“It’s injured,” he said. “It’s bleeding.”
Wiggo checked the beast from head to flank.
“The beast’s fine,” he said. “It’s not its blood. It’s been splashed by something…or somebody…else.”
“Bring it with us,” the captain said. “We need to examine it but not here in the open. It’ll be dawn soon so we need to find cover.”
It fell to Davies to take the halter. The beast came meekly with him, although he was only too aware of the stink rising off it. It carried packs on either side behind the hump and they appeared to be fully laden but Davies knew better than to have a surreptitious check on the contents; the cap reserved that for himself, it had been obvious from his tone.
The sky above the canyon walls had started to lighten when the captain brought the squad to a halt again. He drew them into one of the numerous box canyons on the southern side, up to the far end where they’d be in deep shade most of the day.
“Get your heads down, lads. I’ll take first watch,” the captain said, and took the halter from Davies. The private really wanted to stay with the beast to see what it was carrying but the captain led it a few yards out into the canyon to allow the rest of the squad to bed down, and again Davies knew better than to open his mouth. He hoped one day to get some of the privileges that came with rank, but until then silence was definitely the best policy. Wiggo had bucked that trend; his cheeky chappie routine coming with enough genuine charm to override its impertinence. Davies knew himself well enough to know that he would never be able to pull that off without looking like a complete idiot.
Better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a bampot than to open it and prove it.
He only realised how tired he was after he unrolled his bedding. He lay down, closed his eyes, and was asleep almost immediately.
-Banks-
The first thing Banks did was to examine the blood at the camel’s neck, a long, crescent-shaped splash, drying now but only a few hours old at a guess. If it was human, it meant that there might be hope that the research team weren’t too far distant, but might be injured. He itched to be on the move; every minute might be important. But traveling too far, too fast, in too much heat, was only going to sap their strength, and their will come to that. The squad would be no use to the researchers if they themselves needed rescuing. They’d all, Banks included, be better off resting now in case tough action was needed later.
After giving the camel some water from his canteen, Banks studied the contents of the packs it had been carrying, emptying them out and laying them on the ground like the pieces of a puzzle he might be able to solve.
There was a large goatskin of water, three bedding rolls, changes of underwear for both men and women and a smaller canvas rucksack containing an expensive digital camera and lenses, a laptop, several notebooks and pens and several pages, obviously torn from an old journal that looked out of place among the modernity.
The camera was full of images of the trip up to that point. Scrolling backwards through them was like seeing the journey they’d taken in reverse; scenic views of the same canyon they were now in, gear being packed onto camels at the old Egyptian’s shack and finally fresh-faced smiling faces at railway stations and airports. He went forward through the photos again, looking for any clue as to what might have befallen the research team. The last photograph was an open view out of a canyon across desert dunes to a shimmering oasis in the distance. He searched the camera’s internal memory in vain, but there were no more clues.
At least I know they got this far, and a wee bit further.
The laptop was no help either; the machine was password protected and Banks didn’t have a clue where to start unlocking it. Davies or Wilkins would be able to hack into it but they needed their sleep. It would have to wait.
By this time the camel had settled down onto the ground and appeared to be contentedly asleep. Banks walked out to the end of the box canyon and looked out. Daylight filled the main ravine and heat washed through it in waves that set the whole scene in front of him rippling. He retreated back into the shade, sat beside the camel and lit a smoke before turning to the notebooks.
Again they didn’t tell him anything he didn’t know; they were written in a neat hand, by one of the female research team and were a diary of the trip. Once again he went forward in time with them, from organization at Edinburgh Uni then via trains and airplanes to a meeting with the old Egyptian at the airstrip; the diarist had been charmed by him, and was especially appreciative of his tea. The last entry mentioned a stop in one of these box canyons and spoke of her excitement for the days ahead and her hopes of marvels to be seen when they reached the lost city, of which she did not seem to have any doubt. It was dated more than a week ago and there were no more recent entries.
In desperation for any clue at all as to the team’s fate Banks finally turned to the old journal pages, although he did not hold out hope for much enlightenment. It was pages from a diary of a British Army sergeant over a hundred and thirty years ago and despite himself, Banks was immediately riveted.
-THEN-
The colonel had been most insistent at our briefing. His colour was up, redness at his cheeks and for once it had nothing to do with the claret he’d taken at dinner the night before. We’d lost three men the night before to insurgents that had got into our encampment, slit the sleeping soldiers’ throats in their bunks, then vanished without leaving a trace. He was more than angry. He was furious, taking the deaths as a personal affront to his command.
“Get a squad up into them hills and scout about. We need to know where those buggers are hiding. There will be no repeat of last night’s bloody slaughter. I want them found and I want them dead. Don’t come back until that job is done.”
The buggers were probably Bedouin and more used to hiding in the desert than we were at walking in it but the colonel didn’t give a toss about that. And for once I actually agreed with him—you didn’t murder a Scotsman in his bed and get away with it. Not if there were any other Scotsmen left to avenge them.
So it was late that Saturday that our squad set off—on foot, none of us trusted those bloody camels—for the range of hills in the desert to the south and west of us. The sun was still up as we departed and little of the day’s heat had dissipated. It was hard going. Wearing the kilt meant that at least I had some air around my nethers but the red serge tunic on top felt like a tight corset around my ribs, slowly boiling me from the inside out. What with that and the backpacks—and the Lee Enfields for the men—it was a long tough slog through the sand for all twelve of us. Even our C.O., Lieutenant Timkins—a fresh faced young English gentleman not long out of Sandhurst who hadn’t been here long enough to get leathery like the rest of us—seemed to be sweating and somewhat discomforted although he was too much of an officer to show it.
My old pal, Mac—Private MacLeod—had the worst of it—not only was he carrying the same as the rest of us, along with about a stone of extra fat in his belly, he was further burdened by having to carry the bagpipes in his pack. He had complained bitterly for more than a mile until I told him to put a bung in it.
“It could be worse, Mac,” I said.
“How’s that, Sarge?”
I pointed at our other travelling companion—an old knackered donkey that was being forced to carry our ammo, water and tents.
“I could give you his job if you like?”
“If I can have his todger, I can start now,” Mac replied and the subsequent laughter did much to lift our mood, although we were soon enough back to trudging through the endless sand.