The Ein Stein S.O.S

By Girish Rathna

In the year 1780, two years since the end of the previous adventure, the lost city of gods has been discovered. Hidden among textured hieroglyphs in a secret gold chamber, an urgent message meets the need to be delivered. Gowtham must be awakened.
The world is at its bloodiest war, but amid looms four secret technologies that which threaten to resurrect demons and creatures from ancient mythology. They will reappear and chaos the world once again. An assortment of a small team of men and the beautiful Maude, travel the world to stop them. But while some believe their Messiah has returned, why is that some reckon Gowtham is a threat to humanity?
From the hottest desert in the world, to the coldest battlefield of the war; from the terror chambers of the Labyrinth, to the horror of the Black Sun cult; from the architectural wonder of the Taj Mahal, to the engineering splendor of the Yamato; this novel proves testimony to Gowthams adventure, yet again.
But can a simple Ein Stein S.O.S, a code, impact the world as to offer good an upper hand over bad? Will a cockamamie distress call bring the world to peace?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Jun 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781482873382

Girish Rathna

Girish Rathna is known as one of the young Indian writers to have established himself in the global market. He is also a representative member of various international forums, making his voice heard in global platforms like World Intellectual Property Organisation. Girish Rathna is known for his unique writing style, involving the blend of historic events/facts with fiction. He likes researching on various topics and known historic figures, before laying them in his books. Also his new-age digital approach through his famous blogs has conferred him an impressive online presence worldwide.

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Copyright © 2016 by Girish Rathna.

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4828-7340-5

                Softcover        978-1-4828-7339-9

                eBook              978-1-4828-7338-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

www.partridgepublishing.com/india

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Also by Girish Rathna

2012 Is Light Years Away (prequel to The Ein Stein S.O.S)

I dedicate this book to all the heroes who fight in the shadow and in the sunlight, to heroes like our fathers and brothers who protect us, and to my own grandfather who was a 'World War 2' hero.

Special thanks to my mother

I know not with what weapons World War 3 will be fought, but World War 4 will be fought with sticks and stones.

(Albert Einstein)

INTRODUCTION

Among all the wars and battles fought on the planet, the most vicious carnage was during the World War 2, which was also known as the Second World War. It was the major military conflict of the century fought between the Allied forces of the United Kingdom, the United States, and Soviet Union against the Axis forces of Germany, Italy, and Japan. With each side engorged with their own allies, this was the most globally affected historical episode.

But during those times, with over sixty million dead, civilians were butchered without reason. And on that wide scale, claiming a prominent spot was the brutality executed in some of the most vicious prisons and extermination camps.

One of those was the infamous Gates to Hell.

*   *   *

Unfolded from the crisp layers of antiquity, mythology and mythological creatures had made people imagine, dream, hope, and sometimes fear. With various cultures storied with various evil creatures, what would happen if one day they all came alive?

What if they were reborn with the dissolute help of deadly technology?

PROLOGUE

Spain

Year 1780

Boisterously clanking his boots against the dark and dusty floor, the tall and confident explorer paced forward. The flare sparkling in his hands illuminated the man's ebony appearance ghostly. His eyes gaped at the passageway ahead -- a low-height corridor walled with unevenly faded limestone blocks. The pathway led to an unknown destination, blending with the darkness far beyond, appeared like the journey into a monster's throat. Wardwick was sweating.

This almost airless passageway clinched a great sense of claustrophobia which dug deep inside Wardwick's senses, pinching his lungs that were desperate for some fresh oxygen. Even his strong confidence was shaken by this uncannily murky place.

'Did you find anything yet?' breathed a voice right behind his neck.

Wardwick about-turned slowly but intensely towards Irwin Dufferin, who was closely following his lead. 'No, and I am afraid we reached the same passageway again,' Wardwick disclosed, nearly losing his tolerance. Dufferin's hopeful expression now reduced to a failure note as he realised that they two had been roving in this same passageway, inside one of the ancient mythical places, which the world believed to be either lost or inexistent.

Where is that underground chamber? Where is the treasure?

Only two years ago, Wardwick and Dufferin were hailed to be two of the most ambitious commanders of the mighty British Empire. Their venerable statuses were, however, shattered to spiky reputations after the dreadful outcome of their vast exploration mission to the New World. These two authoritative men had then together plotted and assembled a great army of soldiers along with another eight unique musketeers only to drag two sepoys through the deadly hazards of the Gate of Moonrise and the Jetty of Shadows. It was a treasure hunt that had cost many resources and myriad innocent lives, including Wardwick's younger brother. But now, these two men were inside this unique stretch of corridor, encompassed amid a lost city, which they recently discovered to be submerged underwater in the bay of southern Spain. Training their lungs for many months, the duo had mastered their lung capacity to dive all the way inside this submerged wonder of the world. It was a wonder, which the world was yet to officially discover.

The lost city of gods . . .

But after entering inside, these men were mysteriously sealed inside this corridor. It somehow seemed untouched by the sea water for unknown centuries, giving the men very limited but enough oxygen to keep them alive. But they knew it would soon come to an end.

Dufferin scratched over his missing left eye, which was a frequent reminder of his victorious yet a disastrous naval battle against the French in the past. Wardwick suddenly halted, making Dufferin almost walk into his back. With his flare light spreading over the limestone walls of the passageway, Wardwick realised that he had just made a discovery.

The signature . . .

A marvellously crafted signature was neatly and deliberately handwritten across a stone with a tiny arrow mark pointing towards the right where a vertical crack materialised.

He was here . . .

Wardwick thought painfully, recognising the unmistakably unique signature of his dead brother. Whirling his neck towards Dufferin, he spoke the exact words off his mind, 'He was here.'

Wardwick's younger brother, known for his extraordinary tomb-raiding skills and expertise in treasure hunting, was brutally killed by an evil charlatan who tested his own immortality to a disgraceful fail years ago. Now, his signature on this stone was a confirmation that he had set his foot here before, and more importantly, that the treasure was closer.

Within minutes, the two men broke a sweat, stressing their muscles to part the vertical crack. To their astonishment, the crack gave way to an unknown world afar. Like as if the gaping dark mouth of a monster, the crack appeared like a doorway to some dark and wet underground antechamber. Traces of hydrated environment made these men realise that they were inches away from some fresh liquid source.

Drinkable water . . .

Dufferin mentally celebrated, who was now bushed by immense thirst. The one-eyed man was desperately upbeat to follow Wardwick, who was now squeezing his way through the crack into a rib-breaking crunch. Being showered by an average waterfall, Wardwick now stepped into a completely different vicinity. His thick-weave clothes were now wet and drippy, but he managed to avoid any water entering his mouth or nose.

'Don't drink the water. It might be another trap,' Wardwick seriously warned Dufferin, who was now stepping away from the waterfall, which fell like a pour of temptation.

'OK.' Dufferin breathed, dabbing the water off his face, assuring Wardwick that he would fight his thirst a while longer. But Wardwick was least attentive to his companion's verbal statement as his tall and dark body stood riveted towards a colossal antechamber crafted with pure ancient gold. It was what the men had been hunting for in this ancient lost city.

The gold chamber . . .

Above, a gigantic gold-made dome spread like a monster, which boasted a circular opening in the centre. This opening revealed the engulfed sea water shimmering bright with the sunlight piercing through the aqua. A chunky layer of pure crystal slotted the mouth of the opening, which separated the antechamber from the many tons of sea water flowing inside.

The two men hurried deep inside the chamber; their hearts were pumping hard against their chests. Wardwick had seen other spectacular treasures in his life, yet the magnificence of the one before him drove his senses with excitement. A few minutes later, the two men found themselves wandering and running their palms over the gold walls, its surface seemingly textured with some unknown ancient hieroglyphs. They also realised that even the floor underneath their feet was fashioned with thick chunks of gold slabs.

Wardwick wasted no time and was immediately occupied in some examination over the scribbles and carvings on the walls, which pompously boasted lost ancient symbols and pictographic chronicle that told one the stories of this supposedly lost city of gods. He pulled out a parchment from his rucksack, placed it under the brilliant blue light that fell from the opening above, and mentally juggled through some analysis.

'Oh my God, I was right,' he whispered ethereally with his eyes bulged wide, convinced of some discovery that he had just made.

Suddenly, a hand slapped his shoulder, and Wardwick was instant as he swung his torso to find Dufferin flat on the gold floor, struggling against his own abdomen. The one-eyed man was suffering on the floor with his hands tightly pressed against his stomach. Dufferin, who was usually known as a ruthless man, let out a loud screech of agony that shook Wardwick's guts to a fearful threat.

What is happening?

Wardwick was shaken as he strived to help his friend out of his agony but couldn't. The suffering man's loud screams volleyed on his mind, clogging his thoughts from comprehending the scene. Then he saw it: towards his left was the waterfall still pouring down like a harmless cascade.

On my God! He drank the water.

Wardwick now realised that Dufferin had compromised his thirsty throat to the poisonous water. The one-eyed man had somehow sipped a fair amount of water from the waterfall, even before Wardwick had warned him not to. The man was now poisoned. His nose and mouth spewed blood, turning his face horrific. Irwin Dufferin was dying with immense agony, with only Wardwick, his old friend, beside him to do nothing but watch helplessly. His single eye now turning a shade of crimson, he pleaded for help until his breath stopped and he expired with a jolt.

Wardwick was dead alarmed. He shivered, looking around for a way out. He needed to escape out of this antechamber as if this place had been haunted and cursed to devour any man who entered. He abandoned Dufferin's lifeless body and scrambled towards the vertical crack they had entered, but he must get through the waterfall first. Once again, avoiding the water from being consumed, he inched towards the limestone wall to only realise the crack was now sealed together. Wardwick realised that the vertical crack could only be parted from the other side. This whole antechamber itself was a trap.

No, God . . . No . . .

With deepest desperation, Wardwick did the craziest thing when he sprang upwards and gripped the outcroppings in the wall, climbing his way into a man-sized hole which poured the waterfall. Where the hole led to? He didn't know, but this was his last resort. With a half-extinguished flare in his hand and his body half-submerged into the flowing poisonous waters, Wardwick crawled through the shaft of this tunnel painfully, fearing for his dear life. There he saw them. With his dull flare light, Wardwick saw countless poisonous snakes slithering, lying, and breeding their life in the water. Now this made clear sense as to how the water was so viciously poisoned.

Ancient engineering . . . But deadly!

Tears of dread now formed inside Wardwick's eyes as the man crawled over the countless snakes towards a streak of light at the far end. This could be a way out if only he made it. Wardwick was sure he received at least four painful bites from the snakes as his body now brushed through the poisonous reptiles. He cried and screamed with no one to hear his appeal until he finally reached the end and pushed a slab away to reveal the sunlight. Wardwick crawled his way out and found himself on the scorching sun-baked beach of southern Spain. Exhausted and bitten by poisonous snakes, the man exploded his throat into a loud yell. He knew his men would hear him, whom he had asked to guard on the seashores. Wardwick with his teary eyes saw Ogre and Jackal, the two faithful musketeers, hastening towards their commander until they skidded beside him.

'I need a parchment and some ink,' Wardwick wheezed, hardly audible. The two musketeers, shaken and panicky, did as their commander told so. They fearfully watched Wardwick scribble something on the parchment. The dying commander then gave his final order to the two men.

'Send this message through my bird . . .' And with that, the ebony ex-British commander collapsed with blood erupting out of his mouth and nose.

The two musketeers peered into each other's faces, their eyes as though were a witness to some intense horror. They fearfully wondered if this was the karmic punishment Dufferin and Wardwick received for burdening the death-blame of many, many innocent soldiers years ago.

These two men were oblivious to the fact that Wardwick, just moments ago before his death, had discovered one of the most mysterious lost cities the world had ever known of.

Atlantis . . .

*   *   *

The United States of America

Year 1942

Slapping the green stem of the thickly grown foliage with their heavy firearms, ten heavily armed US Marines marched through the forest. Behind the Americans were another set of six men, soldiers of the Seventh Armoured Division, United Kingdom. A total troop of sixteen soldiers slyly yet capably tramped the wild woods of the Appalachian Mountains.

Their mission was to find and rescue Gowtham.

The World War 2, a rampant conflict which blazed to a start in the year 1939, had now spread across the world into a historically notable event in human warfare. With the Declaration of the United Nations signed by the leaders of twenty-six nations and later the Arcadia Conference in Washington DC early that year, Roosevelt and Churchill collaborated and established a Combined Chiefs of Staffs to fight the world war. But these sixteen soldiers in the Appalachian forests were on a task of their own.

With an irresolute recon received, claiming of an unknown secret civilisation once resting within the Appalachian Mountains was believed to be in possession of a treasure called Iah. These men were ordered to find the location, uncover the treasure, and rescue a hostage named Gowtham.

The six Seventh Armoured Division men, also proudly known as the Desert Rats, were the key source in pinpointing the location of the treasure. The US Marines, however, were the escort for these six men, whom they believed were insecure allies in their homeland. The lead person of the Desert Rats, call signed -- Sandstorm, was a tall and strong middle-aged man who was most displeased of the American company in their mission. The Desert Rats sought to find out Gowtham on their own.

'Stop . . . !' Sandstorm spat, making all the men freeze. He paused for a brief few seconds before whispering, 'We are here. This is the place.' The men gazed forward at an ordinary-looking stretch of forest trails, which looked calm and peaceful.

'I . . . don't see anything,' one of the US Marines stated sceptically before Sandstorm shouted, 'Now!'

A cacophony of aggression suddenly erupted among the men as the six Desert Rats nailed and disarmed the ten US Marines in a few seconds of confusion. The ten American Marines, though greatly numbered, were now on the ground, disarmed and overpowered, who barely got a chance to comprehend the unexpected attack.

'What'ya guys doing?' an American wailed.

'This is not world war, my fellow soldier. This is much more,' Sandstorm replied, and within minutes, all the US Marines were immobile with bound hands and legs and a mouthful of stuff.

The six Desert Rats now tramped, proceeding with the mission on their own, leaving the Americans behind.

CHAPTER 1

Gowtham still gazed at the female, his eyes wide open. He smiled softly at her enlightenment, letting the knowledge sink in as he slowly submerged his face into the liquid. For a moment he thought he would choke to death, but sweet air ran into his lungs drifting him into unconsciousness. As he closed his eyes, all his memories flashed like a motion picture before his eyes. He saw a beautiful face, the woman's face, that had taken his breath away. He smiled at his memories of Xonakhi, swaying into his thoughts until it all went blank . . . pitch-black.

*   *   *

No streak of light ever dared entered in this space, a space probably known only to the dead, the corpse. The dark and suffocating sense that reminded how stingy-spaced the coffin was might be the repeated reminder of one not being alive. The feeling of death was to constantly comprehend the reality of not be able to live a mortal life again. And the reality of not be able to reciprocate how one feels being dead.

I am dead . . .

A rapture of white light burst all over as if an explosion had occurred. His lungs struggled to inhale the air, seemingly raw and loathsome, now flooding his insides. He felt as if someone had hauled him from the grave, from the underworld, and from the dead. Gowtham opened his eyes with a start.

Awakened from his long near-death experience, Gowtham now dreadfully stared into four unknown faces peering at him with trepidation. His body was draped with some kind of body adaptable bio-textile suit still floated in a crystal-like blue liquid, suspended vertically, with only his face jutted out. Gowtham felt as if he had only moments ago stepped into this liquid -- a content of a suspended-animation pod. The other two pods beside him were still placid, calmly cradling two beings, undisturbed.

Gowtham was oblivious to the fact that a hundred and fifty-four years had passed since he had stepped into the liquid.

'Welcome to the year 1942,' one of the four Desert Rats soldiers greeted Gowtham. 'We are here to rescue you,' he added.

Rescue me?

Gowtham still recovering from the suspended animation took more than usual time to realise that he was just woken up from his long life-preserving sleep. This was otherwise supposed to happen only another century later.

During the raging times of the American Revolution, Gowtham along with Wardwick and a team of strange men, including a traitor, had travelled across the world. He had unravelled the mystery of the Iah treasure and its purpose, which was revealed to him by two highly evolved beings. He then had committed himself to the suspended animation -- a future technology that would keep one's body preserved forever without the basic necessities of human lifestyle. He was predicted to be reawakened in the early twenty-first century. Now, Gowtham was submerged in an unfathomable mystery as to why these men had disturbed his long hibernation?

Why . . . ?

His mind still contemplated, moments before his whole body was pulled out from the pod and was then lugged on a medical stretcher used by soldiers in war. Gowtham was about to be escorted out of the Iah into the outer world, a world now raging with immeasurable human conflicts and inhumane war crimes. The world was desperately in need of a hero, a hero from the past.

With his body still fighting against the numbness and recovery soreness, Gowtham saw as these four, now seemingly, futuristic soldiers carried him on the stretcher as if they knew what they were doing. Clearing through the space efficiently and also the access door, which seemed like a huge block of white light, Gowtham was now finally out of the Iah.

The air which cut like rusty knife felt cooler against his skin; his hands covered his eyes against the piercing sunlight falling like halo, and the roof of tall trees like ghostly elements crept around. Gowtham was astounded to the fact that he was still youth-looking and the very same as he had been the last time he set his foot in these forest lands, a land protected by a secret civilisation for many centuries.

The secret civilisation . . .

Gowtham suddenly realised that the civilisation, who were the solemn guardians of the Iah treasure, were nowhere to be found. He could not suppress his perplexity as he questioned with his limited energy existing.

'Where are they, the secret civilisation?'

The four men halted simultaneously when one soldier openly revealed, 'Sir, the secret civilisation is gone. Their legacy was long ago ruined. What happened to them, no one knows.'

The revelation slapped Gowtham painfully on the face as his heart sank to the fact that things had changed a lot much now. He understood that the current time in history is of great pain and sorrow indeed.

The stretcher was now placed on the grassy grounds where two more soldiers joined them. A tall and fair-looking soldier knelt beside Gowtham, his face bearing a pleasant smile.

'It's good to see you, sir . . . I am Sandstorm,' the lead of these six Desert Rats introduced. 'We will take you to a safer location.' He sounded serious.

'What's happening?' Gowtham wheezed.

'Not now, sir, the explanation must wait until we secure you.'

Gowtham clutched Sandstorm's sleeve almost aggressively as he repeated more intensely, 'What's happening?'

Sandstorm was struck with the imperative command thrown at him as he took only a second before replying, 'As we speak, the world is engaged in the most treacherous war to have ever erupted on Earth. Innocent bloods are being spilt. Propaganda is feasting on the mass, and nations are killing each other with machines and bombs.'

Humans and their thirst for gory . . . Gowtham dismayed as Sandstorm continued.

'There is a biggest problem now, a problem that could end the world, end humanity by the hands of humanity itself. There lays four mega bombs around the world in undisclosed locations, which is reputed to have sworn to destroy humanity with great explosion, a massive devastation which is looming.'

'That is really sad . . . ,' Gowtham reacted. 'But why am I . . . ?'

'There are some people who believe that it is you who is going to detonate these bombs ending humanity.'

What?

The sentence had jammed Gowtham's already weary mind and restricted him from asking further questions. He was clearly taken aback and realised that no matter how many people out there were on a foolish belief that he would detonate mega bombs, Sandstorm and his team, however, were here to help him instead.

Gowtham still rapt with perplexity was not able to conclude as to who and what these six men were. And over all, one question beat hard against his mind as he blurted out, 'How did you know where to find me?'

Sandstorm ran his hand over his own chest before digging into his vest pocket. He then retrieved a small notebook and flipped to a page, and flashed it at Gowtham's face. The page had a series of roughly scribbled marks on it -- three dots, three dashes, and three dots again.

2.jpg

Sandstorm clapped the book to a close before replying, 'We were ordered through this code, a Morse code.'

CHAPTER 2

Somewhere in the hot desert of Tunisia, suppressed by the darkness like a ghostly molest, a feeble body lay on the granite bed in a tiny prison cell. The small room around the body was dim and lonely. The only light dared into this space was a projection of sunlight that pierced through a small window, which was placed high up, almost edging the ceiling. The projected light fell on to the opposite wall, revealing a square of unpainted brick construction and the ray of light beam highlighting the roaming dust particles in the air. Even with this limited light, one could notice a dark and rusty iron door on one of the walls.

The body rose up to an upright position. For a brief moment, it seemed as if the figure sat still, staring straight, like praying at a small object on the floor. It was a small pail filled with urine, the prisoner's own urine. The stench had already spread like the aroma of the cell itself. The prisoner had to deal with this smell every day, like the smell reminding of the place. But today, it was sufficient. The urine in the pail was just sufficient enough for the prisoner to drown. A moment the prisoner had waited for some time now.

Slowly forwarding towards the pail, the prisoner knelt before it and held the rim of the container with both hands. It would be the most disgusting experience. To kill oneself inside a prison was an almost impossible task, yet anyone sane would leave the option of drowning oneself with their own urine as the last resort. But for this detainee, it seemed like the most unique suicide that would leave astounded faces on the prison guards, a weird suicide that would draw great attention.

Attention indeed . . .

A moment passed before the butch-haircut head of the prisoner submerged into the yellow liquid, spilling urine all over. The salty fluid ambushed the face before entering the mouth and the nose.

My God, I actually did it . . .

The prisoner awed, not able to believe this sordid move. Only a few seconds from now the urine would fill the insides and choke the prisoner to death. The senses slowly became faint, and the breathing became a pain as every time the mouth opened to suck air, more urine filled. This was it, the final moment before death. Everything slowly seemed to drift into a muted milieu, fading away into nothingness. The salty fluid ate the insides, flooding every inch by inch until a loud explosion broke the hush, throwing the prisoner and the pail in two different directions.

Boom!

Sunlight suddenly filled the room as if there had been some miracle. The prisoner's weary eyes looked ahead at the light source, a gaping uneven hole in the wall spraying light like a halo. Struggling to get a grip, the prisoner saw beyond the cavity was a long mega barrel facing directly at the hole. Smoke and debris gushed inside, guided by the fresh and hot desert winds. The prisoner realised what the barrel had belonged to. Like the neck of a ruthless beast, the barrel stretched beyond, connected to a mighty war machine -- a German Panzer.

The prisoner stood alerted, dusting the dirt off the already dirty clothes. The sight of a German tank was a welcome relief, reminding it was not Tunisians after all. But these were not normal German invaders who now stormed into the cell with guns blazing in every direction. The two gunmen cautiously forwarded towards the prisoner, aiming their weapons in every direction for counter-attack, but none came. The prison guards were too preoccupied with the powerful German tank outside, blowing the prison structure to rubble.

Wow! Impressive rescue . . .

The prisoner felt content as the two gunmen approached to look into a filthy yet a beautiful French woman's face now dripping of her own urine.

A woman?

The gunmen awed as they realised that the prisoner they were ordered to rescue was actually a woman.

'Don't ask,' she pressed, stylishly waving her hand, which made her look femininely attractive.

This beautiful, butch-haircut prisoner now sensed freedom beyond the gaping hole, which she had only moments ago lost complete hope of. Her gorgeous dark eyes complemented her dusky soft skin, which now tinted yellow of the urine. Her petite yet curvy body looked perfect to qualify any beauty competition. She was a faultless beauty even in this dreadful situation.

'Firearm . . . ,' she shouted before one of the gunmen tossed a pistol into her hand.

'Let's move!' The three hurried towards the gaping exit, their guns ready for attack.

The tank roared again, blowing a wall apart, revealing the jailer's office of what was now a rubble-filled room. An officer and his guard gauchely fled for their lives. The beautiful prisoner swung and dashed into the now easily accessible office and slapped her palm on to the fat wooden table, on which lay a handkerchief.

'Finally, I got it,' she exclaimed and then snatched the cloth and tucked it into her blouse, sliding it between her breasts and off she went.

The tank had petrified the guards now, offering these intruders an easy escape. The three jumped into the tank; as the huge machine slowly retreated away from the prison, its oversized gun was still bombarding the structure. It appeared, as it was, this was a successful prison break.

CHAPTER 3

An electrical telegraph system developed by an American artist named Samuel F. B. Morse and two other physicists gave birth to the Morse code in the mid-nineteenth century. It was a simple means of transmitting a series of short text through a standard code signals using dots and dashes, also known as 'dits' and 'dhas'. This Morse code system was a vital tool during World War 2, which helped greatly in sending decrypted messages with very minimum power consumption. The Desert Rats asserted that this kind of code was sent to them anonymously, appealing the rescue of Gowtham from the Iah. Although Gowtham didn't recall, nor could he in the current development conclude on someone who would do that on behalf.

After a long haul through the Appalachian forest trails, Gowtham was now transported in a camouflage-painted army jeep along with the Desert Rats. For what it seemed like some futuristic cart to Gowtham, he understood that humans now used more than horses and carts to transport on land. His bio-textile suited body was now draped with a warm woollen blanket, warming him against the cold forest air. The Seventh Armoured Division leader named Sandstorm had earlier introduced his team of six men to Gowtham. With a strange déjàvu swarming his mind, he learnt that these six Desert Rats too were called only by their call signs, similar to the troop of eight unique musketeers centuries ago.

Sandstorm, Sand-Dune, Palm, Sand-Reptile, Quicksand, and Oasis were the call signs of these six trained soldiers, now riding in the jeep along with their recently rescued hostage. Gowtham personally adored how the call signs of these men were directly associated to the harsh environs of the sandy desert. Sandstorm had earlier briefed Gowtham that the Desert Rats were actually a troop of elite soldiers fighting against the Nazi Germans in North Africa. He also mentioned that the Desert Rats were ruthless and cunning set of soldiers, who usually went over the boundaries to defeat the enemies at any cost. The Desert Rats were one of the fine elite troops, which the British prided upon during the World War 2.

Sandstorm, the leader of this small band of men, was a tall and fair-skinned soldier, donning the typical khaki military uniform and his ensembles. He was a man of great wisdom, kindness in heart, yet a merciless combatant at war. He was clearly a direct embodiment of the characteristics of a sandstorm once muddled; the calm sand would grow into a huge storm which could engulf anything in its way.

Sand-Dune was another typical soldier, donning a macho French beard on his face. He had a lit cigarette held between his lips, blowing a haze of smoke before his features. He was often reputed to be fast and witty in his actions during warfare, portraying the characteristics of a handful of sand-dune, which can rupture and spread with air when in chaos but can also stay calm and slip through the fingers when given a chance.

Palm, a call sign inspired by the life-saving tree often found in the deserts, was a thin man with his soldier uniform falling loose against his limp body. He hugged a heavy gun against his chest as if ready for action and also lugged a medical kit with him. Apart from being a good soldier, he was also the team's medical expertise, a first-aid doctor who earned the name 'Palm' to symbolise his character of saving lives.

Sand-Reptile, who was also the twin brother of Sand-Dude, was the most peculiar character Gowtham noticed. Even with a short analysis, one could guess that he hated Gowtham or the whole idea of rescuing him. Cold and daunting, Sand-Reptile was the well-built version of his twin brother, without the French beard. Bearing a nasty sneer on his face, he was the only person in the group who loathed the idea of Gowtham being a hero. Being not very concrete about the origin of his call sign, some assumed that he earned his name for his harsh behaviour. However, some also rumoured that he once killed a throng of hundreds of attacking snakes with just a broken army-knife blade.

Quicksand was a black slightly pudgy soldier, who now sat in the front seat of the jeep with a large map spread over his lap. With a radio backpack on his back and many other communication devices clinging on his uniform, he was navigating the driver beside him. He was the team's navigation and communication expert. He was often reputed to be so quick in grasping maps and navigation charts; it clearly earned him the name, Quicksand.

Finally, Oasis was a detached soldier, now seated on the driver seat, struggling to drive the fast-moving jeep through the forest trails. He was also a well-trained flight pilot, whom the Desert Rats gloated to have in their team. The team believed that when things usually got really edgy, Oasis often emerged there with his plane or any automobile to escort the team to safety. This very character earned him the name, Oasis.

The jeep now raced through and under the forest canopy towards an airstrip, where a military plane waited deliberately for these men to board. The journey from the hot arid lands of North Africa to the flora and fauna of Appalachians had been an immediate protocol, deployed by the team as soon as they received the Morse code. These six men had then boarded a plane and travelled across the Atlantic Ocean, with determined zeal. The plane was later being refuelled on a nearby military airstrip, while the men proceeded to locate Gowtham along with the US Marines.

We need to make it to a safer location . . .

Sandstorm mentally fought, being conscious of the fact that transporting their bigwig target, their hero, was not an easy-breath task. The team had already immobilised ten US Marines in the forest and knew that soon the American authorities would learn about the recent events. They also knew that the British, their ally, would also be notified about the illegitimate actions of their very own Desert Rats soldiers. Time was the essence for these men.

The jeep roared through the muddy trails, spraying a scatter of dirt behind. Oasis drove the automobile as fast as he could.

'Take left here!' shouted Quicksand, pointing at a fork in the trail.

The jeep immediately cut left, still speeding. The automobile bounced over bumpy trails, forcing the men to grip tight. The jeep sprang high one last time before racing smoothly over a well-settled ground. Up ahead, the picture of a huge military plane came into spectacular view.

CHAPTER 4

Vickers Wellington B Mark III stood like a huge flight-hungry bird, held by tethers. The monstrous air machine, facing left now, boasted the side view of its gorgeous body design. This twin-engine, bomber aircraft was widely used by the British throughout the World War 2 and was known to be major air dominance in North Africa. The aircraft's design was an art, boasting its unique tail gun turret and the nose gun turret that shaped like Rudolf the reindeer's nose. The aircraft also prided the 1,375 hp engine that made B Mark III a beast that took to skies.

No sooner did the jeep skid yards before the aircraft, the Desert Rats along with Gowtham jumped out of the automobile and rushed towards their flight. Gowtham saw what now appeared to him a huge metallic bird, frozen like a solid machine, was actually a futuristic transport that would fly these men to a destination unknown. The reawakened hero could not help but reawaken his memories of the Iah and its unique purpose of flying too.

Humans do fly in the future . . .

Gowtham rushed towards the aircraft, his woollen blanket swaying with the winds. Oasis along with Quicksand had already entered the plane; the team's only trained pilot was now preparing himself in the aviator cockpit. Gowtham along with Palm and the two twin brothers now stormed into the aircraft's crammed interior, a hollow stretch of space enough to transport six to seven men. Sandstorm, however, was still crooked over the jeep, setting a timed detonator, which would serve a good means to get rid of any evidence the Desert Rats might leave with the automobile. The detonator was set to explode in two minutes on a classic analogue timer before Sandstorm scurried towards the B Mark III.

The twin engines roared, warming up the aircraft for its take-off while the others got settled on their seats, which were two long benches welded to the sides of the interior. The men buckled their safety belts.

'Darn! Those oil drums need to get off my way!' Oasis shouted, referring to two huge oil containers left abandoned before the aircraft on the airstrip. 'Or we might as well blow up along with the detonator,' he warned.

'I'm on it, you blokes,' Sand-Reptile shouted, unbuckling his safety belt and then storming out of the plane. He met Sandstorm at the doorway and jerked his head towards the oil barrels. Within seconds, the two were stressing their muscles over one of the drums, trying to roll it off the airstrip.

'We must hurry. The timer will go off soon,' Sandstorm shouted, driving the drum to roll away over the grassy earth. 'One more to go.'

Suddenly, gunfire erupted. The men swung back to look at three American convoys rushing towards the plane, only yards behind the jeep.

They found us . . .

Sandstorm ensnared in shock, understanding that the American authorities were now aware of their attack on the US Marines. With time running out, the ticking time bomb only seconds to detonate, and the roaring engines of the plane vibrating the earth, the two men almost concurrently pushed the last remaining oil drum, rolling it dangerously not towards the grass but towards the jeep.

Why towards the jeep?

The duo then desperately dashed into the plane as the B Mark III had already picked up initial speed. The American convoys neared the jeep, rowdily blazing their guns and munitions on the plane, unaware of the ticking bomb.

The plane gained speed, racing over the airstrip while the convoys proceeded firing everything they had at the escaping aircraft butt. Safely inside now, Sandstorm hopped himself towards the tail gun-turret of the plane. The wide, transparent, glassy turret projected sunlight like a beautiful French window of a house. Yet a row of four guns were mounted, its necks protruding outside. Sandstorm immediately grabbed two guns, each with his two hands, and squeezed the triggers like a ruthless hunter. Machine guns blazed, hitting everything it could, forcing the Americans to take cover. The line of gunfire hit the airstrip, the jeep, the grassy mud, and the trees until Sandstorm gained steady control and fired straight at the oil-filled cask. An unexpected terror erupted for the Americans when the timed detonator detonated precisely at the same time the oil drum exploded due to the incessant gunfire.

Boom!

A great explosion erupted, disintegrating the jeep and mushrooming into a smoky blast. The oil from the container fuelled it dramatically. The Americans were thrown apart in all directions, nearly killing many and sparing only a handful.

The damaged convoys finally gave up as the aircraft took off in the distance.

Gowtham, who was a silent witness to the cold-blooded action of the Desert Rats, was now thrilled to experience what it seemed to be his first flight experience.

CHAPTER 5

The desert weather raged a strong gust of baking oven-heat, beating against the German Panzer's metal skin. Scattering sand grain everywhere, the machine creaked and clanked but kept moving in a determined direction. The sun at its hottest during this time of the day was preying on the tank and the sweating occupants inside. The Sahara desert was unforgiving.

Being the third largest desert in the world, the Sahara may stand number one in the list of hottest-known places on planet Earth. This is clearly due to the fact that the first two deserts, the Arctic and the Antarctica, are contradictorily the coldest places on Earth. But in the Sahara, cold is the last thing one might find during the day.

A clammy face with a Russian-made binocular pinned to her eyes protruded above the machine. The prisoner, who had only moments ago broke out of the Tunisian prison, was upbeat. Through her binocular she saw the faint, blurred outline of a man-made structure.

The base camp . . .

Fighting against the dusty visual encumber of the desert environment, she had finally discovered the camp where the tank was heading to. It was a small base camp in the middle of the desert that the invading Nazi soldiers of the Afrika Korps had established in Tunisia. Afrika Korps was the expeditionary force of the Germans, known for causing severe havoc upon the Allied forces in Tunisia and Libya during the World War 2 campaigns in North Africa.

The camp tent danced harshly against the strong hot winds of the wasteland as the Panzer approached. Four armed Nazis rushed out of the tents, pointing their guns at the looming machine, ready to fire.

It's our own Panzer . . .

The four gunmen lowered their weapons simultaneously as they realised the tank was one of their own. Loud scrape noise erupted as the machine braked its motion, halting a few feet before the Nazis. A metal-flap swung open above as a beautiful woman and three men burst out of the Panzer, rushing their way inside one of the