Close Up the Sky (42 page)

The Arabian Desert
was the most desolate place Matt had ever seen
;
even
worse than the barrenness of the Valley of the Kings. A blazing white sun
hammered them with relentless fury during the day, while at night, without the
protection of the L-
suits,
the wind needled its way
through their thin robes and chilled their bones. With nothing to do but ride
and observe, he became watchful for signs of life. However, it seemed that not
even the resolute scorpion existed here. There were no animals, no reptiles, no
insects, and no Morruk criminals to plague them. Few words were exchanged
during the day, so to relieve the boredom he occupied
himself
with learning to sway with the motion of his camel and tried to keep his spirit
high.

The caravan
entourage consisted mostly of Babylonians and nomads of unknown origin who
regarded the strangers with suspicion. Matt and Chuck were unable to understand
their language, so Taylor had to translate all conversation. Hearing the
strangers speak English only served to increase their distrust. All of them had
either seen or heard about the madman who wore the black suit. They were aware
that these strangers were pursuing him, and it caused much anxiety among them. To
make matters worse, Summerhour had been questioning them at length about the
green stone. Each time the subject was broached the person being interrogated
would shake his head and deny any knowledge of it. After two days he resigned
himself to the possibility that none of them knew anything about it and gave
up. He stopped the questioning and became sullen.

For safety, the
four time travelers slept in the same tent at night and were rarely separated
by more than a few yards even in daytime. Under no circumstances were they ever
out of sight of one another for more than a minute. Haremheb's ominous belief
that if it had not been for fear of Ramses the previous caravan members might
have killed Edward and disposed of his body in the desert served as a constant
warning for them to remain on guard. Given the taciturn demeanor of the caravan
master, it was not difficult to believe that such a fate might also await them
at a propitious moment. The ancients had a way of blaming things they did not
understand on denizens of the underworld, and they might not hesitate to
destroy anything that seemed abnormal. However, in that regard they were no
different than many of their descendants. The Salem witch trials and the
Spanish Inquisition were two notable examples of human extremism that served a
particular purpose.

Williams remained
especially alert for any sign of betrayal. He never missed an opportunity to
sharpen his knife when any of the nomads were watching, and he always remained
coldly aloof when dealing with them. Even Matt found himself touching his
concealed Beretta more and more frequently as the journey progressed. Then, on
the evening of the fourteenth day, they reached their destination: a wide river
that the caravan master identified as the Euphrates. Without comment the
caravan workers began unloading their supplies and tents. When they finished,
they mounted their animals and departed. The four time agents stood in the
twilight and watched them vanish into the desert.

Summerhour had a
sour look on his face. "We better get set up for the night." He
removed his contemporary robe and sandals and stuffed them into a pack. The men
turned their backs to afford Taylor some privacy, and within a few minutes all
of them were clad in their L-suits. Utility belts complete with weapons were
strapped around their waists. They did not expect to encounter any more people
before reaching the Gulf, but if that occurred they were prepared to meet force
with force. They had come too far and risked too much to permit further delay.

Williams scanned
the land around them. His keen eyes found several places where campfires had
burned. "Are there any people living around here?" he asked.

"No villages,
if that's what you mean," Summerhour answered. "But if you're looking
for company, Babylon is about a hundred and fifty miles north."

Williams shrugged
and put his hands on his hips. "No thanks. I was just thinking that it
might be a good idea to set up a night watch. You don't have to be real smart
to figure out that someone’s been here before us. The ground’s all torn up and
there are some places where fires were made. And by the looks of it, not too
long ago."

"Yeah,"
Summerhour observed. "We'll take turns, two hours each. We need to be out
of here well before daybreak."

"Is this a
place where people ordinarily camp?" Matt asked him. "I mean, who do
you think made these fires?"

Summerhour went
over to one of the ash mounds and squatted. The others followed him. He picked
up a dead ember and stirred the ashes. "I'd say this isn't over two days
old."

Matt knelt and
felt the ashes with his fingers. "I agree. But again, who made it?"

"My guess is
the caravan that dropped your brother off. It wasn't any accident that our
guide brought us to this very spot. Most of these people know each other, so
our nomads probably knew exactly where Edward's group was headed. We probably
passed them somewhere in the desert on their way back after they left him here.
Judging from what Ramses said about the locals avoiding the sea people’s
village, this is probably as close as they dared to get."

Williams had
walked a few yards away from them and was looking around along the riverbank. He
called out and motioned for them to come over.

"This may be
what we're looking for," he said, pointing to a trail of footprints leading
south. Someone wearing boots had obviously made them.

Matt stooped and
examined the prints. "It must be Edward's trail."

"They
probably forced him out of camp as soon as they arrived," Williams
theorized. "No doubt afraid of him."

Taylor knelt and gently
ran her hand over the prints. She seemed to be almost caressing them. "Maybe
we should leave now," she said in a small voice. "We could at least
close the distance to some degree. I can't stand thinking that he's hurt and
alone."

Summerhour shook
his head and glanced around the area. "We'd never be able to keep on the
trail without lights, and we don't want to attract unnecessary attention by
using them. In fact, we won't make a fire tonight just to play it safe."

Matt knew that the
Euphrates and Tigris Rivers eventually joined and flowed southward as the Shatt
al Arab to empty their waters into the Persian Gulf. “How far is it to the
junction of the rivers?” he asked.

Summerhour
considered that for a moment. “It can’t be more than ten miles or so.”

“I still think we
should leave now,” Taylor repeated. “We can see by starlight if we have to. Besides,
the moon will be up soon.”

Matt reached down
and took her by the arm, helping her up. "I want to go right now
too," he soothed her. "But we have to wait. We should be able to move
faster than he can because of his injury. As much as I hate to, I have to agree
with Mike. Come on, babe. Let's make camp before it gets dark."

They walked the
short distance to where the nomads had dumped their supplies. Summerhour opened
a large bundle that contained their tent and rolled it out on the ground. The
others pitched in, and they had it set up before the twilight faded.

"I'll take
first watch," Williams offered. "One of you relieve me in two
hours." The others acquiesced and crawled into the stygian darkness of the
tent.

It was close
inside, but large enough to permit a few feet of personal space. Summerhour lay
down, rolled over onto his side, and exhaled deeply. Taylor pitched a blanket
on the far side of the tent where she and Matt lay down. She nestled up close
to him, put her arm across his chest, and nuzzled his ear. He drank in the
sweet perfume of her femininity and felt contentment sweep over him. He put his
arm under her head to cushion it from the hard ground.

"I love
you," she whispered in his ear.

He squeezed her
tightly and kissed her on the forehead. "I love you, too," he
breathed. "You'll never know how much." They held each other and
drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

Outside, Williams
walked over to the river and stood staring at the water. He remained in deep
thought for a few minutes then went over to where Edward Leahy's footprints led
away from the campsite. He studied them for a long moment, nodded to himself, and
went back to the tent. He sat down a few feet away from the entrance and
crossed his legs, Indian style. The desert was completely still, lit only by
the pale starlight. He listened intently, but no sound reached his keen ears. After
a while he took the long-bladed knife out of his boot and stuck it in the sand
before him. He was not as familiar with the geography of the ancient world as
Taylor and Summerhour, but he was not completely lost. During his career he had
had occasion to serve in most Middle Eastern countries, and had even led military
patrols along the banks of the Shatt al Arab. He wondered how much the
twenty-first-century-river he knew had changed from the one of this time
period. In a way, being in this particular part of the world was almost like
coming home. He was aware that their mission was almost over, and he dreaded
the end. He had come to admire the courage of the three people who slept inside
the tent, and he did not want to lose them. He had never made any real friends
in the modern world. The only people he knew were soldiers with whom he had
shared a few brief days before moving on to other assignments, never to see
them again. He had no family and no wife. But in retrospect, his life had not
been completely wasted. He had been decorated a number of times for service to
his country and was proud of his accomplishments. In a way, this mission was
simply another opportunity to serve the land he loved. He closed his eyes and
tuned his senses to the voice of the desert. After a while he took a deep
breath and exhaled slowly, feeling the tension drain away. Many years ago he
had learned that quiet meditation was the most effective way to fight
loneliness. He smiled inwardly and felt his body begin to relax.

T
he watcher crouched behind a
boulder and scrutinized the man climbing the hill toward him. A tingle of
excitement ran along his spine and saliva dripped from his mouth. As though the
man became aware that he was being observed, he stopped and looked directly
toward the watcher's hiding place. He put his hand above his eyes to shield
them from the sun as he studied the hill’s summit. The watcher flattened his
body against the boulder and held his breath. His intended victim stood
surveying the terrain for a long moment, then resumed his climb. The watcher's
lips pulled back into a maniacal grin, revealing yellow teeth. More saliva
dripped from his mouth and caught in the stubble of hair sprouting from his
chin. In a moment the man would be within striking range. Assured that he had
not been detected, he exhaled a long fetid breath and willed himself to relax. While
he waited a mist seemed to clear from his eyes, and he felt a strange feeling
of kinship with the man. He cocked his head like a dog trying to understand its
master's words. He searched his memory, seeking some association, but the
attempt was lost in the sharp pain that suddenly surged through his head. It
was excruciating, and his whole body writhed in agony. Each time the pain came
it brought confusing images he could not understand. Sometimes they moved
through his mind at terrific speed, each flash revealing an unfamiliar place or
action. Men, desert, stone corridors, night sky, and pillars of green fire all
rolled through his brain in an endless kaleidoscope of confusion. In the
beginning he had tried to understand the images, but now he simply accepted
them as part of the agony, knowing that they would vanish as the pain subsided.
Somehow the images seemed to be connected to this particular place. A powerful
force had been continually at work inside him, driving him on until he reached
this hill. He could not remember how or when he had arrived, but hunger and
thirst had been tearing at his insides for many days now.

At last the pain
subsided and awareness returned. He peered around the boulder and saw that the
man had gotten much closer. A few more yards and he would be within reach. The
morning sun glinted off the distant sea, and a breeze stirred the leaves of a
bush growing near his hiding place. Everything seemed at peace. The man did not
suspect anything. The watcher held his breath and bunched his muscles in
anticipation of the attack. A fly found a bloody sore on his throat and began
to probe it. With supreme effort he managed to ignore the insect and remained
perfectly still. The man was now within striking distance, just a few feet from
his hiding place. Then without warning, he leaped from his concealment and
stood before his victim. His breath made a hissing noise as it escaped through
clenched teeth. The man froze, his eyes bulging in terror at the apparition
that had appeared in his path. His lips worked, trying to form words, but no
sound came. He began to back away, but his foot twisted on a stone and he
stumbled backward. As he fell, his leg folded under him and the bone snapped
like a dry twig. He screamed as he slid in the loose rock. An object he had
been holding in his hand made a shrill sound as it struck the ground. He tried
to rise but the broken leg caused him to fall again. He continued to struggle,
and as he lifted his face the watcher saw blood trickling from his lips and
nose. For a few seconds the man hung his head and remained still, his breath
coming in rasps, his face distorted by pain. Slowly he looked up at the specter
standing over him.

“Please,” he
begged as he raised his arm in supplication.

The watcher's eyes
glowed with hatred, and a low snarl came from his throat. A surge of dark power
flowed through his body as he leaped upon his victim. The man's scream was lost
in the hot wind that gusted across the hilltop.