by D C Macey
THE TEMPLE COVENANT
(Book 3 of The Temple series)
D. C. Macey
Copyright © 2018 D. C. Macey
All rights reserved
Published by Butcher & Cameron
D.C. Macey asserts his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and names are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com
Books by D. C. Macey
The Temple Legacy
Published August 2015
The Temple Scroll
Published August 2016
The Temple Covenant
Published April 2018
The Temple Deliverance
Publication late 2018
CONTENTS
1. Tuesday, 22nd October - AM
2. Tuesday, 22nd October - PM
3. Tuesday, 22nd October - Evening
4. Wednesday, 23rd October - PM
5. Wednesday, 23rd October - Evening
6. Thursday, 24th October - AM
7. Thursday, 24th October - PM
8. Thursday, 24th October - Evening
9. Friday, 25th October - AM
10. Friday, 25th October - PM
11. Friday, 25th October - Evening
12. Saturday, 26th October - AM
13. Saturday, 26th October - PM
14. Sunday, 27th October - AM
15 Sunday, 27th October - PM
16. Monday, 28th October - AM
17. Monday, 28th October - Evening
18. Tuesday, 29th October - AM
19. Tuesday, 29th October - PM
20. Tuesday, 29th October - Evening
21. Wednesday, 30th October - AM
22. Wednesday, 30th October - PM
23. Wednesday, 30th October - Evening
24. Thursday, 31st October - AM
25. Thursday, 31st October - PM
26. Thursday, 31st October - Evening
27. Friday, 1st November - AM
28. Friday, 1st November - PM
29. Friday, 1st November - Evening
30. Saturday, 2nd November - AM
31. Saturday, 2nd November - PM
32. Saturday, 2nd November - Evening
33. Sunday, 3rd November - AM
34. Sunday, 3rd November - PM
35. Monday, 4th November - PM
Author's Note
About D. C. Macey
Books In The Series
1.
Tuesday, 22nd October - AM
The sun was nearing its zenith as the leading Land Rover, rocking and bouncing about, continued its slow passage along the rutted dirt track. It could have been any one of the vehicles based at the British Army Training Unit, Kenya, BATUK, but it wasn’t. It was the lead vehicle in a little convoy that had been doing some very secret testing deep in the bush - far away from prying eyes. Now, job done, they were making their way back to the base at Nanyuki. Back to long overdue baths and cold beers all round - lots of them.
The matt yellows and browns of its camouflage were designed to merge into the surrounding arid bushlands but the vehicle was not concealed, its passage was marked by the great plume of dust thrown up from under its wheels. The dust rose and billowed into the hot afternoon air, exactly marking the Land Rover’s progress across the landscape - like a white chalk steadily scraping across a blackboard. The two following Land Rovers were lost in the dust, but their presence was marked for the distant observer as their wheels kicked up more dust to boost and fill the plume.
A mile or so distant from the convoy, a slightly plumping Asian man stood stock still on the roof of his sand coloured 4 x 4. Smartly dressed in a well-tailored khaki safari suit, he was seemingly oblivious to the hot afternoon sunlight. From his raised vantage point, just above the height of the scrub-filled landscape, he used binoculars to follow the convoy’s progress.
Abruptly he swung his gaze, tracing the line of the track ahead of the convoy. His shifting view came to rest on the cab of a flatbed lorry that was jutting above the bush line. Parked on the track, it blocked the approaching convoy’s path. The man issued an order into his headset and continued to watch impassively, as moments later, his words stimulated a flurry of activity with men jumping from the flatbed’s cab and dropping from sight into the bush below.
• • •
Steering his vehicle round a bend in the track the driver of the lead Land Rover stopped abruptly. Puzzled, he turned to the captain beside him, who was already calling a halt order into the radio.
The captain mirrored the driver’s expression. ‘I’ll see what’s going on. Just standby for a minute.’ He swung out of the Land Rover and paced towards the abandoned flatbed.
‘What the hell’s this all about?’ said a voice from behind him.
Turning, the captain nodded an acknowledgement towards the sergeant who had emerged from the convoy’s dust cloud and was hurrying to catch up with him.
Hours spent following in the captain’s dust trail had the sergeant anxious to see the journey finished, and now irritated that their progress had been halted.
The two men reached the tail of the flatbed and the mystery deepened. It was no old rebuilt truck, which was the norm in this part of the country. Yes, this truck was dusty but it was new, brand new. The sergeant looked at the rear tyres that showed scarcely any wear. He kicked one as he glanced meaningfully at the captain.
‘Weird,’ said the sergeant.
‘Yes, odd. This shouldn’t be broken down; it’s brand new. And certainly shouldn’t be out here on our firing ranges.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I’m not sure, and I don’t know why it’s abandoned out here. It makes no sense.’
‘Too right, the locals will have it stripped down to its chassis in no time. I’ll check in the cab, sir.’
The captain looked around, peering into the still and desolate bush as his sergeant paced towards the front of the flatbed. There was no sign of a driver anywhere. Glancing behind him, he could clearly see his little convoy as the dust began to settle. In the front vehicle, the driver sat patiently waiting for his signal. Behind that, two more Land Rovers. The rearmost was a traditional soft-top model identical to his own. It contained the guard detail, all uncomfortable in the hot still air. One solider had jumped out of the back for a quick smoke and to see what was happening. The front doors had both been swung open trying to catch any breath of breeze. Engines all turned off during the halt to minimise any risk of overheating.
Between the two escort vehicles was a third Land Rover. This one was very different; instead of the standard canvas strap-on top cover, it had a tall fibreglass superstructure that enclosed the whole vehicle. He knew its air-conditioning unit would be filling the interior with cold air. He could see the driver, sitting in comfort, isolated from the heat of the day.
The air was still and everything silent. Birds and even the cicadas were quiet, conserving energy in the afternoon, saving their efforts for the cool of twilight. The captain heard the truck’s cab door click open as his sergeant investigated. He heard the sounds of the sergeant pulling himself up into the cab.
Then he heard another sound, an unnatural whoosh. Without time to respond or call a warning, his eyes could only trace the path of a smoke trail marking the progress of a rocket-propelled grenade. He saw the beginnings of movement in the rear Land Rover where the smoking soldier had also spotted the threat and shouted a warning to his mates - too late.
The grenade plunged into the front of the cab and exploded in the passenger seat so rece
ntly vacated by the sergeant. The driver was killed instantly, his body blown into pieces. A bright orange blast flash rolled over the seatbacks into the rear of the vehicle and engulfed the guard detail. Screams filled the air as three men jumped out, clothes on fire, exposed flesh melting beneath the unforgiving touch of the blast.
The captain’s hand scrabbled to pull open the studded pouch flap that secured his pistol as he ran back past his own vehicle and down the track towards his men at the rear of the convoy. In the lead Land Rover, the driver hurriedly reached back to where his SA80 assault rifle was held firm in its travel mounting. His hand didn’t even touch it before three rounds punched through the side window and shattered his skull.
At the rear vehicle, the smoker had pulled off his shirt and was desperately using it to wrap and roll one of his comrades in an attempt to extinguish the flames; it seemed to be working. Another man was on the ground writhing in pain, his screams rose to merge with the cries of the third man who was staggering away from the fire. He stumbled, dropping to his knees, burning arms reaching out for help that would never come.
The shirtless soldier looked about for support. Ahead of him he saw his sergeant leap down from the cab of the flatbed and unsling his SA80, saw the sergeant stagger and shudder as a burst of automatic fire punched bullets into his chest, the man dead before his knees buckled. He saw the captain raise his pistol to shoot at an unknown target in the bush. The pistol muzzle flashed and a cry confirmed a hit. Then the captain was hit by a burst of automatic fire that threw him backwards into the blazing cab of the rearmost Land Rover.
Helpless, still protecting his moaning comrade, the shirtless man watched as shadows amongst the undergrowth moved and rose, consolidating into human forms and stepping quickly onto the track. He saw them pull open the middle Land Rover’s driver’s door, saw them drag out the driver at gunpoint, saw the struggle, heard the shot, knew the driver was dead.
He watched as one man stood over the sergeant’s lifeless body and put a bullet into his head. He watched the man make his way methodically down the line, shooting each body as he passed. As the man approached him, the soldier’s shock seemed to pass, giving way to a rage. Unarmed, his weapon lost inside the burning Land Rover; he leapt up and with a scream of anger ran at the shooter. He saw the shooter smile. Saw the muzzle of the gun turn in his direction, saw a flash, and then saw nothing more.
For just a moment, quiet returned to the track. Then orders rang out. Men hurried to push the lead Land Rover off the track. Two other men lowered the flatbed’s tailgate ramp while others dragged a thin tow wire down from the winch fixed behind its cab. They attached it to the middle Land Rover, its fancy fibreglass superstructure carefully left unscathed in the firing. The Land Rover was winched onto the flatbed and secured as the captain’s body was searched for keys.
Methodical hands thrust in turn into each of the dead man’s pockets. His body was rolled over in the dust to check back pockets to no avail. Finally, his legs were lifted and twisted to reveal a thigh pocket. Inside was a large plastic fob with a set of keys and swipe cards fixed to the ring. With a cry of triumph, the searcher lifted his find. Chasing up the ramp, he checked that the keys opened the rear door to the Land Rover.
Pulling the door open, he thrust his machine pistol into the doorway and screamed an order inside. Waving the muzzle of his weapon, he directed the occupants out. Blinking, two civilian technicians edged out into the sunlight, followed by a younger female technician. All three were scared, the two older men trying to shield the young woman who was now sobbing uncontrollably as she pressed in behind the men.
The muzzle of the machine pistol was jabbed into the woman’s back, forcing her to move towards the rear of the flatbed. Her movement propelled the two men along and in seconds they were all clustered at the head of the ramp, arms supporting one another, fear in their eyes.
A short distance from the foot of the ramp, a man with a headset was listening to an incoming message. He nodded and replied in a language that none of the prisoners recognised. After another short listening silence, the man spoke to close his conversation. Then he turned his attention to the prisoners.
Pointing his pistol towards them, he shouted instructions and a man rushed up the ramp to search them. He checked their pockets, then ripped the ID passes from around their necks and quickly delivered them to his pistol-toting leader.
Having checked the cards with their magnetic strips, bar codes and security holograms, the leader smiled. He paced up the ramp, produced a little notepad and pencil. ‘Password,’ he said, thrusting the pad and pencil into the hand of the nearest technician.
‘No way,’ said the senior of the technicians, ‘never.’
The leader did not hesitate. He raised a hand and slammed his pistol butt into the girl’s face. She collapsed to her knees, screaming as blood poured from a cut opened across her cheekbone. He aimed the pistol at the kneeling woman’s back.
‘Password.’
The senior technician hesitated for just a moment before writing his password.
The leader waved his pistol towards the other technician. ‘You now.’
The second technician quickly jotted down his password.
‘You now,’ said the leader prodding the young woman with his pistol. ‘Quick, now.’
She reached up nervously and cleared tears from her eyes, so she could see to write.
Her response was too slow for the leader and he jabbed her between the shoulder blades with the pistol muzzle. ‘Quick now, quick!’
Taking his notebook back, the leader climbed inside the Land Rover to check the login passwords were correct.
Stooping, the senior technician put an arm round the younger woman and helped her up; his colleague lent a hand. Standing in a cluster, they hugged her.
‘It’ll be fine now, don’t worry. They’ve got what they want,’ said the senior technician.
‘You think?’ said the young woman between sobs.
‘Sure, it’ll be okay. They have no reason to hurt you now.’
‘Please God,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to die. Look at all the dead bodies, all the soldiers are …’ A fresh welling of sobs and tears stopped her talking, and the older man gently put his hand behind her head, drawing her face close to his shoulder.
‘It’ll work out, you’ll see,’ he said quietly in her ear. He felt her head nod in the slightest of acknowledgements.
Standing in the bright sunlight, they could hear the tapping of a keyboard as the leader checked their passwords were correct. Eventually the tapping was replaced by his voice speaking into the headset, the tone was jubilant. Moments later, the leader emerged from the Land Rover, he looked at the technicians and saw how they tried to shield the young woman, he laughed. Waving his pistol in the little group’s direction, he issued an order.
One of his men immediately stepped up, placed his machine pistol against the senior technician’s side and fired. Three bullets punched through his ribs, the lungs and on into his heart. The technician convulsed then dropped without uttering a sound. The muzzle rose, and the second technician was dispatched with a single bullet to the head. The young woman stood alone, now stunned into shivering silence.
The leader took the few paces to stand beside her at the rear of the flatbed. He laughed, gripped her hair and twisted, moving her face so he could look into her eyes, and shouted at her. ‘Weak. Coward.’ He shot her in the thigh, with a cry she fell down. He shot her other leg.
Bending, he gripped her and rolled her off the side of the flatbed, where she landed with a gasp on the dry, dusty trackside.
‘Wait for lions, they eat you. You die. Tonight.’ The leader looked around at his team, laughed, and they joined in, shouting obscenities at her and cheering. Then the leader issued more orders and they slipped into work mode.
As soon as the men had fixed a tarpaulin cover over the Land Rover, the flatbed’s engine roared into life and the truck pulled away from the ambush site, l
eaving the dead untended and the wounded girl to her fate.
2.
Tuesday, 22nd October - PM
Helen sat alone on the high ground and looked down on to the campsite. Around her, the scattered trees and bushes were comfortably greened, drawing water from the river’s subterranean seepage. The more distant growth was tinder dry. Like a whole swathe of Eastern Africa, the land sat waiting for the rains; straw yellows, browns and blacks, branches bare save for a few determined leaves. Dried grasses and baked earth - everything waited. Switching her gaze away from the campsite, she looked over to the muddy brown of the Omo River, its sluggish, dry-season flow belying the power it normally boasted.
A little downstream, she could make out Sam. He was crouching beside the line of a rocky outcrop set perhaps a hundred yards back from the riverbank. Beside him were two other archaeologists, Eric Halpern and his wife Rosie. The couple were dedicated field researchers who had been working for years in Ethiopia, around the Omo River. This was their campsite and they had been only too happy to have Sam and Helen join them for a couple of weeks, on the first leg of his recovery and recuperation sabbatical.
Tomorrow, she and Sam would be moving on to Kenya then Tanzania. By the end of the trip, he would have undertaken a review of various sites linked to evidence of early human evolution. He would have recovered from his wounds too, which was all Helen was really concerned about.
She smiled to herself. Yes, it was frustrating to be taking an enforced break from her plans to investigate her inheritance in Edinburgh, but she had always loved Africa, and Sam was clearly benefiting from the break. The sun was high and the slim column of smoke rising above the camp carried the smell of cooking food up to her. It was after midday, and she began to think about heading back to camp.
Helen lowered her gaze to the camp. From beneath her broad brimmed hat, she watched an old and battered 4 x 4 bounce into the campsite. Two or three of the local tribesmen, who provided the security for their camp, closed in on it. After a short discussion that included some raised voices and plenty of arm gestures, the camp guards allowed three occupants to exit the vehicle; a driver, one older man and one who looked like he’d been hired as their escort. Like the camp’s own guards, he had an AK47 slung across his shoulder. The driver abandoned his place to squat in the shade of his 4 x 4 and took a long thirsty drink from his water bottle. Accompanied by two of the camp guards, the old man and his escort began the climb up the hill towards her.
