Skeleton Coast

“Giant what?” the pilot asked. He was South African with a thick Africaans accent.

“Giant snakes,” Sloane repeated, feeling foolish. “He claims he was attacked by giant metal snakes.”

“Most likely it was the DTs,” the pilot said. “Everyone around here knows that Papa Heinrick is the world’s biggest boozer. I’ve seen him drink a pair of Aussie backpackers under the table and both those lads were the size of elephants. Rugby players, I think they were. If it’s snakes he’s seeing you can bet your last Rand he was coming off a bender when he saw ’em.”

“Giant snakes.” Luka giggled. “Did I not tell you that Papa Heinrick is a crazy man? You waste your time talking to him. You trust Luka. I find the spot you’re looking for. You see. There are still places out here where it could be.”

“Not for me,” Tony said. “I have to be back home day after tomorrow and I just want to sit by the pool.”

“That is okay,” Luka said with a quick glance at where Sloane’s leg emerged from her shorts. “I take Miss Sloane alone in a boat with greater range than this helicopter.”

“I don’t think so,” Sloane said sharply enough to get Tony’s attention. She glared at him and it took him a moment to understand what their guide was really after.

“We’ll play it by ear. See how I feel in the morning, huh?” he said. “Maybe a boat trip wouldn’t be too bad.”

“You’re wasting your time,” the pilot muttered.

Sloane was sure he was right.

The chopper flared over the dusty heliport twenty minutes later. The rotor blast kicked up a cloud of grit that obscured the ground and turned the limp windsock into a rigid pink cone. The pilot gently set his helicopter on the ground and immediately cut the engines. The effect was instantaneous. The piercing whine of the moter faded and the blades began to slow. He opened his door before they stopped, exchanging the hot sweat-tainted air in the cabin with hot gritty air from outside. It was still a relief.

Sloane opened her door and stepped from the helo, ducking low instinctively as the rotor continued to whirl over her head. She grabbed her duffel bag and then walked around the chopper’s nose to give Tony a hand unhooking the metal detector and cable spool from the left skid. Together they lugged the hundred-pound piece of equipment to the back of the pickup they’d rented. Luka had made no offer to help and instead sucked furiously on his first cigarette in two hours.

Tony settled up with the pilot for his day’s service, depleting all but two of his traveler’s checks, which he’d already vowed to lose at the casino in their hotel. The pilot shook hands with both of them, thanking them for using his charter service, and left with one last piece of advice, “I’m sure you’ve figured Luka’s a rogue and a thief, but he’s right about Papa Heinrick. That old man isn’t right in the head. You two have had your bit of fun looking for a sunken ship. Enjoy the last day of your holiday. Go on a tour of the dunes or relax by the pool like Tony says.”

With Luka safely out of earshot, Sloane replied, “Piet, we’ve come halfway around the world. What’s another wasted day?”

The pilot chuckled. “That’s what I love about you Yanks. You never give up.”

They shook hands again and Luka scampered into the back of the four-wheel-drive pickup. They dropped him in front of a bar in his working-class neighborhood along Walvis Bay. They paid him his daily wage and, despite their protestations that they probably wouldn’t be needing him again, he promised to be at the hotel at nine the next morning.

“God, he’s insufferable,” Sloane said.

“I don’t understand your problem with him. Yeah, he could use a shower and a breath mint, but he really has been helpful.”

“Try being a woman around him and you’ll understand.”

Swakopmund was unlike any town in Africa. Because Namibia had been a German colony, the city’s architecture was pure Bavaria, with lots of gingerbread trim on the houses and solid Lutheran churches.

The palm-lined streets were wide and well maintained, although sand from the desert blew across everything. With access to a deep-water port at Walvis Bay, it was becoming a cruise destination for the adventurous set.

Sloane begged off Tony’s suggestion of di

“Suit yourself,” Tony said, and headed off for his room.

After her shower, Sloane put on floral print sundress and flats and draped a sweater over her shoulders.

She let her copper hair flow free around her shoulders and used makeup to even out where the tops of her cheeks had been pinked by the sun. Although Tony had been a complete gentleman the entire trip, she had a premonition that tonight, after a couple hours of pretending to be James Bond in the casino, he would make a pass. Best to just not be around, was her attitude.

She strolled down Bahnhof Street, peering in shop windows at native carvings and painted ostrich eggs for sale to the tourists. The wind coming off the Atlantic freshened the city and scoured the air of dust.

When she reached the end of the street, Palm Beach was to her right and the Mole was straight ahead.

The Mole was a natural spit of land that sheltered Palm Beach and at its tip was a spindly lighthouse. She reached her destination a couple minutes later. Perched above the crashing surf, the restaurant had spectacular views; a number of tourists were there with the same idea as Sloane.

She ordered a German beer from the bar and took it to a vacant seat overlooking the sea.

Sloane Macintyre wasn’t used to failure, so she was especially a

Rove .

But then what, she asked herself for the hundredth time, what were the chances that the rumor was true?

A thousand to one? A million? And what would she get for finding it? A pat on the back and a bonus.

She had to wonder if putting up with Tony’s petulance and Luka’s leers and Papa Heinrick’s insanity was worth it. She downed the last of her beer in three angry gulps and ordered another plus a fish di

She ate as the sun sank into the sea, reflecting on her life. She had a sister with a husband, a career, and three kids, while she was in her London flat so infrequently she threw away all her real plants in favor of plastic ones because they always died of neglect. She thought about her last relationship and how it, too, had petered out because she was never around. But mostly she brooded on how a woman with a business degree from Columbia ends up spending her time traipsing around Third World countries questioning fishermen about where they lose their nets.

She decided as she finished her meal that when she got home she was going to take a serious look at her life and what she wanted out of it. She’d be forty in three years, and while that didn’t sound old to her now she remembered how ancient it seemed when she was twenty. She was nowhere near her career goals and felt that she wasn’t going to get much higher on the corporate ladder without some drastic action.

Which she’d thought she’d taken by coming to Namibia, but now this was turning out to be a bust, and her logic came full circle to being angry at herself for being so wrong.

The air grew a bit chilly with the wind coming off the cold water. She shrugged into her sweater and paid her tab, leaving a generous tip even though her guidebook said waiters didn’t expect one.

She started back to her hotel, taking a different route than before just to see more of the old town. The sidewalks were quiet except around a couple of restaurants and there was no traffic on the street. While wealthy by Africa’s standards, Namibia was still a poor country, and people tended to live with the rhythms of the day. Most were asleep by eight, so there were few lights in the homes.