Rebels across the Red Sea

By Duncan Watt

This story, the twelfth in the Wallace Boys series, starts with a horrifying terrorist massacre of tourists at Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple, one of the most spectacular archaeological sites near Luxor in Egypt – something like this actually happened a number of years ago.

Nigel is caught up in the massacre but has obviously escaped death. He is missing. Bruce and a new-found friend, a Saudi prince by the name of Hanafi, are then involved in a desperate rescue bid on camels across the deserts of northern Saudi Arabia to save Nigel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duncan Watt
• Release date: Apr 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476276731

Duncan Watt

I was born in Africa where I grew up; but I have lived in countries like England, America, Papua New Guinea and Japan. I have now lived in Singapore for 35 years.When I was teaching in Zambia I wrote a couple of books in simplified English for my students and these were published by Oxford University Press. Since living in Singapore, where I have, among other things, appeared on the TV News for nearly twenty years, I have written 20 books in my Wallace Boys Series - 11 of which were published here in Singapore.Please visit The Wallace Boys Web Site to find out more about the books, and there is more about me too.

Book preview

Part of the cliff face behind

the Temple of Queen Hatshepsut.

(Photo Duncan Watt)

Looking down on the Temple of Hatshepsut.

(Photo Duncan Watt)

1

Massacre!

It was going to be another hot day, Bruce observed, as he settled himself on a convenient rock to gaze at the scene below him. The sun had hardly risen above the cloudless horizon into a sky of the deepest blue, but he could already feel the heat. He had taken about half an hour to climb the steep, narrow zigzag path up the cliff face of yellow rock that forms an immense backdrop to one of the most spectacular temples in all of Egypt - the Temple of Queen Hatshepsut[1].

The Temple of Queen Hatshepsut

The rock he had chosen to sit on was more of a promontory that jutted out from the top of the cliff, and it gave the boy a feeling of being suspended in space. Not exactly a site for one with vertigo, he murmured to himself with a smile as he reached for his rucksack. He extracted his camera, but before he could take the first photo something caught his eye. He glanced in that direction. Just the sun reflecting off the black windscreen of a mini-van. It was driving fast along the tar road in the direction of the temple, and as it hit a bump in the road another flash of light struck the boy. Probably bringing more tourists, he supposed. Already several large tour buses had disgorged their passengers who were now wandering round the ruins, and somewhere down there amongst them was his brother, Nigel.

Thinking no more about the mini-van and pushing his dark glasses into his hair above his forehead, Bruce started to take the photos he wanted; vertical shots of the amazing temple complex below him. He tried to avoid including too many of the tourist hordes. Using the telephoto lens, he photographed two distant columns set in the fields of sugarcane closer to the Nile, the Colossi of Memnon, he recalled reading in his guidebook - great big monoliths of stone. He took a number of photographs of the river itself. There were several feluccas[2] with their elegant white lateen sails, and drawn up to the near bank was one of the large passenger Nile steamers. On the far bank was the fantastic, ancient temple of Karnak which he and Nigel had visited two days before. Beyond, lay the sandy Eastern Desert.

He swung his camera behind him where lay the start of the Sahara Desert which stretches thousands of miles westwards. What he saw was a barren wilderness of rocky gullies and hills completely devoid of life, frightening but at the same time incredibly beautiful. Not a blade of grass, not a living thing. There was silence, complete silence. I wouldn’t give much for my chances if I became lost in that lot, he murmured grimly to himself. I suppose I’d better go back down or Nigel will start to wonder where I’ve got to.

He was about to pack away his camera when he glanced at the car park in front of the temple. The mini-van had arrived but it didn’t stop there. It charged towards the ramp that led up to the temple and, bouncing crazily, headed up it. It scraped the ticket booth, knocking it askew. Staggering, the attendant came out, waving his fists and raising his arms in disbelief. What’s that fool of a driver think he’s doing? Bruce asked himself, slightly amused. He quickly fitted and focussed his most powerful telephoto lens. Using his camera as a telescope, he watched what was happening. You can’t visit the antiquities of Egypt without paying, you know, he smiled. Stupid gate crashers!

Because of the lens’s magnification, he found it was difficult to keep the image steady in the viewfinder. He needed a tripod but managed to catch the irate ticket attendant in his viewfinder. He had begun running after the fleeing van. The man suddenly stopped. He was stamping his feet in rage and he even threw his peaked cap on the ground. Then, quite suddenly, he was flying backwards through the air, arms flailing wildly. His flight only lasted a second or two. His body, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, collapsed onto the ramp where it rolled down the slope, fetching up hard against the ticket booth.

Geez. What’s the matter with the guy? Bruce muttered.

Quite distinctly in the complete silence of the desert Bruce heard it - the unmistakable sharp crack of a rifle, followed by a series of echoes, as the sound reverberated against the cliff walls.

Someone had fired a shot.

Bruce swung the camera onto the mini-van. By the time he had steadied the image, the vehicle had gained the top of the ramp where in a cloud of dust it braked. The doors burst open and half a dozen black figures like silhouettes wearing ski-masks tumbled out, rifles at their waists, rifles with forward-curving magazines. Kalashnikovs, Bruce breathed; the famous AK-47, arguably the finest assault rifle in the world, the rifle most favoured by terrorists worldwide. What’s going on down there? he murmured.

As he watched, the group from the van fanned out, advancing on the clumps of tourists who had turned to stare in horror at the newcomers. The rifle in one man’s hand jerked violently once and then repeatedly as he switched to rapid fire. Seconds later, the sounds crashed against the yellow cliff face. Bruce swung his camera and, there in the highly magnified circle of the telephoto lens, he caught the first impact of the lethal hail of lead. The tourists never had a chance. Like skittles in a bowling alley, they went spinning, arms and legs flying. Bruce was aware that his hands gripping the camera were white at the knuckles. The eyepiece was rimmed with perspiration.

The other Kalashnikovs opened up[3]. All pandem-onium had broken loose in and around the Temple of Hatshepsut as tourists dodged and weaved, ducking behind columns, some leaping off the terrace to reach their transport. The first of the buses started moving, but the terrorists had anticipated this. One of their number was already there, waiting. He must have jumped from the van as it had slowed before mounting the ramp. Calmly, he aimed at the wheels of all the vehicles in the car park, bursting the tyres in explosions of dust. Next, with great precision he aimed at the drivers’ cabs and the windscreens shattered, blossoming with scarlet. That done, he turned on the tourists who were trying to reach the transport. The task accomplished, he rested his AK-47 across his shoulders and casually mounted the ramp to assist his comrades in their slaughter.

Meanwhile, the other terrorists were flushing out panic-stricken groups and individuals from their hasty, ineffectual hiding places, making each shot count. The death toll mounted, for one of the men had obviously been deputed to see that there were no survivors. He approached each body. Unhurriedly, he pumped a single bullet into his victims, some clearly still alive. As he did so, each body convulsed and lay still.

The Temple of Queen Hatshepsut

Bruce suddenly choked and a strangled sob escaped his lips. Nigel. Nigel’s down there. The blood drained from his face, as the full horror of his realization dawned on him. His brother was one of those being massacred. Nigel, he screamed, knowing full well the futility of doing so as he couldn’t possibly be heard from that distance, even if his voice wasn’t being drowned out by the continual stutter of gunfire. Frantically, he swung the telephoto lens onto the scattered piles of bodies, but it was too distant to make out individual faces. From the sounds of the shots, it was clear that the slaughter was continuing out of his sight, behind columns and in the various pillared buildings that make up the temple complex.

Without thinking of the possible consequences, Bruce grabbed his rucksack and, slinging his camera round his neck, he scrambled to his feet. Stumbling, he tore along the cliff top to the zigzag path that led down to Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple. Slipping and sliding on the shaly surface, he hurtled down the precipitous slope. Tears and sweat blinded him as he raced downwards. Once or twice, he nearly plunged over the edge, but he was past caring. Each time he managed to stay on the path, however. As he dropped, reason returned. He slowed. Gone was the blind panic, to be replaced by a grim determination that somehow he had to exact his revenge on the perpetrators of this bloodshed, or at the very least stand as a witness to what they had done. More deliberately now, but with a seething inner rage, he zigzagged down the path which had swung away into a narrow shaded defile, a column of rock blocking the temple from his sight. He could still hear the shots that sounded loud above the blood pounding in his head.

The massacre continued.

As Bruce came out of the defile, the dazzling glare coupled with the sweat stinging his eyes momentarily blinded him. He threw up an arm to shield his face and he turned his head. To his right up another path he saw a rocky promontory similar to the one he had sat on moments before. This one also looked down over the temple, but from where Bruce stood the bulk of the promontory effectively blocked off his view of the temple.

Bruce couldn’t believe his eyes and a cry of joy escaped him. The heavy weight of despair and horror was lifted from him and he yelled, Nigel. Nigel, you’re safe.

There, standing right on the edge of the promontory twenty metres away in white T-shirt and jeans stood his brother, unmoving, staring down at the slaughter below. He had a pair of binoculars to his eyes. The shots sounded much louder now, but Bruce, though still feeling the horror of the massacre of the wretched tourists, could have sung with happiness. Nigel, he shouted again in his relief, covering the intervening distance in giant strides. All he wanted to do was seize his brother and hold him tight. Nigel, you’re all right. Thank God!

But his brother didn’t turn around. The first flicker of doubt warned Bruce that something was wrong. A tremor of fear rippled up his spine.

"NIGEL!" he almost screamed, realizing now that something was dreadfully wrong.

Slowly, the figure right at the edge of the promontory turned round. And though the shape of the body was Nigel’s as were the clothes, the face definitely wasn’t. With a look that combined fear, horror and inquiry, the stranger - and this was a complete stranger, Bruce now saw - turned towards the ashen-faced boy. Bruce stopped in mid-stride. His heart which had scaled the heights of relief plummeted. He felt physically sick. It was as though someone had landed a heavy blow to his solar plexus. He began retching violently. Weakly, he leaned against the rocky wall of the cliff at his side.

Nigel was dead, he now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, killed along with all those tourists among the ruins of Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple.

The AK-47 - the Kalashnikov

~ ~ ~

2

Where’s Nigel?

Pushing himself away from the rock and roughly wiping his mouth with his forearm, Bruce faced the stranger whom he saw was about his own age, but it was definitely not his brother. The stranger looked Arab, most likely Egyptian. Who are you? he demanded, almost savagely. You’re not my brother, he added accusingly.

I’m sorry. It’s all my fault, the stranger mumbled. My fault.

What’re you talking about? Bruce shouted, and he saw that the other’s face was streaming with tears. There was a look beyond horror in those staring, dark brown eyes. Unchecked, the tears rolled down his cheeks.

All my fault, he stated again. This time it was almost a whisper.

My brother... Bruce began. He didn’t want to be involved in this stranger’s problems. That was the last thing he wanted. He had enough of his own. My brother is down there. I must go down and find him. He spun round.

Stop, the other sobbed. Stop. Don’t go down there. You’ll be killed like all the rest. They’re killing all of them. And they won’t stop the killing until there are no more witnesses.

I must go. It’s my brother. Don’t you understand? He’s down there.

But you can’t help him - he’s probably already dead. Please, don’t go down. I don’t want another death on my conscience. Please. I beg you.

I must, Bruce cried and yet there was something about the stranger that made him add, You’ll be all right? Won’t you? I’ll come back.

The stranger’s silence spoke louder than words. Bruce understood; he, Bruce, wouldn’t survive if he ventured down to the temple.

I must, Bruce repeated. Once more, he began the descent of the zigzag path.

While they had been talking, the sound of firing had diminished. Single shots rang out. As he reached the path, Bruce again had a clear view of the temple. Concentrating on where he was putting his feet on the treacherous surface, he risked quick glances downward. The only movement was of the black-clad individuals striding round the ruins, AK-47s at the ready. Harsh voices echoed up the cliff walls as they called to each other. Bruce was dreadfully exposed on the yellow cliff face - like a fly on a wall. And when he dislodged a rock that went clattering away from his feet, he froze, pressing himself into a crevice at his side. He waited for a few moments before starting down again.

Suddenly, he was thrown forward as he felt his knees locked together. He fetched up sprawled along the path. He swung round, savagely aiming a fist straight into the stranger’s face. But the other jerked his head to one side.

Geez. Let me go! Bruce cried. I must go down there.

No way. They’ll kill you. Can’t you get it into that stupid head of yours? What good are you dead too? You can’t do anything for your brother. Wait until those men have gone and we’ll go down together. I’ll help you. You’re much more use to your brother alive than dead. Surely you can see that.

Yes, you’re right, Bruce capitulated. Of course you’re right. Now let me go.

You won’t try and escape?

No. I promise. Gee, you’ve a grip like an octopus and no mistake.

Warily, expecting trickery on Bruce’s part, the other relaxed his hold, but Bruce had seen the wisdom of his words. He would be more useful alive than dead.

It won’t be long.

Bruce saw what he meant. Most of the dark figures were heading back to the mini-van, their Kalashnikovs casually resting across their shoulders. As if to confirm that the men were ready to leave, one of the men already at the open side of the van let out a piercing whistle and beckoned the others. The horn sounded.

"Yalla! he shouted. Allahu-Akbar."

He’s saying ‘let’s go’.

"I know. I know what ‘yalla’ means. And I also know what ‘Allahu-Akbar’ means all right, Bruce returned grimly. It means ‘God is great’. Murdering devils. How God comes into that, you tell me."

In silence, the two looked down on the terrorists’ final preparations to take their leave of the scene of carnage. In a mock salute to the fallen, one of the men, brandishing his AK-47 one-handed, loosed off an entire magazine from his rifle, firing at the columns of Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple and the cliff face behind. Echo upon echo deafened the two boys as they cowered on the cliff path, fearful that a stray bullet would find them.

And then the men were gone. They piled into the mini-van. Hardly had the doors slammed shut when it bounced down the ramp, past the damaged ticket booth and across the car park. With a shriek of rubber on tarmac, the van sped along the road between the fields of sugarcane.

Once more, silence fell on the Temple of Queen Hatshepsut and its scattered dead.

We can go now. By the way, my name’s Hanafi. Come on. Let’s go.

I’m Bruce, Bruce Wallace. And my brother’s name is...

Nigel. I know. I heard you when you imagined he was me. Gently, Hanafi helped Bruce to his feet and led the way down the slope, setting a cracking pace.

Now that he was facing the moment of truth, actually setting out to search for his brother’s body, Bruce wanted to hang back. The sweat broke out on his forehead. His mouth was suddenly dry. He wiped his hands on his shorts and he staggered as his knees buckled. Hanafi turned and looked