Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery)

by Gregory House

  “Owwwwwwwhhh.” That always looked easier when the instructor did it! Peter kept low to the ground and scuttled over to the first body, trying to keep his eyes away from the oozing hole in the goon’s head. He didn’t need medical training to recognise a bandage was superfluous. He grabbed the semi automatic gun and the guy’s back pack. It was reasonably heavy so who knew, they might get lucky, maybe even some food!

  The second one wasn’t so simple. This one was still alive, and clutched desperately at his leg as Peter came close. “Mate ahhh, ya got a help me ahhh!!”

  Peter racked his memory for the drills on combat first aid. The best he could remember was check the bleeding, pack the wound and stop the injured from moving around. He unclipped the night vision lens from the rifle and with the aid of his spluttering fire, looked the poor fellow over. Lampie’s shot had hit him in the shoulder and it didn’t look good. Unlike the Hollywood versions where they grip the wound and keep on fighting, this lad wasn’t going anywhere. He’d read the specifics of the .303. It was designed in the late 1880’s to replace the older Martini Henry .577 cartridge that was used to blow away the Zulus. While those larger calibre slugs could take off an arm, its smaller descendant was still notorious, since it had a tendency to yaw and deform when it hit, leaving a very nasty wound. A large amount of blood trickled from the entry wound whenever this guy breathed and his breathing wasn’t that good. He was no surgeon but it looked like a punctured lung, not a lot he could do for that. But he did find a rudimentary first aid kit in a quick rummage through the guy’s pack and shoved a wad of dressing under the shirt and over the wound. He patted him on the head and lent closer.

  “Look Aussie, I’m going to take your weapon and gear and I’ll leave you a spare canteen, then I’m off to call for some help. Flipping Hell don’t move around.”

  The wounded man nodded but he looked scared. Peter then shoved the extra canteen into the goon’s hand and started back up the rope. Luckily Lampie gave him a hand up the last few yards – damn his hands hurt. Once back in the shelter of the cave Peter switched on the small torch he’d found in the backpack, shielding the illumination to save the remnants of his night sight and emptied out his finds. What a mixed haul. There were two light assault type rifles. One looked generic European while the other was that renowned piece of junk, the M4 carbine, nice weapon for a drug shootout in the city, but any dirt or sand and the damn thing jammed. He’d played with one in basic training. Well what could he say, for the people who invented the Gatling gun and the Browning Automatic Rifle, this was a disappointing successor. That was followed by a couple of handguns, enough clips of ammo to settle a small war, a hunting magazine with a dead pig on the front, another magazine displaying a buxom lass in a very skimpy bikini (how surprising – but finally some bikinis) and a couple of blocks of chocolate. At the sight of this Peter let out a cheer – caffeine substitute, no more fruit bars! The wounded guy’s pack had just what they needed, rope, spikes and harnesses. Looked like Mr Wallace wasn’t going to wait around.

  “Lampie have you done any climbing?”

  “Well, yes sort of, but I’m not very good at it.”

  That was an extremely tentative answer. Peter had this sinking feeling he’d just become the acknowledged expert in mountaineering. That thought didn’t fill him with confidence. He loathed climbing up almost as much as abseiling down. But what the hell, he had to be good at something?

  “Alright you put the kit on like this.” Peter proceeded to arrange the belts on Lampie only to have her indignantly push him away.

  “Pete watch the hands, they aren’t straying there!”

  “What are you doing?” The past few days were getting a bit exasperating. She’d beaten him in all the usual manly tasks. What, was she touchy over not being able to handle this?

  “Oh I know how to do that. Jean-Pierre showed me when he took me up Mont Blanc.”

  What the hell could he say, a girl that considered scaling one of the more famous mountains in Switzerland didn’t qualify as being good at it? He just shook his head. Scaling the Brecon Beacons didn’t come close.

  “You lead. I’ll back you up, but no spearheads right!” Something told him it was going to be a very long night.

  Chapter 40 King of the Castle

  There had got to be an easier way! Peter hammered in the second last climbing pin. He had to admit he’d found something he feared more than being an appetiser for a saltie, and that would be scaling a vertical cliff face in the dark, only aided by a night vision scope. This was just insane. He only came out here to check on an archaeological site, not to play James Bond, Indiana Jones or Sylvester Stallone. So far between snakes, sharks, spiders, crocodiles, deranged eccentrics and maniacal goons, this had not been a good break. The only positive thing he could think of was that, if by some chance he survived all this, dealing with Skaze University and Vice Chancellor Adams was going to be a holiday.

  “What’s the hold up Pete? Dawn’s an hour away?” Lampie’s impatient voice floated up from below. Despite the fact that she probably had much more experience at this than he did, Lampie had insisted that he go first. Peter wasn’t sure why. Maybe she felt it would be safer with her as back up if he slipped. Anyway this was difficult enough without her prompting. Oh flipping hell, for the umpteenth time on this wilderness adventure he prayed for a cup of coffee. The chocolate was good but he rationed himself to half a block. Carefully, Peter wiped the dripping sweat off his forehead. So far they’d travelled a hundred and forty metres up the side of Mount Trafalgar. The first forty metres had been relatively easy and oh boy did he thank the local spirits for that. Ascending cliff faces during the day was difficult enough, and the scope only aided so far in the search for handholds, spurs and useful crevices. The rest was creeping his hand over a likely area and hoping for the best.

  “We’re down to our last pin, or hook or whatever they call these things!” The territorials didn’t exactly get the most up to date kit and this new climbing gear was pretty way out – slotted hooks, and spring loaded camlocking pins that wedged tight in crevices. He dreaded to think how long it would have taken to do this with the 70’s style gear he’d trained with, though it might have been a bit faster if Lampie hadn’t added her usual sarcastic suggestions when he was baffled by a new piece of kit.

  “Well, you’re supposed to be the smart Pommie professor. Think of something?”

  “Thank you Lampie for that vote of confidence, but aren’t Aussies supposed to be resourceful.” Peter was getting fed up with the implications that his studies had created more problems than they’d solved

  “I got us up all the way up here didn’t I?” Peter considered that a telling point.

  “Yeah sure – two hundred and fifty metres up and ten to go, and we stall. Great work!”

  Peter wished she hadn’t mention distances. The only, and he did mean only, redeeming feature of this nighttime jaunt was that he couldn’t see how far down it was. Well time enough for a rest – his shoulders were screaming as it was. How anyone did this for fun he found incomprehensible. He made sure the rope was secure and slung himself sideways onto a very narrow ledge, no more than a few inches deep, and rummaged in the haversack. Well nothing special, apart from some food, water, ammunition and the confiscated weapons. Not really a lot to go on.

  “Ahh Lampie, are you sure we’ve only got another ten metres?” As instinct dictated, he looked down for an answer and her pale features swam into view, as did a lot of the lower landscape. Peter gulped and gripped the rope harder.

  “Yeah, ten or fifteen metres at an estimate Pete. Why?”

  Well actually he did have an idea. Peter pulled out one of the pistols, unclipped the butt magazine clip, and weighted it in his hand. Good quality modern carbon steel, press formed into an open ended rectangular box, hmm, tempting. Pistol magazine clips were built to be tough and once you got rid of the ammo, these should drive into the crevices and hold well enough, at least sufficiently for the las
t sprint to the top, or so he hoped.

  “Lampie, I’ve got us something to use but it’s a trifle irregular and may not be that safe.”

  “Yeah so what? Tell me Peter, do you want to hang around here much longer?”

  That had to be a rhetorical question. The darkness was visibly fading and the last thing he wanted to be come dawn, was the proverbial fly on the wall. Several vengeful armed goons somewhere below would find his predicament very amusing. Working as fast as he could with bruised fingers, he popped out the bullets. He wasn’t planning on being fancy so they just spun off into the fading darkness below, tinkling where they bounced off the cliff face. Ten minutes work gave him six clips ready for use. At a rough guess, there were enough for up to the last few metres, then well, they’d just see what could be done.

  The first one hammered in well and locked. Peter swung out putting most of his weight on the improvised pin and it held. How long and well – that was the gamble. This last section was going to have to be climbed as fast as possible. Slowly he moved upwards and wedged in another clip then dragged his weight up. Now Peter wished he hadn’t done the manly thing and offered to carry the two assault rifles, as well as the laptop. That extra ten or so kilos were beginning to count, as his muscles kept reminding him. However he was getting pretty sick of being everybody’s target and every bloody animal’s prospective lunch without the chance to fight back, so the weapons stayed.

  The next two went in easily enough, another few metres gained, as did the following pair. The fifth was not so cooperative and was proving a right bastard. He tried hammering it in but the angle was a real bitch and he couldn’t deny it any longer, morning was here. The black of night was being washed away, first the purple tinge then the slow flood of orange. Time was really slipping away.

  A mildly reproving voice wafted up to him. “Ahh Pete I’d get a move on. This pin is slipping.”

  Peter once more looked below. Lampie was gripping only one foothold while the other was slowly sliding southwards on the slipping clip. Ahh shit, he had to do something and fast. Lampie was looking a little strained. Her arms were stretched as far as possible, trying to reach a tempting crevice just inches away. She wasn’t going to make it!

  Later he couldn’t figure out how or why he did what he did. Crazy and stupid it may have been but it did work. There was a deep eroded crevice to his left that may serve as an anchor point. However he didn’t have any pins large enough to make use of it. Instead inspiration struck. Peter unslung the M4 and wedged it in, butt first then spun a loop of the rope over it before dropping the line down to Lampie, then he braced himself against the cliff as an anchor. “Lampie grab the rope and go straight up!”

  The top edge was clearly visible a metre above him and the usual collection of Kimberleys birds began their morning chorus. They had to get off the cliff real soon. Lampie’s foot hold gave way and her left hand shot out and grabbed the dangling rope. Now Peter had been with Lampie for two weeks straight, and in that time you tend to recognise a few things about your companion, like how the morning sunlight falls on her hair lighting it up like spun gold, or the way her thigh muscles ripple as she clambered rock shelves, or his personal favourite, the twinkle of mischief in her eye as he falls for another wild story. Right now he was really keen not to loose any of those qualities and a good deal of others he’d love the chance to explore. But now, right now, he really wished she weighed a tad less. It must be all that taipan biltong that did it. Peter gasped and strained with the effort to hold both himself and Lampie as she climbed up the rope towards the barrel poking out of the rock face. “Awwwwh ffflliipppingg huurrrryy upppp!”

  Rock was a pretty strange substance. It took millions of years to form, millions more being uplifted, folded, layered and then further millions slowly eroding. So why after all that vast expanse of time did the ledge he had locked his fingers onto suddenly decide that this was the perfect moment to flake and crumble? “Lampie moove fasterrrr!!”

  Peter spared a glance downwards while he tried to make like Spiderman. A radioactive spider would have been a real boon rather than those horrible carnivorous types that had tried to munch on him over the past weeks. His fingernails gained the slimmest purchase for twenty more seconds and in that eternal span of time, Peter decided he still really wanted to do a lot of things, before he fell two hundred metres. Strangely, images of Lampie outnumbered those of Fiona, and getting his doctorate really didn’t crop up at all.

  “Pete, Pete! I’m up!”

  That was great cos his fingernails were chipping off an increasing number of stone flakes. The ledge was getting smaller by the second. “Tie off the rope!!!”

  “Yeah done!”

  Peter let go of his crumbling sanctuary, put all his weight on the slender cord and swung out into the dawn. His fingertips clawed at the embedded barrel and on the second sway he grabbed the protruding muzzle and using it for leverage, pulled himself up gaining a few more feet towards the top. At that point Lampie stretched over the edge and extended a hand. The timing was with him since his scrabbling foot had secured its purchase on the wedged rifle and with a final effort, Peter found himself on top of Mount Trafalgar. Success!

  How perilous that success had been was soon displayed. The emergency prop now free of restraint and the locking pressure, slowly slid out of the crevice and tumbled down the cliff. Along the way the safety was knocked off and a hundred metres down the rifle proceeded to open up in short bursts of fire as it slammed against the rocks.

  “Nice going genius. Y’ reckon they might have heard that?”

  Peter was too busy hugging the solidness of the top of the plateau to worry about Lampie’s sarcastic criticism. “Right now Miss Yvette, I don’t care!”

  Peter buried his face in to the low ground cover and breathed deeply, trying not to imagine what would have happened if he was a couple of seconds too late. The morning raucous of Kimberleys bird life was suddenly interrupted by a short statacco burst of sound. An automatic had opened up and the rocks beneath them chipped and shattered as the bullets pinged and gouged at the cliff face. Wallace’s muscle was back and worse, they knew that the prey had escaped and weren’t happy.

  “Now I care!” Peter crawled further from the edge. “Any chance of keeping them busy, Lampie?”

  “Are you for real? I’ve got twenty five rounds left for the .303. It’s daylight so targeting is easier but give ‘em a hour or so, and even an idiot will figure out that they can go around to the other side, scale the cliff and come up behind.”

  Peter couldn’t disagree. They now only had the European assault rifle and three extra mags, so at thirty rounds a mag that was a hundred and twenty rounds – not really enough for a serious firefight. However they were getting close to the useful range of those weapons at three to four hundred metres which gave Lampie a distinct advantage, with the Lee Enfield .303 good for a thousand metres or more. Numbers, it all came down to numbers, and the most important ones were digital so he’d better get something sorted fast.

  “Lampie give them one shot every five minutes or if you see a target, but use this.” Peter flicked the selector switch on the assault rifle to single shot, then passed it over. Lampie took it with a look of disdain as if he’d handed her one of the spears from the tomb. “How am I going to hit them with this? The sights are too sloppy!”

  “You don’t, you keep them busy, then every fourth or fifth shot, swap to the rifle or if you see a chance to hit any of them.”

  Lampie shrugged at the suggestion then settled herself into a good position to observe the goings on below and still be covered. Peter watched her for a moment as she squeezed off a single shot, then ducked. The answering fusillade had Peter nodding with satisfaction. They had a chance so he’d best make the most of it.

  Once more he unpacked the rugged laptop and set it up on a low rock shelf, ensuring that there was a clear line of sight to the open sky for the small sat dish, then began the start-up procedure. Slowly it tick
ed over. Windows came on, found the new hardware and sorted through its options then the little satellite image flashed an okay – it could get a connection!!

  That was well and good. He logged into his email account and prepared a message. He was going to have to think about this. Words were important, so were the story and the images. Their first priority was to get help, the second stop Wallace and the third was maybe rescue Sid, though he was prepared to think further on that. So that would be three sets of emails, the first high on PLEASE HELP along with a brief sketch of what was happening with juicy images to match, followed by some choice shots of the tomb and the treasure. That would go to the media organisations and the Police.

  Peter decided to head that as Kimberley’s Templar Treasure Trove threatened by Tomb Robbers. That’d look good, nice and punchy, get the attention of editors then he added an extremely brief account of the discovery, along with the attempt by Wallace to seize the treasure, the battle at the foot of Mount Trafalgar and their current position. He ended with the phase:

  We are running out of ammunition and our water supplies are low. We can’t hold them off for much longer. Please send help as soon as possible. Signing off to save power. Peter Wilks, Archaeologist, Skaze University. And Miss Yvette Ginevre du Chesney-Lampierre, Survey Officer

  That was good. It smacked of the relief of Mafeking, last man last bullet stuff. Now all he needed was to attach the shots, but where was the camera? Christ! They really needed those shots! Peter searched through his pack and the laptop box. No, nothing – no camera! Panic, Panic!!

  “Hey Lampie have you seen the camera?” Another shot cracked from the rifle.

  “What?”

  “The camera, Lampie. Have you seen the camera?” He tried to keep the desperate urgency out of his request. If it was still in the cave, they were stuffed!

  “What? Ohh yeah, sure, it’s in my back pack.”

  Peter slid over to her latest position and ferreted through the pack with his head well down.