Уильям Мейкл - Operation - Mongolia

“Maybe we should take a chance and head across the sand while it’s dry?” Wiggins said.

“Naw,” Banks replied. “You saw what happened to the professor. These wormy fuckers are sitting around under there waiting for a happy meal. I’m not about to provide them with one. We’ll stay on this track for a bit longer and hope for better luck.”

They walked for more than a mile before Banks saw a darker patch ahead on his right, raising his hopes. Ten minutes later, they reached a long stretch of rockier ground heading almost directly north at right angles to their track.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Banks muttered and fired two shots into the air.

Wiggins gave Banks a smoke while they waited for the others to come up to them—they could see the small band of five coming along slowly, the figures wavering in the heat.

“What’s the plan, Cap?” Wiggins said.

Banks was watching the approaching figures, gauging their pace. He shook his head, as if coming to a decision before answering.

“I’d like to find somewhere—maybe yon outcrop on the horizon—where we can leave Wilkins, the Prof, Doctor Reid, and Davies in safety, then me and either you or the sarge will head off at double time to the pickup point and bring back the cavalry.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Wiggins said. “The less running about I have to do over this kind of ground, the more I like it.”

The figures in the distance were still coming on slowly—far too slowly. The outcrop Banks had in mind as their refuge for the night was still at least five miles north of them.

It’s going to be touch and go if we get there before nightfall.

Both Gillings and Wilkins were in need of more rest after the walk along the track to reach Banks and Wiggins, causing the captain to revise his estimated time of arrival at the outcrop to even later.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “That’s all we can afford, then we head north. Even if the weather holds, those fucking worms stay away, and we make good time, it’s still going to be dark when we get there so suck it up, lads. This is going to be tough.”

Even after the ten minutes were up, Gillings had to lean on Doctor Reid’s shoulder before he could take a step, and young Wilkins was wincing every time he put weight on his bad leg. They headed north slowly along a flat patch of gray rock.

The going was easy at first but after twenty minutes, the ground became more broken, the rock worn and eroded with deep holes and ruts that had to be avoided, stepped over, or walked around.

Progress became painfully slow and Banks’ gaze kept turning to the west, watching the sun descend closer to the horizon. The rest periods became almost as long as the stretches of walking in between and although the rocky outcrop ahead was definitely nearer, the light was going fast from the sky and they were still two miles short.

Banks used his rifle sight to scope out the outcrop while there was still enough light. There were more of the wooden dwellings on the summit of this one, similar in type to those there had been at the monastery, but there was no smoke from kitchen fires, no fluttering flags above the roofs, no sign of any movement. The place appeared deserted.

But it is shelter for the night, and it can be defended. That’s all that matters.

They found a charnel pit five minutes later, a deep sandy hollow in the rock some ten feet deep and filled with bleached white bones; there looked to be goat and camel in there but there were also rib cages and grinning skulls that were all too human.

“What the fuck is this now?” Wiggins said. “Some kind of all you can eat buffet for those fucking worms?”

The bones were all tumbled together and weathering meant it was impossible to tell whether they had all been deposited at the same time or was the result of a phenomenon that took place over a long period of years, although Banks guessed the latter. There were no remnants of clothing and no skin or flesh remaining. Everything had been picked clean.

Or sucked clean.

The professor showed the first signs of interest in their surroundings since the start of the trek and would have stopped to investigate the pit if Banks hadn’t insisted they kept moving.

“Old bones don’t interest me. The young ones of all of us here are what matters. Come on, there’s a settlement up on yon outcrop. Let’s see if there’s any monks offering us supper and another wee show.”

It was full dark before they arrived at their destination but they knew before they got there that the place was deserted; no lights showed anywhere on the dome of rock, no smell of kitchen fires or smoke in the air. The night was silent save for the sound of their feet on rock and the harsh gasps of both Gillings’ and Wilkins’ breath, both of whom were struggling to cover the last few yards of ground as they reached the base of the outcrop.

Banks switched on the light on the barrel of his rifle and using it as a guide led the way off the plain. A set of well-worn stone steps led in a winding path up to the cluster of houses on the summit a hundred feet above the desert plain, a dozen empty huts in a circle around a larger, obviously communal structure. Several of the huts were circles of stone open to the sky, their roofs having long since collapsed inward and others showed holes in the thatch. In contrast to the ornate splendor of the monastery of the day before, the architecture was workaday, cruder in every aspect, the large central building being only a single story with a high domed roof thatched in old, tinder-dry foliage. The only thing in common with the chamber back in the monastery was a circle of egg-shaped sealed vases around the inside of the outer wall, but there was no central well in this place, just a large circular fire pit, its ashes long gone cold.

“Looks like this is our base for the night. Sarge, Wiggo, you’re on firewood duty. Some of the tumbled roofs in those other huts should burn just fine,” Banks said. “We’ll get some heat into us and some grub. Professor, Wilkins, make yourselves comfortable—your walking is done, for a while at least.”

The two tired men flopped to the floor. Both of them looked totally beat and Banks knew he couldn’t ask them to go any further. Even a night’s rest wasn’t going to help much. He waited until they had a fire going and a pot of stew on the camp stove then lit a cigarette and laid out his plan.

“We’re already late for our pickup,” he said. “And whatever’s affecting the phones hasn’t eased up. I don’t know how long they’ll wait for us and both the professor and Wilkins aren’t fit to go any further. So the sarge and I will do the heavy lifting. We’re heading out in ten minutes and planning on running as much of the way as we can. I estimate we’re somewhere around fifteen miles short of where we should be, so let’s say three hours if we’re lucky. We’ll bring the cavalry to you. Wiggo, you’re in charge while we’re gone. Don’t fuck up, there’s a good lad.”

Wiggins grinned.

“Just leave the whip and thumbscrews with me, Cap,” he said. “There won’t be any trouble.”

Banks deliberately hadn’t said what might happen if they weren’t lucky. He didn’t have to—everybody understood the situation.

If there’s a large patch of open ground in our path, or if it rains again, all bets are off.

Donnie saw to the professor, getting the older man fully clothed into the sleeping bag from Private Davies’ kit; Gillings was too tired to put up any complaint and using the private’s rucksack as a pillow, was asleep almost immediately.