All Moffitt could think of was his thirst, and the sun beating down, and the sand all around them. And, above all, the few swallows of water swishing around in Troy's broken canteen.
He swallowed hard. The North African desert was nothing new to him. Sand swirled around with every breath of wind, and the sun shone as always, but his mind kept playing tricks on him and everything seemed fuzzy. He was accustomed to thirst as well, of course, but it had been a long time since it had plagued him to such a degree. They'd walked eight, maybe nine miles, and already Tully had fallen twice. Nobody else was doing well either.
"Sarge!" he heard Hitch – who was a little behind him – shout. "What's that?"
At first, Moffitt could see nothing, but when he traced his steps back to where Hitch stood, he saw it.
A building, no, a town, sitting right in the middle of the desert. Hitch was saying that if it was a mirage, it was the clearest mirage he'd ever seen, when Moffitt said, "Fata morgana." Everyone looked at him. "Latin. A 'fairy' mirage." Even as he spoke, the image off in the distance wavered a little, and then regained stability.
Troy turned and trudged on. In a few moments, they were all on the move again, Moffitt taking up the task of helping Tully stay on his feet. Hitch kept glancing back at the phenomenon, until it disappeared suddenly, and without any apparent reason. "Too bad that thing wasn't real," Hitch said. "We could've gotten some water there."
But it hadn't been on their charts. Just like the water hole.