Jette had set the pace, a sort of a lope, and it had been all Doubting Thomas could do to keep up with him.

Jette put his left hand to his ear. "Listen."

Thomas heard the sound of mooing cattle, and he nodded.

Jette made signs indicating the direction, and that they should move. The path he chose was in the bush, parallel to the track, and his pace picked up.

By the time Jette held up his hand, "Stop" again, Doubting Thomas was breathing hard.

Thomas could now hear voices in addition to the mooing of the cattle, but he could not make out what was being said.

Jette began to move again, this time slowly and carefully, and then held up his hand again, "Stop," and pointed. He dropped to the ground and moved on his hands and knees through the bush, and finally signaled another "Stop."

The Simbas were no more than twenty yards away. There were nine of them, ambling along both sides of the cattle and to the rear of them. They were all armed, with an assortment of both rifles and machetes. A few had pistols, and one had a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck. Most of them had some piece of uniform clothing-Belgian officers' brimmed caps with the insignia missing; dress uniform tunics; camouflage fatigue jackets or trousers; Sam Browne belts-but not one of them was completely uniformed.

It would have been easy to take them all out, Doubting Thomas judged professionally, but that wouldn't make much sense. He looked at Jette for any sign that he wasn't going to obey the one order "Major Tomas" had given him: "Unless we're attacked, you will not shoot without my specific permission."

Jette was lying on his stomach, his arms folded in front of him, resting his chin on his hands.

He knows what he's doing, Thomas thought approvingly. Thomas thought approvingly. There was no sense in going back into the bush. If the Simbas hadn't seen them yet, it was unlikely they would before, in their own good time, they ambled out of sight tending the cattle. There was no sense in going back into the bush. If the Simbas hadn't seen them yet, it was unlikely they would before, in their own good time, they ambled out of sight tending the cattle.

As Thomas started to lie down near Jette, the rain started. It had been threatening to rain for an hour. It began with a few large drops, and then it came in a torrent. There was no way the Simbas would see them now. The rain would last no more than an hour or so.

Thomas touched Jette's leg and signaled that they were to move back into the bush. Jette nodded and said nothing, but there was a look in his eyes that told Thomas that Jette had no idea what he was up to.

Thomas walked 122 paces-he counted them-before he found what he was looking for: a natural clearing in the bush open to the sky.

He unbuckled and shrugged out of the backpack radio and then his web gear, then hung it all on a broken-off limb on a tree. Then he took his compass-he carried this hanging around his neck, next to his dog tags-and sighted it back to the trail the Simbas were using.

Sergeant First Jette squatted on the ground, holding his rifle between his knees, and watched him with unconcealed curiosity. He did not take off his pack.

"When do we kill the Simbas, Major, sir?" he asked.

"Not now, Sergeant First Jette," Thomas said. "First we must talk and think and see what weapons are available to us."

"Yes, Major, sir."

"Is there any question in your mind that you can track the Simbas to their base?" Thomas asked.

"It is not hard to track cattle, Major, sir."

"Do you think the Simba will stop for the night if they cannot reach their base by dark?"

"I think they will reach their base by dark."

"I was told it's fifty miles, eighty kilometers, from Route Five to the shore of Lake Tanganyika. We have come . . . what?"

It was obvious 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?" 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 half-dozen cows."

"Tell me what you want done, Thomas."

"Go to George. See if you get them on the air. That would solve a lot of problems. Show them where we are, and have them start this way."

"You want all of them?"

"How many are there?"

"Looks like a company: three big trucks, two pickups, and a jeep."

"I'd like to have about twenty shooters, maybe a .30-caliber Browning. No more than that."

"Can trucks use this track if they find it?"