“So can you do it?”
“Not if he’s as paranoid as he appears to be. A man like that would know to disappear into the woods, away from any digital preying eyes.”
“What about satellite images?”
She laughed. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but now you’re talking about the realms of science fiction or poorly described techno thrillers. I’ll keep searching to see if I can find him on any photo taken in the past year. But it’s going to be a miracle if I find something.”
“Okay. See what you can do. I’ve seen you perform miracles before.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Yeah. I need you to tell me the name of the closest airport to the Namibian desert.”
A moment later, he hung up the phone.
Tom asked, “What did she say?”
“We’re off to Windhoek Hosea Kutako International Airport.”
“Why?”
“To find a lost pirate ship and a pyramid that doesn’t exist.”
Chapter Twenty — Namibia
Sam stepped out of the Gulfstream G650 and onto the tarmac at Windhoek Hosea Kutako International Airport. He took a deep breath and was surprised by the sudden change in temperature. Having crossed over from the northern summer to the southern winter, the temperature dropped to 34 degrees Fahrenheit. He gritted his teeth at the perversity of recent severe weather changes. If people didn’t know by now that the health of the world was a global issue, they were never going to get it. While Turkey suffered its hottest summer on record, Namibia was struggling through its coldest winter. He was greeted by two men — one an official Customs Officer and the other an aircraft dealer.
“Good morning,” Sam said, handing his and Tom’s passport to the official.
“Welcome to Namibia.” The Customs Officer stamped both passports without looking at them and handed the books back. He smiled obsequiously, as though he were used to dealing with wealthy businessmen who landed at the airport in private jets. “If there is anything I can do for you while you’re here just let me know and I will arrange it for you. I have left my private cell number and will most certainly be able to find any service that you are after.”
“Thank you, Romashall,” Sam said, glancing at the man’s name tag. He turned to the second man. “You must be Bjorn?”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Reilly,” Bjorn offered his hand.
Sam took it and then motioned toward Tom. “This is a good friend of mine, Tom Bower.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Bjorn said.
Sam glanced around the tarmac where several small private aircraft were stored outside. “What did you find us?”
“I’ve got a Cessna 172 Turbo Skyhawk!” Bjorn whistled through crooked teeth and a single gold tooth, as though he’d done them a monumental favor. “There’s less than three hundred hours on the clock, too. It was only recently purchased to use as a charter to ferry the various geologists and other professionals employed for oil exploration currently.”
“There’s a lot of that going on?” Sam asked.
“Oh yes, very much. Business has never been so good for me. They say that Namibia is the El Dorado of oil reserves. Lot of money coming into the country.”
While Sam expected many Namibians still eagerly anticipate an oil discovery, he figured others were more circumspect. Oil discoveries, particularly in developing countries, have not always yielded positive results for the people. In many instances, the majority actually end up losing out, while the minority became exorbitantly wealthy. Moreover, competition for control of resources has been known to lead to bloody and pervasive conflicts in many developing nations.
“And I bet it’s the people of Namibia who are the recipients of this new wealth?” Sam said without restraining his cynicism.
Bjorn ignored the comment. “People need my planes to fly the short distances to where there are no permanent airfields. The Cessna is fully booked after the end of the month, but you can have it until then if you like?”
The end of the month was still two weeks away. Sam hoped he’d have some answers by then. “It should do.”
“Great. I’ll take you over there now and run you through a few things. Do you have any other luggage?”
“No. We travel pretty light. We’ll buy anything we need while we’re here,” Sam said.
“Good. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Sam said, “You spend a lot of time flying around the Skeleton Coast and Namib Desert?”
Bjorn nodded. “That’s how I’ve spent the last thirty years of my life.”
“So you know the landscape pretty well?”
“Of course. What would you like to know?”
Sam grinned. “Have you ever seen a pyramid?”
Chapter Twenty-One
The Skyhawk was covered in sand. It was painted light blue which poorly disguised the dirt and sand which had lightly coated her aluminum frame. Tom walked around the aircraft from wingtip to wingtip, looking for any significant faults or damages. He manually moved the articulated joints of the ailerons, rudder, and elevator. They moved freely and Tom smiled. He could see that despite only two hundred and ninety hours on her clock, she had already had some rough treatment ferrying clients into the desert. Not that it mattered, he knew that Cessna built robust aircraft to take abuse and last. There were still a number of Cessna 152s from the early 1950s still in service today — a massive testament of their reliability.
Tom clambered into the pilot seat. He pulled the latch at the side of his chair and slid it all the way to the back until his seat virtually touched the empty one behind. At six foot four, his knees bent awkwardly in the small single propped aircraft, but he was remarkably comfortable nonetheless. He carefully flicked through the Skyhawk’s running sheet and spec sheet. He paused at the description of the engine. It was powered by a Continental Motors CD-135 turbo-charged 4-cylinder in-line diesel engine. He’d heard some companies were experimenting with using diesel instead of aviation fuel, but had never flown one.
Tom worked his way through the start-up check sheet, running the engine to maximum and then bringing it back to an idle. He ran the flaps through their range and then left them at zero degrees for take-off.
Outside, Sam paid the charter fee, shook Bjorn’s hand and climbed into the co-pilot’s seat. “What do you think?”
“About the aircraft?”
Sam nodded.
“It’s good,” Tom said. “She will serve our purpose handsomely no doubt. Did you know she’s got a diesel engine?”
“Whose bright idea was it to put a diesel in single propped aircraft?”
“The additional torque makes it an estimated twenty-five percent more fuel efficient than her aviation fuel counterpart, bringing her range to just under a thousand miles to the tank. Besides, diesel’s a lot easier to get a hold of around here than aviation fuel.”
“Interesting,” Sam said indifferently. He then placed a topographical map of the region in front of Tom and circled a small coastal city named, Swakopmund. “We need to fly here.”
“What’s there?”
“Not much. Bjorn tells me that if I want to know the truth about a rumor I’d heard about some abandoned pyramid that once existed in the Namib Desert, then I needed to speak to a man named Leo Dietrich.”
“Who is he?” Tom asked.
“He’s a registered Master Hunting Guide in Namibia and a drunkard, apparently,” Sam said. “He offers private tours to big game hunters in search of trophy animals.”
Tom nodded. “And Bjorn thinks he might have heard something in his travels?”
“It’s better than that. He says Dietrich is a fifth generation hunter in the region. His family has lived there since Germany founded the city in 1892 as the main harbor of the German South West Africa. If anyone knows about an ancient pyramid that was still standing back in 1655, he would.”