Pirate - Duncan Falconer [62]
Stratton examined the way ahead. ‘How you doing?’ he whispered.
She nodded. Her face was freshly cut in places and she looked exhausted. But the fight was still in her eyes.
‘We can survive this,’ he said. ‘Come nightfall, we’ll get back to the coast.’
She took encouragement from his words. ‘I’ll be OK.’
‘Let’s take it nice and easy and head for the river.’ If the water’s not far out in the open, he added to himself.
He looked for the sun through the branches to get his bearings. If they kept in an easterly direction they should cut across the river, which ran north–south.
Staying on their bellies, they manoeuvred around the obstacles. They could hear movement around them and occasional shouts like the warriors had found their trail. But as time went on the voices and movement came from further away. Stratton’s confidence increased, for the time being at least. The enemy obviously knew they were in the immediate area because there was nowhere else for them to go without becoming exposed. But the densely covered plain was large and as the jihadists broadened their search area, the chances of finding the pair would be reduced.
Stratton and the girl pressed on ahead at an easy pace, pausing every now and then to take a breather and listen. The sound of enemy searchers grew less. The air was warm and felt much more humid than in the town. Both were feeling desperate for a drink. Stratton crawled around the base of a tree and as he carefully parted a clump of bushes, it looked clearer up ahead. He hoped the riverbed was close, but more importantly, that it wasn’t dry at that point. If so they were going to spend a very uncomfortable day waiting for the sun to go down.
As he crawled closer to the edge of the scrub, to his immense relief he could see water ahead, shimmering under the cloudless sky. He crawled to the edge of the line of bushes. The riverbank was within a few metres, the water’s edge a few paces further beyond. The opposite bank looked a good hundred metres or so away. He got up on to his knees and looked as far up and down the river as he could, expecting to see evidence of the jihadists. There was none. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there. He would have placed observation posts at various locations to watch for anyone emerging from the scrub. The same dense bushes covered the ground beyond the other side of the river.
Stratton contemplated the risk of getting a drink there and then or waiting until darkness. The latter would be the wisest choice. But they would be in a weakened state by then. He did not think the Somalis were particularly diligent. But the risk was still too great.
He eased himself up on to his feet to get a better look around. The river, or lake as it was then, stretched out of view in both directions. It was indeed a large body of water. He wasn’t encouraged by the smell of the air and hoped it wasn’t the water.
Stratton gauged the position of the sun. It had to be close to midday. He looked at the girl to see her staring at the water. ‘We can’t risk it,’ he said.
She didn’t argue, knowing he was right. She would happily suffer the pain and mental anguish of thirst in place of the consequences of being caught.
‘Another six hours and the sun will begin to set,’ he said. ‘We’ll head back into the bush in case they patrol the bank. As soon as the sun drops, we’ll get a drink and head for the coast.’
‘Your back,’ she said, her voice raspy.
Stratton had forgotten about his wounds. Both had stopped hurting. He went to check his leg and for a second had to think which one it was. He found the wound on the back of his right calf, an ugly cut but a large scab had already formed. As he examined it, the calf began to throb once again.
‘Let me look at your back,’ she said, noticing the bloodstain that ran down on to his trousers.
Stratton started to remove his shirt but it was stuck to his back.