"How could that happen?"
"Most mutations occur naturally and randomly, but they can also be caused by the environment. In this case it might be some sort of mineral contamination leaching into the water. Or sunlight since radiation can cause mutations too."
"What kind of bug is it?" asked Steiner, MP40 gripped tightly.
"A mosquito," said Lippert. He pointed at the proboscis, a long, wicked tube projecting from the insect's head like a stinger. "Look at those mandibles. That would cause a terrible bite."
Dietrich sighed and crossed his arms. "Gentlemen, we're not here for a nature lecture."
"Actually, Herr Lieutenant, I think this explains something," said Lippert.
"Enlighten us," said Hartmann.
"These could be what killed the Tommies and the Arab. Remember the puncture wounds on the Arab and his camel? A female mosquito can drink four times her weight in blood from her host so a monster like this could inflict significant blood loss. They can also transmit fatal diseases, but in this case the blood loss alone might be enough to kill. They only live for about a month though, so the ones that got the Tommies are likely long dead."
More pupae rose from the pond and cracked open like hideous eggs, mosquitos emerging.
"Can't they fly?" asked Steiner.
"They have to wait until their exoskeletons harden and their wings dry out," said Lippert.
"Then we'd better kill them now," said Hartmann.
"The noise will alert anyone in the area," said Dietrich.
"We'll have to take that chance. Steiner!"
"Yes, Herr Lieutenant?"
"Use the machine gun."
Steiner returned his MP40 to its bracket, then went and turned the halftrack ninety degrees so it faced the pond. He took his place at the MG34 machine gun swivel-mounted behind an armored shield, and peered down the sights with a steady eye. Gunfire shattered the stillness and echoed across the desert as he squeezed off single shots and short bursts with ruthless precision, 7.92 millimeter bullets slashing insects apart and spraying greenish-yellow blood. Empty steel cartridges tinkled on the floor and rolled around his feet.
Once all the adult mosquitos were destroyed he paused to load another ammunition belt and turned his attention to the pupae floating in the water, raking them with slugs. Then he chopped up larvae and clusters of translucent eggs. The acrid reek of cordite overpowered the stink of the marsh as the others watched the sickening slaughter. Finally Steiner ceased fire, swinging open the smoking machine gun to swap out the overheated barrel.
Hartmann surveyed the floating carnage. "You got them all. Let's move on."
The patrol rolled on. Hartmann continued scanning the terrain and at length spotted something in the shimmering distance. At first he dismissed it as a mirage, a trick of the heat waves, then realized he was not seeing things. It lay in another pond about two hundred meters from the trail, and he ordered a halt to investigate.
It was the wreck of an aircraft, a sprawling hulk of twisted metal, splintered wood, and torn fabric half-submerged in the water. The design was unusual – a biplane with two engines mounted in a push-pull configuration above the fuselage between the wings. The tail, which had four stabilizers, was painted in faded stripes of red, white, and green.
The fuselage had smashed open like an egg and the lower wing was broken off on one side. Rusty, odd-looking bombs still hung from external racks. Through his binoculars Hartmann discerned the remains of the two pilots, still slumped in their seats in the open cockpit, apparently killed on impact. An oily, yellowish liquid stained the water around the crash site.
He lowered his binoculars and consulted the British map. The LRDG had put the wreck down as a landmark without annotating any details about it.
Dietrich got out of his car and came over to the halftrack. "Why did we stop?"
Hartmann nodded at the aircraft.
Dietrich shrugged. "An old plane. Who cares?"
"You never know what might be of intelligence value." Hartmann raised his binoculars and resumed studying the wreck. "Looks like a Caproni Ca73, a civilian airliner the Italians converted into a light bomber and transport. They were taken out of service before the war."
"It's carrying bombs so it was on a combat mission."
"Could have been during the pacification campaign in Libya ten years ago. Egyptians were smuggling supplies to the rebels and that's why the Italians built that huge barbed wire fence along the frontier. But I never heard of them crossing the border to attack smugglers, certainly not this far inside Egypt."
"What's that yellow liquid in the water?"
"It's leaking from those old bombs." Hartmann lowered his binoculars and sniffed the air suspiciously. He caught a faint whiff of what smelled like garlic. "Mustard gas! The Italians bombed villages with it. Keep your masks handy!"
The soldiers rummaged for their gas mask carriers and gas cape pouches.
"If those bombs started leaking in-flight the pilots could have been exposed," said Dietrich. "That might explain how they got here. They could have been on a bombing mission in Libya, were blinded and disoriented by the gas, and then flew off course over the border."
The reeds were pale and sickly, stunted and twisted into grotesque shapes. "The plants here are more deformed than anywhere else," said Lippert. "This must be the source of the contamination. When sulfur mustard mixes with water it gradually dissolves into other chemicals, and the marsh water is loaded with minerals to begin with so God only knows what kind of toxic soup is in these ponds now."
"How could anything survive in that muck?" asked Steiner.
"No idea, but instead of killing the mosquitos it mutated them."
"Let's get away from here," said Hartmann. "It's not safe."
They drove off. In the distance towered the brooding, limestone cliffs of the Qattara Depression's northern escarpment – the end of the crossing. They were behind British lines, in enemy territory. Once the route up the escarpment was reconnoitered Hartmann would break radio silence to alert Rommel's headquarters.
The wind picked up. A dun wall of dust rose in the blue sky ahead. Soon it was upon them and they were engulfed by a howling sandstorm. Visibility dropped to nil in the yellowish-orange murk. The patrol slowed, but Fuchs drove off the trail into a salt pan. When he tried backing out, the rear wheels just spun helplessly, churning in the deep, sticky mud. Then the engine stalled.
The halftrack ground to a halt. Hartmann clambered out and rapped out brisk orders, having to raise his voice to be heard above the wind. The Volkswagen carried fascines and was light enough to be manhandled, but it was quicker and easier to just hook the tow cable to it. Hoffman motioned; Steiner slowly backed the halftrack up and pulled the car out.
"Drive more carefully, you idiot!" said Dietrich, eyes flashing with anger.
"Yes, Herr Lieutenant," said Fuchs.
"Gentlemen, we'd better stop until this blows over," said Hartmann.
The patrol hunkered down inside their vehicles to wait. The oppressive sun was blotted out, but it felt just as hot. They ate again and afterwards dangled their mess kits outside to let the sand blast them clean. Hartmann fretted with impatience as he tied down a corner of the flapping tarpaulin that had come loose. Sandstorms could last for days.
But this one ended after just a few hours. The wind died down and the sky cleared to an early evening.
When they tried switching on their engines the Volkswagen would not start.
"Now what's wrong?" asked Dietrich, sighing in exasperation.
"I don't know, Herr Lieutenant."
Fuchs got out and raised the rear hood to check the four-cylinder, air-cooled motor. He came back and rummaged for tools in the storage box behind the rear seat. "Looks like a clogged carburetor."