James Lovegrove - The Age of Ra

The sun went down like a tin duck at a shooting gallery. Night stretched itself over the eastern Arabian desert, the light from a clear full moon creating a finely filigreed landscape of silver and black.

At an altitude of 1,000 feet a twin-engine Griffon-3 transporter plane released a stick of paratroopers in alternating door technique, ten on either side. Canopies flared immediately. The twenty men turned into the wind and dropped to the desert floor as silently as thistle seeds, each making a perfect five-point landing. Within minutes their chutes were buried and they were jogging towards Mount Hor and the dead city that nestled in its shadow, Petra.

They filed through the Siq, Petra's eastern gateway, a sheer-sided gorge hacked out by a long-ago earthquake and smoothed by water erosion. In places it was so narrow they could barely walk two abreast. Above, the sky was a distant strip of starshine, a glittering river meandering between black banks. The paratroopers moved carefully, wide-eyed in the near-total darkness of the gorge. The path sloped steeply, uneven underfoot. Each man held his ibis-headed ba lance at the ready, reassured by the warmth he could feel through the handgrips, the charge of divine essence that glowed within the weapon.

The Siq opened out onto a valley. Directly ahead lay the rendezvous point, a Romanesque temple hewn out of the face of a sandstone cliff and known as Al Khazneh, ''the Treasury''. Its colonnaded and porticoed entrance towered before the soldiers. Essentially a decorated cave mouth, it exuded a dusty silence, the breath of the ancient darkness within.

On the steps of the Treasury, Lieutenant David Westwynter lowered his lance and checked his watch. Precisely 8pm.

''Bang on time,'' he muttered. ''At least, we are.''

He gave the order to his men to fan out in a defensive formation. Sergeant Mal McAllister, his number two, relayed the order. The paratroopers broke off into small units and found what cover they could in this smooth-bottomed natural amphitheatre. They aimed their weapons in the direction an attack was most likely to come from, should one come: above.

''This can't be a trap,'' David said to Sergeant McAllister.

''Aye, but if it is,'' McAllister said, finishing his sentence, ''they have us in the ideal spot for an ambush.''

''That's just what I'm trying not to think.''

They waited. And waited. The cold desert wind sidled through the crags and canyons of the abandoned city, never louder than a sigh. In centuries past, Petra had been home to thousands. It had been a trading post, selling its principal resource, fresh water, which came from frequent flash floods and was husbanded in a network of dams and cisterns. The cave-dwelling citizens had worshipped deities who had been vanquished long ago, their names now forgotten, their effigies defaced. Christianity had briefly gained a toehold here, as had Islam. But in time those religions, too, had evaporated, leaving nothing but ruined monuments behind.

Petra, like so many other places, was a museum to the world's fallen gods. A museum and a mausoleum. Here lay their legacy, such as it was — a few broken idols and abandoned buildings, sacred to no one. Here were the sparse, scratched traces they had left behind, the only tangible proof that somewhere on earth they had once held sway. Now mankind belonged to the One True Pantheon, and the wind blowing through Petra sounded, to David Westwynter's ears, like a faint, mournful sob, the despair of defeated rivals. He was comforted by that.

''Sir.''

A whispered warning from McAllister.

David turned.

Men were approaching from the far end of the valley. He counted at least a dozen. They were spread out in a line, and the moonlight showed them to be clothed in ragged camouflage fatigues, with turbans around their heads and scarves across their faces, so that just their eyes were visible. Only the falcon-head nozzles on their ba lances and the maces that hung by their sides marked them out as Horusites.

David drew himself up to his full height, which at 5' 10" was a shade shorter than he might have liked.

The leader of the Horusite commandos halted in front of him and unveiled his face, revealing himself to be a broad-nosed black man with finely pitted skin. He stood an inch or so taller than David.

''Colonel Henry D. Wilkins, Eighth Infantry Division out of Cairo, Illinois,'' he said, snapping off a salute. ''Cobra Force.''

David returned the salute. ''Lieutenant David Westwynter of His Pharaonic Majesty's Second Paratroop Regiment, stationed on Cyprus.''

''By the light of Khons we have met…'' said Wilkins.

''… by the wisdom of Thoth may we assist one another,'' David said, completing the password sequence.

It was a kind of verbal handshake. Wilkins stuck out his hand for the real thing.

''Pleasure to meet you, Loot' Westwynter.''

''You too, sir. Related to Pastor-President Wilkins, I take it?''

Wilkins chuckled, amused. ''How'd you guess? We don't talk about him much. White sheep of the family.''

''The resemblance is marked,'' said David, also chuckling.

''Mind if I call you Dave?''

''David, preferably. I've only ever let one person call me Dave.''

''Sure. Whatever.'' This was said with a slightly dismissive air. You Brits and your formality .

''And you're late,'' David pointed out.

Wilkins bristled. You Brits…!

''Listen, Lieutenant ,'' he said. ''It so happens we've been tramping around the desert for three months. Hiding from enemy patrols and Saqqara Birds. Living like animals. So we arrive a few minutes later'n we're supposed to. Cut us some goddamn slack!''

David frowned. The encounter had begun well, but things were deteriorating fast. He said, ''You have some information for me regarding a concentration of enemy forces outside Amman and Damascus.''

''Straight to business, huh?'' said Wilkins. ''Yep, we've got some good shit for you all right. Long-lens photos of Nephthysian infantry and heavy armour being marshalled. Major, major build-up. Ask me, it looks like the start of a push northward into the Ottoman Empire to take on the Osirisiac Hegemony's south-eastern flank.''

David's eyes narrowed. ''That'll be for the desk jockeys in Intelligence to decide. Our job isn't to speculate. It's to get the information back to them.''

''Looks pretty cut and dried to me,'' replied Wilkins, adding sardonically, ''But then what do I know? I'm just a dumb grunt on the ground who risks his life doing recon in hostile territory all day long. I sure as shit can't imagine what else the Nephs would be gathering their forces there for, but hey, let's do as you say and leave it to the big-brains. Ten'll get you one they agree with me.''

''Where are they then?'' said David. ''The photos.''

''Back thataways.'' Wilkins gestured along the valley in the direction he and his Cobra Force cohorts had come from. ''We're holed up in this place that's all towers and tombs. Ain't far, no more than a quarter-mile. You can come alone or bring your guys with you if you like.''

David looked at Sergeant McAllister. ''Let's all go. We'll be home by midnight.''

McAllister nodded, his lip down-curling. ''Men! Fall in. Home by midnight.''

Wilkins had already walked off a few paces to rejoin his group. Now he stopped abruptly. His shoulders slumped. Not turning round, he cursed softly in a language that was not English. '' Khara .'' Arabic for shit .

David levelled his ba lance, training it on Wilkins's back.

''Who are you really, Colonel Wilkins?'' he demanded softly.

'''Home by midnight','' said Wilkins. ''That's your abort code. Mission compromised. Right?''