Like the polar regions, the desert could be borrowed but not owned. Unlike the polar regions, where ice could be melted for water and there was relatively solid ground for construction, the desert had moods. Now broiling, now cool. Savagely windy one minute, utterly still the next. One had to bring not only water and shelter but commitment. Unlike the Arctic or Antarctic, a traveler didn’t get off a boat or a plane, move inland a mile or two, take pictures or readings, then depart. From ancient times, when camel caravans crossed these regions, if a person came to the desert it was with the intention of crossing it. And here in these high, dry lands where the earth was not just sandy but parched, where travel was measured in yards instead of in miles, crossing it required luck as well as stamina.
Thanks to radios and motorized travel, traversing the desert or Turkey’s dead meadows was not the purgatory it had been until the turn of the century. But they were still places of staggering desolation. After a half hour of riding on the back of Colonel Seden’s motorcycle, Rodgers had noticed that even the ranks of insects had thinned and then dwindled to nothing.
Rodgers leaned forward on the big Harley. The wind knifed through his short-cropped graying hair and pushed hard against his shoulders. He looked at the small compass that was bracketed to the top of the dashboard, just above the tachometer. They were still headed in the direction where the helicopter had last been seen, along the outer perimeter of the flood. He looked at his watch. They should be arriving in another twenty minutes or so.
The sun was low behind the hills, its ruddy light fast fading. Within minutes the sky was as star-filled as any Rodgers had ever seen.
Colonel Seden half turned. “We are nearing the plains,” he shouted back. “Above this region there are dirt roads. They are not well traveled, but at least the ride will not be so bumpy.”
Those were the first words Seden had spoken since they left. That was fine. Rodgers himself wasn’t a talker.
“A Navy fast-attack craft in rough seas is bumpy,” Rodgers yelled back. “This is fine.”
“If you can believe it,” Seden said, “the temperatures in this region drop to near freezing before dawn. From October to May the roads are often closed here because of snow!”
Rodgers knew that from his reading about the region. Only one thing in this part of the world was unchanging. It wasn’t the desert winds or sands or borders, or the local and international players who made the Middle East their battleground. It was religion and what people were willing to do for it. Since the days of the priest-dominated Sumerians who flourished in southern Mesopotamia in the fifth millennium BC, people here had been willing to fight for religion, to slaughter humans and beasts for it, and also to die for it.
Rodgers understood that. Roman Catholic by birth and by choice, he believed in the divinity of Jesus. And he would kill to defend his right to worship God and Christ in his own way. To Rodgers, that was no different from fighting and killing and bleeding to protect the flag and principles of his beloved country. To strike a blow for honor. But he wasn’t self-righteous about his faith. He would never raise anything but his voice to try to convert anyone.
The people here were different. For six thousand years they had sent millions of people to dozens of afterlifes populated by hundreds of gods. Nothing was going to change them. The best Rodgers hoped for by coming here was to fight a better holding action.
Seden shifted gears as they climbed a hill. Rodgers watched the bright headlight as it bobbed across the dirt road. Unlike the region they’d just crossed, there were rocks, low scrub, and contours in the terrain.
“This road,” said Seden, “will take us directly to—”
The colonel’s body jerked to the right an instant before Rodgers heard the gunshot. Seden fell back and knocked Rodgers from his seat just as the motorcycle tipped over. Rodgers hit the road hard and rolled back several feet. Seden managed to hold on as the bike struggled up the road on its side for a few yards. It pulled the colonel part of the way before he slipped off.
Rodgers’s right side burned, his arm and leg having been torn open by the pebbles in the road. The motorcycle headlight was pointed back toward them. Rodgers could see that Seden wasn’t moving.
“Colonel?” Rodgers said.
Seden didn’t answer. Fighting the pain, Rodgers got his elbow under him and crawled toward the colonel. He wanted to get the Turk off the road before a vehicle came over the top and ran them down. But before Rodgers could reach him he felt a gun pressed to the back of his neck. He froze as boots crunched on the road. Rodgers watched as two men went to examine Seden.
The Turk stirred. One man disarmed him and pulled him off the road while another went and moved the motorcycle, The man behind Rodgers grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to the side of the road as well. They were dragged behind a high, narrow hillock.
The man pressed the gun back against Rodgers’s neck and said something to him in Arabic. He was not a Turk.
“I don’t understand,” Rodgers said. He showed no fear in his voice. By their actions, these men appeared to be guerrilla terrorists. The breed did not respect cowardice and refused to negotiate with cowards.
“American?” asked the man behind him.
Rodgers turned to look at him. “Yes.”
The man called over someone named Hasan, who had been checking the motorcycle. Hasan had a narrow face, very high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and curly, shoulder-length black hair. Hasan was given a command in Arabic. Acknowleding it, Hasan pulled Rodgers to his feet. With the gun still at the general’s neck, he began patting him down. Hasan found the general’s wallet in his front pants pocket. He took Rodgers’s passport from one shirt pocket and his cellular phone from another.
Rodgers’s documents identified him as Carlton Knight, a member of the environmental resources department of the American Museum of Natural History in New York. It was a coin toss as to whether these men would buy that. Seden’s uniform clearly identified him as a colonel in the Turkish Security Forces. Rodgers was going to have to come up with a good reason why he was out here with a TSF officer.
Personal safety, Rodgers decided. After all, hadn’t these men just attacked him?
All other things being equal, Rodgers wasn’t sure whether it was good to be identified as an American. Some Middle Eastern groups wanted the sympathy of the American public, and murder didn’t get them that. Others wanted the support of Arab extremists, and murdering Americans won them that. If these were the same people who blew up the dam, there was no telling what they might do.
There was only one thing of which Rodgers was certain. The motorcycle was obviously the first vehicle these men had seen—and because of the flooding, it was probably the only one that would be along. They were going to have to make this situation work for them.
Hasan ignited a cigarette lighter and read the passport. “Kuh-ni-git,” he said phonetically. He regarded Rodgers. “Why are you out?”
“I came to Turkey to check on the status of the Euphrates,” Rodgers said. “When the dam came down, I was rushed to the area. They want my opinion on the short- and long-term ecological damage.”
“You came with him?” Hasan asked.
“Yes,” Rodgers said. “The Turks were worried about my safety.”
Hasan translated for the man behind him, an angry-eyed soul named Mahmoud. The other man was tending to Seden’s wound.
Mahmoud said something and Hasan nodded. He looked at Rodgers. “Where is camp for you?” Hasan asked.
“To the west,” Rodgers said. “At Gazi Antep.” The ROC was to the southeast, and the general did not want to lead them there.
Hasan snickered. “You have not enough gas in this motorcycle for that ride. Where is camp?”
“I told you, it’s at Gazi Antep,” Rodgers said. “We left our fuel can at a gas station on the way. We were supposed to pick it up on our return.” Since Hasan was not a Turk, Rodgers assumed that he wouldn’t know whether or not there was a gas station in that direction.
Hasan and Mahmoud spoke. Then Hasan said, “Give me the telephone number of your camp.” He snapped the phone open under the lighter. He looked at Rodgers and waited.
Though Rodgers remained outwardly calm, his heart and mind began to race. His main objective was to protect the ROC. If he refused to give them the number, they would surely suspect he wasn’t who he said he was. On the other hand, they knew who Colonel Seden was and hadn’t killed him. So they would probably hold him as well, at least until they got out of the country.