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from Palmer’s point of view—but all he could do was hang on and hope for the best. And it wasn’t long before the ride began to smooth out just as Guiscard had promised it would. The improvement came at a price however. By skimming the tops of the corrugations the Volvo was providing them with a better ride, but less contact resulted in less control, so it was necessary for Guiscard to keep both hands on the wheel.
    Making the situation worse from Palmer’s perspective was the fact that the increase in speed made it more likely that they would race past the Mongo Iron without noticing it. Still, each passing hour would make it harder for Damya to track the Mog, so that had precedence.
    The slightly elevated two-lane track ran straight as an arrow through a large basin filled with powdery white sand. There were diversions where frustrated drivers had paralleled the road in an attempt to escape the
tole ondule
and had created a braided roadway. Sometimes the strategy worked and sometimes it didn’t. Occasional vehicles could be seen to either side. Ancient wrecks for the most part, half-concealed by drifting sand, never to run again.
    Finally, after what seemed like an hour, but was actually no more than fifteen-minutes, the C303 arrived on the south side of the basin where the road began to climb the side of the plateau beyond. An HJ75 rounded the curve ahead, flashed its lights in the traditional Saharan greeting, and rattled past. The back of the truck was loaded with children who waved as their clothes whipped in the wind.
    Guiscard had to work after that, muscling the 4 X 4 through a series of switch backs, choosing to attack some rocks, while avoiding others. The trick was to put the thick bottom tread onto the sharper rocks to avoid damage to vulnerable side walls, stay out of the deepest potholes, and maintain traction throughout. All of which required a significant amount of concentration.
    Having conquered the incline the Volvo arrived on top of the
hamada
where Damya signaled Guiscard to pull over. Once the truck came to a stop, the scout hurried to free himself from the harness, and drop to the ground. Then, having pushed the goggles up onto his forehead, he made his way over to the
piste
and the tracks recorded on it.
    The scout was down on his haunches, eyeing the surface of the road, as Palmer got out. It was difficult to open the passenger side door due to the presence of the jury-rigged seat. But Palmer was able to squeeze through the narrow opening and went to join Guiscard. He was standing near the edge of a sharp drop-off peering through a pair of beat-up binoculars. Palmer felt the full force of the sub-Saharan sun—and wished he was back in the air-conditioned cabin. There was a breeze, but it blast-furnace hot, and brought no relief. “Here,” Guiscard said, as he gave the glasses to his friend. “Take a look.”
    Palmer brought the binos up to his eyes. The view from the top of the
hamada
was truly spectacular. From the turn-out the geologist could see sections of the road as it switch-backed down to the desert floor below, a strip of white
piste
, and the jagged mountains beyond. They seemed to shimmer in the heat.
    “They passed here,” Damya confirmed, as he appeared next to Guiscard. “But the wind will steal their tracks. We must hurry.”
    So it was back into the Volvo and onto the road again. Damya had chosen to ride in the back seat, but wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and Guiscard was focused on driving. That left Palmer to wish for a beer that he knew he shouldn’t have, and try to stay awake, as the 4 X 4 came down off the plateau and onto the road below. But a lack of rest the night before, plus the drone of the engine proved to be too much, and the American was asleep when Guiscard touched his shoulder. “Wake up slacker,” the Chadian said cheerfully. “We found something.”
    The “something” proved to be a camping spot half-a-mile west of the
piste
Palmer had