Operation Mongolia (S-Squad Book 8)

by William Meikle

  The only plan he had in mind was to walk along the track, either east or west, and hope to find rockier ground heading north at some point. That was trusting to luck and was more Wiggins’ style than his own but he could see no other option. Even that was going to prove to be fraught with danger, for the rocky ground around the shack where they’d taken shelter was now surrounded by puddles.

  He thought of the dry, dead thing in the washroom and suddenly knew how it came to be there.

  “Wiggo, Davies,” he said, turning, “I want a guard on the front door. Wilko, Sarge, you take this window here.”

  “What are we watching for?” Wiggins said, heading for the door carrying a coffee with a smoke hanging from his lower lip.

  “Blue and red meanies,” Banks replied. “And if any turn up, don’t wait for an order, just take the fuckers down.”

  *

  They didn’t have to wait long for Banks’ hunch to be proved right. Taking advantage of the wet conditions, the first of the long red worms slithered onto the rocky station concourse before the squad had finished their coffee. This one was three feet long, a foot thick, glistening red in the gloom, with blue crackling flashes of electricity running in waves from front to rear. It raised its head, opening the fang-filled mouth as if tasting the air, and started to move towards the doorway.

  Wiggins put three shots down its gullet and it exploded into a puddle of pink mush that left not so much as a bone behind, just a tumble of white fangs that looked like white pencils scattered on the wet rock.

  “At least they go down easy enough,” Wiggins said.

  “Aye, but it looks like there’s a fuckload of them,” Banks said at his back from where he’d come to have a look. He pointed out into the gloom to the south. The desert was alive with squirming worms coiling wetly around each other in a rolling mass surrounded by crackling blue static—a mass that was slowly but surely heading their way.

  - 10 -

  The noise of Wiggins’ shots had been deafening in the confines of the shack. Donnie saw the soldiers put in earplugs as they unslung their rifles, and he saw from Hynd and Davies’ body language beside the north window that they were expecting trouble.

  The gunfire woke the professor. He sat up with a start, his white face appearing ghostly in the dim light.

  “What the hell is this now? Can’t a man get a bit of sleep around here?”

  Donnie did the first thing that came to mind. He grabbed Gillings and pulled him down under the table. Thankfully, the professor didn’t look to be in the mood to argue. They squeezed together in the cramped space.

  “Keep your head down, Prof,” he said. “Looks like there’s going to be a firefight.”

  He had enough time to notice that flickering blue light showed at both the open doorway and out the north window, then felt his hair stand on end, smelled ozone on the air.

  “Short, controlled bursts,” the captain shouted, then Donnie covered his ears with the palms of his hands as the shack filled with the roar of gunfire. All he could see was the backs of the soldiers and the muzzle flashes, yellow against the dancing blue, lighting up the shack like a manic disco strobe. Hot shell casings rattled to the floor and despite all of Donnie’s attempts to cover up his ears, they rang as if great bells were going off in his head.

  It seemed to go on forever but wasn’t more than thirty seconds later when he heard, faintly, the captain call out again.

  “Save them,” Banks shouted and the firing stuttered to a halt, leaving Donnie with ringing ears and a burnt smell in mouth and nose.

  He saw the captain step out the main door between Wiggins and Davies and his curiosity getting the better of him, got out from under the table and went to stand at Wiggins’ back, looking out over the small concourse.

  The wet rocks were strewn with pieces of pink, oozing mush that looked like someone had spilled a load of jellied confectionery then scattered thin, white needles among the remnants. Out in the gloom, the swathes of blue were slowly drifting away southward, soon lost in the murk and drizzle.

  “Well, we know more than we did before,” Wiggins said as he put a fresh magazine in his rifle.

  “What’s that?” Donnie asked.

  “They’ve definitely not got a backbone,” the corporal answered. “And they fuck off quickly when we shoot at them, which is always a bonus.”

  *

  It took several minutes for the ringing in Donnie’s ears to fade and for his hearing to lose a strange, echoing, muffled quality that was distinctly unpleasant. He lit a smoke, having to fight a tremble in his fingers, then joined Banks in looking out the north window.

  “Were they actually attacking us?” Donnie asked.

  Banks shook his head.

  “No, at least I don’t think so. They were just taking advantage of the wet ground to try to move across the rock. We gave them cause to think again, that’s all.”

  “Think? I doubt there’s a lot of that going on.”

  “And yet, they know enough to back off under fire. That’s not mindless behavior. Not completely.”

  “They’re nothing but mouths and arses from what I can see.”

  “Aye.” Banks laughed. “Much like Wiggo and yet, also like Wiggo, they’ve got the good sense to keep their heads down when some fucker is shooting at them. I wouldn’t rule out rudimentary behavior patterns among them just yet, Doctor. If I can teach Wiggo to make and fetch coffee, then anything’s possible.”

  Sergeant Hynd spoke up from the left side of the window.

  “Looks like the rain’s easing up, Cap,” he said.

  Donnie looked out to see that some of the gloom was lifting, the weather improving from the north where the sky was definitely lighter than it had been minutes earlier. As the view brightened, the blue washes and swathes that showed where the worms congregated faded and dimmed. By the time the squad was ready to move out again, the sky was clearing fast, only wispy clouds above them and steam rising from the rocky concourse of the shack as both the rainwater and the remnants of the shot worms evaporated in the heat.

  *

  Gillings pulled himself up from under the table and although he still looked far too pale to Donnie’s eyes, he announced that he was okay to walk.

  “The sooner we get going, the sooner you’ll get to retrieving my finds,” he said to Banks.

  Donnie knew already, just from observing the captain, that the soldier had hardly given their gear back at the base a second thought and wouldn’t until much later, when he was sure he had got everyone to safety. But trying to explain that to the professor at this stage would only chance a temper tantrum—and in Gillings’ current condition, he might not survive one of those.

  “Are you sure you’re ready for a walk?” Banks asked.

  Donnie interrupted before Gillings could reply.

  “I’ll keep an eye on him, Captain. Me and Private Davies will make sure he’s okay.”

  Banks turned his attention to young Wilkins.

  “How about you, lad? This is likely to be hard going for you.”

  Wilkins looked pained just to be standing up but he gave Banks a thumbs-up and a smile.

  “As long as we don’t have to do a few miles double-time, I’ll be fine.”

  Despite the lad’s protestations, Banks had the young private redistribute the contents of his pack among the other men so that all he carried was the camp stove in his pack and his weapon slung over his shoulder. Donnie noted that the other soldiers had no complaint at having to carry extra; indeed, they seemed keen to take on the weight if it would help the lad. He couldn’t help but make comparisons between the cutthroat every damned day competition of the University hierarchy and the casual camaraderie between these men. He’d always thought that the rigid discipline of soldiering wasn’t for him; but here he was, seeing something he was missing, something he envied.

  *

  The captain moved them out heading not east as Donnie had expected but west, deeper into the desert but keepin
g to the rocky track.

  “Captain Banks,” he said, “I told you, there’s nowt out there but old mining installations and I don’t even know how far they might be.”

  “I’m not heading for them,” Banks replied. “I’m just looking for better ground heading north.”

  For the first hour, there was no sign that they would find any—there was only more of the same sandy wastes to the north. Although they could see the larger outcrop of rock on the horizon that they’d spotted earlier, there appeared to be no way to get to it without crossing open sand.

  The walking was proving hard on both the professor and young Wilkins, and Banks was forced to call a rest stop. By Donnie’s reckoning, they’d only covered three miles before they were called to a halt. The lack of speed seemed to have brought the captain to a decision.

  “Davies, Sarge, you stay here with the others,” Banks said. “Let them rest up a bit longer. Wiggo and I will go on ahead and have a shufti, see if it’s worth keeping on this track. I’ll fire two shots if it’s okay for you to come up to join us—the sound should travel clear enough in this thin air.”

  The professor slumped alarmingly as if the act of stopping had sapped the last of his will to stay upright and it needed both Donnie and Private Davies to catch him and lower him gently to the ground. His face looked more gray than pale now, his eyes sunk in dark shadows, and when Davies gave him some water, Gillings had trouble getting his hand to stop shaking and got more of the water on his shirt than in his mouth. Wilkins wasn’t in much better shape although when Hynd asked how the lad was doing, he got the customary smile and thumbs-up in reply.

  “We can’t go too far like this,” Donnie said to the sergeant. “Certainly not twenty miles.”

  “The captain will come up with something. He always does,” Hynd said and once again, Donnie envied that simple faith in a superior.

  - 11 -

  Banks and Wiggins walked side by side, heading west along the rocky track. It stretched away in an almost straight line ahead of them to the horizon where it swam in a heat haze. There was still no sign of the escaped camel.

  “Bugger,” Wiggins said. “I was hoping for a dram from the professor’s bottle.”

  “You and me both, Wiggo,” Banks replied. “But keep your eyes off the track and look north—we need a route that’ll take us at least to yon outcrop over there.”

  “We’re going to have to go slow in any case,” Wiggins replied, “what with the lad’s gammy leg and the prof’s dodgy ticker. I cannae see anybody coming along the road here to give us a lift.”

  Banks nodded.

  “Aye, and the sat-phone’s still out of action. I guess we’re in for another night out here, whatever happens. Let’s just hope the rain keeps away, eh?”

  The skies had continued to clear, even in the north, the direction from which all the rain seemed to come. The expanses of sand on either side of the track were only stirred by the light breeze that ran north to south. There was no vegetation of any kind here, only sand and wind-scratched rock—and not enough of that to provide them passage north.

  “Maybe we should take a chance and head across the sand while it’s dry?” Wiggins said.

  “Naw,” Banks replied. “You saw what happened to the professor. These wormy fuckers are sitting around under there waiting for a happy meal. I’m not about to provide them with one. We’ll stay on this track for a bit longer and hope for better luck.”

  They walked for more than a mile before Banks saw a darker patch ahead on his right, raising his hopes. Ten minutes later, they reached a long stretch of rockier ground heading almost directly north at right angles to their track.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Banks muttered and fired two shots into the air.

  *

  Wiggins gave Banks a smoke while they waited for the others to come up to them—they could see the small band of five coming along slowly, the figures wavering in the heat.

  “What’s the plan, Cap?” Wiggins said.

  Banks was watching the approaching figures, gauging their pace. He shook his head, as if coming to a decision before answering.

  “I’d like to find somewhere—maybe yon outcrop on the horizon—where we can leave Wilkins, the Prof, Doctor Reid, and Davies in safety, then me and either you or the sarge will head off at double time to the pickup point and bring back the cavalry.”

  “Sounds fine to me,” Wiggins said. “The less running about I have to do over this kind of ground, the more I like it.”

  The figures in the distance were still coming on slowly—far too slowly. The outcrop Banks had in mind as their refuge for the night was still at least five miles north of them.

  It’s going to be touch and go if we get there before nightfall.

  *

  Both Gillings and Wilkins were in need of more rest after the walk along the track to reach Banks and Wiggins, causing the captain to revise his estimated time of arrival at the outcrop to even later.

  “Ten minutes,” he said. “That’s all we can afford, then we head north. Even if the weather holds, those fucking worms stay away, and we make good time, it’s still going to be dark when we get there so suck it up, lads. This is going to be tough.”

  Even after the ten minutes were up, Gillings had to lean on Doctor Reid’s shoulder before he could take a step, and young Wilkins was wincing every time he put weight on his bad leg. They headed north slowly along a flat patch of gray rock.

  The going was easy at first but after twenty minutes, the ground became more broken, the rock worn and eroded with deep holes and ruts that had to be avoided, stepped over, or walked around.

  Progress became painfully slow and Banks’ gaze kept turning to the west, watching the sun descend closer to the horizon. The rest periods became almost as long as the stretches of walking in between and although the rocky outcrop ahead was definitely nearer, the light was going fast from the sky and they were still two miles short.

  Banks used his rifle sight to scope out the outcrop while there was still enough light. There were more of the wooden dwellings on the summit of this one, similar in type to those there had been at the monastery, but there was no smoke from kitchen fires, no fluttering flags above the roofs, no sign of any movement. The place appeared deserted.

  But it is shelter for the night, and it can be defended. That’s all that matters.

  *

  They found a charnel pit five minutes later, a deep sandy hollow in the rock some ten feet deep and filled with bleached white bones; there looked to be goat and camel in there but there were also rib cages and grinning skulls that were all too human.

  “What the fuck is this now?” Wiggins said. “Some kind of all you can eat buffet for those fucking worms?”

  The bones were all tumbled together and weathering meant it was impossible to tell whether they had all been deposited at the same time or was the result of a phenomenon that took place over a long period of years, although Banks guessed the latter. There were no remnants of clothing and no skin or flesh remaining. Everything had been picked clean.

  Or sucked clean.

  The professor showed the first signs of interest in their surroundings since the start of the trek and would have stopped to investigate the pit if Banks hadn’t insisted they kept moving.

  “Old bones don’t interest me. The young ones of all of us here are what matters. Come on, there’s a settlement up on yon outcrop. Let’s see if there’s any monks offering us supper and another wee show.”

  *

  It was full dark before they arrived at their destination but they knew before they got there that the place was deserted; no lights showed anywhere on the dome of rock, no smell of kitchen fires or smoke in the air. The night was silent save for the sound of their feet on rock and the harsh gasps of both Gillings’ and Wilkins’ breath, both of whom were struggling to cover the last few yards of ground as they reached the base of the outcrop.

  Banks switched on the light on the barrel
of his rifle and using it as a guide led the way off the plain. A set of well-worn stone steps led in a winding path up to the cluster of houses on the summit a hundred feet above the desert plain, a dozen empty huts in a circle around a larger, obviously communal structure. Several of the huts were circles of stone open to the sky, their roofs having long since collapsed inward and others showed holes in the thatch. In contrast to the ornate splendor of the monastery of the day before, the architecture was workaday, cruder in every aspect, the large central building being only a single story with a high domed roof thatched in old, tinder-dry foliage. The only thing in common with the chamber back in the monastery was a circle of egg-shaped sealed vases around the inside of the outer wall, but there was no central well in this place, just a large circular fire pit, its ashes long gone cold.

  “Looks like this is our base for the night. Sarge, Wiggo, you’re on firewood duty. Some of the tumbled roofs in those other huts should burn just fine,” Banks said. “We’ll get some heat into us and some grub. Professor, Wilkins, make yourselves comfortable—your walking is done, for a while at least.”

  The two tired men flopped to the floor. Both of them looked totally beat and Banks knew he couldn’t ask them to go any further. Even a night’s rest wasn’t going to help much. He waited until they had a fire going and a pot of stew on the camp stove then lit a cigarette and laid out his plan.

  “We’re already late for our pickup,” he said. “And whatever’s affecting the phones hasn’t eased up. I don’t know how long they’ll wait for us and both the professor and Wilkins aren’t fit to go any further. So the sarge and I will do the heavy lifting. We’re heading out in ten minutes and planning on running as much of the way as we can. I estimate we’re somewhere around fifteen miles short of where we should be, so let’s say three hours if we’re lucky. We’ll bring the cavalry to you. Wiggo, you’re in charge while we’re gone. Don’t fuck up, there’s a good lad.”