Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series) (42 page)

Peter Rothschild was very pleased to see Ike Smith and Oscar Perram walk into the room. He directed them to the four people lying on the wooden floor and explained what he knew. They were totally surprised to see former colleagues Springer and Rickenbach in that situation. They dropped their bags and performed an examination, taking time to assess the psychic elements and the dangers of what was happening. Their astonishing appraisal was the same that Rickenbach had made only an hour or two earlier. But they were more reluctant to participate.

Madame Vallogia was suffering in her unconscious state – that much was clear. She had lost a quantity of blood, her brow glowed with perspiration and she twitched constantly.

“The woman is struggling to hold open the neural pathway, Mr Rothschild,” said Oscar Perram, matter-of-factly. “If it collapses, or she regains consciousness because she loses her ability to meditate, then those men will lose their minds. They will become amnesiacs and spend the rest of their days in an asylum.”

“How long have we got?” Rothschild asked.

“Impossible to say, but looking at her physical state, not long, perhaps minutes.”

“Can you help . . . ? Will you help?”

Smith and Perram glanced at each other – they had similar thoughts. “There is one chance, that’s all, but we have to go for it now!” Perram said. Smith nodded his agreement.

“Please. Let’s do it. Whatever it is, let’s do it!” Rothschild replied.

Smith retrieved a small cloth pouch from his bag. He stretched open the drawstring and sprinkled a number of beads into his hand. They were small and circular and were hand-painted in a variety of bright colours. Some had lengths of thread attached to them. The patterns were in a style easily associated with primitive tribalism.

“We got these from a Shaman in South America a few years ago when we were doing some research. There was a lost tribe in the upper Amazon delta – no previous contact with the outside world. Sometimes, when they travel into the spiritual world, they become lost, and they use these ornaments to help them find their way back.”

“You mean like the children’s story . . . ?”

“Yeah, Gretel and the other one,” said Smith.

Perram looked sombre. “Ike’s going in. It’s their only chance. He’ll use the beads to come back. I’ll project my thoughts as far as I am able from outside. You’re going to owe us big time for this,” he said.

Rothschild nodded.

It was as if a nuclear bomb had exploded; nothing else could cause such devastation. That was the only way Ike Smith could account for the desolation around him. He was part of a catastrophic event in history; he sensed that, but where and when he had no idea. He found himself rolling a bead in his fingers. He looked down at it and remembered, and then he wedged one into a crack in a convenient upturned stone near the path. He walked for several metres before dropping another, this time onto the low plinth of a fallen statue. The fusing layer of ash crunched beneath his feet.
There is another pressing constraint
, he thought – because of black flakes that fell continuously from the sky. Time itself conspires; for soon his tracks would be covered.

Smith surveyed the scene for a few moments. “This is the way in, so this is the way out,” he mumbled, as if informing his colleague who was there but at the same time somewhere else.

The city smouldered under a layer of ash and pumice. The air was heavy with nauseous gasses and Smith’s throat began to contract. There were burning buildings and explosions that emanated from someway off, but strangely there was an eerie stillness about the place, like the lull before a storm. It didn’t bode well and it made Smith feel nervous. He walked towards the centre of the open area that lay before him.
It might have been a square or precinct
, he thought, and he dropped another bead. “No one could survive this,” he mumbled again and he looked behind him. Thoughts of getting out while he could ran through his mind.

“Springer . . . ? Rickenbach . . . ? Reece . . . ? Charlie Springer . . . ? Can you hear me?” he shouted, but there was no response.
I will try to the left and perhaps the other side, but no more than that
, he thought. “Charlie Springer . . . ? Leon Rickenbach?” he called repeatedly.

Smith stepped under what remained of a high stone portico and took brief respite from the hot flakes that fell from a leaden sky. He shouted names and then stifled another cough. The scene reminded him of a winter’s day back home but in reverse. Here the snow of ash was black. And then, using a thin thread, he hooked a bead over a nearby corner stone. He positioned it at head height so that he could easily see it.

Gradually, Smith became aware of a distant rumble. It had direction – in the distance off to his left – but was, at the same time, strangely encapsulating. There was an ominous finality about the sound and it made him very uneasy. He would give himself another few minutes and then he would leave.

“Richard Reece . . . ? Can you hear me . . . ? Can anyone hear me?” he shouted.

Suddenly Smith sensed movement from slightly behind and to his right. He turned. A man holding a rag to his mouth that dripped water staggered towards him from inside the building. Smith ran to his aid. The man lowered the cloth from his face, but they were both strangers to each other.

“I’m Richard Reece. Have you come from outside?”

Smith nodded.

“I’ve lost my way . . . became disorientated . . . there’s a tsunami coming,” Richard blurted.

“There should be two other men. Have you seen two other men?”

Richard shook his head. “They’re dead,” he said bluntly.

“You sure about that?”

“They’re dead!”

“Okay, okay . . . then we go!”

Suddenly, both men became aware of a deep-seated but distant trembling. They felt it through the ground first but it soon became audible. It quickly increased in intensity to become a deafening rumble that seemed to bear down on them. It was like being close to crashing waves on a beach, but amplified so that the sound filled their senses – and it grew louder with each passing second. There was a pummelling and the buildings around them shook. Above them, joints between great stone lintels shifted and then opened and dust fell upon them like fine rain. Soon the widening cracks turned to gaping holes and heavy pieces of masonry bombarded the ground. At the same time the air pressure began to increase – Richard felt it in his ears. It quickly became uncomfortable.

“A wall of water . . . it’s here!” cried Richard. He had to shout to make himself heard. “Which way, man! Which way!”

They ran outside. Smith looked back into the plaza. His footprints were gone – disappeared. He looked for a bead on the ground, but there was a fresh covering of ash.
Was it to the right, or the left
? He couldn’t remember!

The paramedic dabbed Naomi’s brow with a cloth; it was already damp with sweat. Droplets ran down her cheeks. Her face was flushed and she twitched incessantly. The man looked up concerned.

“I may have to wake her, Mr Rothschild. I’m sorry,” he said. “Her heart is racing and her breathing shallow. She might spasm . . . We could lose her!”

Rothschild crouched beside Naomi’s body. “Thirty seconds,” he said. “Give it another thirty seconds . . . please!”

The man nodded and prepared a syringe. He drew liquid from a small glass phial and then held up the needle and flicked the body of the syringe with his finger. Liquid spurted from the needle tip as he gauged the correct dose. Then he positioned himself and made ready to administer the drug.

Richard followed Ike Smith as he ran towards the centre of the plaza. They kicked up dust and ash and material as they went. Richard tripped over something and almost went down. Preoccupied with survival they seemed immune to the noxious air and the burning flecks on their shoulders. Then Smith stopped abruptly and spun on his heels. He looked at Richard and shook his head – there was panic in his eyes. And then, by chance, Smith saw something . . . wedged in a stone . . . a dab of colour, and not five paces from where they stood. He ran to it – it was a bead!

“This way!” he screamed.

An incredible roar pounded their ears. It engulfed them and bore down on them like a heaving monster from antiquity. Richard took off after Smith but half-turned as he ran and what he saw widened his eyes and spread trepidation through his body – for a wall of water as high as a mountain rose up behind the ruins. Richard’s legs wobbled, but he saw Smith plucking something else from the ash and sprinted towards him like a man running from hell. Smith moved in a decisive manner and Richard caught up with him just as death came crashing down.

“Wait!” Rothschild barked to the medic, who was about to push a needle into Naomi’s upper arm. “Something’s happening; there are stirrings.”

Richard and Naomi opened their eyes simultaneously, but their reactions were quite different. Richard raised a hand to his head and began rubbing his temples. He closed his eyes again and massaged his brow and groaned quietly. Naomi lay quite still staring blankly at the ceiling. The medic by her side watched his monitor with surprise as her heart rate quickly fell back into a more normal range. After a minute or so she drew a deep breath, came to her senses and then realised the pain in her leg. She tried to touch it but her hand was still tied to Richard’s.