Chapter one
Jazz woke, heart pounding, eyes instantly wide open. She could see nothing in the half-light, could only feel the softness of something smothering her. She struggled for breath and clawed at the covering that clung to her face, cutting off the air. Her fingers caught in the protective netting strung over the bed and she ripped at the drapery, frantic to free her head and arms, sucking air into her starved lungs. Once free of the mosquito netting, she sat up on the camp cot while her heart beat slowed to normal. Maybe she'd had the dream again, maybe it had just been the drift of fabric over her face. Whatever, the sounds of activity outside the tent told her the day's activities had begun.
Rolling off the cot, she pushed her way out of the remaining netting, careful to check the floor as she picked up her boots. She shook each one out in turn before she thrust her feet inside. One of the crew had found a small scorpion in his film pack the day before. It was tiny, about the size of a fingernail, and it scurried away to disappear into the sand floor.
Leaving the boot laces loose, she stood up and pulled on a shirt. The sun was well up, beginning to send warm fingers of heat through the canvas. She heard a truck engine coughing somewhere, the gas evaporating as usual before the motor could catch. Vehicle maintenance wasn't a strong point in the crew of people they'd hired in this corner of Africa.
She pulled the hair back out of her eyes with hot, dry hands, tying it impatiently with an extra large elastic band that had been holding the pages of her noteBook together. Everything was covered by a thin layer of dirt that managed to work its way into every crack.
Yawning and stretching out her back, she shuffled over to the kerosene stove and groped for the matches.
As the water boiled, she put the beans in the hand grinder and turned the handle. The aroma of freshly ground coffee spread like a blessed perfume around her, masking the scents of dust and greasy clothing and overheated engines. If she packed nothing else, she always made sure she had a supply of good coffee. It went into her travel pack along with the other less glamorous essentials like maps and noteBooks, a Swiss Army knife and a Mag Lite.
A few minutes later, she stepped outside into the sandy compound with her first lovely cup, black and steaming in the morning air, and contemplated a scene of organized chaos. She took a sip and let the taste linger in her mouth. Under the palms that gave scant shade, a group of natives was busy loading the back of a flat bed truck, shouting, cursing and laughing in a cacophony of sound.
She watched Abdul step around a group of men across the clearing and move quickly to her side. She took the last swallow of coffee. "What's going on?"
He smiled briefly, a flash of white teeth against the dark skin. "We must move on. Wind storm coming."
She looked up into the cloudless sky. "When?"
He shrugged and spread his hands in the fatalistic gesture she'd grown to know so well. "Two, maybe three hours. Wind, sand. It will be most unpleasant."
"Where are we going?" The frantic activity reminded her of the "bug out" scenes in M*A*S*H* that she'd watched on TV as a kid.
Another voice interrupted. "We'll pull out and try for some shelter. We'll need a windbreak of some kind." She turned to find the photographer, Pete Browning, behind her, looking as disheveled as usual and with two cameras slung round his neck.
"The rebels will have to contend with the storm, too," he added. "We might get a few days cease fire."
A couple of men emerged from the tent she'd just left, carrying her folded cot.
She frowned, fully back in the present. "Let's do some interviews, get hold of someone who thinks he's a leader. It's about time we got some first-hand information. We could go ahead with Abdul to translate and scout around-" She took a step away, ready to organize the quest for extra background.
Peter laid a hand on her arm. "Not you, Jazz," he said as he pulled a folded piece of paper out of his upper shirt pocket. "This came through during the night."
She felt the tiny bump of her heart as her pulse beat faster. Her promotion! Already. She kept her face impassive as she took hold of the warm paper, the creases already marked in brown by the ubiquitous sand. Pete and Abdul watched her as she unfolded it, the sounds of the camp suddenly hushed in the thickening air. The message had been sent from the newspaper's head office yesterday afternoon and had been passed on through Nairobi to their location in Somalia.
"To: Jasmine Hargrove," it began. "Regret to inform you your father deceased June 19. Request your presence. Urgent. Contact Willis and Greene, lawyers?" and a series of contact numbers followed.
She read it again, searching for details, for an explanation, for some kind of personal word. Suddenly, the flimsy paper trembled in her fingers. She swallowed hard, trying to clear the dust from her throat, and opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Her mind raced to take in the news. It obliterated all thoughts of her job. He was gone and there was no explanation. Suddenly, the hot tears burned at the back of her eyes and she blinked hard. No chance now to have it out with him, to make him understand. How did he die? She turned the paper over. There were no more details.
"I read what it said," Pete said. "I'm sorry." "I read it, " Pete said. "I'm sorry."
She drew in a deep breath. "My father--"
He gathered her into his big arms and squashed her against his cameras. Instinctively, she resisted for a moment, then decided she needed to be held. She didn't care about the discomfort; it felt good. She moved slightly, so her cheek rested against the flatness of his chest and she felt the steady beat of his heart. He held her firmly, not too tight, his hands steady on her back.
She had to move away. "I'm sorry," she said, suddenly embarrassed. "I shouldn't have done that." She lifted her hands and pushed her hair back from her face. "They want me to go home. There must be a lot to settle."
"Yes, of course." Pete let her go and turned to Abdul. "You'll need to put Ms. Hargrove's bag in the Landrover."
"No," she whispered, an icy panic clutching at her despite the oppressive heat of the desert. "You don't understand, I can't go back there."
He patted her shoulder, misunderstanding. "Don't worry about the storm. You've got time. Is that right, Abdul?"
Abdul nodded and flipped one hand in a kind of "maybe" gesture. "But be very quick."
"The crew will manage without you," Pete said as she still hesitated. "We all understand. Believe me, everything will be fine."
She looked at him for a moment, searching for words. But there were none. She drew in a deep breath. She had to go. She hadn't gotten where she was by wimping out on what had to be done. Besides, it would be worse to have to sit out the storm and then leave.
"Let's go for it."
"You're on." Pete flashed her a grin as he pulled on a jacket scattered with pockets and took out some sunglasses. He hadn't shaved, and dark stubble followed the line of his jaw. To her astonishment she found herself wondering how it would feel under her fingers. A lock of dark hair fell over one eye and he pushed it back impatiently. He looked as if driving out in an imminent sandstorm with a grouchy reporter was exactly what he wanted to do.
"I'll drive her to the airfield," he yelled to Abdul's back, then turned to her again. "Move it, Jazz. You've just about got time to get the plane out before the storm hits." He strode off, shouting orders to send a radio message to the tiny airstrip in the valley.
In a daze she pushed her clothing into a couple of bags and picked up her pack that was always ready to go. There wasn't much else to worry about. The crew all traveled light these days, never knowing when they'd have to bug out just like those doctors and nurses on the TV show. At least they had only themselves to worry about, no sick people to think of and little equipment.
"Let's go, Jazz," Pete yelled from outside the tent. She grabbed the bags with her laptop in its case and lifted the tent flap. Most of the area was now bare, all their equipment bundled onto the trucks. Pete sat behind the wheel of the Landrover, waving at her to get in. Within two minutes they were bouncing down the rutted, hard-packed sand that passed for a road.
For several minutes they bumped along without speaking. Pete bent forward, gripping the wheel tight. She watched him as he concentrated on holding the line while the whole vehicle shook and jolted, rattling and clanking on the cracked earth. His dark hair blew in the breeze, whipped up by their speed. Big aviator sunglasses hid his eyes.
"Hold on to your back teeth," he yelled above the noise of the engine. He gave her another wide grin, taking his eyes off the road for a second.
She nodded grimly, hanging on for dear life to the support bar of the open vehicle. Pete fell silent, concentrating on hanging on to the juddering steering wheel. She supposed he would drop her at the airfield and then find his way back to the group wherever they were. He seemed to know what he was doing.
"How long will it take you to catch up with them again?" she gasped as her rear end hit the hard seat one more time.
"Not too long, I hope." He craned his neck to see around Jazz and peer at the horizon. She saw anxiety in his eyes.
She glanced in the same direction, towards a grey haze that seemed to spread like oil over the burnished sky. "Is that the sand storm?"
"'Fraid so." He pushed even harder on the throttle and the Landrover bucked and jumped like an untrained pony. What looked like a hard, flat surface from a distance was sprinkled with half buried rocks and ridges of solid sand.
"Ouch," she said as her knee came up to meet the dashboard.
He didn't turn to look at her, but she sensed an increased tension in the set of his broad shoulders under the khaki drill shirt.
Suddenly the Landrover seemed to take off and sailed several feet through the air. It landed with a solid thump and immediately listed to one side.
"Shit!" Pete took his foot off the pedal and threw the gear shift into neutral. He hauled on the hand brake and was out in an instant looking at the back wheel.
Jazz scrambled to follow him. The tire lay in shreds. A deadly combination of speed and sharp rock had ripped it from the rim.
"You okay?" Pete asked belatedly.
She nodded. "Where's the spare?"
Pete looked back at the grey cloud. No longer a smudge on the horizon, it spread visibly towards them, growing as it drew nearer. A dark wall approached them and the wind blew on their faces, its intensity increasing by the minute. The air grew noticeably cooler as the sky disappeared in the murk. Jazz took off her soft green hat and pushed her hair back as it whipped around her face, narrowing her eyes against the dust. A faint groaning came from the direction of the wall: the wind announcing its presence. She'd read about the power of wind and sand, about how it could scrape paint bare in a few minutes.
Pete hauled an unwieldy bundle from the back of the vehicle.
"There's no time to change the wheel. Grab hold of this," he shouted. "We'll have to try to get the top on."
She felt his urgency in the speed of his movements. Her hands fumbled in her haste as she took one side of the canvas that flapped and writhed like a wild thing as they struggled to fit it back over the supports. Pete's muscular forearms flexed with effort as he fought to bring the fasteners together. When one side was secure, he stopped to wipe his streaming face and glanced at the darkening sky once again. His expression was carefully blank as he turned back to the job.
The pressure of the wind hurt her ears, and the sand, already whipping past them, burnt and stung her face. She tried to speak, but her mouth filled with dust, and the swirling air snatched her breath away, making her gasp like a drowning person. She hunched over, struggling to stay on her feet.
Pete grabbed a shirt from the back seat and held it out to her. "Here, put this over your head."
"Thanks." She took the cloth and wound it over her head, fighting to pull in the strands of hair that clung to her cheeks. She folded the rest of the shirt over her mouth and nose, leaving only her eyes free.
After what seemed an eternity, the top was in place. Pete opened the door. "Now get in! Close everything up!"
Only a moment's hesitation. She struggled back into the Landrover and fastened the last of the grommets to hold the canvas in place. Pete followed immediately, cursing and spitting sand from between his lips. Quickly they found and closed all the air vents, shutting off the thin, stinging ribbons of sand that blew in.
A filtered, greenish-yellow light penetrated the eerie darkness inside the canvas walls. She felt the vehicle move and rock as the wind caught it, trying to roll the whole thing over. She gasped and seized the handholds on the doors.
"Hold tight," Pete said. His hand reached out and felt for hers. She let her fingers lie in his, grateful for the comforting strength that came through to her in his touch. The sides of the vehicle closed in on her, excluding the outside world, shutting out sound and light, entombing her in the airless shell reeking of weathered canvas and dust. Sweat began to bead on her face; the car was turning into an oven.
She loosened the shirt from around her head, freeing her mouth and nose to pull in the air she desperately needed. The whistling, moaning noise from the wind rose in pitch until she longed to block her ears. Underneath the sound, she could hear an increasing patter of sand hurled against the canvas, like some demented rock band practicing a music that no sane audience would ever want to hear.
Bit by bit, it grew darker still and hotter in the pitiful shell of the car. Despite the wild sounds from outside, she could hear the gasps of their tortured breathing. She grasped Pete's fingers in an involuntary spasm and she felt his hand warm and solid against hers. The other noise gradually decreased as the light dimmed. They were now inside the wall of sand.
They were buried in a tomb of a vehicle.
They would never be able to open the doors, dig their way out.
Panic rose in her, sweeping through her body like a fever until she could think of nothing else but air and freedom. She let go of Pete's hand and clawed at the rest of the shirt still clinging to her head and face. When she was free at last, she turned to the door and tugged at the latch. Over Pete's ragged breathing, she heard a whimpering cry, and realized it was her own voice, frozen in her throat.
Pete's arm came round behind her, holding her tight against him. His hand closed over hers again, warm and rough, yet gentle. His body was a rock beside her, a haven in a sea of panic. He held her fast against her struggles and raised one hand to lift the hair from her face and mouth. "Hush, you're okay," he whispered. "You're okay. Just lean on me. Don't think about it. We're safe."
She gave a strangled cry and with a dry sob she buried her face against his chest, fighting to control her shaking. The nightmare of the Vancouver cellar had left her with a terror of confined spaces, of being trapped inside a box with something terrible?
The sound of Pete's voice gradually broke through her panic as her breathing slowed. He spoke slowly, soothingly, as if to a child.
"?so you never know what family will do," he was saying. What on earth was he talking about?
His hand lay on her head, stroking her hair. "?so my sister was there with this TV host who wanted to know what she thought people did on a first date. It was one of those cutesy shows that have kids answer ridiculous questions. Marian, that's my sister, said: 'On the first date, they just tell each other lies, and that usually gets them interested enough for a second date.'" He shifted against her. "I'll just move my arm a bit." She felt him adjust his position so that her neck rested in the crook of his arm.
She tried to moisten her lips with a dry tongue. It was an effort to speak. She didn't know if the words would come out of her tight throat. "She was probably right," she said. Her voice broke in a little croak at the end.
He moved again in the cramped space to look down at her. "You were listening," he said with a smile. "I was desperately trying to think what I would do with a claustrophobic woman who was determined to claw her way out before the storm's over."
She took a deep breath to make sure she could speak, that her voice wouldn't shake and give her away. "I'm okay?"
"Try to hold on. We're all right. Let's not talk too much."
Jazz knew what he meant. They needed to conserve their air. They could be here for hours, days.
They would use up all the oxygen? She tried to pull her mind back to other things, tried not to think of each breath diminishing the supply of air? The sand building up?
Pete settled her against his shoulder again and gently pushed the hair back from her face. His lips were close to her cheek and he made soft, soothing noises. Jazz closed her eyes and made a supreme effort of will to control her breathing and to sit very still, not thinking of what was outside.
After what seemed like a long time, Pete stirred and stretched as best he could. Miraculously the pounding and wailing had ceased.
"Has it stopped?" she asked through dry lips.
"I sure hope so." He cocked his head to one side. "Can you hear anything?"
"No." She wiped a hand across her face and felt grit under her fingers. She tried to find enough moisture in her mouth to swallow and coughed on the sand that had sifted between her lips. Pete pulled a small green scarf from around his neck and gently brushed her face.
"Sorry it's not very clean."
She took it from him and crumpled it into a ball. The cloth brought a reassuringly musky male scent. "Lean forward," she said.
Very carefully, she dusted the sand from his eyebrows and traced the strong line of his lips. The sand clung to the stubble of his beard. She was very conscious of his gaze on her face as she concentrated on not sending debris into his eyes. With a final flick of the cloth she sat back.
He took the scarf from her and bound it outlaw style over his mouth. "Put that cloth over your face again," he said. "Let's give it a go."
He turned away from her, towards the side of the Landrover that leaned lower, bracing his feet against the door. "With any luck," he said, "it will still open. The sand will be piled on the other side and this door could be almost clear. Put your arms round me and push against me when I say."
She felt the muscles of his back flex and move against her as he drew in a deep breath. She linked her hands against his chest and laid her cheek on his shoulder.
On his count of three, Jazz shoved him with all her strength. She licked cracked lips and tried not to think of water.
"Again," he said. "I think it moved."
She strained every muscle as she pushed with all her might.
Each minute seemed like an hour until Pete had cleared enough of a hole for her to slither through. She stood beside the Landrover, breathing in deep, sucking blessed air at last into her lungs. The wind had dropped but the so-called road had disappeared. As far as she could see there was an unbroken expanse of rock and sand with no trace of the trail they had followed.
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