Chapter 22
As-Sahra' al-Libiya'
For the most part, the rest of the day passed uneventfully... just a long, hard
grind. Johnny had stopped Derek's bleeding without having to clip the hair away or
take stitches. He had covered the abrasion with a small pad, held on by a wrap of
gauze. He knew the young precept would probably have it off by nightfall.
Safwad took the lead in the Jeep. As a boy, during World War II, he had spent
much of his time at the oases at Al-Kufrah, where the British Army's Long Range
Desert Group had been based. He had known many of the New Zealanders who where
sent out in small, armored convoys to gather intelligence and harry Axis forces behind
enemy lines. From the Kiwis, he had learned that this ancient caravan route across the
Great Sand Sea of the as-Sahra' al-Libiya' could handle military vehicles.
About an hour into their afternoon travels, Derek, much to his indignation, was
sick. Sloan worried about concussion, but the major was certain it was from the
headache, the heat, and the motion. Kym, fretful at being separated from her husband,
especially now, stewed at being stuck in the same car with Johnny Boyle. However,
they continued with few mishaps, winding around the amber dunes, some hundreds of
feet high. The army truck overheated once, causing an hour's halt... to Derek's relief.
Later, as the late afternoon sun sank, the shade cast by the dunes cooled and deepened.
In the depths of one of the shadows, Safwad drove the Jeep off the route. The right
front wheel slipped into deep sand and buried itself.
* * *
"If Derek's still not up to driving tomorrow, you ride with Kym," insisted the
major as he bent to rig a chain around the Jeep's bumper. "I can't take it any more,"
he added, looking up at Sloan.
"Hmmm," mumbled the precept. "I'm sorry... what?" he asked distractedly. He
had been watching Derek and the others set up camp for the night.
"She's driving me nuts... if I have to deal with that tomorrow, I'll be looking for
a goddamned bottle," exclaimed Johnny. "She's bouncing off the son-of-a-bitchen
windshield just because Derek's in the other friggin car. That last hour... it was all I
could do to keep from kicking her out the door on her ass. I don't know how he puts
up with it."
"He looks like he should be up to driving. He seems OK now... just tired, but
it's your call," said Sloan. He leaned against the Jeep's fender and looked down at the
soldier. "My heart was in my throat when we rounded that truck," he admitted. "What
I don't understand... is how can anyone cool enough to do what Kym did with that
pistol turn into such a mess five minutes later."
"It's Derek...," responded Johnny. "Ever since San Juan Bautista she turns into
a bundle of nerves if he's out of her sight for more than fifteen minutes. It's not a good
match," the soldier said coldly.
Sloan ran his handkerchief over his high forehead. "I've been meaning to ask
you... what exactly happened in San Juan Bautista? The reports, yours included, were
more than a little sketchy."
Boyle sighed, then replied without emotion, "Ordinarily I wouldn't say anything
behind Derek's back, but... the bitch almost got him killed."
"How?" asked the precept with a frown of disapproval. "I knew there was more
to it."
"He ordered her out... for her own safety. She pretended to leave, but didn't...
then interfered." The major paused to adjust his cap, then continued, "Derek had it
under control, but it was getting a little rough. Kym could see the entities, burst in, got
hysterical... I tried to calm her... then to physically throw her out, but she fought. The
last three... older... nastier... with ample reasons not to want to move on... went for her.
Derek had no choice but to drop his barriers... or whatever it is that he does... and
completely open himself to them to protect her."
Sloan's eyes never left the Johnny's face. He knew that disobedience of a direct
order was the worst crime possible in the soldier's book.
"She did burn the hair wreath that seemed to be the spirits' focal point," he
conceded. "Both the girl and Derek collapsed. I couldn't get a pulse for thirty
seconds... scared the shit out of me... longest half-minute of my life."
* * *
In the chill of the night, Derek sat hunched with a blanket over his shoulders.
By flashlight he tried to study the weapons' specs, but his head was splitting. The
flickering of the small campfire battered his eyes. He had to master these files... his
life, and Johnny's, depended upon his perfection. He could feel them watching him,
sense their anxiety, their concern. Were they waiting for him to keel over? It was
becoming oppressive... this entourage of worried wife, bossy 'older brother', and
faithful guard dog.
Nothing about this mission had felt right since that night on Angel Island when
they had decided to come along. Before, when it was only him, Derek had felt
comfortable... confident that all would be well.
What was the meaning of the broken Legacy ring, his own precept's ring?
Shivering, he pulled the blanket closer. "Focus," he told himself. "Concentrate... you
must learn this."
The ring was symbolic, he was certain. Symbolic of what? Physical danger... a
rending? Of what? Himself... in mind or body... or soul? The breaking of a friendship...
or his marriage? The destruction of his House? Or could it be a rupture of the Legacy
itself? He didn't know... and the harder he tried to feel for it, the more elusive it
became... the more malignant the feeling became.
He jumped as Kym's hand brushed across his shoulders. "How's it going?" she
asked. "You haven't eaten."
"Fine," he lied. In truth, he felt as though he was twelve years old and back at
boarding school, cramming for algebra, and failing. "I'm not hungry," he added. His
stomach was in rebellion.
"How's your head? Perhaps you should take a rest," she said solicitously. Her
strong fingers massaged his shoulders and neck. "You're so tense."
It felt sublime, but Derek couldn't allow himself to falter. "I don't have time to
rest," he said in frustration. "I have to know all of this in three days."
"I know what that's like... remember... theoretically I'm still enrolled at
Berkeley." She smoothed his hair down over the gauze bandage. "But, you don't want
to overload."
"I'm already there," he said peevishly. "Honey, go away."
Sloan, sitting across the fire, couldn't help but hear the exchange. "A little
snappy, aren't we, Derek? Headache?" His tone was as sardonic as that of any Oxford
don.
"Yes, we are," the younger man replied, squinting his eyes to look over the
flame. "...and 'smart' people should know enough to keep their distance."
Kym stepped around to face her husband. "Excuse me for being concerned
about your welfare," she bristled.
Derek looked up. "Honey," he said with a feigned calmness. "My welfare, and
Johnny's, depends upon my knowing this garbage forward and backward... and upside
down." He paused. "If only you had all just stayed out of it... instead of turning it into
this rolling three-ring circus."
"...and you really think you could get on without us?" William asked with
skepticism.
"Yes," Derek stated. "I'd planned on the easy way... a charter flight from
Amsterdam to Benghazi, then on to Al-Kufrah... not this trek a thousand miles into
nowhere. Today it was bandits. What will it be tomorrow?"
Kym's green eyes flashed. Well practiced on her obstreperous young cousins,
the look she gave her husband could have frozen the devil himself. "You should be
grateful you got your ass saved... this time." Rarely did she resort to crude language,
unless the moment warranted the shock.
"If you had all listened to me, trusted me, I wouldn't have needed it saved...
none of us would have... and I'd be in a nice hotel in Benghazi right now," said Derek.
"Or dead!" Kym retorted.
The young precept tossed aside his files. "This is hopeless," he said in
aggravation. "I'll swear... dead might be preferable. At least, I'd get some peace," he
blurted. "I'm going for a walk."
Sloan saw Kym swipe an angry tear from her eye. "Good move, Derek," he said
acidly. "Hurt your wife and run off. I can see that at least some part of Winston lives
on in his son."
Derek stopped cold. Allowing the blanket to fall, he straightened his shoulders,
then slowly turned. "Mr. Sloan," he said. "I don't know what your problem is, but do
enlighten me. Let's get this into the open... it started with the damned knife, but that's
not what it's about now, is it?"
Kym and the major looked at the young precept, whose voice was as hard as
flint, then at William. Off to the side, the Padwig drivers, sensing a crisis, watched
from the darkness.
Sloan rose to his feet. "I don't want to stand by while you take your frustrations
out on other people... when it's me you're angry at."
Derek bent to snatch up the blanket, then stepped toward the fire. "You're
damned right I'm angry." His voice quivered. "None of you should be here. I should
have done this my way. This is wrong... it feels wrong... and I didn't start it... you lost
the blasted knife."
William was reaching his limit. He took a deep, calming breath. "Derek... we
are here to help you... but, if you don't get that chip off your shoulder, Fate will find
some way to knock it off for you."
The young man muttered something in Dutch. "Christ!" he continued. "Then let
Fate take a swing and be done with it... at least I wouldn't have to worry about you any
more."
Sloan saw Kym blanch. He knew Derek had no concept of the distress he was
causing his wife. "Mrs. Rayne," he said, "I think that bump on the noggin has knocked
a screw loose." He looked back to the younger man. "Even your father wouldn't have
said that," he quietly told him.
"I am not my father," Derek countered. Tired of it all, he started to run his hand
through his hair, but felt the gauze bandage. He tore it off and tossed it into the fire.
"God put me here for a reason... I know this," he explained with a deepening accent,
"I just don't know what reason... whatever it is... it will happen. I'll either be fine... or
Fate will do her work. If that's what's been ordained... so be it. We all begin dying
before we're ever born anyway. There's nothing we can do about it." He paused. "It's
just... people around me have a tendency to die too soon."
"I wonder why that is?" William blurted out with a sarcasm he didn't intend. As
the fire flared, consuming its new fuel, he saw a look of despair cross his friend's face.
"It's because I'm foolish enough to let people get too close," he replied as he
bent to retrieve the flashlight and the manila folders. "I've said too much." He threw
the blanket around his shoulders and turned to walk off into the darkness.
How dare you!
Sloan looked down at her, then into the desert's blackness. He let out a tired sigh. Derek... how can you be so brilliant and caring... so gifted in ways I don't understand... and such a damned fool at the same time? He hung his head and let his shoulders sag. What do you know of your own destiny? Raise those walls... drive everyone away... one way or another... it's like you don't want people to care about you.
< < + > >
Since first meeting the Americans yesterday morning at the warehouse at Hulwan, young Ali had watched and listened, intently trying to pick up the nuances of their language and behavior. Though accustomed to seeing the unending stream of tourists headed for the sites of ancient Egypt and to driving trucks for foreign companies, he, his father, and uncle didn't often have the opportunity to closely observe these people over an extended period. The more Ali saw and heard, the more he was perplexed.
As they sat at their own small fire... thanks be to Allah and these foreigners for the kindling... they watched the events and emotions unfold at the neighboring camp.
"Father, I do not understand these people," said Ali, once the desert's silence again reigned. "Americans are the worst."
"My English is poor... compared to what it was when I was your age... lack of practice. You are young, my son... you must study them... not judge them. People are people... no matter who or what they are.
"The Englishman, Kincaid... a hard, devious man... but, I think, with a just heart... did not like this man, Sloan, but did respect him.... as a fighter and a leader. He said the other man... Boyle... was a warrior... an assassin, if necessary... with absolute loyalty to whatever or whomever he swears his allegiance. He did not know of the younger one with the different voice... just rumors that, like the cautious man he is, he would not repeat."
"The woman should not have come," Daud commented. "She is brave and competent, but she will bring trouble."
"Yes," Safwad agreed. "But not as a pretty woman amongst men. Ordinarily, it would be none of our concern, but we are here... and the Englishman said that what they, and we, do may save our homes from a great evil. Though he was hesitant to say much... indeed, he may not have known... he said that their enemy can be an unseen one... unconcerned with lines in the sand, but determined to control men's souls."
"An unseen enemy?" said Daud. "This is foolishness."
Safwad smiled at his brother... still young enough to be naive, but old enough to be cynical. He remembered once reading a translation of Hamlet... "There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy," he quoted.
"What?" said Daud.
"Nothing, uneducated one," the older man chuckled. He saw Daud's hackles rise.
"The younger one... Dr. Rayne?" said Ali. "He is not like the others... last night... by accident... nature called... I overheard him speaking with his wife. He talks of the desert, the universe, and of God the way you say the Sufi mystics do... and he has visions."
"I thought as much," Safwad said quietly. "I used to know a Sufi... Wheresoever ye turn, there be the face of God," he recalled the man saying. "Yet this one, Dr. Rayne, is as much a warrior as the other two."
He paused to collect his thoughts, to sort his words. "Watch," he told Ali, "don't close your mind like your uncle... listen to the tone of the voices and the actions... at least equal to what is said. The others are here as much for him as for whatever their goal might be. This man, Sloan... though the words are cross... there is a bond of brotherhood there... I sense they would die for each other. But..." he continued slowly, "I think this Dr. Rayne knows and fears this... he would happily do it himself, but fears what others might do... so he pushes them away."
| CHAPTER 23 |
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