Many Words

In a few minutes more, the Albatross and its escort reached the edge of the floodplain, leaving a trail of puzzled farmers and herdsmen in their wake. They followed the river to a small collection of tan brick houses, toward which the Albatross turned. It circled once and set down outside the village, while the Kestrel loitered overhead.

As Cannon and the rest of the shore party disembarked, packs slung over their shoulders, the Albatross turned around. The pilot firewalled the throttles, and the airplane clawed its way into the sky, still heavily loaded with fuel for the flight back to Inconstant. From the village came a darkly-tanned man leading a team of camels.

“That is my man from El-Balyana,” Masaracchia said. “Shall we meet him halfway?”

Half an hour later, they were on their way. It was too early in the day for the camels to develop their customary foul temper. Cannon urged his mount over the crest of the shallow rise out of the valley, and saw the shining desert sands laid out before him.

Some distance way, perhaps a few miles, a handful of rocks stood like fingers extending through the rolling dunes. “There,” said Masaracchia.

Iseabail pushed up the brim of her hat and squinted. “Yon rocks? Dinnae look like any ancient temple I’ve seen.”

“Under the sand,” said Cannon. “Rock doesn’t move.”

“An’ nae a soul cared enough tae dust the place in a thousand years?” Iseabail snorted.

Cannon turned in his saddle. “They’re Mohammedans. All of this is long-forgotten.”

“Still, wouldnae they ha’ told someone of it?”

“They did.” Cannon faced forward and urged his camel onward. “Or someone did, anyway. He vanished without a trace.”

“An’ here we go, right at wha’ever vanished him,” Iseabail mused.

Cannon glanced over his shoulder. “You didn’t sign on thinking the life of a pirate was safe,” he pointed out.

The sun hung low over the eastern horizon, then sunk beneath it as the Albatross dove for the deck. A Kestrel, launched a few minutes earlier, took up an escort position. Behind them, Inconstant made a stately turn to the north to parallel the Egyptian coast.

In the Albatross’s cargo fuselage, Cannon sat at the front facing backward, wads of cotton stuffed in his ears against the roar of the engine, only a foot or two away past the firewall at his back. Strapped into one of the jump seats, he could just see through the crawl-way into the cockpit, and a tiny slice of the glazed nose allowed him the slightest view outside. For now, in the moments before dawn, he saw two featureless plains, the ocean and the desert, separated by the luminescent surf.

Further back in the cargo fuselage, his ground team sat in the back-to-back seats running the length of the cabin. Amelia Burr, dark-haired and soft-featured, displayed something of her true character by her unladylike sprawl and a mouth-open snore Cannon could nearly hear. Beside here was Iseabail Crannach, red-haired, stocky, and Scottish. Every minute or two, she shifted in her seat, found a new spot on the wall to stare at, and recrossed her arms. Cannon didn’t begrudge her the nerves—she did brilliant work in Inconstant‘s laboratory, but of Cannon’s inner circle, she had the least experience with this sort of thing.

A few seats further aft, di Giacomo and Masaracchia sat side-by-side, imperfect mirror images: they had similar faces and hair, but di Giacomo had a narrow, wiry build to Masaracchia’s broad-shouldered form. The two of them attempted a conversation, as futile as that was in here. he couldn’t hear them, of course, but every now and then he could lip-read, “Che?”

The plane hit a patch of rough air, and Cannon smiled. In its own way, this was a relaxing moment, despite the engine right next to his ears. His plans were set, and he had nothing to do and no way to change the course of things for the next hour. He settled his head against the cushion tacked to the bulkhead behind it, yawned, and closed his eyes.

The Albatross and its Kestrel escort crossed the coastline and drove further in, low to the ground. Mountains rose before them, four thousand feet above the sea, and the planes crested them as dawn gave way to morning. As the mountains fell away, the planes descended to only a few hundred feet over the desert, tearing along at more than two hundred thirty miles per hour. The miles fell away behind them, and in time, the Nile came into view: a verdant ribbon, centered on a winding quicksilver line.

“If the British find us,” said Emma, “do we get to have a fight?”

“Joe?” said Cannon.

“We covered that in the boring part,” Joe said, turning in his chair to face Emma. “Boss says we keep out of the way if we can.”

“That’s right,” Cannon said, waving at the chart. “If Inconstant gets pushed too far off, we’ll make our way back to Alexandria, where we’ll lay low, steal a plane, or get out some other way.”

“And you’re sure you won’t need me on the ground?” Emma said.

“The plan is to be in and out before anyone notices. If I need a sharpshooter or a brawler, things have gone south in a big way. I’m not sticking around long enough for that to happen.”

“So I’m stuck here where the only things to do are scout flights and running away?”

“That’s the size of it,” replied Cannon, grinning crookedly. “Alright. Anything else? No? Good. We’ll be out over the Red Sea tonight, and in place to launch the Albatross before dawn tomorrow. Make sure the rank and file are ready for a day or two at their posts.” He gathered his notes from the lectern. “If you think of anything, bring it to Joe or me. That’s all.”

The trip to the airfield and the return flight to Inconstant passed quietly. Cannon had a crewman settle Masaracchia into a spare cabin and set up a briefing for half an hour later.

Emma Foster had missed, or rather ignored, Cannon’s last few, and he had begun to strike back by neglecting to mention important details when he next saw her. She would find a way to retaliate in turn, but that was a problem for another day—she refused to be surprised this time around. The briefing theater occupied the space just forward of the hangar, to the starboard side of the ventral catwalk. Sixty amphitheater-style seats rose around the lectern. Today, Cannon had brought a blackboard and a chart stand with him. He had written out a patrol schedule on the blackboard. The chart stand held a map of Egypt.

“…Abdju,” Cannon was saying, “near the modern town of El Balyana. Crannach will be on the ground with me, along with di Giacomo, Burr, and Mr. Masaracchia here.” As Emma took her seat, Cannon gave her a big wave. “Foster! Good of you to stop by.”

In her Australian twang, Emma replied, “I was having a hard time getting to sleep.”

Over the chuckles, Cannon said, “You missed the boring part. We already volunteered you for dawn patrols for the next week.”

Emma rolled her eyes, exaggerating the gesture so that it involved her whole head. She didn’t mind as much as she let on; she enjoyed the early mornings. Cannon droned on while Emma had a look around. It was a briefing for the senior parts of the crew today: squadron leaders, deck crew chiefs, gunnery directors, and the like.

“If the rest of you want to know more about the temple or about the plan on the ground,” Cannon continued, “ask anyone on the ground team. They’ve already been briefed.” He pulled a new chart, which covered the south of France to the middle of Arabia, over the top of the stand. “The British know we’re around, so one of the pilots will fly us into El Balyana and return once we’re on the ground. Joe Copeland will be in command while I’m gone. Inconstant will stand off to the east over Arabia and wait for our call. Mr. Masaracchia tells me that friends of the Church in the village have a shortwave set. Joe has the list of frequencies to monitor.” In the front row, Joe and Masaracchia nodded. “The ground team will take a team of camels out to the temple, recover the cross, and call for a ride. Inconstant will head west and send an Albatross to pick us up. Any questions?”

Cannon followed the Nile up and down the map. About five hundred miles, he made it, from Alexandria to El Balyana. “Let’s get this straight. We fly down there, break into this place, nose around for van der Hoek or clues to his next stop, and vamoose before the British catch on?” Masaracchia began to answer, but Cannon cut in. “Who is ‘we’, and why did Massri clam up about this temple?”

Masaracchia glanced off to his left. “The rural Egyptian is a supersitious breed,” he said. “Many still cling to some belief in the ancient gods.”

“And ‘we’?” Cannon pressed.

“Friends of the church.”

“I get the feeling he’s not being on the level with me, Joe,” Cannon said.

“Hm,” Joe grunted. “Coincidence. I was thinking that too.”

Masaracchia looked between them. “Captain, surely you know there’s an element of risk in any venture concering the supernatural—”

“No angry locals?” Cannon interrupted.

“No.”

“No vast conspiracy just waiting for us to let down our guard?”

“I can’t say for sure that one does not exist, but if it does, I’m not involved.”

“He’s a bit of a smart-aleck for a monk, isn’t he?” Cannon said. Joe replied with a nod. “No desert tribesmen to take our little expedition as an insult? No deathly traps?”

“No tribesmen,” Masaracchia said. “I say nothing about traps. Van der Hoek did vanish, after all.”

Cannon considered that. “Fair enough. Are you ready to go, or will you need a few minutes?”

Masaracchia blinked at him.

“Oh, don’t play coy,” Cannon said, rolling his eyes. “You’ve got a suitcase all ready to go under your cot, and if you’re just a monk—well, if you’re just a monk, then I’m the king of France. I won’t make an issue of it if you keep out from under foot aboard the zep.”

The monk grabbed his suitcase. “I’ll do my best, captain. Lead on.”