As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the desert air began to cool. Zapped by the heat and lack of fluids, the weakened men were invigorated by the cool air and they gradually picked up their pace across the gravel. Pitt had aimed them toward a rocky three-peaked spire he used as a compass landmark, which they reached shortly after midnight. A clear sky with a bright half-moon had helped illuminate the way under darkness.

They stopped and rested on a smooth slab of sandstone, laying down and studying the stars overhead.

"The Big Dipper is over there," Giordino said, pointing to the easily identifiable part of the constellation Ursa Major. "And the Little Dipper is visible just above it."

"Which gives us Polaris, or the North Star, at the end of its handle."

Pitt rose to his feet and faced toward the North Star, then raised his left arm out from his side.

"West," he said, his fingers pointing to a dark ridge a few miles away.

"Let's get there before it closes," Giordino replied, grunting slightly as he stood up. The horseshoe in his coat pocket jabbed his side as he rose and he subconsciously patted the pocket with a knowing smile.

With a new compass bearing on the horizon, they set off again. Pitt checked the sky every few minutes, making sure the North Star remained to the right of them. The lack of food and water began to show on the two men, as their pace slowed and casual conversation fell silent. The wound in Pitt's leg began to let itself be known, firing a sharp throb with every step of his left foot. The cool night air soon turned chilly, and the men slipped into the coats they had toted around their waists. Walking kept them warm but consumed crucial body energy that was not being replenished.

"You promised me no more deserts after Mali," Giordino said, harking back to the time they nearly perished in the Sahara Desert while tracing a discharge of radioactive pollutants.

"I believe I said no more sub-Saharan deserts," Pitt replied.

"A technicality. So at what point can we hope that Rudi calls in the Coast Guard?"

"I told him to assemble our remaining equipment off the Vereshchagin and, if he could commandeer a truck, then meet us in Ulaanbaatar at the end of the week. I'm afraid our mother hen won't miss us for another three days."

"By which time we will have walked to Ulaanbaatar."

Pitt grinned at the notion. Given a supply of water, he had no doubt the tough little Italian could walk to Ulaanbaatar carrying Pitt on his back. But without a source of water—and soon—all bets were off.

A cold breeze nipped at them from the north as the night temperature continued to plummet. Moving became an incentive to keep warm, though they took satisfaction in knowing the summer nights had a short duration. Pitt kept them heading toward the ridge to the west, though for a time it seemed as if they weren't moving any closer. After two hours of trudging through a valley of loose gravel, they began climbing a series of low rolling hills. The hills gradually grew in size and height until they crested a high bluff, which abutted the base of the target ridge. After a brief rest, they assaulted the ridge, hiking most of the way up before they were forced to crawl on their hands and knees across a rugged section of boulders near the peak. The climb exhausted the men, and they both stopped and gasped for air when they finally reached the top.

A slow-moving cloud blotted the moonlight for several minutes, pitching the ridge top into an oily blackness. Pitt sat down on a mushroom-shaped rock to rest his legs, while Giordino hunched over to catch his breath. While still tough as nails, neither man was the spry stallion of a decade earlier. Each silently coped with a litany of aches and pains that wracked their legs and body.

"My kingdom for a satellite phone," Giordino rasped.

"I'd even consider the horse," Pitt replied.

As they rested, the silvery half-moon slid from behind the cloud, casting their surroundings in a misty blue glow. Pitt stood and stretched, then gazed down the other side of the ridge. A steep incline sloped into some craggy low bluffs that overlooked a bowl-shaped valley. Pitt studied the small basin, detecting what appeared to be several dark round shapes sprinkled across the central valley floor.

"Al. Check my mirage down the way," he said, pointing to the valley floor. "Tell me if it matches yours."

"If it includes a beer and a submarine sandwich, I can already tell you the answer is yes," Giordino replied, standing upright and walking over to Pitt. He took a long patient look down the slope, eventually confirming that he saw nearly two dozen black dots spread about the valley floor.

"It ain't Manhattan, but civilization it appears."

"The dark spots look to be shaped like gers . A small settlement, or a group of nomadic herders, perhaps," Pitt speculated.

"Big enough that somebody's got to have a coffeepot," Giordino replied, rubbing his hands together to keep warm.

"I'd bank on tea, if I were you."

"If it's hot, I'll drink it."

Pitt glanced at his watch, seeing it was nearly three A.M. "If we get going now, we'll be there by sunup."

"Just in time for breakfast."

The two men took off for the dark camp, working their way cautiously down the short ravine, then snaking their way through the rock-strewn hills. They traveled with a renewed sense of vigor, confident the worst of their ordeal was behind them. Food and water awaited them in the village below, which was now in sight.

Their progress slowed as they wound around several vertical uplifts that were too steep to traverse. The jagged rocks gave way to smaller stands of sandstone that the men could climb over and through. Hiking around a blunt mesa, they stopped and rested at the edge of a short plateau. Beneath them, the black-shadowed encampment sat less than a mile away.

The first strands of daylight began lightening the eastern sky, but it was still too early to offer much illumination. The main structures of the encampment were clearly visible, dark gray shapes against the light-colored desert floor. Pitt counted twenty-two of the round tents he knew to be Mongolian gers. In the distance, they appeared larger than the ones they had seen in Ulaanbaatar and around the countryside. Oddly, there were no lights, lanterns, or fires to be seen. The camp was pitch-black.

Scattered around the encampment, Pitt and Giordino could make out the dark shadows of animals, denizens of the local herd. They were too far away to tell whether the animals were horses or camels. A fenced corral held some of the herd close to theirs, while others roamed freely around the area.

"I believe you asked for a horse?" Giordino said.

"Let's hope they're not camels."

The two men moved easily across the last stretch of ground. They approached within a hundred yards of the camp when Pitt suddenly froze. Giordino caught Pitt's abrupt halt and followed suit. He strained his eyes and ears to detect a danger, but noticed nothing out of the ordinary. The night was perfectly still.

Not a sound could be heard but for the occasional gust of wind, and he saw no movement around the camp.

"What gives?" he finally whispered to Pitt.

"The herd," Pitt replied quietly. "They're not moving."

Giordino peered at the host of animals scattered about the darkness, looking for signs of movement. A few yards away, he spotted a trio of fuzzy brown camels standing together, their heads raised in the air.

He stared at them for a minute, but they didn't move a muscle.