Deathrace by Keith Douglass

Author:Keith Douglass [Douglass, Keith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781101560105
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 1999-02-01T05:00:00+00:00

18

Sunday, October 30

1523 hours

Hill country north of

Chah Bahar, Iran

Franklin gunned the engine as soon as everything was loaded in the Citroen, but Douglas waved him off.

“We need a drag, something to pull behind the rig to brush out our tire tracks so they can’t follow us. A bunch of brush usually works, but there ain’t none here.”

“Tie one blanket on the bumper behind each rear tire,” Franklin said. “Should do in a pinch.”

They tried it.

Douglas walked behind the car for a hundred yards, and couldn’t make out the tire tracks. Nobody could see them from the air.

They drove.

Franklin rattled the old car along as fast as he dared in the rock-strewn dirt track. Sometimes he hit fifteen miles an hour. It should be enough.

Twice Nard had them stop and back up to take a different branch of the dirt trails. They climbed a slope that Douglas was sure would tip over the rig, but it was built heavy, and low to the ground, and made it up and over, then down the far side. They came to a spring that had spawned a palm tree and fifty square feet of green grass. They paused only a moment. The choppers would search this area carefully.

Douglas checked the drags again. Yes, they blotted out the tire tracks well. Now if they could just get enough miles between them and the dead bodies, all would be well. Maybe.

“Getting low on gas.” Franklin said.

“Those two 10-gallon tanks. Were they piped into the fuel line?” Douglas asked.

Franklin pulled into the shade of a towering peak and took a look. He crawled into the backseat, moved a ton of stuff, and come out smiling. “Both have valves on them. I switched on one, which should take us for another day at this pace. Which way there, our dependable scout and guide?” He had asked the question in Farsi.

Nard was catching on to some of Franklin’s jokes. He pointed to the left again, and they rolled.

Every ten minutes they stopped to listen. They could hear no aircraft, fixed-wing or rotary.

“So far we is staying alive,” Franklin said. He repeated it in Farsi and Nard grinned.

“Twelve miles,” Douglas said. “We’ve come twelve fucking miles today. Are we getting too far to the east?”

Franklin repeated the question to Nard in his language. He looked out the window, then, when they came to a break in the hills to the north, asked Franklin to stop the car. He got out and stared at the hills for some time, then nodded and went to Franklin.

“See that second mountain up there, the one with the twin peaks and saddle in the middle. Saddle Mountain, we call it. The place you look for is just beyond that mountain two, three kilometers.”

“You’re sure?”

“Oh, yes. Almost got killed near Saddle Mountain.

Soldiers came, searched all day. I lay in a small canyon with sand and gravel covering me except for a breathing straw made from a desert plant with a hollow stem. One soldier stepped on my leg, but he didn’t notice.

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