by Pat Kelleher
TOSSED ABOUT BY the repercussing air, deafened and blinded by the brilliant flash of the blast, Tulliver struggled with the controls. It seemed a hopeless task. He could hear Hepton screaming incoherently behind him.
Dragged by the traction of the engine and the weight of its nose, the Sopwith fell from the sky. The struts groaned. The wires shrieked. Loose cotton drummed. Violent vibrations threatened to shake the bus apart.
Dear God, the engine was still going. He’d rip the bloody wings off at this speed. Hampered by a fog of afterimages, he groped around the dashboard and cut off the engine.
As his vision cleared, Tulliver was terrified to see the ground all around him, spinning like a dervish. He had to pull out of the spin; it was death if he didn’t. He played the rudder bar with his feet and gradually brought the spin under control, praying the bus would hold together a little longer. He pulled back on the stick. The vibrations eased and the ground began slipping away beneath him; a flash of horizon and then everything was sky. He was out of the dive and gliding, several hundred feet up.
It was quiet without the engine. His hearing returning, even above the persistent ringing, he could hear the distant crumps as, far off, bolts of energy continued to strike skyward. Trembling and nauseous, he started the engine again and gripped the stick tightly in an effort to stop his hands shaking, biting the inside of his cheeks hard enough to draw blood in order to stop himself sobbing with relief. Not trusting himself or his bus to do anything else, he flew level for a while, to get his bearings.
Searching the landscape for the crater, he saw a telltale trail of smoke hanging in the sky and caught sight of Werner’s Albatros spiralling down at the bottom of it.
He pushed the stick forward and dived after it, following it down; there was nothing else he could do but bear witness. It looked as if Werner had been trying to head back to the Zohtakarrii edifice, but lost control. Tulliver watched as his machine plummeted into the crater. Whipperwills snapped around it as it hit the tree tops. The Albatros stood proud on its nose for a moment before toppling over on its back. The canopy gave way beneath it, breaking its wings as it swallowed the machine in fits and starts, sucking it down out of sight beneath the waving boughs.
Tulliver felt a twinge of regret as the machine disappeared. Werner hadn’t been a bad man, just trying to do his best with what he had. Tulliver suspected that under different circumstances, they might even have been friends.
As the terror drained from him, an almost divine elation at his survival replaced it. Had he not been flying at such an altitude, he would surely have crashed. Werner had been damned unlucky.
What was causing those vast electrical discharges, he couldn’t say, but flying in these conditions was asking for trouble. Still shaking, he flew over the crater, the whipperwills snapping like ineffectual Archie as he looked for somewhere he might put down. He would have preferred landing outside the crater, but he didn’t want his bus to fall into the clutches of the Zohtakarrii again.
He noticed the spindly tower poking through the tree canopy, swung round it and turned towards the Strip. After what Tulliver had just witnessed, it wasn’t the best place to land, but it was the only place. Vegetation was thinner there. There were fewer whipperwills as well, and he couldn’t yet see any build-up of energy along it.
Loath as he was to admit it, he would be glad to have his feet on solid ground again.
THE DIFFUSE FLASHES that lit the sky, and the loud but distant reports, startled the Fusiliers at first.
“Christ, they put the wind up me! For a moment it sounded like a barrage going off,” muttered Mercy.
“Must be a lightning storm,” said Gazette glancing up, unconcerned. “Good job we’re in this crump ’ole of a place, if you ask me.”
“It is the time of the lightning trees,” growled Napoo. “It will pass.”
They heard the putter of an engine and caught sight of the Sopwith as it flew low overhead.
The sight of the red, white and blue roundels cheered them, and several waved, glad to see it.
Everson was relieved to see Tulliver had survived. As the aeroplane came round again, he pointed in the direction of the minaret and, having seen him, Tulliver waggled its wings in acknowledgment.
THE TANK CREW and the Black Hand Gang still regarded each other with suspicion, neither fully trusting the other after the events at Nazarr.
“Well, they seem a little more normal to me,” Gutsy said to Atkins. “Now they haven’t been in the tank for a week, and those fumes of theirs have worn off. Maybe we’ll get a bit more sense out of them. If you don’t keep trying to punch them, that is, you dozy mare.”
“Hmm,” said Atkins, his mind elsewhere. The fumes had caused many problems, but part of him wished the tankers still suffered from its effects, and then maybe they might tell him if they could still smell the remnants of Flora’s perfume on his letter. It was selfish, he knew, but since Porgy’s death, it felt like a matter of self-preservation. Since he could no longer smell it, a sense of fatalism settled over him and he fought to shrug it off.
In the background, the star shell flashes of the electrical bolts continued beyond the rim, their thunderous crashes following more quickly in their wake.
EVERSON WAS STIFF and sore from his fall and still reeling from the shock of meeting Rutherford, as he watched the tank crew and Fusiliers anxiously. If he couldn’t persuade these two sections to get on, what chance had he with the whole battalion? Maybe he was wrong, trying to hold the whole thing together. Maybe Rutherford was right; he should just let them all go their own ways and seek their own fortunes. He shook his head. Hadn’t that been what he’d wanted to do in defying his father and volunteering? And look where that had got him. It might work for some, but for those that did prosper, dozens more would die. No, he had a responsibility to the battalion, the whole battalion. He couldn’t afford to doubt that he’d done the right thing, otherwise what was the bloody point? No. He’d chosen his course. Onwards and upwards. There was no looking back now.
THEY HAD TO cross the Strip. Here, the soil was thin and dry, exposing weathered sandstone beneath. Networks of shallow roots laced the ground as plants tried to leech what nutrients they could from the poor shallow soil. Overshadowed by more fecund flora, the pale, hardy scrub clung stubbornly to the niche they had carved for themselves.
Napoo stooped, brushing sand away from the ground where the sandstone had weathered. He grunted, sat back on his haunches and rubbed his stubbly beard, perplexed.
Nellie noticed the Urman’s unease and walked over. It was worth taking notice of anything that caused him concern.
“What is it, Napoo?”
In reply, the grizzled Urman swept his hand over the ground, brushing aside the shallow sandy soil to reveal a hard surface underneath. Nellie’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ of surprise. “Lieutenant! Only!
Over here,” she called.
Everson came over as she knelt by Napoo. Her forehead knitted to a frown as she swept her hand to and fro, brushing away further sand as she sought to clear more of the surface. She sat back on her heels, looking at the results of their work. A large, perfectly flat, brushed silver metal surface lay before her. 1 Section and the others drifted over to see what they had discovered.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” muttered Everson. He looked up, abashed.
“Sorry, Padre.”
Padre Rand shook his head, dismissing the apology as unnecessary, seeming just as flabbergasted.
“I’ve seen this before,” said Nellie.
“We all have,” said Atkins. “We didn’t make any sense of it last time, either.”
“We haven’t,” said Reggie. “Where?”
“The canyon,” said Nellie, “before the Fractured Plain, when Corporal Atkins came looking for you. Only that one was set in the canyon.” Norman shook his head. “We didn’t see it.”
“You must have,” Nellie insisted. “You couldn’t miss it.” Wally shrugged. “My eyes we
re on the road.”
“And I was pounding away at some bastard insect men high up on the—” Norman paused. “The canyon wall you says?” A penny dropped. “Oh.”
“Do you think there’s a link then between that one and this one?” asked the padre.
Here, Nellie was on less certain ground. “Well, it does seem... odd,” she admitted. “Don’t you think?”
“Oh, it’s that all right,” agreed Jack, stamping on it with his hobnails, with a sound of metal on metal. It was solid; there was no hollow note.
“But everything about this place is bloody odd.”
Almost as a reflex, Atkins swung his right foot, scuffing the hobnails against the metal surface with the memory of sparking clogs on cobbles.
He’d done it since he was a child, running through the streets with William, and later with Flora, too. There were no sparks here, though. Beyond the crater, another bolt of lightning crazed into the sky with a thunderous clap hard on its heels. Whatever it was, it was getting closer.
“Riley, what do you make of this?” Everson asked the signaller. Riley pushed his cap back on his head, and then rubbed his palms together with relish. “Tonkins, get the listening kit out.”
The kit was one of Riley’s own devising, based on a captured German Moritz set, used to listen in on British communications. He placed copper plates against the exposed metal and connected the wires to the boxed listening apparatus.
Tonkins put the earphones over his head. After several minutes his eyes narrowed, then slowly widened. He beckoned Riley urgently.
“Corp!”
Riley rolled his eyes in exasperation and held his hand out. “Well, hand ’em over, lad.” Tonkins gave him the earphones and Riley placed them over his own ears.
“What’s going on?” asked Norman as they gathered to watch the sideshow.
“The Iddy Umptys reckon they can hear something,” Gazette whispered back.
“What, down there?”
Gazette nodded.
“Jesus!” Norman leapt back as if he’d stepped on a hot plate. “Relax,” said Gazette, unperturbed. “If it’s like the one in the canyon, it’s built like a brick shithouse.”
“Quiet, back there!” hissed Everson.
Turning his attention back to the signalman, Everson looked on in frustration as a similar look of bafflement washed over the corporal’s face.
“Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!” exclaimed Riley. The NCO pulled the earphones down around his neck and looked up at Everson, baffled. “It’s Morse code, sir.”
“Morse—”
Riley scowled, held up a finger to shush him, and put the earphones back on.
His wide-eyed gaze met that of Everson’s. “It’s us, sir,” he declared. Everson was perplexed. “Us?”
“It’s young Buckley, sir,” said Riley.
Everson let this sink in for a moment. “You mean back at the canyon.
How?”
“Same way we eavesdropped on German communications, I expect.
Electric induction of some sort. There’s a low electric current runs though the earth, a telluric current, you might say, but it should be too weak to transmit the signal this far, unless...” His voice trailed off as he deliberated.
“Unless what?” asked Everson impatiently.
“Unless these two places, this oojah, the strip, and the canyon wall are connected somehow, transmitting the signal like a cable.” Beside him, Tonkins nodded in eager agreement.
“Is that possible?”
Riley raised an eyebrow. “Have you taken a look around, lately, sir?”
“All right, point taken, Corporal,” said Everson, taking it in his stride. “Can you send a message back?”
Corporal Riley gave him a black look for even doubting it. He hauled over a kit bag, set up the telegraph apparatus as best as he could and began tapping the Morse key on top of the wooden telegraph box.
Then they waited.
“C’mon, Buckley...” muttered Riley, frowning intently as if trying to draw the message through the ground by willpower alone. There was a tense minute until Riley yelled and punched Tonkins in the arm, before sobering up and reporting po-faced. “Sorry, sir. I mean, message has been received and understood, sir.”
Everson was bewildered and surprised, but relieved. “So we have a line of communication.”
There was a loud howl of interference. Riley let out a yelp and ripped the earphones from his head. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”
A moment later, a magnesium white light flared briefly, lighting up the jungle as another bolt of lightning ripped up into the sky beyond the crater, followed a couple of seconds later by a peal of thunder, causing the men to flinch and duck.
“Right, well, we’ll try again after this damn freak storm has passed.
Pack up again, Corporal, and prepare to move out.”
AS THEY HEADED towards the centre of the crater, Nellie caught up with Atkins and tried to set her stride to his, but he didn’t slow his pace and she had to compensate by jogging intermittently to keep up with him. He might not want to talk to her, but she had one or two things to say to him. She glanced back over her shoulder. The tank crew were watching her, though trying not to look as if they were. Sweet, really. She turned her attention back to Atkins.
“How’s it feel to be commander of a tank crew, then?” he muttered darkly.
“Don’t be like that, Only. They’re not bad men. They haven’t been themselves; the fumes affected them. You should know that better than most.”
“You disobeyed orders. You went looking for him.”
“You’d have done the same,” she said, scurrying to keep up.
“Yeah, well, I only hope you find him alive, that’s all.”
The resentment in his voice surprised Nellie, but he had just lost a good mate and she put it down to that. “I’m sorry about Porgy. Edith will be, too. She liked him.”
“He isn’t the first mate I’ve lost, and he probably won’t be the last,” said Atkins.
There was another flash and thunderclap, almost on top of one another. Atkins sighed heavily.
“I feel like my life’s not my own anymore,” he said. “I’ve had prophecies thrown at me, deciding my future. I’ve had that bloody Chatt, Chandar, treating me like some kind of saint for saving its life and telling me I’m something of great significance. Half the men believe me to be some kind of St George, the rest think I’m a glory hound. It feels like everyone else owns a piece of my life but me. Nobody asks what I want.”
“It’s not just that, though, is it?” said Nellie. “There’s something else troubling you.”
“It’s no business of yours.”
“I’m not saying it is. But whatever it is, it’s eating you up. It might help to talk to someone.”
“You, I suppose?”
“No, but you need to talk to somebody. One of your mates, perhaps.”
“No!” he said curtly. Then in a softer, reconciliatory tone, “They wouldn’t understand.”
“The padre’s a good man,” Nellie suggested.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, head down, eyes fixed ahead, drawing the topic to a close. He stomped along in a sullen silence but, she noticed, his pace had slowed to match hers. It was enough.
THE DOMED BUILDING, with its narrowing finger of a tower, dominated the clearing. From within the structure came the sound of chanting.
Lieutenant Everson beckoned the men to remain in the cover of the undergrowth at the clearing’s edge. There were sixteen of them, all told, but their ammunition was severely limited. He didn’t want to get into a skirmish if he didn’t have to.
He ordered Gazette to cover the doors to the building. A little persuasive fire might keep those within from breaking out, if necessary.
But he needed to know with what he was dealing. With another gesture, he ordered Atkins and Gutsy to advance and scout out the building.
Crawling on their bellies, they crossed
the open space until they reached the wall of the building. Crouching with their backs to the wall, Atkins beckoned to Gutsy to stay where he was. Keeping close to the wall and below the loopholes, he made a circuit of the dome, checking for other entrances. He made his way round and came to the only entrance they had seen. The wooden doors were shut as he crawled past. The sound of chanting from within rose and fell like a liturgy.
When he got back round to Gutsy, Atkins jerked his thumb up. “Take a dekko through t’loophole.”
Gutsy stood cautiously and peered through the hole. “Urmen. They’ve got the tanker,” he hissed. “He’s still alive, but I don’t know for how much longer. There’s loads of the buggers. Fifty, sixty maybe. Most of ’em had their backs to me, couldn’t see much past ’em. Looks like some sort of temple. It’s not looking good for Alfie. They had him by some altar thing.”
“Bugger,” said Atkins. “Stay here. See if you can tell what they’re saying.”
Atkins headed back to the cover of the undergrowth on his elbows. He slithered down by Everson.
“There’s a large mob of Urmen in there, all right, sir. Gutsy—I mean Private Blood—thinks they might be getting ready to sacrifice him. From my experience they have a tendency to do that,” he offered, before nodding with respect towards their Urman guide. “Napoo’s mob excepted, that is.”
Everson chewed his lip, looking at the building, considering his next move. “It’s a defensible position.”
“Only if they know how to defend it, sir. There’s only one way in and out,” said Atkins. “Seem to me that we have surprise on our side, and those loopholes can act just as much in our favour as theirs. Depends who gets to use ’em first.”
Everson nodded approvingly. “I see your point, Corporal.” He patted Atkins on the shoulder as he crawled back to where the rest had laid up.
“Jack and Pot Shot, take the door with me. Gazette, cover us from here. Riley, Tonkins. Miss Abbott, Padre, stay with him.”
“What, we don’t get to try out the electric lances, sir?” asked Tonkins, disappointment clear on his face.
Everson smiled. “Not now, Private. I can’t take the chance.” He looked back at Mercy and the tank crew. “The rest of you, fan out and take up positions below the loopholes. Make sure you keep the next man along in sight and on my signal, stand to arms and cover the interior. Fire only on my orders. Napoo, you’re with me.”