Portals in Time 1

by Michael Beals

  Kat pointed at Sergeant Dore. “He’s a doctor. You should let him go too.”

  The Kommando turned his head and glanced at the scarred, hulking beast chilling across the truck bed, as calm as a stepped-on coral snake. “Mist! I’m desperate, but not stupid. Don’t stop. Keep moving!”

  Kat dropped her shoulders and spun on the guard. “In that case, I guess you lost the vote.”

  “What the hell is your—”

  “Looks like the EYES have it.” She grabbed his head with both hands and plunged her sharpened thumbnails straight through his retina. “Betcha didn’t see that coming.” She kept pressing until the bulbs burst, spraying her blouse and face.

  “E, yuck. Eye juice.”

  Shrieking in subhuman agony, the guard released the grenade and clawed wildly at Kat. The spoon flew over her shoulder as she kneed the guard in the groin. She scooped up the grenade and turned her back while the Kraut landed at Dore’s feet.

  “Ah, die like a man, ya big baby.” As Dore stomped the man’s face into spaghetti, Kat bounced straight up through the shredded tarp. She popped her smiling face out and waved at a trio of Kommandos running towards the front of the truck. The Germans raised their weapons and opened fire, as the frag grenade landed at their feet.

  “Come on! We probably outnumber however many are left alive.” She cut loose Dore and dived out the rear hatch while he worked on the others. Kat slid into the first wounded German, who could only manage a whimper as his heart stopped. Before she could snag his rifle, an American-made “lend-lease” Willy jeep raced up from the rear of the shattered convoy.

  The gunner in the back swiveled an MG42 machine gun right on Kat’s back, as Corporal Capson appeared with the other German’s rifle.

  “Shit on a stick!” He swan-dived to the ground, still clutching the Mauser tight. Capson was as shocked as the driver when the gun went off and split the German’s skull in half.

  The NAZI gunner went airborne as the dead driver’s body crumbled onto the brake pedal. He cracked his steel helmet against the truck’s cargo bed a split second before the jeep slammed into the five-ton’s rear end.

  Sergeant Dore hopped down and hefted Capson up. “Damn fine shootin’, Tex. I take back half the shit I ever said about you!”

  Private Atkins jumped out next and pried the dead man out of the jeep’s front seat. “It still runs! We’re in business.”

  Major Trufflefoot shouted from the cargo truck’s bed. “No, see if this truck still drives. We’ve got at least six others still alive and—”

  Dore bolted for the front cab. Trufflefoot dived out and tackled him, rolling them both into a little drainage ditch on the side of the road. He threw himself off the Sergeant as the damn Hurricanes came back for yet another harvest. The massive truck bounced up and down as the cannons shredded it into so much steel confetti.

  “Bloody hell, sir. Don’t make me owe you one. What are the odds we’re getting out of here? I probably still have to kill ya.”

  Trufflefoot bent his glasses back into place and coughed out blood-caked sand.

  “No worries. Killing our own seems to be the one thing we’ve mastered.”

  From the far side of the burning truck, Atkins bounced up and down in the liberated jeep’s driver seat.

  “I told you. I bloody told you all!” Atkins pounded the steering wheel with both hands and screeched at the top of his lungs. “Everyone wants us dead! Return fire, for God’s sake!”

  Capson crossed himself and leaned against his machine gun, mumbling a prayer. “It’s only friendly fire. God-awful luck. At least the birds are on our side.”

  “Friendly, unfriendly—who cares? They’re trying to kill us! You and me!”

  Capson shrugged. “No, no. It’s nothing personal. They’re trying to kill everyone.”

  “Exactly, you doffing idiot! They’re after us.”

  “Who? Our pilots?”

  “Ours, theirs… whatever. Just shoot at anyone shooting at us!” “But they’re on our side.” Capson furrowed his brow.

  Atkins slapped his forehead before jumping up and shaking Capson. “What Goddamn difference does that make? They’re firing at us! You blasted simpleton! So that makes them the enemy!”

  Capson rolled his eyes and turned away from the raging inferno.

  “Oh, now you’re just being paranoid. I can’t shoot them. They’re on our side, after all. That wouldn’t be friendly.”

  “My God, you stupid son of a…” Atkins tugged his hair out until Sergeant Dore came back to the jeep and dropped an armload of loose gear inside.

  “How about you both shut your laughing gear and come give me a hand.”

  He turned back to Trufflefoot, who gawked at Dante’s porn. “Nothing we can do for those poor buggers, sir. What do you say we skedaddle while we can? Hey, Kat! Where the hell you going?”

  She raced over to a different wrecked jeep and disappeared in the oily smoke. Kat emerged a moment later, lugging another MG42 over her slim shoulder and dragging several belts of ammo. She didn’t give any of the wounded Germans squealing for help so much as a second glance. “Any of you gentlemen gonna give a lady a hand with her baggage?”

  Dore raised his newest machine pistol and lazily popped a bleeding Kommando reaching for a weapon. He scooped up a 100-round belt of ammo from her hands and slapped her back.

  “If you’re a lady, then I’m the fucking Prince of Wales.”

  “What are you guys doing? We’ve already got one of those.” Capson covered them from the machine gun station on the jeep while shooting glances down at the safety.

  Kat shrugged. “In combat, two is one, and one is none.”

  Trufflefoot drained a gallon of water and surveyed the carnage around them. “Kat, hon, the goal is to get out of combat.”

  She smirked over the heavy gun while heaving it on the jeep’s rear deck. “Sweetie, it’s a long way home. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  Tawerga Oasis

  W hat, do you have a better plan?” Major Trufflefoot obsessively pressed out the wrinkles in his liberated map of the Libyan coast. He propped his sunburnt scalp against the jeep’s bumper, barely sticking out of the ruins of an ancient Roman fortress, and stared off at the Bedouin camp in the small oasis below. Sergeant Dore snatched the map and scratched his stubbly cheek with a bayonet.

  “If we travel anywhere near the road, the Germans are going to find us long before we get back to friendly lines. No offense, sir, but my nana has more tactical sense than you. Where’d you go to Officer’s school?”

  Trufflefoot snickered even harder than Dore. “You mean that two-week crash course? My dear Sergeant, I was teaching history at Oxford when the Huns overran France. So damn close to getting tenure. Shit. We’re balls up on this one, aren’t we?” He splashed some water on his brow and rubbed his ever-receding hairline. “What did you do before the military?”

  “Before? Hell, trying to kiss my first lassie, I reckon. My old man never came home from Verdun, so I ran away at sixteen to follow in his footsteps...”

  Dore narrowed his eyes at some heavy buzzing way above. “Of course, the IRA didn’t have bombers back in ’21.

  Atkins belched from the shade of the old wall. “Sarge, we don’t have the fuel nor spare parts to go wandering far from civilization. I say we backtrack to the city and take the highway south. Try to blend in with the natives. Then work our way east later when we don’t see any more Germans or Italians.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. We should shadow the German supply lines and head due east.” Capson looped around the corner on one of his endless perimeter patrols. “I vote for getting back in the war as fast as we can!”

  Dore punched the jeep’s hood. “Since when are we holding a fucking vote? You two chuckleheads keep pulling security until the Major and I come up with a plan.”

  Capson took a knee at Atkins’ firing position, his rifle at perfect low ready, and studied his sector of fire with a sniper’s earnest.
“Why are you always trying to avoid the enemy? Sometimes I wonder if you’re even on our side.”

  “I’m against whatever side’s going to get me killed.” Atkins stretched his weapon across his legs and ransacked a German iron ration for something halfway edible. “Look, shitty food aside, we’ve got a nice little racket going on here. The Army thinks we’re dead or all POW’s, so why not take advantage of it? Cross the desert, sure, but south. Maybe trade the weapons for a train ride or something out of the war zone. There are some Spanish and Portuguese colonies in West Africa that are still neutral.”

  “Desertion! Chucky, I never pegged you for a coward.”

  “Oh, we’ll come back once everything quiets down. I’m just saying it’s time we thought about only ourselves. No one else is looking out for us.”

  Corporal Capson gave a haughty smirk. “Suppose everyone else felt like just turning away from the war. What then?”

  “Well, in that case, I’d certainly be a damned fool to feel any other way, now wouldn’t I?” Atkins grinned, even as he cut his lip on some rock-hard German knackebrot.

  “There is a third option.”

  “Where the hell did you come from? How’d you spot us?”

  The local bounded over what was left of the rubble and fixed the headband holding up his red-checkered keffiyeh. “Are you joking? White folks never leave sight of the coastal highway. We’ve watched you for hours.”

  He took in all the scowling, well-armed Westerners crowding in. Instead of running, he flashed his pearly whites. “My people were taking bets whether you were up to no good, or just running for your lives. Looks like I won five pounds.” He cocked his head at Major Trufflefoot’s downtrodden visage and tsked.

  “Or maybe I should collect in Reichsmarks?”

  “Cut the crap. Who came with you, and what do you want?”

  “I’m alone, of course. Half the tribe wanted to run, and the others are waiting to see if we can scavenge anything after the Italians blow you away.” He checked a surprisingly impressive pocket watch and clacked his Misbaha prayer beads fast. “You have less than half an hour before the next Axis patrol comes through here.”

  Major Trufflefoot wiped down his glasses for the hundredth time in the last hour. “If I may be so bold, what prompted you to part ways with your, um, kinfolk?” Awan wagged a happy finger his way.

  “Well, my people tend to settle for the smallest profit, but I’m greedy. I’m willing to offer you my services full time and collect a real payday.”

  Sergeant Dore sniffed. “Are you meanin’ to enlist in the Arab Legion? Otherwise, you can go sell your knickknacks somewhere else, boy.”

  The quirky nomad folded his hands over his immaculate black man dress and glided over to the lone Officer of the group, ignoring the older NCO. He touched two fingers to his chest, mouth, and then brow. “I should introduce myself. I am Awan al-Askari, son of Sheik Nuri al-Askari. Scourge of the Italians. Ghost to the Germans. Terror for the Turks. The most renowned Bedouin guide this side of the Sinai!” Major Trufflefoot took a few steps back, but the Bedouin politely followed, blissfully ignorant of the Western concept of personal space.

  “Uh, indeed. I don’t suppose you have a business card? Letter of recommendation, perchance?”

  Awan clucked and waved at the Major’s royal crown insignia on his sand-caked shoulder. “Admiral, unlike these camel herders, I’m a gentleman adventurer. Much like yourself. Educated at the finest schools in all the Sahara. And did you not hear me? I am the oldest son of the Nuri al-Askari!”

  Trufflefoot just blinked.

  “I thought you Englishmen were all scholars? Do you not know your own history? My father rode side by side with your King Lawrence during the Great Arab Revolt. Without him, Great Britain would never have beaten the Kaiser of America and conquered all of Asia. With my help, you’ll slaughter these Italians likewise and send them back to their island.”

  Kat put a hand on Dore’s shoulder as he stomped forward. She whistled and circled Awan. “My my, we certainly are lucky today. Surely, someone of your renowned lineage has better things to do than go slumming with a bunch of lost souls.”

  Awan beamed before dipping his head and blowing a kiss towards heaven.

  “Alas, my family’s financial fortunes have seen... better times. Praise be to Allah for bringing us together. This is a fantastic opportunity to help each other out. For a reasonable fee, I will guide you all the way back to that English army in Cyraceana. Most importantly, without bumping into a single Axis soldier along the way.”

  Dore spit into the fine sand, which vacuumed up the saliva in an instant. “Enough with this bullshit blarney. It’s a longshot, at best. If we’re spotted, the Germans will gun you down like a rat. So why would you risk your life for a few shekels?”

  Awan finally acknowledged the cranky NCO and matched his sneer. “What risk? And who said anything about money? If you get home, you owe me that jeep stuffed with all the weapons and supplies I can carry. And if you get caught, well, then I can say I led you into the trap. The fascists are very generous to informers. Personally, I’d rather follow in my father’s tradition and help you win the war, but eh, business is business.”

  “You cheeky bastard! And what if I just shoot you at the first sign of trouble?” Dore unslung his machine pistol and leaped forward.

  Awan splayed out his hands, serene as a monk. “Inshallah. If that’s what Allah wills, so shall it be. I only ask that you drop my body off for proper burial with my family.” His pitch-black eyes somehow darkened even more. “You’ll meet plenty of my well-armed cousins along the way.”

  Dore didn’t flinch as Awan pressed against his chest and bumped nostrils. Nor did Awan budge when the Scotsman clicked his gun’s safety off.

  “Contact!” Capson hollered and ripped the camouflaging debris off the jeep while Atkins cranked up the engine.

  Dore shifted his gaze to the massive dust cloud kicking up on the horizon, still keeping one eye on Awan. The Bedouins below broke camp in seconds and scattered in a hundred directions.

  Kat shoved Awan in the back of their ride. “You’re hired. How do we get out of here?”

  The Major nodded along as he hopped in the back. Dore hissed. “Are you kidding me? This guy’s as bent as a nine-bob note.”

  Awan winked at Dore and propped his feet on the gearbox. He pointed a long finger over Atkins’s shoulder. “You see those dunes about 300 meters north? Get over there, and we’ll be invisible to anyone down at the oasis. There’s also a wadi running through there that’s usually dry this time of year. It runs parallel to the main highway, so navigation is easy. It’s far enough away that we should be safe from any patrols out looking for you. That’ll take us all the way to El Agheila.”

  “Are you sure no one can spot us?”

  “Of course. I’ve taken this route for years. Plus, the Germans used it just yesterday to sneak in a bunch of guys dressed in your uniforms.” Dore clenched his gun until his knuckles burned white.

  “Did you guide them like you’re helping us?”

  Awan giggled and checked his golden pocket watch again. Kat narrowed her eyes at the swastika engraved on the back as he started singing a giddy, high-pitched nomad song.

  Kat grabbed a sidewall and whooped with glee as Atkins ramped the jeep airborne for a few feet. Dore caressed his weapon tenderly, his thumb massaging the safety off and on endlessly. “God, I hate this fucking country.”

  Three hours and thirty miles later, Awan guided them to an overhanging rock ledge in the wadi. Awan took a quick nip from his goatskin water flask as the Westerners stretched and cracked open the last of their water reserves.

  “You people drink like camels. If you dressed properly, that container could last the four of you two or three days.”

  Atkins tipped the five-gallon water jug back and lapped until his stomach ached. After one round through the team, Kat finished the last drop and chucked the empty can in the cargo bed.

&nb
sp; “What are you talking about? You’re the one running around all day dressed head to toe in black.”

  “Exactly. I might sweat a little under all these loose layers, but that’s nothing compared to the rivers you blokes are trailing with all your exposed skin. A Jesuit missionary explained it to me once. I think he called it convection or something like that. Point is, I’ve drunk barely a liter of water all day. Do I look like I’m on the verge of passing out, unlike you well-hydrated people?”

  Kat pried off her uniform top. While the undershirt dripped like she’d taken a swim, the salt stains on the blouse made it as hard as a board. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll be all right. I remember reading about solar stills in the survival manuals. If we can find something to use for a tarp...”

  Awan hunched down and rested his butt on his ankles in the curious fashion that only Arabs found comfortable. “Cute. You mean dig a hole in the ground and collect the condensation? Maybe that works in Europe, but come on. The earth around here is a bit thirstier.”

  He spit into the sand. The moisture sank away in the blink of an eye.

  Kat stomped her foot. “Whatever you say. We’ll deal with that later. How much farther do we have to go?”

  “We’re just outside of Sirte, so less than a hundred miles. Of course, this is where things get interesting. We should bed down here for the night. Too many planes buzzing around as soon as the sun goes down. I can’t protect you from the sky hunters.”

  He jumped up and swatted a tin of processed meat from Dore’s hand. The Scotsman only had the energy to grunt. “What the hell is your problem?”

  “Too much salt and other crap. If you get diarrhea, you’ll run through what little water you have left before sunrise.” Dore flipped his weapon up as Awan whipped out a concealed mini-scimitar and spun around. He loped off all the yellow Martian-like protrusions from the nearest cactus, skipping the green ones. In a few seconds, he had his hands full of cacti bulbs.

  “It’s like a desert orange. Make a fire and give these a light roast to scorch off the spines and enjoy. Don’t drink the water inside. It’s not really water… The fruit flesh has plenty of vitamins and moisture. Delicious, too.”