idiot sitting here in the middle of the desert eating fish."
Pitt smiled. "Be thankful you've got them." Then he tilted his head listening.
"Hear something?" asked Giordino.
"Aircraft." Pitt cupped his hands behind his ears. "A low-flying jet judging by the sound."
He crawled up the side of the ravine on his stomach until he reached the upper edge and moved behind a small tamarisk shrub so his head and face merged with its broken shadow. Then he began a slow, deliberate observation of the sky.
The throaty roar of a jet turbine exhaust came very clearly now as he peered ahead of the trailing sound waves. He squinted into the blazing blue sky but failed to see anything at first. He dropped his gaze lower, and then spotted a sudden movement against the empty desert terrain about 3 kilometers away. Pitt recognized it as an old American-built Phantom, sporting Malian air force insignia, about 6 kilometers to the south, flying less than 100 meters off the ground. It was like some great vulture, camouflage-brown against the yellow-gray of the landscape, and flying in great lazy arcs as if a sixth sense was telling it there was prey in the neighborhood.
"See it?" asked Giordino.
"An F-4 Phantom," answered Pitt.
"What direction?"
"Circling in from the south."
"Think he's onto us?"
Pitt turned and looked down at the palm fronds tied to the bumpers behind the rear wheels that were dragged along to cover the tire tracks. The parallel indentations in the sand that trailed off down the middle of the ravine were almost completely obliterated. "A search crew in a hovering helicopter might spot our trail but not the pilot of a jet fighter. He has no vision directly below his aircraft and has to bank if he wants to see anything. And he's flying too fast, too close to the ground to detect a vague pair of tire tracks."
The jet roared toward the ravine, close enough now so that its desert camouflage markings stained the pure blue of the sky. Giordino wiggled under the car as Pitt pulled the tamarisk shrub's branches over his head and shoulders. He watched as the pilot of the Phantom made a soaring turn, scanning the seemingly blank and empty world of the Sahara below.
Pitt tensed and held his breath. The aircraft's swing was bringing it directly over their gorge. Then it tore overhead, the air rushing past its wings like a wave cut by a ship's bow, the thrust of its turbine swirling the sand. Pitt felt the heat of its fiery exhaust sweep over him. It seemed almost as if the aircraft had materialized right over the gorge, so low Pitt swore he could have thrown a rock into its intake scoops. And then it was gone.
He feared the worst as he watched it roaring away. But it continued on its slow, circling search as though the pilot had seen nothing of interest. Pitt watched it until the plane was out of sight over the horizon. He kept watching for a few more minutes, wary that the pilot might have spied something suspicious and entertained the notion of a wide sweep before whipping over the gorge in hope of catching his quarry by surprise.
But the sound of the jet exhaust finally faded away in the distance, leaving the desert dead and silent once again.
Pitt slid back down the slope of the gorge and regained the shade of the ancient Voisin as Giordino crawled from beneath its chassis.
"A near thing," said Giordino, flicking a small platoon of ants from one arm.
Pitt doodled in the sand with a small, withered stick "Either we didn't fool Kazim by heading north or he isn't taking any chances."
"Must blow his mind that a car painted a color as loud as this one can't be found in a wasteland against a flat and colorless background."
"He can't be jumping for joy," Pitt agreed.
"I bet he went nuclear when he found out it was stolen, and figured we were the culprits," Giordino laughed.
Pitt held a hand up to shield his eyes and gazed at the sun dipping into the west. "Be dark in another hour, and we can be on our way."
"How does the ground ahead look?"
"Once we pass out of this gorge and back into the riverbed it continues as flat sand and gravel with a few scattered boulders. Good for driving if we keep a sharp eye and avoid jagged stones that can slice open a tire."
"How far do you figure we've gone since leaving Bourem?"
"According to the odometer, 116 kilometers, but as the crow flies, I'd judge about 90."
"And still no sign or trace of a chemical production or waste facility."
"Not even an empty container drum."
"I can't see much sense in going on," said Giordino. "No way a chemical spill could flow 90 kilometers over a dry riverbed into the Niger."
"It does seem a lost cause," Pitt admitted.
"We can still make a try for the Algerian border."
Pitt shook his head. "Not enough gas. We'd have to walk the last 200 kilometers to the Trans-Saharan Motor Track to even catch a ride to civilization. We'd die of exposure before making it halfway."
"So what are our options?"
"We push on."
"How far?"
"Until we find what we're looking for, even if it means doubling back."
"And litter the landscape with our bones in either case."
"Then at least we accomplish something by eliminating this section of the desert as a source for the contamination." Pitt spoke without emotion, staring into the sand at his feet as if trying to see a vision.
Giordino looked at him. "We've been through a lot together over the years. Be a damn shame for it to end in the armpit of the world."
Pitt grinned at him. "The old guy with the scythe hasn't put in an appearance just yet."
"This will be most embarrassing when we make the obituary columns," Giordino persisted pessimistically.
"What will?"
"Two directors of the National Underwater and Marine Agency lost and feared dead in the middle of the Sahara Desert. Who in their right mind will believe it?… Did you just hear something?"
Pitt stood up. "I heard."
"A voice singing in English. God, maybe we are already dead."
They stood side-by-side as the sun began disappearing over the horizon, listening to a voice singing what they recognized as the old camp song, "My Darling Clementine." The words became distinct as the off-key singing became very close.