The African-Russian attack force speeds over the salt pan. Pieter leads out in front on his KTM. Behind him, Botha, Alexei and Mikhail command the pink, black and gray Humvees. They look out from their respective gun turrets. Quads and dirt bikes race alongside them. Each carries an armed passenger.
Botha has organized a formidable fighting unit. In his element, he shouts down to the Humvee's driver, "FASTER—KEEP UP."
For better vantage, Pieter stands on the dirt bike's footpegs. He spots the laser fence in the far distance and signals to the following pack.
Botha also sees it, and he shouts down, "The laser—ahead. We head for the tower."
The convoy follows Pieter's bike and advances toward the lethal fence.
***
At the American container, the Australians stand around Kip's dead body. They bicker amongst themselves.
"What a fucking coward. Suicide—it's a coward's way out."
"At least he's out!"
"Yeah, he's escaped and we're still here, right in the middle of all this shitstorm."
"Without a paddle."
"Shitstorm creek and an M16—fucking hell."
"We've just got ourselves to blame."
"What you saying?"
"Because we did nothing, and we've done nothing—we just dicked around back there and talked a load of crap. No one took this thing seriously."
"Hey, speak for yourself."
"I didn't hear you coming up with any ideas."
"Yeah, he's right, you've just been sitting around and stuffing your face with biscuits and packets of raisins."
"I was hungry!"
"Fuck hungry! We should have started looking for those codes pronto—that's what we should have done."
"Yeah—pronto!"
Silence.
"Now what?"
"I tell you what we do now, we got to act like we got ourselves a big set of gonads, else we're gonna get fucked over—it's our only chance."
The Australians walk toward their vehicles.
"Kip was right. We gotta find the Americans and get their codes."
"I don't think so."
"You don't think so. Why the hell not?"
"I reckon they'll end up coming back here. We should wait for them to come to us."
"Hey, dingobrain, why would they come back to their own container?"
"Yeah, shithead, you've brain's overdosed on sugar from eating all the fucking biscuits!"
"I was just saying, that's all."
"Well, you were saying wrong. You're talking shit."
"Yep, he's talking shit—again. We gotta leave and track down those Americans."
"And what if we don't find them?"
"Then at least we've tried."
"Yeah, mate, least we'll have a fighting chance."
The clocks on their collars count down: 02.45.07, :02.45.06, :02.45.05 . . .
"If any of you get any better ideas, say them now, 'cause we only got about three hours left."
"Yeah, say your piece now, else we're out of here."
The Australians eyeball each other.
An Australian woman, who has been silent until now, speaks up. "What we should do"—she steps forward and turns toward her teammates—"is head back to our container."
"No point, lady—we got our code already. Next?"
"Yeah, why would you want to head back to our container—that's ridiculous?"
"Because Kip was wrong," the Australian woman says. "Don't focus on the Americans. Whichever team has the most codes, they still have to find us or our container, or else they're still as screwed as we are."
"What if they've found it already?"
"Yeah, then we are fucked!"
"Small chance—we only left an hour ago." The Australian explains. "Listen, all we have to do is head back to our container, then we kill whoever comes to find us, and get all the codes and money. We win the game."
"All we have to do! ALL we have to do! You really are fucking crazy."
"Yeah, I think so. I think I am now, and you'd better get crazy too." The Australian woman jumps into the Humvee and starts it. "So if no one's got anything else to say, then what the fuck are we all waiting around here for?"
***
The African-Russian convoy pulls up next to the laser fence. Pieter skips off his KTM and walks over to Carlos' headless body and mangled bike.
"The South American?" Botha calls over.
"Yes." Pieter points to Carlos' severed head on the other side of the laser fence. "The rest of him is over there."
Botha heaves his huge frame down from the Humvee and walks over to the laser fence. He shakes his head in disbelief. "I have never seen anything like this. Never in my life."
Alexei joins him. "It is endless. We may as well be behind the wire in a labor camp on the Siberian tundra."
"Or a British concentration camp on the veld," Botha says.
"After the Americans tried to kill me, they somehow must have pulled the bike through the lasers and recovered the case," Pieter explains.
Alexei walks over to the laser tower and opens the transformer's door. He inspects the Q-Switch.
"Do not waste your time, Alexei. If there was a way through, the Americans would have found it," Botha tells him.
"The bike?" Alexei asks.
Botha points to the rear of the Humvee. "They used the winch and a grappling hook, then a perfect shot."
"Ingenious."
"And capable." Botha looks through the laser fence and out toward the mountaintops on the far horizon. "This is not Africa."
"Or Russia," Alexei says.
"Then where are we?" Mikhail asks.
"We are here, and that is all that matters." Botha walks over to Carlos' body. He kneels on one knee and inspects the gruesome sight. As he does so, he notices a column of small ants emerge from a small crack in the salt pan. They form a black line and march toward Carlos' severed neck. The insects begin to feed on its ragged and shredded edges, then carry tiny morsels of dried blood and skin back to their underground nest.
Botha places his hand near the ant column. A single ant crawls onto his hand. The South African stands up and examines the ant as it darts all over his palm and tries to escape its new universe. He watches it for a few more seconds, then says, "See, my brothers, this small, brave one does not fear me. Like us, it is lost but unafraid. It knows the hand it relies on will protect and guide it." Botha kneels down and places his hand on the ground. The ant rushes back onto the salt pan and rejoins the marching column.
"They work as one." Pieter watches the ants.
"As we do now," Botha says. "We defeated the South Americans, so that case belongs to us. Exodus twenty—thou shall not steal—the Americans stole it from us. They have sinned and we will make them pay for their sins."
Pieter points over to the Americans' tracks in the distance. "They must have followed my trail."
"Then they will be easy prey to hunt," Botha says.
