In the end, he simply chose to ignore it.
Hand over hand, Tucker walked himself down into the pit. His headlamp danced off the rock. After ten feet he stopped, steadied himself, and looked below. The bottom of the pit was still beyond the reach of his headlamp’s beam. He kept going. He stopped again at the twenty-foot mark and spotted the end of his rope coiled on a bottom of sorts, a rock ramp that tilted at a sharp angle.
Tucker lowered himself until his boots came to rest atop that ramp. He noted most of the shaft around him was scorched with an oily black soot. He kept one hand on the line—not trusting the rock’s slippery surface or its steep grade. Crouching carefully, he peered over the lip of the ramp and discovered another drop-off.
Don’t think, he commanded himself.
Swallowing hard, he leaned over the drop-off and shone his light down.
His beam revealed an outstretched arm, reaching up toward him, blackened to bone, fingers curled by old flames.
He shuddered, his heart pounding in his throat.
He panned the light down the forearm and biceps, where it disappeared into—
It took Tucker a few seconds for his mind to accept what he was seeing: a morass of skeletal remains and charred flesh. At the edges, he picked out scorched clothing and blankets, chunks of half-charred wood, and blackened tins of kerosene. Despite trying to avoid it, he discerned bits of individual remains.
—a torso jutting from the mire as though the man had been trying to claw his way out of quicksand.
—the disembodied hoof of a horse, its steel shoe glinting dully.
—a pair of gentleman’s spectacles caught on a higher spur of rock, looking unscathed by the conflagration below, reflecting back his lamp’s light.
“Good God,” he murmured.
Sick to his stomach, his head full of the acrid stench of immolated flesh, he tore his eyes away and pulled himself back until he stood on trembling legs on the scorched ramp. Questions swirled.
What had happened here?
How deep was the pit?
How many were down there?
Tucker stared up, ready to escape this choked gateway to hell.
Two feet above his head, he found himself staring at the haft of a dagger. It was jutting from the rock face, so soot covered he hadn’t noticed it when he first came down. He reached up, grabbed the haft, and gave it a wiggle. Dried soot flaked off and swirled in the beam of his headlamp. There was something beneath the soot, pinned by the blade into the rock.
Using his fingertips, he brushed away the soot to reveal a thick square of oilcloth. Carefully, he pried the packet off the wall and slipped it into his thigh pocket.
“Tucker!” Christopher’s shout startled him. “What did you find?”
He glared up toward his friend’s headlamp. “I’m coming up! Get that damned light out of my eyes.”
“Oh, sorry.”
He quickly and gladly hauled himself up the rock face and out of the shaft. Without saying a word, he strode several yards away from the charnel pit and finally sat down. Christopher joined him and offered a canteen.
He took a long gulp of water.
Kane slinked over, his tail low, the very tip wagging questioningly.
“I’m okay . . . I’m okay . . .”
The reassurance was as much for him as Kane.
“What was down there?” Christopher asked.
Tucker explained—though words failed to convey the true horror.
Christopher murmured, “Good Lord, why would they do that?”
“I don’t know.” Tucker withdrew the wrapped packet of oilcloth. “But this may hold some clue.”
He turned the prize over in his hands. He found a seam in the cloth. Using the tip of his knife, he slit along it and unfolded the cloth. It was several layers thick. At the heart of the package rested a thick sheaf of papers, folded in half and perfectly preserved, showing no signs of soot or decay.
Written on the outside in what he immediately recognized as De Klerk’s handwriting were two lines: one Afrikaans, the other in English, likely the same message.
He shared a glance with Christopher and unfolded the papers. What he found there was written in both languages. Tucker read aloud from the English section.
“ ‘However unlikely this eventuality, if this message is ever found, I feel compelled by my conscience to recount what has led to the awful events that took place here. Whether our actions will ever be recognized or understood by our loved ones is for God to decide, but I leave this life confident that He, in His infinite wisdom, will forgive us . . .’ ”
The remainder of De Klerk’s testament went on for several more pages. Tucker read through it all, then folded the paper and put it back in his pocket.
“So?” Christopher asked.
He stood up. “Bukolov must hear this.”
38
March 21, 10:10 P.M.
Groot Karas Mountains, Namibia
With Kane leading the way, Tucker and Christopher made it back to the Cathedral. They had barely spoken after reading De Klerk’s letter. As they turned toward the double-barrel tunnels leading out from the cavern, Kane stopped ahead of them and turned. He gazed down the length of the Cathedral, toward the distant walls of sandbags. His ears were up, his posture rigid.
What had he picked out?
“QUIET SCOUT,” Tucker ordered.
Hunched low and padding softly, Kane took off across the former killing floor of the Cathedral. Tucker and Christopher followed, dodging through the forest of stalagmites. Near the end of the cavern, Kane leaped the sandbag barriers and stopped at the shaft leading out to the crooked corridor.
“HOLD,” Tucker ordered softly.
Kane stopped and waited for him.
Tucker took the lead, crawling through the twisting shaft of the corridor. He reached the end, where it straightened out. The slivers of pale moonlight blazed much brighter ahead. Then he heard it—what had likely caught Kane’s attention.
The faint rumble of a diesel engine.
Tucker picked his way along the last of the corridor. He dropped to his belly at the tumble of rocks. He peeked out one of the shining slivers and saw the canyon outside was lit up brightly from the headlamps of a truck parked in the canyon.
From that direction, a voice shouted in Russian.
Then a bark of laughter closer at hand.
A pair of boots stomped up to his hiding spot. A man, dressed in fatigues, dropped to a knee. Tucker froze, waiting for a shout of alarm, for gunfire.
But the soldier only tied up a loose bootlace, then regained his feet.
Tucker heard other men out there, too, moving about or talking quietly.
How many?
Then a deep baritone shouted harshly, gathering everyone back to the truck. A moment later, the timbre of the engine rose, rocks ground under turning tires, and darkness fell back over the canyon.