Operation: Sahara
William Meikle
www.severedpress.com
Copyright 2021 by William Meikle
-Banks-
Captain John Banks had a headache and Wiggo was complaining again. The two events were not unrelated.
"Oh, there's plenty of sand, Cap. I think we can all agree on that. And it's warm. But it's no' much of a fucking beach, is it?"
The small airstrip below them lay on the Egypt side of the Libyan border and was also barely ten miles north of bordering with Sudan. It had been chosen as the closest point to their destination by air, or at least the closest point they were allowed access to. Banks' problems were mounting up already; after landing, the rest of their journey would be on foot, it would be hard going, they'd be in a foreign country without official sanction, and Wiggo was not helping.
The complaints had started back in Lossiemouth at the briefing.
The colonel had been clear enough.
"You're on your own on this one, John. We can't offer air support; the Libyans are a suspicious lot at the best of times, and if they find out that we're running an op behind their backs they'll go ballistic, maybe literally so."
As soon as Banks got the squad together in the mess and explained the situation, his sergeant began taking it as a personal affront.
"The fucking Sahara?" Wiggo said. "I thought we were going on leave? Fuck, even Largs would do… a few pints, a couple of fish suppers and a wee warm lass at the disco would do me just fine. Anywhere...just no' the fucking Sahara. Have we no' had our fair share of fucking shitty deserts yet? Is that it?"
Even after Banks gave Wiggo 'the look' he could tell that the sergeant wasn't best pleased. On the flight over, Banks gave him the speech about duty, the squad, and the service.
"Bugger me, Cap, I don't need the newbie's speech. I get it. You ken that. I wouldnae be here otherwise," Wiggo said. "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few and all that shite. But why is it that we are always the fucking few?”
"I can only give you another quote in return. Ours is not to reason why."
"Do or die? Aye, there's a great choice right there. There had better no' be any fucking monsters this time out, that's all I'm saying."
Banks laughed.
"Nane that I know of. A team of researchers have gone missing and the brass think they've strayed into Libyan territory. We've to get them out and be quiet about it."
"Quiet? That'll make a wee change then. And these researchers? What were they after?"
"An ancient city; a legend. Nobody even knows if it ever existed."
"I knew it. I bloody well knew it. Mair Indiana Jones shite. Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful."
The complaints had stopped, for a while, during a three card brag game with Davies and Wilkins but now that they were approaching their landing at the desert airstrip, Wiggo had turned the volume up again.
"So this lost city, Cap? Does it have a name or is it really lost?"
"The colonel called it Zerzura," Banks replied. "A fabled white city of an architecture uncommon to Africa, said to have been populated by early white Europeans, possibly Greek or Roman but possibly built by a lost race far older than either."
"Aye, that's a lot of very little to be said, that's for sure. Anything else? Anything concrete?"
"Would you believe treasure?" Banks replied, laughing. "Rubies the size of your fist, emeralds like apples? At least that's according to a mannie who walked out of the desert in the Eighteen-Fifties claiming to have spent some time there. He said the people were friendly, if a bit strange and reclusive, with weird religious habits. What kind of weird was never specified. The colonel did say that there's been several expeditions looking for it over the years since but naebody ever found anything."
"So why this new expedition? Has there been new info come to light?"
"Not that I know of, but it's the same old story we all ken too well; the brass only tells us as much as they think we need to know to get a job done. And what we know is that a team of ten from Edinburgh Uni went missing off the grid a week ago, probably in Libyan territory. We sneak in, we find them, we bring them home. End of story."
"And do we know where to start?"
"I have their last known position. It's going to be a bit of a hike to get there."
"How far is a bit?"
"More than a day, less than a week."
"And nae chance of a camel, I suppose?"
"Ye'd have better luck getting off with that lass fae Largs you mentioned."
They landed five minutes later. The airstrip was little more than a flat piece of packed sand and they had to unload their kit themselves; it wasn't the kind of place to employ baggage handlers. As the plane taxied off to the far end of the makeshift runway, they were deposited beside a small shack manned by a single old Egyptian who looked old enough to have been there since the place was built.
"Two planes in a month," he said in perfect English. "The gods have blessed me."
Over cups of strong dark tea and heady local cigarettes at a shaded table outside the shed, Banks found out that the research team had set off three weeks previously by camel, carrying enough provisions for a month, heading west.
"There is nothing out there but sand and death," the old man said. "I told them that, and I will tell you the same. There is no lost city; it is a tale told by gullible men to even more gullible men in order to part them with their money."
"There are lost people though," Banks said grimly. "They are my only concern."
"Then may Allah guide your steps," the old man said, his last words as he went back to sit in his hut and Banks got the team ready to move out.
They'd done most of the preparation back in Scotland; desert camo gear, canteens, rations and packs as light as possible, eschewing body armor in favor of lighter flak jackets and bringing only a light bedding roll, but each man was still carrying somewhere around sixty pounds above their body weight when ammo and weapons were added in.
"It's going to be tough hiking," Banks said once they were all kitted up. "By my reckoning it's a four or five day walk. It might be less, but then again, it might be more, we can't tell until we see the terrain. We'll travel mainly by night, rest up when it's too hot where we can. And remember, it could be worse, it could be Glencoe in the phishing rain, so think on that before complaining too much."
"Aye, but there's a pub at either end of Glencoe, and the sheep are affectionate," Wiggo said.
"Still pining for that camel are you, Wiggo? Then maybe we should make sure you see it first. Lead us out, due west."
The next complaint came a few hours later, not from Wiggo but from Davies. For the past hour they'd been wading through ankle-deep sand and making slow progress.
"Fucking hell, Cap," the private said. "You were nae kidding about the going. Can you no' get somebody to tarmac this shite over? It would make for easier walking."
"I'll see what I can do," Banks said. He looked ahead to where the land rose onto a rockier plateau. It was in the general direction they needed to be going and it looked like better ground.
"Thataway," he said, pointing.
He was proved right ten minutes later when they clambered up an outcrop and saw firmer footing for the foreseeable distance ahead.
"Tarmac as ordered," he said. 'Don't say I never get you anything."
He checked his watch. Two hours until sunset. Just ahead of them was an overhanging rock shelf forming a natural shelter both from the elements and any prying eyes.
"Okay, lads," he said. "Take a break. We'll camp yonder until after dark then get going under the stars. Smoke them if you've got them."
Wilkins got a brew of coffee going and they broke out the rations; it pro
ved to be a thin chilli-con-carne that tasted of rehydrated tomato soup powder, but it was warm and filling which was all that an old soldier could ask for out in the field. Over a smoke, Wiggo tried to pump him for more information.
"So is this really just Indiana Jones level shite, or do you think there's something solid in this lost city bollocks?"
"You ken as much as I do, Wiggo," he said. "The colonel was even less forthcoming than usual about this one. There's a political game getting played upstairs with the Libyan government but I try not to show any enthusiasm for that side of things in front of the old man; he might take it the wrong way and promote me out of the squad."
"We cannae have that, sir. I've just got you broken in."
Banks laughed, and realised at the same instant that he'd finally started to think of Wiggo as his sergeant, rather than the corporal he'd been until recently. He'd always miss auld Hynd; they'd been together too many years, and had been too much like brothers for him to be easily replaced. But Wiggo was proving to be a more than adequate companion, despite his foul mouth and mostly good-natured moaning.
"Don't worry, Wiggo," he replied. "I intend to be ordering you sad sacks around for a while yet; I'm the only one they could get who would believe the shite this squad has got up to in recent years."
"Amen to that, Cap," Wiggo replied. "Let’s just hope it's just a wee quiet walk in an admittedly sandy park this time around. That would make a nice change."
"It would at that, Sarge," Banks answered, and saw Wiggo's little smile of pride at the acknowledgement of his rank.
At least they were starting in a good enough mood.
-Davies-
"This is much better," Davies said. They'd rested under the overhanging rock for three hours as the desert went dark in front of them and now they walked under a brilliant carpet of stars with the Milky Way stretched in an arc almost immediately overhead. The ground was harder underfoot; it no longer felt like wading in warm treacle and Davies soon got into the old familiar loping gait that came from arduous training carrying heavy packs in the Scottish and Welsh Highlands.
"I bet the Cap is happy to meet your approval," Wilkins said sarcastically.
Wiggo and the captain were some ten yards ahead, so Davies kept his voice low so that only he and Wilkins could hear.
"What about that shite the cap came out with earlier? Do you think he'd take promotion out of the squad? I don't know if I'd want to dae this without him in charge."
"Who knows," Wilkins replied. "Wiggo thinks one of us is definitely some kind of monster magnet though. Maybe it's the cap? He's been at it the longest."
"Awa' and don't talk shite, man. It's just bad luck we keep getting into the weird stuff."
"Bad luck, or destiny? Is there a difference?"
"Oh, so it's destiny is it now? Well you're destined to get a boot up the arse if you don't stop it with this auld bollocks."
"Promises, promises," Wilkins said.
They might joke about it, but Davies knew that Wilkins was as baffled as any of them as to why they kept encountering what Wiggo called 'all this X-Files shite' on every mission. Every time they left base they hoped this would be the time their luck changed and they'd get something straightforward to contend with. Hell, Davies would be happy if it was a squad of Libyan commandos; at least he'd know how to deal with them. Constantly having to appraise the threats posed by monsters of unknown origin had a nasty habit of stretching nerves to breaking point and beyond.
"I didn't sign up for this shite," Davies said under his breath. Wilkins heard him, and laughed.
"Join the army, meet interesting monsters, and shoot the fuck out of them. Would make a great recruitment poster for the videogame generation though, wouldn't it?"
"I cannae see it getting too many Easterhouse lads out of their bedrooms these days."
Davies had been raised in a block of flats in Glasgow's East End, son of a second-generation Jamaican immigrant mother and a father who'd buggered off before Davies knew him. It was a harsh baptism for a wee black lad with a big mouth, but his mother had always been there, always pushed him. She wanted him to be a doctor, he wanted to be a soldier...and now he got to do both, with a group of men as tight as brothers who he trusted with his life. For all his own moaning about monsters he wouldn't choose to be anywhere else.
They walked for several hours under the stars. Every so often Davies spotted the captain check his GPS then change their direction slightly. They appeared to be heading towards a canyon several miles distant. An hour later Captain Banks stopped them on a ridge that looked down over its entrance.
"Welcome to Libya, lads," he said. "If you see passport control, feel free to ignore it. We go canny from here on in; we're not supposed to be here, remember?"
They had a smoke while the captain checked out the terrain ahead.
"If anybody is waiting for us, that's a perfect place for an ambush," Davies said.
"Unfortunately for us, it's the best route to get where we want to go. The alternative is to go all the way round these cliffs and that'll add another day's hard slog," Banks replied. "I can't see anything that could bother us, so we go in, fast and quiet."
"That's the Sarge fucked then," Wilkins said, and Davies was glad it wasn't him that got Cap's evil eye in reply.
After that it was all business for another hour as they made their way down into the canyon. Nothing moved in the night but them, the only sound coming from the soft pad of their feet on rock, the only light coming from the stars and the moon rising at their backs. They ran at a steady trot and Davies thought the Cap was right; it was preferable to a winter's day in the Scottish Highlands, even given the chance there might be a sniper somewhere above watching their every move.
But they reached the canyon with no interference. The walls loomed high above on either side and it was much darker here but they eschewed any lights and continued to move in deeper, slowing to a walk and following the captain in the lead. The only light was the occasional faint blue glare when he checked the GPS on his watch. Finally, after two hours more, he brought them to a halt in the shade of another overhang.
"Take five, lads. Have a smoke if you like, but cup the tips; I think we're alone but best to take no chances."
It was while they were standing in a group smoking that they heard it, the distinctive bray of a camel, somewhere in the night ahead of them, and some distance away.
"It proves nothing," the captain said. "The beasts run wild in these parts; doesn't mean anything."
All the same, when they moved out again, they moved more cautiously.
Davies was bringing up the rear when they heard the camel bray again, closer now, and still ahead of them deeper in the canyon. The captain stopped them to check the area ahead through his rifle sight.
"Two hundred yards, straight ahead and coming this way," he said. "I can just about see it. It looks like it's carrying a load, but it's on its own. I think it's an escapee."
"Escapee from what?" Wiggo said, but didn't get a reply. Instead the captain moved them out again, and two minutes later they came across the source of the braying.
The beast, on seeing the men approach, made straight for them, as if happy for the company. Davies caught it by the halter and ran a hand across its neck. His palm came away sticky, coated black in the starlight, and he smelled a distinctive odor.
"It's injured," he said. "It's bleeding."
Wiggo checked the beast from head to flank.
"The beast's fine," he said. "It's not its blood. It's been splashed by something...or somebody…else."
"Bring it with us," the captain said. "We need to examine it but not here in the open. It'll be dawn soon so we need to find cover."
It fell to Davies to take the halter. The beast came meekly with him, although he was only too aware of the stink rising off it. It carried packs on either side behind the hump and they appeared to be fully laden but Davies knew better than to have a surreptitious check on the contents; th
e cap reserved that for himself, it had been obvious from his tone.
The sky above the canyon walls had started to lighten when the captain brought the squad to a halt again. He drew them into one of the numerous box canyons on the southern side, up to the far end where they'd be in deep shade most of the day.
"Get your heads down, lads. I'll take first watch," the captain said, and took the halter from Davies. The private really wanted to stay with the beast to see what it was carrying but the captain led it a few yards out into the canyon to allow the rest of the squad to bed down, and again Davies knew better than to open his mouth. He hoped one day to get some of the privileges that came with rank, but until then silence was definitely the best policy. Wiggo had bucked that trend; his cheeky chappie routine coming with enough genuine charm to override its impertinence. Davies knew himself well enough to know that he would never be able to pull that off without looking like a complete idiot.
Better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a bampot than to open it and prove it.
He only realised how tired he was after he unrolled his bedding. He lay down, closed his eyes, and was asleep almost immediately.
-Banks-
The first thing Banks did was to examine the blood at the camel's neck, a long, crescent-shaped splash, drying now but only a few hours old at a guess. If it was human, it meant that there might be hope that the research team weren't too far distant, but might be injured. He itched to be on the move; every minute might be important. But traveling too far, too fast, in too much heat, was only going to sap their strength, and their will come to that. The squad would be no use to the researchers if they themselves needed rescuing. They'd all, Banks included, be better off resting now in case tough action was needed later.
After giving the camel some water from his canteen, Banks studied the contents of the packs it had been carrying, emptying them out and laying them on the ground like the pieces of a puzzle he might be able to solve.
There was a large goatskin of water, three bedding rolls, changes of underwear for both men and women and a smaller canvas rucksack containing an expensive digital camera and lenses, a laptop, several notebooks and pens and several pages, obviously torn from an old journal that looked out of place among the modernity.
Operation: Sahara Page 1