by Jodi Taylor
Randall’s position was awkward. He couldn’t sit, he couldn’t stand, and the water streaming past him was knocking him off balance. Lingoss and Sykes kept him upright as best they could while Markham hacked away at the rock, which was, as he had said, quite soft. It wouldn’t be long now. We would get him out.
I put my hand on Randall’s shoulder. ‘We’ll get you out.’
He nodded, wiping his face on his sleeve.
And then, of course, just when you think things can’t get any worse, they do.
Another voice in my ear. Sands, this time.
‘Max?’ He sounded worried.
‘Busy here. What’s happening?’
‘Max, I’m sorry. We’re going to have to go.’
My heart thumped painfully in my chest. If it’s one thing every historian fears, it’s being left behind. That your pod, for some reason, goes off without you. You’re stranded and if it doesn’t come back, you’re stranded forever. We tell ourselves we’re St Mary’s and we never leave our people behind, but always, deep down, there’s that fear … This situation was deteriorating with every passing moment.
I kept my voice calm. ‘Why? Is someone else hurt?’
‘Worse.’
He paused.
‘What, for God’s sake?’
‘It’s TB2. We’re blocking the flow of water down your wadi.’
‘And don’t think we’re not grateful.’
‘No – it’s worse than you think. The pod is so big that we’re actually diverting a bloody great riverful of water and it’s flowing down the wrong side of the mountain.’
‘And that is bad because …’
‘We’re diverting a substantial amount of water away from the Valley of the Kings and all the debris and silt and gubbins that goes with it will be deposited somewhere else. I don’t know where, but it won’t be the lowest point of the valley. What I’m saying,’ he said, making things crystal-clear for his idiot boss, ‘is that it won’t cover Tutankhamun’s tomb.’
I heard Dr Bairstow’s voice from long ago. ‘The act of observing changes that which is being observed.’
In other words, by being here, at this time, we were blocking the passage of water. Without this flash flood, all the debris and loose rock would not crash down into the Valley of the Kings to cover Tutankhamun’s tomb and keep it safe down the centuries, ready for Carter and Caernarvon to discover millennia later. The tomb would be exposed all throughout the winter. Visible to anyone who cared to stroll past with a view to a little light tomb robbing that night. We knew it should be covered over during this autumn, the one following Tutankhamun’s spring burial, because the remains of seasonal flowers had been discovered amongst the spoil during the excavation. This was almost certainly the storm that led to that serendipitous burial, but we and our giant pod were in the wrong place at the wrong time and had screwed everything. The diverted water would carve fresh channels in the hillside. Future floods would also flow down the wrong side of the mountain. The tomb might never be covered over at all. We were about to have a major impact on History. If we prevented this tomb from being safely buried – if this, the most important tomb ever discovered – was left exposed to the same fate as every other tomb in this valley, then we would be changing History and History won’t let that happen. Ever.
If TB2 stayed put, then it and all of us, including Randall, would be at risk from History.
If TB2 jumped, the original flow would be restored and Tutankhamun’s tomb should be safe. And Randall would drown. A great torrent of water would come racing down this wadi. Randall would drown but the tomb would be safe.
I had a decision to make.
I looked down at Markham who had paused from his efforts to free Randall to look up at me. The implication was clear. The decision was mine and whatever decision I made, he would support me without hesitation. Therefore, I’d better get it right.
I sighed. There were no procedural issues here. This was a moral dilemma. My duty was clear. My conscience would not be.
If possible, the rain came down even harder. I was blind with the force of it and shivering with the cold. Even without the unwitting protection of TB2, the level was nearly up to Randall’s waist. Lingoss and Sykes were struggling to keep him kneeling upright as cold, dirty water surged past us.
‘Max?’ It was Sands, back in TB2, awaiting instructions.
I caught Markham’s eye. He nodded briefly and then redoubled his efforts.
I took a deep breath and gave the order.
‘Initiate the jump.’
There was a pause. I knew what he was thinking.
‘Say again, Max.’
‘Initiate the jump. Return to St Mary’s. My authority.’
‘Copy that,’ he said, with no expression in his voice at all, and closed the link.
Randall had closed his eyes.
He knew what this decision meant. We all knew what this decision meant. Not only were they going off and leaving us, but as soon as the pod jumped away, an enormous torrent of water would be unleashed, and a vast wall of water would race down this narrow gully, bringing down everything in its path. If Markham, Sykes, Lingoss, and I managed to keep our feet, it would be a miracle. The only one who wouldn’t be swept away was Randall, still with his leg firmly trapped. Since at that point, the water would probably be a good two feet over his head, this would be small comfort, but I had no choice. We were badly parked. We were diverting floodwaters away from their natural course, which was down into the Valley of the Kings. And if I didn’t correct the situation, History would correct it for me.
I leaned down so he could hear me. ‘We won’t leave you. We’re St Mary’s and we never leave our people behind.’
He was white and shaking. I didn’t blame him. He couldn’t see any way out of this and neither could I, because there wasn’t any way out of this.
Markham squatted in front of him. ‘Not going to let you die, mate.’
He gave a weak smile and nodded.
Raising my voice over the downpour, I shouted, ‘Sykes, Lingoss, get yourselves to higher ground. Now. That’s an order.’
Sykes was staring at me.
‘But …’
Well, looking on the bright side, the original purpose of this assignment had been to foster team-building and planning skills. Now, I was presenting them with an excellent opportunity to see what happens when everything goes tits up, and however unpleasant remedial action might be, when History is involved, there’s never any choice. It was a lesson that had to be learned and today was as good a day as any.
Neither trainee moved.
I shouted, partly over the rain, partly over the noise of Markham still hacking away at the rock and, judging by his occasional shout of pain, Randall himself. ‘Did you not hear me? Higher ground. Go. Now.’
If TB2 had already gone – and if they hadn’t then they’d be answering to me later – then any minute now a great tsunami of water was going to race down this wadi, bringing God knows what with it. If they didn’t get out of here, it was very possible that it was their remains that Howard Carter would be digging up in 1922. And on a more personal note, I was bloody sure I wasn’t going down in St Mary’s history as the person who lost two fifths of her trainees on their very first assignment. I’d never hear the last of it, Dr Bairstow would be unhappy, and worst of all, there would be Paperwork.
‘No,’ said Lingoss in a tone of voice that was not defiant or disobedient but definite. She wasn’t going to budge and there was nothing I could do about it. I looked at Sykes.
‘Nor me,’ she said. ‘Team spirit, remember.’
There was no time to argue. The flood was upon us. Even over the downpour, I could hear approaching thunder. We had only seconds left. It was too late to get them out.
I shouted, ‘Brace yourselves.’
And suddenly, here it was.
I stood behind Randall so any pressure of water would force him back against me and keep him upright. In an effor
t to shield him from the worst of it, Sykes stood as I did, but in front of him. Lingoss braced herself against the rock face with one hand and seized Sykes’s belt with the other. We all clung on to each other, apart from Markham who continued to batter at the rock with frenzied blows and truly awful language.
I was enveloped in a sudden deluge of icy, foul-smelling water. If I hadn’t been hanging on to Randall then I’d have been swept away in the initial impact. The shock of it made me gasp. I felt loose grit and stones shift beneath my feet and for a moment I thought I would be washed away.
People who’ve never been caught in a flood think it’s just water. Cold and unpleasant, but just water. But it isn’t. A flood of this magnitude picks up everything in its path and brings it all down with it. Dead branches – no idea where they came from half way up a mountain – swirled past me in the muddy torrent, scratching at my face and threatening to poke my eyes out. I could feel rocks banging away against my legs. Even with Randall protecting me to some extent, it still hurt.
We all hung on to each other, trying to fend off the worst of it and protect ourselves, but even so, we nearly lost our footing in that first relentless surge of water.
Within moments, Randall’s straining head had disappeared below the surface. I heard Sykes shout something. She appeared to take a deep breath and then she too disappeared beneath the swirling torrent. I thought she’d been swept away, but I couldn’t free a hand for her. I could feel her moving beneath the surface. Ten seconds later, she reappeared, sucked in another massive breath, and then disappeared again. I saw Lingoss tighten her grip on the rock and her face creased with the strain of holding on. I realised what the pair of them were doing. In a desperate effort to keep him alive, Sykes was giving Randall underwater mouth to mouth, and Lingoss was hanging onto her for dear life.
While all this was going on, Markham had never let up in his efforts to prise Randall’s leg free, but something must have hit him below the waterline. I heard his cry as he lost his grip on his crowbar, which whirled past me and was lost before I could grab at it. I could only hope it was well and truly buried and rusted away before anyone had the chance to find it.
Markham himself tumbled past me. Without thinking, I reached out an arm and grabbed him by the scruff of his jacket. So to recap, Lingoss had hold of the rock and Sykes. Sykes was hanging on to Randall. I was hanging on to Randall and Markham and Markham was flattened against the rock face, which at least took some of the strain off my shoulders.
While all this was going on, Sykes was surfacing, sucking in air, and submerging again. Keeping up a rhythm. Her hair was plastered to her head and her eyes were two dark holes in her white face. Lingoss was gritting her teeth and just hanging on. I could see her arms quivering with the strain. The noise was tremendous. I had no idea how long we could keep this up. And what of Randall himself, still submerged underwater? I could feel no movement from him. Impossible to believe he was calmly kneeling there with the water twelve inches over his head while someone else did his breathing for him. I couldn’t have done it. Was he even alive? Were we all risking our lives for a dead man? I pushed that thought away. With luck, he was unconscious, which would make everyone’s job easier.
Red water poured past us even more furiously. The stink was amazing. We were buffeted on every side. I could see Lingoss bracing herself hard. Her knuckles were white with strain and her eyes squeezed tight shut. Sykes kept up the rhythm. Head above water. Suck in oxygen. Disappear. Reappear. Gasp for breath. Do it again. The force of the water was pushing them all against me and it was only a matter of time before I lost my footing. I couldn’t hear myself think over the noise of the rushing water. Something hard hit me on the arm and I nearly lost Markham. He shouted something. He and I were fending off the floating rubbish as best we could but the flow was unending. There was no escape from it. We were all hanging on for dear life. I could only hope that when the initial surge had passed then Randall’s head would be above water again. Whether he would be alive or not remained to be seen.
And still the rain poured down on us. Surely a storm of this ferocity must wear itself out soon. That’s the thing with flash floods. Soon started – soon over. I couldn’t help remembering last year during the Great Fire of London, when we were all slowly cooking to death and I’d wished for an assignment that involved plenty of cool, clear water. They say you should be careful what you wish for. I decided to shut up in future. If I had one.
Sykes was still carrying out her mouth to mouth. I’ve done it myself. I know how exhausting it can be. She couldn’t keep it up much longer. I began to formulate plans to change places with her without us losing our grip and being swept away. At the moment, however, there was nothing we could do but grit our teeth and endure.
Markham shouted again. He was trying to tell me something. I looked around. I looked down. Surely – yes – the water level was lower. Much lower. The initial surge, the one released by TB2’s departure, was subsiding as quickly as it had come. Even the rain was letting up.
Randall’s head appeared. His face was very white. Dark bruises showed clearly on his cheekbones. A deep gash ran across his forehead and up into his hairline. His eyes were closed. His hair and ears were filled with mud. Sykes fell sideways into the water, exhausted. I braced Randall’s head and Markham scrabbled to clear his airways. We were all cold, but Randall’s skin felt icy. I assumed he was breathing on his own. Either that or he was dead.
Markham had lost his crowbar and the crack was filled with silt and stones. There was no way we could get him out ourselves. We could only wait for rescue. For TB2 to come back.
All around us, I could hear the sounds of splashing water. There were small, recently formed waterfalls everywhere. A chill wind still blew.
Through chattering teeth, I said to Markham, ‘Is he alive?’
‘As far as I can see, yes. But my hands are so cold it’s hard to tell.’ He turned to Sykes, who was showcasing this year’s drowned rat look. ‘Well done.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, excellent work the pair of you,’ and considered what to do next.
Sykes had collapsed against the rock face. I was still taking Randall’s weight and dared not move. I knew Markham wouldn’t leave us so that just left Lingoss.
‘Miss Lingoss, are you able to get further up the wadi and meet the rescue party?’
She hesitated, looking from me to Markham to Randall. I understood. ‘They will come, Miss Lingoss. I need you to advise them to bring rescue equipment and guide them here. Quick as you can.’
The wadi still ran with water, and the going was rough, but she splashed her way up the path and out of sight.
I turned my attention to Sykes. ‘Are you hurt?’
She opened her eyes and grimaced. ‘Something hit my shoulder. It hurts a little.’
‘We’ll get you checked out as soon as we get back.’
She nodded. ‘Is he alive?’
I could hear the note of anxiety in her voice and liked her all the better for it. And I liked that she hadn’t given up. She had no idea whether Randall was alive or dead, but she hadn’t given up.
Markham nodded. ‘He’s unconscious – whether because he was walloped by something hefty or lack of oxygen or both, I’ve no idea. But he’s bleeding so he’s still alive.’
She closed her eyes again and sagged against a rock.
Time passed.
My earpiece crackled.
‘Dr Maxwell?’
It was Lingoss.
‘They’re here, ma’am. TB2 is back. They’ve come back.’
‘Told you,’ I said. ‘Bring them down here – quick as you can.’
Barely minutes later, they tramped around the corner. Peterson and Clerk in the lead and half the Security Section behind them, flourishing crowbars, hammers, and various implements. Behind them trudged Helen and Hunter, slipping and cursing as they came.
They clamped an oxygen mask to Randall’s face and turned their attention to his leg. With fo
ur or five of them at it, Randall was soon free. It wasn’t a painless process so it was just as well he was unconscious. They heaved him out and carted him up the path.
Hunter checked over Lingoss and Sykes. Markham and I seemed comparatively unscathed and there’s a phrase I never thought I’d ever get to use. We followed along behind.
‘So,’ said Helen, staring at the twenty pounds of Egyptian mud adhering to her boots as we squelched our way through the still-ankle-deep water. ‘Just to be clear. You nearly drowned half way up a mountain in a country that has one inch of rainfall a year.’
I considered this. Yes, a perfectly accurate statement.
‘So what’s next? A trip to the Namib Desert so you can contract hypothermia?’
Markham shivered. ‘Don’t give her ideas.’
Back in Sick Bay, they whisked Randall away, Sands had his foot bandaged, and we had our numerous bumps and bruises treated.
Someone put a mug of tea in front of me and I sat down for a moment to get my breath back.
‘You OK?’ said Markham, sitting himself down beside me.
‘Fine. How’s Randall?’
‘About as well as can be expected for a bloke who’s just had half a mountain wash over him. Concussed. Sprained ankle. There’s also crowbar-related trauma – I missed a couple of times and hit him instead.’
‘He’ll never let you hear the last of that.’
‘I hope not.’
He shifted in his seat and we fell silent, because for a moment up there, it had looked as if Randall might never get to complain about anything again.
‘Anyway,’ said Markham, ‘I’d say those two have the makings of true historians. Disobeying instructions and doing the right thing. North doesn’t look very happy.’
No, she didn’t. There had been Drama and she hadn’t been involved.
Helen wasn’t happy either. I could hear her snapping and snarling at everything within reach, including the furniture. I assumed that was because Randall was still only semi-conscious and couldn’t hear her, so she was taking things out on everyone else, but even so …