Operation: Sahara

-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; the 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.