by Mark Hodder
“We will see more as we approach the Lake Regions, for they are much more numerous near the Blutdschungel. What a nuisance they are!”
The hot air blew against Burton's face as the vehicle raced along, then the sun set and he fell asleep. When he awoke, it was early morning, and they were leaving the Uyanzi region and entering another blistering desert.
He stretched and yawned and said, “Generalmajor, where is all the wildlife? I haven't seen an elephant for years!”
“Elephants are extinct, mein Freund. As for the other creatures, our Eugenicists have adapted a great many for frontline warfare, and the rest have sought refuge in less battle-torn areas of the country; the South, primarily, where you British have no presence and where civilisation prospers in harmony with nature.”
“No presence? South Africa was part of the British Empire in my day.”
“That is so, and the Boers and the Zulus were not happy about it. My people offered them full independent rule, and, with our military assistance, they overthrew you. It took less than a year to drive the British out. After that, it was simply a case of establishing strong trade and industrial relations, and, before many years had passed, the South was very willingly incorporated into the Greater German Empire.”
They soon left the desert and the road began to snake between small domed hills, finally emerging from a valley into a wide basin. The ground was torn up and dried into grotesque configurations; the trees were nothing but stumps; burned wreckage was strewn about; but there was something in this old battlefield that Burton recognised-its contours told him that this was where the village of Tura had stood. There was no sign of the settlement.
The driver shouted something.
“Ah,” Lettow-Vorbeck said. “Now we leave the road and travel north. Later we shall go west again. You are hungry?”
“Yes.”
The generalmajor snapped an order and the man sitting in front of Burton lifted a hamper onto his lap, opened it, and started to pass back packets of sliced meat, a loaf of bread, fruit, and other comestibles. With a shock, Burton noticed that the soldier's face was covered with short bristly fur and that his jaws extended forward into a blunt muzzle. His mouth was stretched into a permanent and nasty smile. A hyena.
They sped out of the hills onto a wide expanse of flatland broken only by a long ridge that ran along to the north of them.
The sun was high in the sky. The scenery around them jiggled in and out of focus as if struggling to maintain its reality.
“How will the L.59 Zeppelin destroy Tabora?” Burton asked.
Lettow-Vorbeck gave a peal of laughter and slapped his thigh. “Hah! I was wondering how long it would take before you asked me that!”
“I assumed you'd inform me that it's top secret.”
“So warum bitten Sie jetzt?”
“Why do I ask now? Because this journey is interminable, Generalmajor, and I'm bored. Besides, it occurs to me that since I'm your prisoner, and I don't even know where Tabora is, and the attack is imminent, there can be little harm in you telling me.”
“Ja, das ist zutreffend. Very well. In forty-eight hours, the L.59 Zeppelin will drop an A-Bomb on the city.”
“And what is that?”
“You are aware of the A-Spores, ja?”
“An obscene weapon.”
“Quite so. Quite so. But very effective. The bomb will deliver, from a very high altitude, a concentrated dose of the spores to the entire city. The Destroying Angel mushroom is among the most toxic species of fungus in the world, Herr Burton. Its spores kill instantly when they are breathed, but they are easily resisted with a gas mask. Not so the ones in the bomb, for they have been specially bred to such microscopic size that they will penetrate the pores of a person's skin. No one will escape.”
“Barbaric!”
“Hardly so. It is a very sophisticated weapon.”
“And still you claim the Greater German Empire is a superior civilisation?”
“It is you British who have driven us to such extremes.”
“I hardly think that-”
The plant suddenly lurched to the left and the driver screamed: “Gott im Himmel! Was ist das? Was ist das?”
Burton looked to the right. The most incredible machine he'd ever seen was mounting the ridge. It was completely spherical, a gigantic metal ball about two hundred feet in diameter and painted a dark jungle green. A wide studded track was spinning at high speed vertically around it, providing the motive force. Burton guessed that the same gyroscopic technology that kept penny-farthings upright in his time was here employed to prevent the sphere from rolling to its left or right.
Four long multi-jointed arms extended from the sides of it. The upper pair ended in lobster-like claws, the lower in spinning circular saw blades. These were obviously used to tear through whatever vegetation couldn't be simply rolled over.
Three rows of portholes and cannon ports ran horizontally around the orb, and four curved chimneys pumped steam into the air from just below its apex.
A puff of smoke erupted from its hull. A loud bang followed, and another, even louder, as an explosion threw up the earth ahead of the German transport.
“Warning shot!” Burton shouted. “You have to stop! You'll never outrun it!”
“Halt! Halt!” Lettow-Vorbeck yelled.
The plant jerked to a standstill. The generalmajor stood, drew his pistol, pushed the barrel into the side of Burton's head, and waited as the sphere drew closer.
“I am sorry, Herr Burton, I will kill you rather than allow you back into British hands, but let us first see what they have to say.”
There was a hard thud.
Lettow-Vorbeck looked down at the hole that had just appeared in the middle of his chest and muttered, “Himmelherrgott! Just that?”
He collapsed backward out of the plant.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
One after the other, in quick succession, the Schutztruppen slumped in their seats.
The rolling sphere drew to a stop, casting its shadow over the German vehicle. Burton watched as a thin wedge opened from it, angling down to form a sloping platform with a door at the top. There was a figure framed in the portal.
“Don't just sit there, you chump!” Bertie Wells called. “Come aboard!”
It was named the SS Britannia, and was captained by General Aitken himself-the director of all British military operations in East Africa-whom Burton remembered from the bombing of Dar es Salaam back in 1914.
“It's good to see you again, Bertie!” the famous explorer enthused as Wells and three British Tommies led him through the ship toward the bridge. “What happened to you? And how did you end up aboard this behemoth?”
“Adventures and perils too numerous to recount happened to me, Richard, but eventually I made my way to Tabora like everyone else. Practically every free Britisher in Africa-perhaps in the entire world-is there now.”
“Bismillah!” Burton swore, grabbing at his friend's arm. “Praise to Allah that you rescued me now and not two minutes earlier!”
“What do you mean?”
“First, answer me this: how were my captors shot with that kind of precision at such a distance? I've never seen anything like it!”
“Marksmen with the new Lee-Enfield sniper rifles. A remarkable weapon-the most accurate long-range rifle ever manufactured.”
“And these marksmen, would they have recognised the men they were shooting?”
“As Germans? Of course! The uniform is unmistakable.”
They passed through a room lined with gun racks then rounded a corner into a corridor along which many men were moving.
“You should have examined the bodies, Bertie, instead of just leaving them there.”
“Why so?”
“Because one of them was Generalmajor Paul Emil von Lettow-Vorbeck.”
Wells stumbled to a halt, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide. His three companions stopped, too, but instinctively retreated a few paces, displaying a typically Brit
ish sensitivity to Wells and Burton's need for a moment of privacy. Nevertheless, having heard the pronouncement, they gaped.
“Wha-what?” Wells stuttered, then his voice rose to a squeal: “We just killed Lettow-Vorbeck? We killed him? Are you sure?”
“He was holding a pistol to my head when he took a bullet through the heart.”
Wells smacked a fist into his palm and let loose a whoop of triumph. “Bloody hell! This could change everything!”
“No, Bertie, it's too late.”
“Too late? What do you mean, it's too late?”
Very quietly, Burton said: “In forty-eight hours, a German flying ship is going to drop a bomb on Tabora.”
“That's nothing new. The plants fly over, we shoot 'em down.”
“This one will be at a high altitude, and it's carrying an A-Bomb.”
“A what?”
In a whisper, Burton explained, and as he did so, his friend's burn-scarred and sun-browned face turned white. Wells looked to the right and left, gestured to the three guards, indicating that they should wait, then pulled Burton back along the passage and into the gun room. He spoke quietly and urgently: “We have to tell Aitken, but don't give away too much about yourself. Keep your true identity under wraps, for starters. The situation is complicated, and there's no time to fill you in right now. Suffice to say, your impossible presence in Africa has been detected. Colonel Crowley himself sent us to rescue you-”
“Your so-called wizard of wizards?”
“Yes. Apparently he's been aware of an anomaly on the continent since 1914 and has been trying to identify it ever since. He finally traced it to the Ugogi Stalag, then homed in on you as you were being transported. He sent the Britannia to intercept the vehicle and retrieve you.”
“But he doesn't know who I am?”
One of the Tommies appeared in the doorway, cleared his throat, and jerked his head to suggest that they should move on. Wells gave a slight nod. He guided Burton back into the corridor and they followed a few steps behind the three soldiers. They came to a staircase and started up it.
“All Crowley knows is that you don't belong in 1918,” Wells whispered. “I think, through you, he's hoping to unlock the secrets of time travel.”
“Lettow-Vorbeck had the same idea.”
“Listen, this is important. My old editor, the man who used to run the Tabora Times before it folded, needs to see you. I don't know the full story, but there are moves being made, and we can't allow you to fall under the wizard's spell.”
“What does that mean?”
“Crowley is a tremendously powerful mesmerist. Once pierced by those fiendish eyes of his, you'll have no willpower of your own.”
“I'm no mean mesmerist myself,” Burton pointed out.
Wells grunted. “I remember reading that. You're no match for our chief medium, though. But my editor has connections. He pulled a few strings and arranged that these men-” he gestured toward the three soldiers, “-and myself be aboard the Britannia. We're going to kidnap you.”
“Kidnap?”
They reached the top of the stairs and started down a short passage.
“Just trust me, Richard.”
The Tommies stopped at a door. One of them opened it, and Wells led Burton through onto the bridge.
The explorer found himself in a chamber filled with consoles and levers, wheels, pipes, and gauges. There were twelve crewmembers at various stations, but Burton's attention immediately centred on a tall man standing before a wide curved window.
“Private Frank Baker, sir,” Wells announced.
The man turned. He was slim, with sad eyes, unevenly arranged features, and a clipped moustache, wearing a dark uniform with a double row of silver buttons and a peaked cap. He looked Burton up and down.
“You've attracted the attention of men in high places, Baker,” he said. His voice was sharp and precise, with a nasal twang. “Why?”
Burton saluted. He staggered.
“It's all right,” Aitken said. “Steady yourself. We're going over some hills.”
“I didn't realise we were moving,” Burton answered.
“The only time you'll feel it is on rough terrain, and even then not much. It's like being on an ocean liner. Answer the question.”
“I honestly haven't the vaguest idea why there's any interest in me at all, sir. I've been in a POW camp for two years.”
“And before that?”
“Civilian Observer Corps at Dar es Salaam and Tanga, then a guerrilla fighter until I was captured at Dut'humi.”
“Where were they taking you?”
“To the Lake Regions, but they didn't tell me why.”
“Sir,” Wells interjected. “Apparently one of the men we just shot dead was Lettow-Vorbeck.”
Burton watched as Aitken's Adam's apple bobbed reflexively. All the crew members turned and looked at the general. He cleared his throat, glared at them, and snapped, “Attend your stations!”
“There's something else, sir,” Wells added. “I think you might prefer to hear it in private.”
Aitken gazed at the little war correspondent for a moment, gave a brusque nod, then turned away and issued a sequence of orders to the bridge crew concerning the velocity and course of the ship. He returned his attention to Burton and Wells, jabbed a finger at them, and said, “You and you-follow me.”
They did so, trailing after him back out into the corridor and through a door into the captain's office. Aitken positioned himself behind a desk but remained standing with his hands held behind his back.
“What do you have to tell me, Wells?”
“I think it best that Baker explains, sir.”
“I don't give two bloody hoots who does the talking, just get on with it!”
Speaking slowly and clearly, Burton told him about Lettow-Vorbeck's A-Bomb.
Moments later, General Aitken collapsed into his chair.
Burton was confined to a cabin with Bertie Wells as his guard. He'd washed, thrown away his prison uniform, and dressed in clean, tick-free battle fatigues. A cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches had been provided.
“They've radioed ahead,” Wells told him. “And so have I.”
“And the city's being evacuated?”
“Evacuated? To where? There's no place to go. Tabora has been under siege for half a century, and all the rest of Africa is under German control. My guess is they'll try to get as many people as possible into underground bunkers. Whether that'll save them or not remains to be seen. If the spore cloud is dense enough, I don't suppose there'll be anywhere safe.”
“Yet we're going back?”
“To rescue the top brass.”
“And take them to-?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I suppose it's possible there's another British enclave somewhere, a place only the bigwigs know about. Or maybe we'll head into one of Africa's wildernesses and lay low while Crowley experiments on you.”
“I don't like the sound of that.” Burton took a bite out of a sandwich and frowned thoughtfully while he chewed and swallowed. “Who did you radio?”
“I sent a coded message to my editor, told him about the A-Bomb.”
“Will he be able to get to safety?”
“Probably not. As I say, the city is surrounded.”
“Then how do we get in? How does the Britannia come and go?”
“We manage to keep a passage-we call it Hell's Run-open through the besieging German forces to the east of the city. The most ghastly fighting occurs along its borders, but Crowley and our mediums focus their efforts there and have so far prevented the Germans from closing the route.”
A siren started to blare.
“That's the call to battle stations!”
The door opened and an Askari stepped in. “You're both ordered to the bridge,” he said. “Tabora just radioed a message that's put the wind up Aitken. We're approaching the city now.”
“What message?” Wells asked as they followed the African
out of the room.
“I don't know the details, Lieutenant.”
They passed along corridors and up stairs, with men rushing around them and the siren howling continuously. The moment they entered the bridge, Aitken rounded on Burton and snapped: “Baker, did Lettow-Vorbeck tell you anything about lurchers? Have the Germans regained control of them?”
“He pointed out a crowd of the plants,” Burton replied, “and said they're most numerous up near the Blood Jungle, but control? No, quite the opposite.”
“Well, that's damned strange. Tabora reports that thousands of them are approaching the city from the north.”
Burton and Wells looked at each other. The explorer shook his head and shrugged, baffled.
“We're currently racing straight down the middle of Hell's Run, well away from German peashooters,” Aitken said. “When was the last time you were here, Baker?”
“I've never been to Tabora, sir.”
“You haven't? Well, take a peek out of the window. We're almost there.”
Burton and Wells stepped over to the glass and looked out across the African landscape. The Britannia was travelling at a tremendous speed over flat ground. To the north and south of her, black clouds humped up into the blue sky. Lightning flickered inside them. Puffs of smoke rose from the ground beneath. There were flashes. Tiny dots could be seen flying through the air.
“Those are the edges of Hell's Run,” Wells murmured. “As you can see, the Hun weathermen are at work. The storms are more or less constant, as is the fighting beneath them. Tabora is behind the hills you see ahead of us.”
As he examined the terrain, Burton was overcome by a sense of deja vu. He struggled for breath and clutched at Wells's arm.
The Britannia shot up a slope, over the crest of a hill, sank into the valley beyond, navigated up the next slope, and reached the second summit. Burton saw a wide plain stretched out below. Much of it was obscured by a blanket of dirty steam, which was particularly dark and opaque straight ahead, where, from out of the pall, there rose a tall rock topped with green vegetation.
“Kazeh!” Burton croaked. “Tabora is Kazeh!”
“Kazeh is under siege!”
Sir Richard Francis Burton, Algernon Swinburne, and Isabel Arundell had ridden back through the night to where Trounce and the expedition were bivouacked. All three of them were coated with dust and thoroughly exhausted, but there was no time to rest.
