It was no wonder rebels and bandits had marked off this harsh terrain as their base of operations. Hidden here, they would be difficult to find, and harder still to root out and destroy. It seemed in both real estate and guerrilla warfare, one maxim ruled them all: location, location, location.
Tucker continued picking his way eastward, studying the detailed topographical map, judging the best course to keep parallel to the dirt road without being seen, searching for any evidence of a trap set by bandits or a bivouac of guerrilla forces. He wanted no surprises when he brought the others through here in the Range Rover.
He also relied heavily on Kane, outfitted with his tactical Storm vest.
The shepherd became an extension of his eyes and ears.
ROAM. SCOUT. RETURN.
Those were Kane’s standing orders as they moved through the maze of cliffs, scrub brush, and sand. Padding silently, the shepherd explored every nook and cranny. He scaled slopes, peeked over crests, ducked into blind canyons, and sniffed at cave entrances, returning every now and again to pass on an all clear.
After three miles, the first glimmer of the new day appeared. He pictured the sun rising above the distant Kalahari Desert, firing the sands and stretching its light into the mountains. Tucker paused for a water break, sharing his canteen with Kane. He performed another compass check and updated his map.
Kane suddenly jerked his head up from the collapsible water bowl. Tucker froze, his eyes on the shepherd. Kane tilted his head left, then right, then took a few paces forward.
Though Tucker heard nothing, he implicitly trusted Kane’s ears. Quietly, he tucked away their items and donned his pack.
“CLOSE LEAD. QUIET SCOUT.”
While the shepherd’s gait was naturally quiet, this order put Kane into a covert stalk mode. The shepherd took off at a fast walk, with Tucker following five paces behind. Kane slowly worked his way up a sandy ridge, moving from stone to stone so as not to trigger an avalanche of sand that could give away their position.
Tucker followed his example.
At the crest of the ridge, Kane lowered flat and stopped moving. From the intensity of the dog’s gaze and the angle of his ears, Tucker knew his partner had homed in on the source of the noise.
Tucker joined him, dropping to his belly and crawling the last few feet. He peeked over the ridgeline.
Before them spread a fan-shaped valley a quarter mile long. The far side vanished into a scatter of ravines that broke through a tall, flat-topped plateau. The site had great potential to serve as a guerrilla base or a bandit hideout. It was hidden and defensible, with several escape routes nearby.
As if on cue, a pair of dark compact pickup trucks rolled into the valley from the neighboring dirt road. The two picked their way overland across the floor below. Jutting from the bed of each truck was a tripod-mounted machine gun. The hair on Tucker’s neck tingled. Whether these were bandits or guerrillas, he didn’t know, not that it really mattered. They were a force of armed men.
That was enough.
That, and they’re right where I don’t want them.
He watched the trucks continue past his position, then vanish down one of the ravines. Tucker waited a few more minutes to ensure they weren’t turning back. Once satisfied, he and Kane scaled down into the valley and made their way to where the trucks had first appeared. Down a short slope, he found the remains of a still-warm campfire not far from the dirt road. Refuse littered the area, including what looked like fly-encrusted entrails, the discards of a field-dressed deer or antelope.
Tucker approached the campfire. It was small and the coals only a few inches deep. That told him the site had not been used many times. It wasn’t a regular base.
Just passing through then. Maybe hunting food before returning to their main base deeper in the badlands.
“Hopefully,” he muttered.
He checked his watch, recognizing it was time to head back to the others.
At his side, Kane growled, hackles rising.
Tucker dropped low next to him.
Then he heard another growl—but not from Kane.
From across the neighboring road, a fleet of dappled shadows sped over the dirt tract, a pack of dogs—from their rounded ears and spotted flanks, they were African wild dogs, Lycaon pictus, the second-largest canid predators in the world, topping off at eighty pounds each. As a necessity, Tucker had read up on the natural threats he might face out here. These beasts had the highest bite strength relative to body size of any carnivore. Their most common means of attack: disembowelment.
He stared at the pile of entrails, at the trickle of smoke still rising from the embers. The scent had clearly drawn them. Until now, intimidated by the larger group of men from the trucks, the pack had kept hidden, biding their time. But now, with the larger force gone, the pack was not going to tolerate a single man and a shepherd stealing from their larder.
As the pack reached the far side of the road, Tucker quickly retreated, drawing Kane with him. He shouldered the AR-15, sweeping the rifle’s barrel across the pack as they burst through the scrub and into the clearing.
He didn’t want to shoot—not because they were dogs, but because the gunfire would surely be heard by the departing guerrillas, likely drawing them back to the road.
He continued to retreat, hoping such a nonthreatening act would appease the dogs. Most of the pack went straight for the food, scattering a cloud of heavy flies to reach the entrails. Growls and yips rose from the feasting, amid much shouldering and complaints.
Two dogs ignored the easy pickings, clearly wanting fresh meat. They sped at Tucker and Kane. The first reached Tucker and lunged, leaping toward his groin. Expecting such an attack, he reversed his rifle and slammed the stock into the skull, catching the beast a glancing blow. The dog fell, tried to get up, stumbling and dazed. It was a male.
The female hesitated, shying from the sudden attack, juking to the side, watching them, stalking back and forth. Her lips rippled into a snarl, her hackles high. Kane paced her move for move, growling from deep inside.
Tucker knew that packs of African wild dogs were different from many other canids. An alpha female always led the pack, not a male.
Here was that leader.
Confirming this, she let out a short chirping burst from her throat, calling for support. Several of the pack lifted bloody muzzles from the feast.
Tucker knew running wasn’t an option. The pack would be on them in seconds. They had to make a stand here—and make it before she got her pack fully rallied, which meant taking her out.
Still, he dared not shoot her, knowing the blast would echo far, likely to the wrong ears.