the question was difficult for Sergeant First Jette.
“Would you agree if I said we have come perhaps fifteen kilometers? ”
“Yes, Major, sir.”
Shit, he’d agree if I said we’d come two klicks, or two hundred.
“Why do you think the Simba base is so close to Route Five?”
“Far enough in the bush to make finding it hard, close enough to cross Route Five to steal cattle and easily drive them to the base.”
That makes sense. I should have figured that out myself.
“I don’t think this will work, but what the hell, I may get lucky,” Thomas said, thinking out loud.
“Major, sir?”
Thomas went to his backpack radio, let the flexible antennae loose so that it popped erect, then turned the radio on and selected a frequency.
“George, George, Hunter One,” he said to the microphone.
There was no answer, even after several tries.
He turned the radio off.
“Which means, Sergeant First Jette, that George’s radios are not working; or that this radio is not working; or that this radio is working, but these fucking trees are in the way.”
“Yes, Major, sir.”
“And I really hate to climb trees,” Thomas said, looked around the clearing, selected a large tall tree with sturdy limbs near one side of it, and, motioning Jette to follow him, walked to it, carrying the radio with him.
Jette boosted him onto a lower limb and Thomas climbed the tree. When he thought he was high enough, he dropped a nylon cord weighted with his pistol to the ground. Jette tied the cord to the backpack radio, the pistol to the radio, and Thomas hauled both into the tree.
“George, George, Hunter One,” he called into the microphone.
There was no reply.
“George, George, Hunter One.”
Shit.
“George, George, Hunter One.”
This time there was a reply, an unexpected one.
“Hunter One, this is Birddog Three.”
“Birddog Three, Hunter One, how do you read?”
“Five by five, Hunter.”
“Can you raise George?”
“Negative. I am over George. No radios. The reaction force is there. Who is this?”
“Doubting Thomas.”
“Geoff Craig. Where the hell are you?”
“About fifteen klicks, I think, in the Bush east of George.”
“You think?”
“How are you fixed for fuel?”
“A little more than an hour. I’m about to sit down at George— they have fuel. I can see a truck loaded with jerry cans. What do you need?”
“What I’d like to do is pop a smoke grenade and see if you can find me.”
“You need help?”
“What I’d like is for you to mark my location on a map, and send the reaction force here.”
“You found the Simbas?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, aren’t you clever?”
“You going to try to find me or not?”
“I’m headed that way right now.”
“It would be better if you didn’t overshoot this location.”
“Understood. Pop smoke in five minutes. You got any yellow?”
“Popping yellow in five minutes,” Thomas said, turned the radio off, and started down the tree.
He took two yellow smoke grenades—all he had—and half a dozen others from his rucksack and gave them to Sergeant First Jette.
“You stand in the middle of the clearing, and when I yell down, pull this thing, and then toss it on the ground,” he said. “It won’t blow up.”
“Yes, Major, sir,” Sergeant First Jette said, dubiously.
“If I yell again, pull the pin on another yellow. Then any of the others.”
“They will not blow up, Major, sir?”
“I give you my word of honor as a former Boy Scout,” Thomas said, and motioned for Jette to give him another boost into the tree.
“Birddog, Hunter.”
“Read you loud and clear, but I don’t see no smoke.”
“Popping smoke,” Thomas replied. He looked down. “Pull the pin, Sergeant First Jette!” he called.
Sergeant First Jette pulled the pin, tossed the grenade onto the ground, and then ran as fast as he could to the shelter of a tree. After a moment, he cautiously peered around the tree as yellow smoke billowed from the grenade.
“I don’t see no smoke,” Birddog Three announced.
“Keep looking,” Thomas said.
“Ah, there you are, you elusive clever devil!”
For the first time, Thomas could now hear the sound of the L-19’s engine. But he couldn’t see it, even when the sound told him Geoff Craig had flown directly over him.
“There’s a trail about one hundred meters due south of the smoke. Can you see it?”
There was a pause before Birddog replied.
“You said a hundred meters south?”
“Affirmative.”
“All I can see is treetops.”
“Can you see the ground where I pulled the yellow?”
“I saw a little clearing when I flew over. I didn’t see you.”
“I’m in a tree. You got enough to mark your map?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, maybe they can find the track we followed. The Simbas are herding a