Operation: Sahara

-Davies-

Davies brought up the rear as they left the high ledge to continue upward. If his guestimate was right, they were now nearing the base of the darker area he’d seen from far below that he’d taken for the entrance to a valley. They must now be a couple of thousand feet higher than the oasis, and it felt like it; the night air was actually cool against his cheeks, and although they were working hard on the climb, he hardly broke sweat.

There had been no further recurrence of the droning wails, for which Davies was thankful, for it had put the willies up him badly enough in daylight.

If I heard it again up here in the dark I might shit myself.

Davies had a love-hate relationship with dark nights. They had been few and far between in his youth, when neon lit the tower blocks and street lighting ruled the city. He actively had to seek out pockets of shadow to hide himself away from his tormentors, of which there had been several. Once he got older, he grew to appreciate the solitude and peace to be found under a blanket of stars but out here in a desert night he felt more like the scared kid from Easterhouse than any searcher of serenity, and he hated it for reminding him.

Back then he’d have been tucked away in a dark corner, listening for pursuit. His ears still served him as well as they did then and although most wouldn’t have taken note of it, Davies knew that a tumble of sand and gravel behind him meant trouble. He turned and aimed his weapon down the slope, controlling a desperate urge to let off a few rounds. More sand and gravel moved, accompanied by a soft scraping, almost like metal on rock, no more than ten yards away.

He peered into the shadows, trying to discern any moving patches of deeper darkness, looking for a man-shaped target, but all he saw were the squat, rounded forms of the scattered rocks. The next time the scraping sound came he had to swivel to his left to be facing it, but there was still no discernible target, although there was now a definite tang of vinegar in the air.

He let out two soft whistles to signal Wiggo, the next man above him, that there was trouble. The sergeant was at his back only seconds later.

“There’s something here, Sarge,” he whispered. “I think we’re being followed.”

“Let’s light him up, give him something to think about,” Wiggo said. “Lights on in three… one, two…”

The pair of them switched on their gun lights, both aiming at almost the same spot. All they lit up was what looked like a smooth black domed boulder more than six feet in length and three in height. Before they could take a shot, the boulder grew short stocky legs and scurried away, moving at speed into the deeper shadows leaving behind a spatter of loose sand and the scraping, almost metallic sound.

“Rocks that can run away? Will wonders never fucking cease?” Wiggo said. “You go on ahead of me, lad, I’ll watch your back.”

As Davies turned back to the hill the high droning sound returned, coming from the direction in which the ‘rock’ had scurried. It was answered by a chorus of drones from above, then once again the night fell silent.

Even with Wiggo behind and below him Davies felt the darkness at his back, pressing on his shoulders, an almost physical weight. Some neon and street lighting would suit him just fine about now.

They climbed with no further incident for several more hours. The thin cloud dispersed and the sky filled with twinkling light, enough to show them the trail and to cast deeper shadows in the clefts and fissures around them. Davies looked up; they were almost at the mouth of a huge ravine that towered high above, about twenty minutes more climbing at a guess. He looked forward to some respite. All of them were breathing heavily, and their pace had slowed considerably from earlier. Davies knew he had a couple of hours left in the tank but after that he’d be fit for nothing until they had some down time to recuperate. He could only hope that whatever was tracking them would allow them that luxury.

Twenty minutes later his guess was proved right when the captain brought them to a halt where the track widened and a vast ravine opened up before them. Higher up was still cast deep in shadow, but Davies got the impression of regular shapes, straight lines and high towers.

“We’re nearly there,” the captain said. “I believe that’s our ‘white city’ ahead… a bit further than it looks, maybe half an hour more. There’re no lights I can see, no sign of a camp, but if it is indeed a city, they might be inside a building somewhere. We all know we’re not alone on this hill, but whatever’s on our tail, they’re as wary of us as we are of them.”

“I wouldnae bet my shirt on that, Cap,” Wiggo said.

“Nor me,” the captain admitted. “But we’ve got this far without a firefight. Let’s hope we can keep it that way.”

He allowed them a smoke break. Davies joined Wilkins to stand on the ledge and look back out over the desert. Far off to the east the sky had started to lighten to signal dawn’s approach. That was still an hour or more away, but it looked like the captain had got his sums right; they would be entering the lost city with the coming of dawn at their back.

Half an hour later the first true rays of dawn struck the crescent outer wall of a huge city. The wall stretched across forty yards of the valley floor and was half as high as that again, with only a single high arched passage, a near twenty-foot high semi-circle, as entry. Behind that sat a city of high turrets and crenulated balconies that marched away up the canyon, the turrets gaining height until the tallest of them were level with the highest walls at the top of the canyon which Davies estimated to be another thousand feet or so above. It reminded Davies of some of the fantasy cities in modern movies, and although he knew, historically, it shouldn’t be here, it nonetheless also looked perfectly natural in its setting, as if it had always belonged there.

It was built of blocks ten, twelve feet or more square, aligned so seamlessly it was difficult to see where they were joined. The outer surface of the crescent wall was covered, ground to as high as they could see, with fine miniature carvings that at first glance seemed to depict scenes of battles of antiquity although whether they might be Roman, Greek or even older was beyond Davies’ education to determine. The whole thing gave an impression of solidity, of ages past that had been endured and survived. It also, to Davies at least, gave off a feeling of emptiness like an immense, perfectly preserved mausoleum. His gut told him that there was nobody alive here for them to find.

The captain led them across the open valley in front of the great wall, a flat, featureless plain that looked to have been purposefully flattened and levelled in some distant past. Davies saw more of the scratches and grooves here, a great many of them. He looked for a blood trail or any evidence that the people from the encampment from the oasis had been brought this way, but there was only bare rock and sand.

They stopped just inside the wide entranceway. Daylight hadn’t yet reached the city beyond which still lay in darkness and shadow. The entranceway was an arch set into the wall and was more than twelve feet thick.

“We’re all knackered,” the captain said. “So let’s rest up here for an hour before heading into the city. If anybody was waiting for rescue, they’d be watching and they’d have seen us coming; I think we’re alone here. But we need rest before we start exploring. Wiggo, you watch the valley side, I’ll watch the city side, Wilkins and Davies, get a brew on, I’m parched.”

Making a pot of coffee did a lot to ground Davies back in reality, something he realized he was sorely in need of after the climb in the dark to this lost city of an ancient race.

It’s just like Wiggo said. Indiana Jones shite. All we’re missing is a bunch of Nazis.

He was getting the stove set up when he noticed several copper-colored things in the sand at his feet. He bent, brushed some dirt aside, and then realized what it was he was looking at. And once he’d spotted one of them, he looked around and saw that the whole area was covered in them.

“Sarge?” he said, calling Wiggo over. “Are these what I think they are?” He took a handful in his palm to show them. “They’re spent British .303 rifle cartridges, aren’t they? From the old Lee Enfields? Boer War vintage or thereabouts?”

“Aye,” Wiggo said after a long look. “It looks like the Cap’s Victorian squad story is true enough. They were here, and got into a firefight too by the looks of things. But what the hell were they shooting at?”

“I’m guessing we’ll find out soon enough,” the captain said from Davies’ other side. “Let’s not go looking for more trouble than we can afford. How’s that coffee coming along?”

After coffee and a smoke Davies felt almost rested and ready. The captain seemed to agree.

“Okay, lads. Let’s find our lost lambs if we can. Stay close and stay alert, we don’t yet know what we might be up against here.”