Operation: Sahara

-Banks-

Banks had to stop them before noon. The climb had been strenuous, the baking heat unrelenting, and if there was to be a firefight at the end of it, they needed to be in good enough shape for it. He found one of the few shaded spots in the lee of an outcrop and allowed the squad to flop down in it.

“We’ll stay here until dusk,” he said. “Get some rest, sleep if you can. You deserve it; that was a long haul.”

“Shall we set watch?” Wiggo asked.

“Same as before,” he replied. “I’ll take first dibs as I was last up out of my kip this morning. Get some water in you, get your heads down. If we crack on hard overnight my reckoning is we’ll be there…wherever there is…by morning.”

Before bedding down they all ate a meal from their rations and washed it down with some freshly brewed coffee; he limited them all to one cup each, not knowing how long they’d have to eke out their water. Davies and Wilkins were asleep almost immediately, but Wiggo came to join Banks for a smoke in a shaded spot looking back downhill over the shimmering oasis on the horizon.

“Do you think we’ll find anybody?” the sergeant asked.

“We’ll find them. Whether we find them alive…that’s a different story. There was a fuckload of blood back in yon camp.”

“Aye. That’s what’s got me thinking. Too much blood; somebody, maybe all of them, died down there. So why take the bodies?”

“Don’t dwell on it, Sarge. We’ll find out when we find out.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like auld Hynd,” Wiggo said.

“So I should. I taught him everything he knew.”

Their soft laughter echoed around them.

It was answered by another whistling drone from higher up in the hills.

Banks’ watch passed uneventfully. There was no recurrence of the droning noise and nothing moved in the view over the oasis save the shimmering heat haze above the foliage. His thoughts turned again and again to the fate of the researchers but, as he had told Wiggo, they’d find out when they found out, and no amount of speculation was going to get him anywhere. Instead he allowed himself to fall into that half-dreaming, half-watching state that had served him well for many years on guard duties all over the world, trusting his instincts and reflexes to warn him if action was needed.

He felt almost rested when Wiggo arrived mid-afternoon to take a spell, but fell immediately into sleep on laying down on his bedroll.

He came out of it in darker shadow, woken by a recurrence of the droning noise. It was louder now, somehow more insistent, and seemed to come not from one particular spot but from both above and below them on the hillside.

Davies was on guard, weapon raised when Banks joined him to look down the valley.

“Trouble, lad?”

“Buggered if I know, sir,” Davies replied. “There was only one sound at first, then another joined it. The one down the hill is definitely getting louder.”

The noise had an unworldly, ethereal quality to it, slightly rasping and almost metallic, more like something produced by a synthesised sound effect rather than anything natural.

Wiggo and Wilkins arrived to join them. The sound continued to increase in volume, the noise from below them joined now by an increasing chorus of overlapping drones from higher up.

“Fuck me, it’s a pipe band warming up,” Wiggo said. That had Banks thinking again about the Victorian era squad, and bagpipes and abducted men.

“Form up,” he said. “And eyes open. I don’t think it’s friendly.”

They all had their weapons in hand and moved to stand in the open, back to back with each man taking a quadrant. Banks had the view downhill and it seemed to him that the droning sound from below had shifted off to his right among a tangled field of tumbled rock. The noise from above got louder, more frantic.

If an attack is coming, it’ll be soon.

He saw Wiggo react, almost shoot and decide not to when several small rocks shifted over on the right and a trickle of sand fell between them. Then, as quickly as it had come, the sound faded and died, leaving them alone on a quiet hillside.

“Whatever it was, it got past us,” Davies said.

“Aye,” Banks replied. “And they had us outflanked and outnumbered. Why didn’t they attack?”

“Maybe we just got checked out?” Wiggo said.

“Aye, maybe. And if that’s the case, they got an advantage; they saw us and we didn’t see them. We still don’t know what we’re up against here. What do you say, lads? Shall we crack on and see if we can see the rabbit?”

“Lead on,” Wiggo said. “But if Tim the Enchanter shows up, I’m for the off.”

Davies and Wilkins both laughed, but the allusion, like many of Wiggo’s pop culture references, passed Banks by. He let it wash over him unremarked; he’d found that was usually for the best where his sergeant’s attempts at wit were concerned.

“Five minutes then,” he said. “Get your gear. We’ve got more climbing to do.”

Dusk was settling on the hillside as they moved out again. They kept tighter order now, alert for any shifting shadows as they reached the edge of the foothills and entered the mountains proper. After an hour’s climb he brought the squad to a halt again. They were on a ledge overlooking the oasis away on the horizon which was now merely a darker patch of shadow. Near the edge of the ledge was remnants of an old campfire, the circle of stones long gone cold.

Long indeed, he thought. This must be where they lost the corporal, Jennings.

“Smoke them if you’ve got them, lads,” he said. “But keep your wits about you. Nobody more than six feet from anybody else at all times and if you need a pish, do it here. No wandering off.”

He looked up the hill at the trail ahead. It looked to be steeper up there, more precipitous, and he remembered the old journal mentioning areas of single file climbing. He searched in vain for an alternative route, some other way around, but it seemed the only way was directly up.

“Okay, lads,” when he finished his smoke, “one last big push and we’ll be at the rescue site by morning. With any luck we’ll be able to cadge breakfast off the researchers and start making our way straight back home.”

“Luck?” Wiggo said. “I’ve forgotten the meaning of the word.”

“To be fair, Sarge,” Wilkins said, “there’s plenty of words you never knew the meaning of in the first place.”

“I’ve got two for you, lad,” Wiggo replied. “Bugger, and off.”

When they headed out a minute later, Banks once again took the lead.

It got steeper almost immediately and they were soon into the single file climbing that was mentioned in the old journal pages. It never got to the stage where he needed to resort to using his hands for balance but it was a close thing in places, and he was all too aware that a momentary lapse in concentration would overbalance him and help the weight of his pack carry him backwards into a long, possibly fatal, fall down the cliff face. His whole attention was on the trail ahead and he never raised his gaze from more than six feet ahead at any one time, trusting his feet to follow.

They climbed in silence in that manner for what seemed like hours while darkness fell around them, filling in the shadows to a greater blackness. Thin clouds scudded overhead, obscuring the stars and darkening the night even further, so much so that Banks was forced to switch on his gun light. He took care to keep it aimed where his gaze had been directed; no more than six feet ahead at any point. But now that it was illuminated, he felt much more exposed and had to remind himself not to speed up to compensate.

He was so intent on concentrating that it took him several seconds to notice something new in the night, not a sound this time, but a smell, an acrid, acid odor akin to the tang of malt vinegar. It persisted for several minutes before it dispersed in the night air, but it had been so singular that Banks made a mental note not to forget it.

You never know what might prove important later.

The single file climb seemed to go on forever but eventually, near midnight, they came to a high wide ledge that allowed them to stop and rest. Wiggo joined him for a smoke at the cliff edge. They looked down. Banks knew the trail they had taken was down there somewhere, and the oasis beyond that, but the cloud cover ensured that the view was obscured and there was only dark shadow below.

“Give the lads twenty minutes, Cap?” Wiggo asked.

“Make it thirty,” he replied. “I need the rest more than they do. This would have been a damned sight easier if I was ten years younger.”

“I hear you,” Wiggo said. “Ten years, a load of beer and a wheen of smokes certainly makes a difference.”

Banks laughed.

“Ah well, at least we’ve got experience and wisdom on our side.”

Wiggo laughed in return.

“Speak for yourself. All I’ve got going for me is good looks and charm.”

“I wouldn’t give up the day job, Sarge.”

“Do you think I do this for the fun of it?”

“Aye. I think we both do,” Banks said and for once Wiggo didn’t have a witty comeback; it had been too close to the truth.