Kill Switch (9780062135285) (24 page)

Lying on his belly, Tucker pointed his flashlight down the throat of the tunnel. Kane crouched next to him, panting, sniffing at the hole.

“Looks to drop about eight feet,” he said, rising to his knees. “Then it branches off to the left.”

“Who goes first?” Anya asked.

As if understanding her, Kane gained his feet and danced around the hole, his tail whipping fast. He looked up at Tucker, then down at the shaft.

“Take a guess,” Tucker said.

“You're sending him down there?” Anya crossed her arms. “That seems cruel.”

“Cruel? I think Kane was a dachshund in a former life, a breed built to flush badgers out of burrows. If there's a hole, Kane wants to crawl in and explore.”

Tucker pulled the shepherd's tactical vest out of his backpack. Anticipating what was to come, Kane shook and trembled with excitement. Tucker quickly suited up his partner, synching the feed into the new sat phone Harper had supplied. He ran through a quick diagnostics check and found everything working as designed.

“Ready, Kane?”

The shepherd walked to the shaft and placed his front paws on the lip. Tucker played the beam of his flashlight across the sides and down to floor of the tunnel. He pointed.

“G
O
.”

Without hesitation, Kane leaped into the darkness, followed by a soft
thump
as he landed at the bottom.

“
S
OUND OFF.”

Kane barked once in reply, indicating he was okay.

Tucker punched buttons on his phone, and Kane's video feed came online. Shading the screen with his hand to reduce the sun's glare, he was able to make out the horizontal tunnel that angled away from the shaft. The camera had a night-­vision feature, but Tucker tapped a button, and a small LED lamp flared atop the camera stalk, lighting Kane's way.

The sharper illumination revealed coarse walls, shored up by heavy timber. Out of the sun and wind, the wood looked solid enough, but
looks
could be deceptive. Back in Afghanistan, he'd witnessed several tunnel collapses while hunting for Taliban soldiers in their warren of caves.

Fearing the same now, he licked his lips, worried for Kane, but they both had a duty here.

Speaking into his radio mike, he said, “F
ORWARD.
S
EEK
.”

Hearing the command, Kane stalks forward. He leaves the glaring brightness of the day and heads into darkness, led by a pool of light cast over his shoulders. His senses fill with dirt and mold, old wood and stone—­but through it all, he fixes on a trail of dampness in the air.

It stands out against the dryness.

He needs no lights to follow it.

But he goes slowly, stepping carefully.

His ears pick out the scrunch of sand underfoot, the scrabble of chitinous legs on rock, the creak of timber.

He pushes through faint webs of dust.

He reaches another tunnel, one that crosses his path.

Which way?

A command whispers in his ear. His partner sees what he sees.

S
EEK
.

He steps to each direction, stretching his nose, breathing deeply, pulling the trail deep inside him, through his flared nostrils, past his tongue, to where instinct judges all.

He paces into one tunnel, then another, testing each.

Down one path, to the left, the air is heavier with moisture.

His ears hear the faintest tink of water falling to stone.

He heads toward it, his heart hammering inside him
, on the hunt, knowing his target is near. The tunnel drops deeper, then levels. Several cautious paces farther and the passage opens into a cavern, tall enough to jump and leap with joy within.

He wants to do that.

But instead he hears,
H
OLD
.

And he does.

He stares across the sloping floor of the cave
, to a pool of glassy blackness. The sweep of his light bathes across the surface, igniting it to a clear azure blue.

Water.

“Eureka,” Christopher murmured.

Tucker turned to the others and passed Anya his phone. “I'm going down there. When I reach Kane, I'll check in, using his camera.”

He turned, fished through his pack, and pulled out his handheld GPS unit. He stuffed it into a cargo pocket of his pants.

“I don't understand,” Anya said. “Why do you have to go down there? It doesn't look safe for someone as big as you.”

Tucker scooted to the hole and swung his legs over the edge. “We need accurate coordinates.”

“But why?” Concern shone on her face. “We know the well is below this plateau. Isn't that close enough?”

“No. We need a compass bearing from that
exact
spot. Any miscalculation of the well's location will be compounded exponentially two hundred miles away.” He pointed toward the horizon. “Make a hundred-­yard mistake here, we could be off by a mile from De Klerk's coordinates. And out in the broken and inhospitable terrain of the Groot Karas Mountains, we could spend months up there and never find it.”

Anya looked stunned. “I didn't think about that.”

Tucker smiled. “All part of the ser­vice, ma'am.” He prepared to lower himself down, then stopped. “Wait, I just realized I can't get any GPS lock underground. I'm going to have to go old school. Christopher, lend me your walking stick.”

Their guide understood. “To act as a yardstick. Very clever.”

“Give me thirty minutes. Unless there's a cave-­in.”

“If that happens,” Christopher said, clapping him on the shoulder, “I'll alert the proper authorities to recover your body.”

“And Kane's, too. I want him buried with me.”

“Of course.”

Anya frowned at them. “That's not funny.”

They both turned to her. Neither of them was trying to be humorous.

That realization made her go pale.

Twisting around, Tucker lowered himself over the edge and dropped below. As his boots hit the ground, he crouched, turned on his flashlight, then ducked into the side tunnel. As he crawled on his hands and knees, he slid the walking stick end to end and counted as he went, mapping his route on a pocket notebook.

Occasionally, his back scraped the ceiling, causing miniavalanches of sand. In the confined quiet of the tunnel, the cascade echoed like hail peppering a sidewalk. He reached the intersection of tunnels and followed Kane's path to the left. Working diligently, it still took him an additional five minutes to map his way down to the cavern.

Kane heard him coming, trotted over, and licked his face.

“Good boy, good job!”

Tucker shined his flashlight around the room. Clearly the Boer troops must have spent a lot of time down here. The surrounding sandstone walls had been carved into benches and rudimentary tables, along with dozens of pigeonhole shelves. Ghosts of men materialized in his mind's eye: laughing, lounging, eating, all during one of the bloodiest and most obscure wars in history.

After jotting down the final measurements, Tucker lifted the page of his notebook toward Kane's camera and passed on a thumbs-­up to the others above. He wanted a visual record of his calculations, of the coordinates of Grietje's Well, in case anything happened to him.

Satisfied, with his knowledge secure, he knelt and dipped his fingers into the water. It was cold and smelled fresh.

How long had ­people been using this spring?

He pictured ancient tribesmen coming here, seeking a respite from heat and thirst.

He decided to do the same. It felt like an oasis—­not just from the blazing African sun, but from the pressures of his mission. The events of the past days came rushing back to him, a tumult of escapes, firefights, and death. At the moment, it all seemed surreal.

And now I am here, huddled in the bowels of a century-­old Boer fort?

All because of a plant species almost as old as the earth itself.

He looked at Kane. “Can't say our lives are boring, can we?”

Confirming this, a sharp
crack
exploded, echoing down to the cave.

Tucker's first thought was
rifle fire
.

Another lion attack.

Then a deeper grumble came, a complaint of rock and sand.

He knew the truth.

Not a gunshot.

A crack of breaking timber.

A cave-­in was starting.

30

March 19, 5:28
P.M
.

Outside of Springbok, South Africa

Tucker shoved Kane into the tunnel as the rumbling in the earth grew louder, sounding like the approach of a locomotive.

“E
SCAPE
! O
UTSIDE
!”

Kane obeyed the frantic, breathless command and dove out of the cave. The shepherd could move faster, so had a better chance of surviving.

No sense both of them dying.

Tucker did his best to follow. He abandoned his flashlight, freeing one hand. But he dared not discard Christopher's walking stick. He had failed to measure it before jumping down here. To do his final calculations of the spring's coordinates, he needed the stick's exact length.

Ahead, the LED lamp from Kane's camera bobbled deeper down the tunnel, outdistancing him as he scrambled on his hands and knees. Skin ripped from his knuckles as he clenched the walking stick. His knees pounded across rough rocks and hard stone.

He'd never make it.

He was right.

A grinding roar erupted ahead, accompanied a moment later by a thick rolling wash of dust and fine sand through the air.

The tunnel had collapsed.

Through the silt cloud, Kane's lamp continued to glow, jostling, but not seeming to move forward any longer. Coughing on the dust, Tucker hurried to his partner's side.

Past Kane, a wall of sand, rock, and pieces of broken timber blocked the tunnel. There was no way past. The shepherd clawed and dug at the obstruction.

Tucker pushed next to him. With his free hand against the wall, he felt the vibration of the earth. Like a chain of dominoes, more collapses were imminent. With his palm on the wall, his fingertips discovered a
corner
at the edge of the obstruction.

“H
OLD
,” he ordered Kane.

As the shepherd settled back, Tucker twisted the dog's vest camera to shine the light on his hand, still pressed against the wall. He glanced over his shoulder, then back to his fingers, regaining his bearings.

He realized they had reached the
intersection
of the two tunnels.

The collapse had occurred in the passageway to the right, the one leading from the entry shaft to here. What blocked them was the flood of sand and rock that had
washed
into this intersection by the cave-­in. That meant there was no way to get back out the way they'd come in. But with some luck, they might be able to dig through this loose debris to reach the tunnel on the far side. Of course, there was no guarantee that such a path would lead to freedom, but they had no other choice.

“D
IG
,” he ordered Kane.

Shoulder to shoulder, they set to work. Kane kicked rocks and paw-­fulls of sand between his hind legs. Tucker grabbed splintery shards of wood and tossed them back. They slowly but relentlessly burrowed and cleared out the debris.

With raw fingers, Tucker rolled away a large chunk of sandstone down the slope of debris. He reached into the new gap and found—­nothing. He whooped and scrambled faster. He soon had enough of a path for the two of them to belly-­crawl through the wash of debris and into the far tunnel.

Kane shook sand from his coat.

Crouched on his hands and knees, Tucker did the same—­though his shaking was a combination of relief and residual terror.

“S
COUT AHEAD
,” he whispered.

Together, they set out into the unknown maze of subterranean tunnels of the old Boer fort—­and it was a labyrinth. Passageways and blind chambers met them at every turn. Tucker paused frequently to run his fingertips along the roofs or to shine Kane's lamp up.

Distant booms and rumbles marked additional cave-­ins.

At last, he found himself standing in a square space about the size of a one-­car garage. From the carved shelves and the decayed remains of smashed wooden crates, it appeared to be an old cellar. More tunnels led out from this central larder.

He bent down and turned Kane's lamp up.

He sighed in relief.

The low ceiling was held up with wooden planks.

As he straightened, Kane growled, a sharp note of fury—­then bolted for the nest of crates. He shoved his nose there, then came backpedaling, shaking his head violently. After a few seconds, he trotted back to Tucker's side, something draped from his jaws.

Kane dropped it at his feet.

It was a three-­foot black snake with a triangular head that hinted at its venomous nature.

Only now, past the hammering of his heart, did he hear a low and continuous hissing. As his eyes adjusted, he saw shreds of shadow slithering over the floor, wary of the light. From the other tunnels, more snakes spilled into the chamber. The trembling of the earth was stirring them out of their nests, pushing them upward.

Tucker used the butt of the walking stick to push one away from his toes, earning a savage hiss and the baring of long fangs.

Time to get out of here.

“P
ROTECT
,” he ordered Kane.

He gripped the pole two-­handed and slammed the stick upward, striking into the planks with a jangle of the rod's bells. Wood pieces showered down. He kept at it, pounding again and again through the decay and rot above his head, while Kane kept watch on the snakes.

He continued to work on the ceiling, trying to force his own cave-­in, knowing he had to be near the surface. He pictured Kane's earlier cautious search of the plateau and Christopher tapping the ground as they crossed, watching for pitfalls underfoot. By now, debris had begun to fall faster: wood, sand, rock. The rain of rubble only served to further piss off the roiling snakes.

With his shoulders aching, he smashed the stick into the ceiling again, cracking a thick plank, splitting it in two.

That was the straw that broke the camel's back.

A good chunk of the roof collapsed, crashing down around Tucker's ears. A piece of wood caught him in the face, ripping a gash. Sand and dirt followed. He did his best to shelter Kane with his body.

Then a blinding brilliance.

He risked a look up to see blue sky and sunlight, as the dome of his dark world broke open. He heard surprised shouts rise outside, from Anya and Christopher.

“I'm okay!” he hollered back.

Blowing out his relief, he sank to a knee next to Kane.

“We're okay,” he whispered.

Kane wagged his tail, peacocking a bit, plainly proud of the scatter of dead snakes around him. The sudden sunlight had driven the rest into hiding.

“You're enjoying all this a little too much,” Tucker scolded with a smile.

6:13
P.M.

In short order, using the nylon ropes in Christopher's pack, Tucker helped evacuate Kane by hooking the rope through the dog's vest, then he followed, climbing out, hand over hand.

Once topside, Anya cleaned the gash on his cheek, slathered it with antibacterial ointment, and pasted a bandage over it.

Any further ministrations could wait until they reached the hotel.

With the sun close to setting, they hurried out of the hills. As the way was mostly downhill, they made quick progress, goaded on by the distant huffing of lions.

“Did you get what you needed?” Anya asked, marching beside him.

“Down to the inch.”

This time, he had measured Christopher's walking stick.

“Good,” she replied. “I'm starving, and I've had enough of a nature walk for one day.”

He couldn't agree more.

Once they reached the SUV parked at Helman's Garage, Christopher headed back toward Springbok. It was a quiet, exhausted ride. Christopher called his brother Paul, confirmed all was calm at the guesthouse. Or at least mostly calm. Bukolov had rested enough to become his normal irascible self, demanding to know everything about the day's discoveries, irritated at being left out.

Tucker did not look forward to that. He wanted nothing more than a long, hot soak, followed by a dip in the guesthouse pool.

As they pulled into the parking lot, Christopher's phone rang. He balanced it to his ear as he rolled up to the hotel's steps.

Once stopped, he turned to Tucker. “It's Manfred. He asked if he could speak to you at the church. Tonight. Says he has some news that might interest you.” He covered the mouthpiece. “I could put him off until tomorrow.”

“I should go,” Tucker said, postponing his bath and dip.

Anya rebuckled her seat belt, determined to come, too, but he leaned forward and touched her shoulder.

“I can handle this,” he said. “If you handle Bukolov. Someone needs to bring him up to speed, or he'll be on the warpath.”

A look of uncertainty crossed Anya's face.

Tucker said, “He'll behave. Just keep it short.”

Anya nodded. “After your day, I'll take the bullet with Bukolov.”

“Thanks.”

As Anya disappeared through the French doors, Tucker drove back with Christopher to the church. They found the good reverend lounging where they'd last left him: at the picnic table in the yard. Only now, he was fully clothed, all in colonial white, except he remained barefoot. He smoked a pipe, waving it at them as they joined him.

“How went the expedition?” Manfred asked.

“Very well,” Tucker responded.

“I believe that bandage on your face says otherwise.”

“Knowledge always comes with a price.”

“And apparently this one was blood.”

You have no idea.

Tucker shifted forward. “Reverend, Christopher mentioned you had news.”

“Ah, yes. Quite mysterious. It seems Springbok has suddenly become very popular.”

“What do you mean?”

“About an hour ago, I received a call from a genealogist. She was asking about your ancestor, Paulos de Klerk.”

“She?” Tucker replied, warning bells jangling inside him. “A woman?”

“Yes. With an accent . . . Scandinavian, it sounded like.”

Felice.

Manfred narrowed his eyes. “Tucker, I can see from your expression, this is not welcome news. At first, I assumed the woman was part of your research team.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Competition then? Someone trying to steal your thunder?”

“Something like that,” he said, hating to lie to a man of the cloth. “But can you tell me if this was a local call?”

He shook his head. “The connection was made through an international operator.”

So likely not local.

A small blessing there.

“What did you tell her about De Klerk?” Tucker asked.

“I told her I knew very little. He was a doctor, a botanist, and likely was stationed at Klipkoppie.”

He bit back a groan, sharing a glance with Christopher.

“What about me?” Tucker asked. “Did she inquire about us?”

“Not a word. And I wouldn't have told her anything anyway. By midway into the conversation, I sensed something awry. I wanted to speak to you before I offered her any further cooperation. That's why I called you.”

“Did she ask about Grietje's Well?”

“Yes, and I did mention Klipkoppie fort.”

This was disastrous.

Sensing his distress, Manfred patted his hand. “But I didn't tell her
where
Klipkoppie fort was.”

“Surely she'll learn—­”

“She'll learn what
you
learned. That Klipkoppie fort is located in the center of Springbok. It's in all the tour books.”

Tucker remembered Manfred's earlier disdain for the tourist trap. He felt a surge of satisfaction. Such a false trail could buy them even more time.

He calmed down. Mostly. Knowing Felice was on her way, he wanted to immediately return to the hotel, haul out his maps, and calculate De Klerk's coordinates to his cave based on the location of the spring.

But he also had a font of local knowledge sitting across from him, and he did not want to waste it.

“Reverend, you mentioned De Klerk was under the command of General Roosa. In your research did you encounter any mention of a siege in the Groot Karas Mountains. It was where, I believe, my ancestor died.”

“No, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen. It wasn't like today's wars, with embedded journalists and cameras and such. But I can look into it.”

“I'd appreciate it.”

Manfred stared hard, releasing a long puff of pipe smoke. “From that hunger in your voice, I worry that you're thinking of going up into the Groot mountains.”

“And if we are?”

“Well, if you discount the guerrillas, the Namibian military, the poachers, and the highway bandits, there's always the terrain, the heat, and the scarcity of water. Not to mention the indigenous wildlife that would like to eat you.”

Tucker grinned. “You need to be hired by the Namibian tourist board.”

“If you go,” Manfred warned, eyeing him seriously, “don't look like a poacher. The Namibian military will shoot first and ask questions later. If rebels or bandits ambush you, fight for your life because if they get their hands on you, you're done. Finally, take a reliable vehicle. If you break down, you'll never reach civilization on foot.”

He nodded, respecting the man's wisdom. “Thanks.”

Tucker stood up and shook Manfred's hand.

As he and Christopher headed across the yard, Manfred called after them, “If your
competition
comes calling, what should I do?”

“Smile and point her to that tourist trap in the center of town.”

It wasn't exactly the
trap
he wished for Felice.

That was more of a razor-­sharp bear trap.

But it would do for now.