Treasure Of Khan Part 38

Pitt and Giordino had pushed the motorcycle and sidecar down the gully as far as they could, then set about burying it. Giordino had found a small tool kit beneath the seat of the sidecar. Working under the light of the headlamp, they disa.s.sembled the sidecar from the motorcycle. Laying it flat in a nearby hollow, they were able to bury the motorcycle under a few inches of sand. The task was made easier once Pitt fashioned a shovel blade from the seat back. The lightly blowing sand, cursed till now, aided their cause by covering their interment project in a light layer of dust.

The sidecar proved more troublesome to hide once they discovered a hard layer of bedrock lying six inches beneath the surface. Realizing they would never get the sidecar buried without a shovel and pickax, they dragged it to a cl.u.s.ter of tamarisk bushes and buried what they could in the center of the thicket. Giordino stacked rocks around the perimeter while Pitt dug up a thick shrub and planted it on the seat, its droopy branches covering the sides. Though far from invisible, the ad hoc camouflage had done the trick, as evidenced by a set of hoofprints that scratched the sand just a few feet away.

As the midday sun beat down on them, sending a battery of heat waves shimmering off the desert floor, the two men looked nostalgically at the half-buried sidecar.

"Didn't think I'd miss riding in that contraption," Giordino said.

"Not so bad, given the alternative," Pitt replied, scanning the horizon for signs of life. A barren emptiness stretched in all directions, punctuated by an eerie silence.

Pitt brought his left arm up in front of his face, positioning his wrist so that his Doxa watch was flat at eye level. Then he pivoted his body around toward the sun, turning his body until the bright yellow orb was aligned with the hour hand on his watch, which read two o'clock. An old survival trick, he knew that south must be halfway between the hour hand and twelve o'clock if he was standing in the Northern Hemisphere. Peering over his watch at the terrain, he visually lined up one as south, seven as north, and west was between the two at four o'clock.

"We go west," Pitt said, pointing toward some red-hued hills that ambled across the horizon. "Somewhere in that direction is the Trans-Mongolian railway, which runs from Beijing to Ulaanbaatar. If we head west, we'll have to run into it eventually."

"Eventually," Giordino repeated slowly. "Why does that sound like we don't have a clue how far that could be?"

"Because we don't." Pitt shrugged, then turned toward the hills and started walking.

-27-

THE GOBI DESERT HOSTS some of the most hostile temperature extremes in the world. Blistering summertime temperatures of over 110 degrees plummet to minus 40 degrees in the winter months. Even in a single day, temperature swings of 60 degrees are not uncommon. Taken from the Mongolian word meaning "waterless place," the Gobi rates as the world's fifth-largest desert. The arid lands were once an inland sea, and, in later eons, a swampy stomping ground for dinosaurs. The Southwest Gobi still rates as a favorite destination for globe-trotting paleontologists in search of pristine fossils.

To Pitt and Giordino, the vacant undulating plains resembled an ocean, though one made of sand, gravel, and stone. Pink sandstone bluffs and craggy red-rock outcroppings bounded a gravel plain blanketed with brown, gray, and ebony pebbles. Framed against a crisp blue sky, the barren land teemed with its own brand of wasteland beauty. For the two men trekking across the desolate mantle, the scenic environs were a calming diversion to the fact they were in a potential death zone.

The afternoon temperature bounded over the 100-degree mark as the sun seared the rocky ground. The winds had dwindled to a slight breeze, offering all the cooling power of a blowtorch. The two men didn't dare shorten their sleeves or long pants, knowing the ultraviolet ray protection was more important than a slight improvement in comfort. They reluctantly kept their coats as well, tying them around their waists for the chilly night ahead. Tearing a section of the jacket lining out, they fashioned silk bandannas on their heads, which made them look like a pair of wayward pirates.

But there was nothing humorous about the task at hand. On their second day without food or water, crossing a baking desert by day while facing near-freezing temperatures at night, they faced the double dangers of dehydration and hypothermia. Strangely, their hunger pangs had gone away, replaced by an unrelenting and unquenchable thirst. The pounds of dust swallowed during the motorcycle ride had hardly improved matters, adding to their dry, constricting throats.

To survive the desert heat, Pitt knew that conserving their strength was critical. They could survive three days without water, but over-expending themselves in the heat of the day could cut that time in half. Since they were well rested from their morning concealment, they could push their pace for a short while before stopping, Pitt decided. They still had to find civilization in order to survive.

Pitt picked out a physical landmark in the distance, then began walking at a measured pace. Every half hour or so, they would seek out a rock formation that offered shade and rest in the shadows, allowing their bodies to cool. The pattern was repeated until the sun finally dipped toward the horizon and the ovenlike temperatures fell from high to medium.

The Gobi is a large desert and spa.r.s.ely populated. But it isn't entirely a void. Tiny villages pepper the regions where shallow wells can be dug, while nomadic herders roam the fringes where scrub gra.s.s grows. If the men kept moving, they were bound to run into somebody. And Pitt was right. Somewhere to the west was the railroad line from Beijing to Ulaanbaatar and a dusty road that ran parallel to the tracks. But how far was it?

Pitt kept them trudging on a westerly tack, checking their heading with the sun and his watch. As they marched across the flats, they came to a set of ruts running perpendicular to their path.

"Hallelujah, a sign of life on this alien planet," Giordino said.

Pitt bent down and studied the tracks. They were clearly made by a jeep or truck, but the edges of the ruts were dull and caked with a light layer of sand.

"They didn't drive by yesterday," Pitt said.

"Not worth the detour?"

"These tracks could be five days old or five months old," Pitt said, shaking his head. Resisting the temptation to see where they led, the two men ignored the tracks and continued on their heading to the west. They would cross a few more tire tracks that trailed off in different directions to places unseen. Like most of Mongolia, there were few formal roads in the desert. Traveling to a destination was simply a matter of point and go. If a satellite in s.p.a.ce ever mapped the myriad of lone tracks and trails across Mongolia, it would resemble a plate of spaghetti dropped on the floor.

As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the desert air began to cool. Zapped by the heat and lack of fluids, the weakened men were invigorated by the cool air and they gradually picked up their pace across the gravel. Pitt had aimed them toward a rocky three-peaked spire he used as a compa.s.s landmark, which they reached shortly after midnight. A clear sky with a bright half-moon had helped illuminate the way under darkness.

They stopped and rested on a smooth slab of sandstone, laying down and studying the stars overhead.

"The Big Dipper is over there," Giordino said, pointing to the easily identifiable part of the constellation Ursa Major. "And the Little Dipper is visible just above it."

"Which gives us Polaris, or the North Star, at the end of its handle."

Pitt rose to his feet and faced toward the North Star, then raised his left arm out from his side.

"West," he said, his fingers pointing to a dark ridge a few miles away.

"Let's get there before it closes," Giordino replied, grunting slightly as he stood up. The horseshoe in his coat pocket jabbed his side as he rose and he subconsciously patted the pocket with a knowing smile.

With a new compa.s.s bearing on the horizon, they set off again. Pitt checked the sky every few minutes, making sure the North Star remained to the right of them. The lack of food and water began to show on the two men, as their pace slowed and casual conversation fell silent. The wound in Pitt's leg began to let itself be known, firing a sharp throb with every step of his left foot. The cool night air soon turned chilly, and the men slipped into the coats they had toted around their waists. Walking kept them warm but consumed crucial body energy that was not being replenished.

"You promised me no more deserts after Mali," Giordino said, harking back to the time they nearly perished in the Sahara Desert while tracing a discharge of radioactive pollutants.

"I believe I said no more sub-Saharan deserts," Pitt replied.

"A technicality. So at what point can we hope that Rudi calls in the Coast Guard?"

"I told him to a.s.semble our remaining equipment off the Vereshchagin and, if he could commandeer a truck, then meet us in Ulaanbaatar at the end of the week. I'm afraid our mother hen won't miss us for another three days."

"By which time we will have walked to Ulaanbaatar."

Pitt grinned at the notion. Given a supply of water, he had no doubt the tough little Italian could walk to Ulaanbaatar carrying Pitt on his back. But without a source of waterand soonall bets were off.

A cold breeze nipped at them from the north as the night temperature continued to plummet. Moving became an incentive to keep warm, though they took satisfaction in knowing the summer nights had a short duration. Pitt kept them heading toward the ridge to the west, though for a time it seemed as if they weren't moving any closer. After two hours of trudging through a valley of loose gravel, they began climbing a series of low rolling hills. The hills gradually grew in size and height until they crested a high bluff, which ab.u.t.ted the base of the target ridge. After a brief rest, they a.s.saulted the ridge, hiking most of the way up before they were forced to crawl on their hands and knees across a rugged section of boulders near the peak. The climb exhausted the men, and they both stopped and gasped for air when they finally reached the top.

A slow-moving cloud blotted the moonlight for several minutes, pitching the ridge top into an oily blackness. Pitt sat down on a mushroom-shaped rock to rest his legs, while Giordino hunched over to catch his breath. While still tough as nails, neither man was the spry stallion of a decade earlier. Each silently coped with a litany of aches and pains that wracked their legs and body.

"My kingdom for a satellite phone," Giordino rasped.

"I'd even consider the horse," Pitt replied.

As they rested, the silvery half-moon slid from behind the cloud, casting their surroundings in a misty blue glow. Pitt stood and stretched, then gazed down the other side of the ridge. A steep incline sloped into some craggy low bluffs that overlooked a bowl-shaped valley. Pitt studied the small basin, detecting what appeared to be several dark round shapes sprinkled across the central valley floor.

"Al. Check my mirage down the way," he said, pointing to the valley floor. "Tell me if it matches yours."

"If it includes a beer and a submarine sandwich, I can already tell you the answer is yes," Giordino replied, standing upright and walking over to Pitt. He took a long patient look down the slope, eventually confirming that he saw nearly two dozen black dots spread about the valley floor.

"It ain't Manhattan, but civilization it appears."

"The dark spots look to be shaped like gers. A small settlement, or a group of nomadic herders, perhaps," Pitt speculated.

"Big enough that somebody's got to have a coffeepot," Giordino replied, rubbing his hands together to keep warm.

"I'd bank on tea, if I were you."