Shadows Out of Time

“There have been many reports over the years of a large meteor fall in the Mauritanian desert,” said Morgan. “Several abortive attempts have been made to find a so-called mountain of iron. Those seeking it these days are dismissed as dreamers. There are small meteorites in most parts of the desert, from the northwest to the southeast. In the city of Nouadhibou there’s a thriving market. It would not be too difficult to mount a small expedition. The British Embassy would secretly provide the cover.”

“Where, exactly, is the place Sir Conrad found?”

“To the northeast of central Mauritania. Well beyond any villages, roads or the railway. Completely remote and shunned by every living soul. Except a few local Haratin Arabs who are prepared to take any risks for good money. They are waiting.”

Phillips sat back, picturing the endless dunes and scarred desert crags, the extremely hostile, inhospitable landscape, the greatest challenge to human survival. “Getting there would be bad enough,” he said softly. “Then what? How is the problem to be dealt with? You’re not talking about something that can simply be de-activated.”

Morgan shook his head. “There are two engineers, soldiers. They have the means.”

Phillips grunted skeptically. “You’re sure about that? Meddling with these things is very bad news.”

“I can’t give you the details, but yes, they have sufficient power.” Morgan leaned forward, his face bathed in sweat. “You saw what was under the Egyptian sands. What could have been unleashed. This is far worse. Ten times — a hundred — more so. The risk has to be taken.”

Phillips scowled deeply. He found it hard to imagine anything worse than the horrors that had been uncovered in Egypt. “So why me?”

“They need someone they can trust. You’ve proved your worth.” Morgan pulled something else out of his pocket, a narrow envelope. He slid it cautiously across the table, screening it with his body.

Phillips took it and opened it discreetly below the table, pulling out a single sheet and scanning it. It was from Terrance Carnadine.

To Luke Phillips:

I know you won’t like this, and will doubtless associate my name with a lot of negative things, but we need the help of a man like you. You’re an exMarine, you know about the Egyptian affair, what it means. The desert people will follow you. This is a Government mission. No expense spared, especially in the weapons to be used. If we don’t act soon, the consequences are going to be unthinkable. The only way in to the place Morgan will have described is shrouded in strict secrecy. We can’t risk an international incident. You’ll have every protection, before and after. And whatever else you want. Destroy this note.

T C

Phillips took a Zippo from his pocket and ignited the sheet, watching in silence as it burned away to nothing. Morgan watched, fascinated, his face soaked in sweat, his hands shaking.

“I guess I don’t have much choice,” said Phillips. A Government mission, it had said. CIA. Of all the organizations, they had the power to wind him up and put him away for good if he didn’t feel like complying. Always better to keep on the right side of them.

Morgan looked relieved, as though his own neck was on the line. “I’ll get things moving.”

“I take it we fly out? Helicopter?”

“No — far too conspicuous. The Mauritanians would likely shoot you out of the sky. You go by road to Chinguetti. After that there are no roads, just the desert. You’ll go on by camel. A small company, the best fighting force we can gather, posing as archaeologists and meteorologists. You’ll have two engineers, a few guides and desert tribesmen to protect you. They are the best. They won’t let you down. No one will know you are there.”

Phillips studied the crumbling buildings of the big township of Chinguetti. The place sprawled, though the desert on its eastern flank was closing in inexorably, smothering older, cramped buildings where the people had given up the fight against the sand tides. The heat was almost unbearable, the sunlight searing, hotter if that were possible than the Egyptian deserts. Although there seemed to be few, if any, white people here, none of the natives paid Phillips much heed as he trudged along the narrow street to his rendezvous, a squat, brick hotel, its walls gouged by sandstorms, its roof flat as though an upper floor had been sliced off it.