What Could Possibly Go Wrong (The Chronicles of St Mary's Book 6)

by Jodi Taylor

  Markham drew me aside. ‘Who’s in charge, here?’

  ‘Me.’ I said, ‘But for the purposes of this exercise, Miss Lingoss. Please tell your people that unless she wants them to do something really stupid, they are to take their instructions from her.’

  The warning wasn’t necessary. Miss Lingoss already had everyone lined up outside TB2 and was requesting the Security Team carry out a reconnaissance. While they were doing that, she herded everyone else into their teams, reminded them of their duties and responsibilities, made them carry out their com tests again, checked they had sufficient water with them, and despatched them to their allocated positions.

  I liked her. Despite what I suspected was an inclination to solitude and independence, she showed all the signs of a natural leader. I had high hopes of her, despite her unconventional appearance. The Mohican was covered by a camouflage hat with an assortment of pens and pencils rammed into the band. Without make-up, her face was pale, angular, and determined.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Markham, joining me on the ramp in the shade. ‘What’s the matter with the tall one?’

  ‘You mean Miss North?’

  He nodded.

  ‘She thinks command should be hers. She’s now trying to work out whether doing as she’s told and displaying team qualities will stand her in better or worse stead than displaying initiative by challenging her temporary boss.’

  He grinned. ‘She does know there’s no correct answer to that one, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Hopefully, by the time she’s worked it out, she’ll have realised she doesn’t need to work it out. Shall we go and see what’s happening?’

  We stepped out into the bright sunshine. Autumn in Egypt is actually quite pleasant, especially up here with the cooling breezes.

  We set off.

  I’ve visited the Valley of the Kings as a tourist several times, and the difference between then and now, as always, takes some getting used to. For example, in this time, the floor of the Valley was rough – not the artificially smooth surfaces constructed for tourists – but piled up with naturally occurring rocks and spoil from the tombs. The floor itself was much lower than in modern times, as well. Innumerable flash floods would wash silt and debris down into the Valley, building up the bottom and burying the tomb of Tutankhamun, thus keeping it nearly intact for that all-important future discovery in the early 20th century.

  I gave myself five minutes to enjoy the panorama below me and then, with some regret, resumed my Training Officer role and concentrated on my charges.

  I spent an hour or so with each team. Atherton, Hoyle, and Roberts were detailed to cover the south-east corner. There were any number of anonymous tombs in that area that we hoped to be able to identify. I could see Hoyle twisting his viewfinder, trying to home in on a line of carving over a lintel.

  Lingoss, North, Sykes, and Sands were covering the western side of the valley where there was another cluster of unidentified tombs to survey.

  They’d all found themselves shelter and shade and assembled their kit. They were working quietly together, dictating, recording, and surveying. Except, of course, for North who was trying to do everything herself. Sands, as per instructions, was letting her do things her way. He grinned at me as I passed.

  Markham and I spent the afternoon toiling between the two teams and then, as the shadows lengthened, I instructed Lingoss to pull them back to TB2, because this was only half of the job. Now they needed to assimilate their findings, update their records, liaise with the each other, and decide on their next day’s order of work. You can only plan so far ahead and some decisions must be made on site.

  Back in the pod, they ditched their packs with sighs of relief, had a good drink, and made themselves comfortable. I watched Atherton and Sykes working quietly together. After a moment, they were joined by Hoyle and Lingoss, comparing their findings. The four of them had their heads together and then one called a question to Sands, who responded and passed over a data cube.

  Only North seemed to keep herself apart. I sighed. She wasn’t going to last long at this rate. I know from personal experience – it’s just too much work for one person alone. You have to have a partner. I wondered how long it would take her to realise this, or even, gloomily, whether she would realise it at all. Should I say something to her, or leave her to work it out for herself? There was no doubt she grated on my nerves. How happy would I be to see her fail? I hesitated and then the decision was taken out of my hands by Atherton, who called her over to confirm something on his scratchpad. Once there, it was only natural for her to sit down and start collaborating with the others. I mentally awarded a couple of extra points to Atherton the Peacemaker.

  We got our heads down early that night and awoke ready for the new day.

  Chapter Four

  There was the usual healthy bickering over who was responsible for making the tea.

  ‘Actually,’ said Hoyle, ‘can I have coffee? I don’t like tea.’

  The world stopped spinning on its axis. Ten people eyed him with expressions ranging from condemnation to compassion via outright bewilderment.

  ‘Was it when you were in America?’ asked Roberts, sympathetically. ‘Did they make you drink coffee there?’

  ‘No, I didn’t like tea before I went to America. Never have.’

  ‘So, you don’t drink tea at all?’ persisted Roberts, adrift in the unknown.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, it tastes awful.’

  Ten people recoiled at this heresy. Sands tightened his grip on his mug as if fearing it would be torn from him and coffee would suddenly become compulsory.

  Hoyle seemed unaware of the consternation around him, calmly spooning coffee into a mug and topping it up with boiling water. I watched him as he sat quietly, sipping his devil’s brew and, as usual, taking very little part in the conversation around him. Even after all this time, he was the trainee about whom I knew the least. He was quiet, polite, and hard working, he caused no trouble at all, and yet every time I looked at him, I felt a stir of unease. Who did he remind me of?

  The Security team did another quick recce as they loaded up their equipment. Apart from reminding them to make sure they had enough tapes and water, I hardly had to do a thing. I could get used to this training lark.

  To make sure we were all on the same page, I asked Miss Lingoss to lay out the day’s schedule.

  ‘We think we may have identified an opening on the south-eastern side of the valley. There’s a cluster of three tombs together – KV60, KV20, and off to one side, KV43. However, at a fork in the path, close to KV60,’ she stabbed at the map, ‘we’ve identified a stone formation that looks suspiciously regular. We’ve consulted modern maps and there’s nothing shown. We think there’s a possibility that over the centuries, whatever is there will be concealed by the spoil from KV19, which, of course, hasn’t been built yet.’

  ‘Satisfactory work,’ I said. ‘Who identified the site?’

  Without hesitation, she nodded across the pod and I was pleased to see she had no difficulty bestowing credit where it was due. ‘Atherton.’

  ‘Well done, Mr Atherton. I shall look forward to viewing your findings this evening.’

  They loaded themselves up with equipment again and we stepped outside into the early-morning sunshine. The air seemed close and still. I wiped sweat from my forehead. It was hotter than yesterday. Much hotter.

  Markham and Randall reported the area clear. Lingoss directed them to their original sites and they dispersed.

  I gave them half an hour, then picked up a water flask, and settled my hat firmly on my head. I was just exiting the pod when I met Markham coming towards me from further up the trail.

  ‘We may have a problem.’ He gestured.

  He was right. We did have a problem.

  Over to the northeast, clouds were building on the horizon. Big, ominous bubbling clouds of purple and dirty grey. I remembered this area was prone to heavy wi
nter rainfall.

  ‘I think we should get them all back,’ he said. ‘We’ll wait things out inside the pod. I know it looks a long way off, but the autumn storms in this area can be ferocious.’

  I nodded. These were trainees. We weren’t taking any chances. ‘I’ll recall them now. How secure is the pod?’

  ‘It’s big and solid and waterproof. I’ll get the lightning rod up. We may have to power down for a while, but we’ll be perfectly safe.’

  I stepped aside and activated my com. ‘This is Maxwell. We have a heavy weather warning. Pack up your gear and return to the pod. Immediate action. Maxwell out.’

  Markham had crawled forwards to look down into the valley. ‘Max. Come and look.’

  Any doubts I might have had about whether I was being over-cautious were dispelled when I saw what was going on below. Controlled panic. Workers were scurrying around, shouting orders and instructions. Tools and valuable items were being loaded onto protesting camels and donkeys. This was not people battening down for a storm. This was an evacuation. They were leaving as quickly as they could. Canvases were hurriedly thrown over valuable but immovable items, their flapping corners secured. Everyone seemed in a big hurry to leave.

  Even as we watched, the wind got up, blowing stinging dust and sand into our eyes. I reached for my sunglasses and Markham pulled his scarf around his neck. In the sky, clouds boiled angrily, enveloping the sun, leaving only a frilly golden glow around the edges. A big weather front was coming through. I clambered to the top of a nearby rock and looked anxiously for my people.

  Atherton and Hoyle were first back, escorted by Roberts and Evans. All of them were staggering slightly under the weight of all their gear and Atherton, a true historian in the making, was complaining bitterly at having to break off his work for something as trivial as life-threatening weather.

  I could see no sign of any of the others. They should have been right behind them. Even as I opened my com, North spoke in my ear. ‘Dr Maxwell, we have a problem.’

  If I had a hundred pounds for every time I’d heard that …

  ‘Report.’

  ‘Mr Sands has fallen. He’s not badly hurt, but his ankle is twisted.’

  Markham rolled his eyes. ‘Who’s with him?’

  ‘Me, Lingoss, North, and Mr Randall.’

  Markham nodded. ‘On my way. The rest of you, continue back to TB2.’

  ‘But, sir …’

  ‘An order, Miss North. Immediate action.’

  He closed his com. ‘Looks like it’s you and me again, Max.’

  Of course it was.

  He turned back to the other team and raised his voice over the wind. ‘All of you stay here with the pod. No one leaves. I don’t want us heroically rescuing Sands, to get back and find you lot have wandered off and fallen down a ravine. Mr Roberts has command. Come on, Max.’

  They would, of course, have to be the team that was furthest away. I pulled my scarf around my face and we set off, clambering over rocks and scrambling along goat paths. Neither of us bothered about whether we could be seen from the valley. Down there, they had more important things to worry about than us.

  We met North and Sands making their way towards us. The others, burdened by all the equipment, would be making slower progress. She had his arm around her shoulders and was supporting him as best she could. It had to be North. Sykes was too short and Randall knew better than to leave two trainees unescorted.

  I raised my voice above the wind. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He slipped on a rock and hurt his leg.’

  Sands was red with effort and mortification. ‘Sorry, Max.’

  He’d lost his left foot at the Battle of St Mary’s. He had his bionic foot now and he always swore it would never be a hindrance but today it was, because he’d twisted his good ankle.

  ‘Not your fault. Get back and help them to secure the pod. Where are the others?’

  ‘Not far. Back up that trail. Struggling a bit with all the equipment.’

  ‘Go. We’ll give them a hand and be right behind you.’

  They disappeared back to the pod and we found the others about a hundred yards further back, carrying tripods, mapping equipment, and recording devices. Markham took a heavy case from Lingoss and I grabbed a tripod and slung a recorder around my neck.

  Around us, the wind had picked up again. The frilly border around the clouds had disappeared. The furthest hills had vanished in the murk. It was noticeably colder.

  Markham led the way and Randall brought up the rear.

  It wasn’t easy, making our way along the path with all our kit. The wind blew stinging dust everywhere, but we weren’t doing too badly and we certainly weren’t in any immediate danger, which made a nice change, and then it all went wrong.

  Just one – then another – then another – huge raindrops began to splatter to the ground, raising little craters in the dust. Some hit the ground so hard they bounced straight back up again. One or two fell on me and then, with no other preliminaries, the storm was upon us.

  It wasn’t rain. It was a solid torrent of water. I was drenched in seconds. We all were. The noise was overwhelming. Rain hammered into the ground and bounced off the rocks around us. And it was cold. The temperature had plummeted.

  We put our heads down and did the best we could and we weren’t doing too badly despite our burdens and the reduced visibility and then Randall, dependable, reliable Randall, bringing up the rear, slipped on a wet rock and went down with a terrible crash that was audible even above the noise the vertical water was making.

  I turned. He lay, sprawled awkwardly and cursing fit to burst.

  Markham ran back. ‘You two,’ he gestured to Sykes and Lingoss, ‘pick this lot up and get it back to the pod. We’ll follow on behind.’

  Lingoss opened her mouth. ‘But what about …?’

  ‘Do it now, Miss Lingoss.’

  They gathered up all the gear and staggered off into the rain.

  He was right. It was vital they got all the equipment back safely. This was one of the most heavily excavated areas on the planet. We couldn’t possibly leave behind a theodolite or a recorder to be discovered by archaeologists in the future. Quite apart from the archaeological furore it would raise, Dr Bairstow would quite simply kill us. And then deduct the cost of the equipment from our wages. We had brought metal detectors with us to ensure that our final foreign object search would be rigorous. This was the FOD plod (Foreign Object Damage), when we meticulously went over and over the ground to ensure we were clear, because leaving anything behind was a hanging offence.

  I felt quite confident letting Sykes and Lingoss go on ahead. They didn’t have far to go. The pod was only just around the corner. They couldn’t come to any harm. Despite the rain pounding down on our heads and the rising wind, I still didn’t feel worried.

  Markham was examining Randall, shouting above the noise of the storm. ‘How the hell did you manage this, you plonker?’

  Peering through the rain, I could see he hadn’t just tripped. He’d put his foot down some sort of hole, all the way up to his knee. He was half-kneeling, half-sitting, and still cursing.

  ‘Does it hurt? Is anything broken?’

  ‘No. Not much. But I can’t get it out.’

  No, he couldn’t. He’d fallen with the whole weight of his body, which had rammed his foot into this tiny space, and he was wedged.

  ‘We need a crowbar,’ said Markham, and opened his com. ‘The rock is quite soft. It’s not a problem. We’ll jimmy you out.’ He turned away, talking into his com.

  I stood up and walked a few paces up the path, meaning only to see how much distance remained between us and the pod. I still couldn’t hear anything over the pounding rain, but something made me look down. An inch of running water covered the path. It doesn’t sound much, but an inch of fast-flowing water is a lot. It only takes two feet of water to wash away a car. Don’t ask me how I know that when I still can’t tell you who the current prime min
ister is. Not that that really matters. The bit about the prime minister, I mean. Knowing how much water will wash you away to your death is always useful. Whereas knowing the name of the prime minister rarely is.

  I looked around at the surrounding rocks as if seeing them for the first time. Saw the deep channels carved by fast-flowing water. Remembered that this area was notorious for its flash floods. This country might only receive one inch of rainfall a year but it looked to me as if they got it all in one go. I looked around at the Theban Hills, all magnificently designed to channel vast quantities of water into the valley below. And we were standing in a very deep but above all very narrow gulley. And while I’d been working all that out, the water around my ankles was running faster and deeper. We were quite low down. In the foothills. Up there, hidden in the curtains of rain sweeping down from the skies, were the high hills, from which, any minute now, thousands of gallons of water would be pouring. And a substantial amount would find its way into this gulley.

  I turned back to Markham and said urgently, shouting above the noise of the rain, ‘We need to get him out. We’re going to be in trouble any minute now. Flash flood. And we’re right in its path.’

  He pushed his wet hair back and looked around at our surroundings.

  ‘There should be more water, surely. There have been huge amounts of water through here once upon a time. Where is it all?’

  I shrugged and wiped my wet face.

  ‘Dunno. Maybe there’s been a landslide further up and something is blocking the flow. Whatever it is, we should be grateful. But we still need to get him out as quickly as possible.’

  We both looked at Randall, still trapped, but the water flowing past him was still well below his waist. We had time to get him out.

  Sykes and Lingoss reappeared out of the curtain of water. Sykes was clutching a crowbar.

  My first impulse was to enquire sarcastically why it took two of them to carry one crowbar, but I had second thoughts. Get Randall out first. Yell at them later.