by Jodi Taylor
‘Number Two is converted to a medical purpose and Dr Foster and her team will be located in and around. If any injuries are incurred, all members of the team should report to her. You must remain in your teams at all times. No one wanders around on their own.
‘Whatever happens, we spend no more than two hours on site. However well it’s going. Number Six will have a designated driver who will monitor oxygen levels, act as timekeeper and advise me when it’s time to pull the plug. This brings me back to where I started, people. When I say we go – we’re gone. Any questions?’
Helen’s final medical briefing was even worse. She gave us a depressingly long list of the circumstances and/or injuries which would result in us being deemed not fit for purpose. It seemed anything more serious than a slight headache would result in us being returned to sender.
I shifted restlessly in my seat. Beside me, Peterson whispered, ‘Bloody hell, Max, we’ve got to stop including these amateurs. We’ll never get anything done at this rate.’
Unfortunately, at that moment, Helen stopped talking and his voice was heard around the Hall with disastrous clarity.
You can say this about historians, we may be the tea-drenched disaster-magnets of St Mary’s but bloody hell, can we think quickly when we have to. He turned in his seat, fixed a startled Ian Guthrie with a glare and said, ‘Sh!’
It didn’t save him. I did what I could, but she separated him from the herd and when she’d finished with him, a vengeful Ian Guthrie was waiting.
Afterwards, I took him for a drink and said fondly, ‘Idiot.’
‘Yes,’ he said, downing it in one go. ‘But there’s always make-up sex afterwards.’
‘True,’ I said. ‘Tell me, I’ve always wanted to know – what’s he like in bed?’
Chief Farrell delivered sets of co-ordinates. The big pod, now known for ever as TB2, was completed and loaded only two days after its scheduled date. All the other pods were serviced and ready to go. He did not manage to set fire to himself in any way. No screaming was involved. No alarms went off.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘That was dull.’
And then, suddenly there was nothing more to do and we were ready.
We assembled in Hawking, unfamiliar in our stiff new fire suits.
Doctor Dowson and Chief Farrell had loaded up TB2 and stood on the ramp ticking off the inventory. Helen and her team waited outside Number Two. Guthrie’s teams, already in fire-fighting gear, lined up outside Numbers Five and Six. Peterson, Kal and I assembled our teams and marshalled them into Number One. Professor Rapson quivered with excitement outside Number Three. The gantry was packed. Every single member of the unit had assembled in Hawking for this. This was it. This was The Really Big One. Our future was on the line. Every pod would be in use and over half the unit on the active list for this one. Thirsk was on stand-by. If this went wrong then St Mary’s was finished.
What had I done?
We stood in silence. There was no point hanging around. I gave the word and the world went white.
Chapter Seventeen
Everything went wrong. Right from the off, everything went wrong.
We landed an hour later than planned and a good half of the Library was well ablaze. Fortunately, we were at the other end. The Christians, showing a level of intelligence not normally associated with the religiously fervent, had pushed off. We exited the pod to a red-hot wall of heat and noise. It was like stepping into hell. We had no time to waste. We got stuck in.
Two paces from the pod and I was drenched in sweat. The heat was suffocating. I could hear my laboured breathing inside my own head. From the corner of my eye I could see leaping flames. It was impossible to describe the Library; all details were lost in the smoky haze. My world was limited to the few square feet in front of me.
Our teams deployed to their given positions. I had Markham and young Van Owen. We nodded to each other for luck and got started. We’d rehearsed for this, but it was far tougher than I thought it would be. The slightest exertion made me sweat even harder. My head pounded. I couldn’t catch my breath.
We established a routine. Markham forced the armarium door. Van Owen and I stepped forward. Markham held the torch. We scooped the contents of the top shelf into the tub, then the next one down, then the next and so on. Pass the tub down the line. Grab a new one. Move on to the next armarium. Markham forced the doors … and so on.
Occasionally, someone passed us some water. Dark figures criss-crossed the room, shouting over the noise of the fire. I ignored them, whoever they were, trusting Guthrie to keep us safe. Concentrate on the job in hand. Deal with the now. Breathe. Ignore the increasing heat, the pounding headache and the blurred vision. Just get on with it.
We shuffled up to the next armarium. Markham splintered the doors. These bloody scrolls were never ending. We were reaching for the top shelf when, over the clamour, I heard a new noise.
Something went over with a crash. I saw flames running across the floor towards us. The floor was marble. How could it burn? It must be oil – maybe a lamp had gone over. No, it wasn’t a lamp. The bloody Christians were back. Through the smoke, I could hear shouting. They must have seen or heard us. We were making no efforts at concealment. Markham stepped away from us to give himself room.
The security team swung into action. Their instructions were very clear. No violence of any kind. Absolutely no contemporaries were to be harmed. Moving as one, they charged towards the mob, sinister in their fire-fighting gear, uttering blood-curdling cries and waving their arms. Moving as one, the Christians turned and fled. Maybe they thought we were pagan demons come to defend our temple. They would regroup around the corner, find their courage and religious zeal and be back. It would get bloody. Time to go.
I felt a sudden change in pressure and heard Guthrie’s voice raised in warning. In my ear, someone shouted, ‘Get down. Get down. Get down.’
None of us had wasted our time over the last months. We hurled ourselves to the floor.
Too late. A hot wind picked us up and I slammed backwards into an armarium, which toppled. It and a million scrolls fell down on top of me. The heat intensified to unbearable temperatures. Was I on fire? I screamed and rolled, scrabbling to get out from under the crushing weight of the cupboard.
When I opened my eyes, Markham was bending over me, backlit by orange flames. ‘Max. Can you hear me?’
I nodded. He seized an arm and Van Owen got hold of the other one.
I shouted, ‘Wait,’ tore myself free and grabbed the half-filled tub. There might be anything in there – the exact location of Alexander’s tomb, the true story of Cambyses’ lost army, even a note from Plato saying to disregard all that Atlantis stuff – he’d had too much cheese late at night. I wasn’t leaving anything behind if I could help it.
All around, figures were grabbing what they could and flying back to the pods. Above us, I heard a crack and something massive dropped from the roof to crash and splinter on the marble floor. Flames billowed and roared hungrily.
Guthrie was yelling. ‘Evacuate. Now. Everyone out. Move. Move.’
I got seized again and we raced back to Number One as blocks of masonry, tiles and burning wood dropped around us. The roof was coming down. The Library was finished. I turned back at the door. I wanted a final look at the greatest Library in the world, but it was already gone. Just fire, smoke and destruction. I could only guess at what was being lost. Someone yanked me into the pod as a flaming beam fell across the doorway.
I heard Peterson initiate the jump and then the world went white.
The god of historians was watching out for us. We arrived at the desert site at night. We were crowded and suffocating inside the pod. Peterson ripped open the door and we all tumbled out into the crisp, cold night air, desperate for relief. I tore frantically at my smouldering fire suit. I was so hot I couldn’t bear it another second. If I didn’t get out I would scream. My gloved hands couldn’t grasp the fastenings and I panicked. Dimly, I heard Chief Fa
rrell’s voice. He pulled my hands away and others came to help. I’ve never been undressed by so many people. My boots came off and I was down to my tee and shorts when someone wrapped me in an exquisitely cold, wet towel. I groaned with relief. Someone tipped water onto my head and neck. I sagged to the ground and took a minute off. Someone else passed me a drink and I grabbed it, suddenly realising just how desperately thirsty I was.
‘Steady,’ said Leon, crouching nearby. ‘Just sip it slowly.’
He took the bottle away, wiped my chin, let me sip a little more and then helped me sit up.
He smiled. ‘It went OK then?’
‘How can you tell?’
‘You’re all here. No one’s on fire. The pods are intact. There’s no screaming. An intelligent and perceptive man can read these small signs.’
I nodded. ‘Do you think I’ll ever meet one?’
He wiped my face with something cool. ‘I’m sure I saw you in a dress once. You were clean. And smelled good. Sometimes it seems like just a dream.’ He rubbed my arm and then went away to deal with the others.
I lay for a while looking up at more stars than I’d seen since the Cretaceous. Occasionally, I grinned to myself. We’d done it. We’d managed to save a part of the Great Library of Alexandria. Not a big part, admittedly, more like a tiny fraction, but that was better than nothing. We’d done it. And no one was dead. History, it would seem, had either been looking the other way; or had possibly given up where St Mary’s was concerned.
And this was just the beginning! If this assignment went well …
We were being tended to in a rough square area, formed by TB2 on one side, Number Three at right angles and now Five, Six and One completed the set. All doors opened onto the square, making it defensible should the need arise. They’d laid rough mats over the sand to give us a reasonable surface and in a vain effort to keep sand out of the pods. Canvas awnings were stretched overhead and around the pods to give shade during the day.
We were camped in a small ravine, closed at one end and approachable only by a narrow, enclosed, rocky path. Somewhere among these rocky crags lay the hidden cave where we would store the scrolls.
The ravine would trap the heat. The scorching, baking, sweltering heat. We came straight from the inferno into the cauldron. It would be almost unbearable during the day. I could smell dust, stale air and the memory of hot rock. The canvas awnings would keep us shaded but nothing could keep us cool.
I struggled to my feet as the Boss approached.
‘Excellent work,’ he said softly.
Time I earned my pay. I raised my voice. ‘Report.’
‘Mostly present,’ croaked Guthrie. ‘And mostly correct. Evans and Ritter have been med-evacced. Nothing serious, but a sandy desert is no place for weeping burns. We’ve all been lightly toasted but no one actually managed to immolate themselves.’
‘What did we get?’
Peterson coughed and spat. ‘What we came for. At a rough guess, between fifteen hundred and seventeen hundred scrolls. No idea of the contents. We grabbed from all over the Library so it should be a nice mixed bag. Of course, with our luck, it’ll be just multiple copies of the furniture inventory,’
But he was grinning. They all were. I was too. Fifteen hundred scrolls. Fifteen hundred scrolls containing the secrets of the Ancient World.
‘Thank you, everyone,’ said Dr Bairstow. ‘Extremely satisfactory work.’
Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson wrung my hand, incoherent in their excitement. We dissuaded our two fanatics from investigating the contents of Number One right at that moment.
Ok, people,’ I said. ‘Let’s get some rest. Tomorrow, we make a start.’
Guthrie set the watch. We switched out the lights, stretched out on the ground and fell asleep.
They came in the night. They’d chosen their time well. Most of us were spark-out after our crowded day.
I opened my eyes to the crackle of gunfire and sat bolt upright, disoriented and groggy. Guthrie was bellowing over the din. Someone tossed me a handgun and two clips. The Boss was giving urgent instructions to secure the pods.
I sent Van Owen, Schiller and the other Pathfinders, together with all R & D staff to the pods with instructions not to come out again. Under any circumstances. Ignoring orders to get inside myself, I grabbed my boots and joined those hidden at the narrow entrance, peering out into the darkness, trying to make out what the hell was going on. Whoever it was, there was no way they were getting those scrolls.
There were no more shots. I could hear only the breathing of those around me.
Tactically, Guthrie had us in a very sound position, controlling the only entrance into our ravine with the pods clustered behind us. Always try and hold the narrow ground. Leonidas did it at Thermopylae, delaying the Persian army for three valuable days, giving the rest of Greece time to get its act together. Henry V did it at Agincourt, positioning his army in the narrow waist between heavily wooded areas and watching the French knights ride over each other and drown in the mud. Leonidas and Henry V. Two men who’d have a lot to say to each other should they ever meet. And where were they when we needed them?
I had no idea what was going on. Neither did anyone else. Guthrie made it simple for us.
‘We’re here. The rest of St Mary’s are safe inside the pods. Therefore shoot anyone you see trying to get up this path. They’re not contemporaries. They have modern weapons. Legitimate targets. Shoot their arses.’
Well, that made it easy. We’re historians. We need things kept simple.
I checked and loaded my weapon, clashed my boots together to dislodge any scorpions, laced them up and wished for body armour. Murdoch updated me. Someone heard a noise in the rocks and challenged an indistinct figure. The resulting fusillade of gunfire woke everyone up. After that initial burst, however, everything was silent. And continued so. We waited, but nothing happened.
We were just beginning to wonder if it was all a false alarm when they came at us out of the darkness. Guthrie gave the order. ‘Here they come. Fire at will. Good luck, everyone.’
I crouched behind a rock and fired at the muzzle flashes. The noise was overwhelming and the stink of cordite everywhere. Casings, mine and others, flew around me. A small part of my mind was thinking what a bitch of a FOD plod we were going to have. There wasn’t much kickback from my small weapon but still my hands, wrists and forearms ached with the strain of keeping it steady. It all seemed to go on for a very long time. I kept firing until empty, reloaded and fired again. Gunshots reverberated around the canyon. The noise was deafening. My gun grew hot in my sweaty hands and the acrid smell made me thirsty again. A voice shouted in the night and they retreated. Silence fell.
‘Sound off,’ said Guthrie and we did. In our group was Murdoch, Peterson, Markham and me. Guthrie and another, larger group were a little above us and to the left. The Boss commanded a team on the other side of the path. Really, we had pretty well everything locked down. Nothing was getting past us.
Wrong.
I blame myself. I’d actually made the comparisons between us and Leonidas and Henry. I just hadn’t taken it far enough. They both employed similar tactics. They both encountered the same problems. Everything’s fine so long as no one comes up behind you. Because then, in a narrow space – you’re trapped.
In Henry’s case, it was because the French POWs, sent to the rear of the army for safekeeping and future ransom, forgot themselves and cheated. They tried to attack Henry from the rear, which just wasn’t done, but that’s the French for you. They killed the baggage boys left in charge and for Henry, the position was so perilous that he forgot the rules as well and had them all killed. Problem solved.
Leonidas was betrayed by that bastard Ephialtes, who led a Persian contingent through the mountains to fall upon the Spartans from the rear. That didn’t end well but Leonidas and his boys went down fighting.
They came again, a full frontal assault. Lots of sound and fury. I was peppered with pa
inful pieces of flying rock. We were pinned down. We couldn’t get out, but they couldn’t get past us either, whoever they were. We were well placed; the pods were secure and we were in no great danger.
Wrong again.
All firing ceased and in the ringing silence, I heard the distinctive whine of a couple of heavy-duty blasters, cocked and locked. Behind us. The bastards were behind us. That’s what they’d been doing under cover of heavy fire – creeping around behind us. I heard Guthrie curse fearsomely under his breath. We could have slugged it out, but really, there was no chance.
A voice called out of the darkness for us to lay down our weapons. I was all for battling on to the end, but the Boss gave the only order he could. In the silence of disbelief, Guthrie’s voice came out of the darkness, saying quietly, ‘No one opens a pod except on Dr Bairstow’s instructions. That is an order.’ Indistinct figures emerged out of the darkness and we were marched, at gunpoint, back into our little basin.
The sky began to lighten. Dawn was happening behind the mountains. And with the sun would come the heat again.
There were fewer of them than us, but they were better armed and equipped. And they had the advantage of surprise.
They lined us up on the sand, in front of the pods, in two rows facing each other. We were on our knees, hands behind our heads. They weren’t gentle. The next half hour or so was not going to be much fun. Commands were shouted and a few of them peeled off to check the surrounding rocks and the rest took up positions behind us.
I looked around. Opposite me I could see Farrell, Peterson, the Boss, Markham and Dieter. I couldn’t see any Pathfinders at all. I hoped they were safe in Number One with the scrolls. I’m a historian. I thought they’d come for the scrolls. I was wrong about that, as well.
Jamie Cameron from R & D was here, but Doctor Dowson and the Professor were not. They would be in TB2. I was a little worried that they would open the door. Three, Five and Six, I suspected, were empty and locked. Yes, the bulk of us were here in the sand. Helpless.
