Bisesa turned to go with McKnight, escorted by a few more armed privates. “We’ll come find you as soon as we can, Casey.”
“Yes,” Abdikadir called. “Don’t let them saw anything off in the meantime.”
“Ha ha, you prick,” Casey growled.
Ruddy muttered, “It seems that soldiers’ humor is universal, no matter where they come from.”
Josh and Ruddy tried to tag along with Bisesa and Abdikadir, but Batson politely but firmly turned them away.
7. Captain Grove
Bisesa and Abdikadir were walked to the fort they had glimpsed from the air. It turned out to be a box-shaped enclosure surrounded by stout stone walls, with round watchtowers in each corner. It was a substantial base, and evidently well maintained.
“But it’s not on any map I ever saw,” Bisesa said tensely. Abdikadir didn’t reply.
The walls were manned by soldiers in red coats or khaki jackets. Some even wore kilts. The soldiers all seemed short, wiry, and many had bad teeth and skin infections; they wore kit that was heavily patched and worn. Native or otherwise, the soldiers all stared with open curiosity at Bisesa and Abdikadir—and, regarding Bisesa, with undisguised sexual speculation.
“No women here,” Abdikadir murmured. “Don’t let it bother you.”
“I wasn’t.” Too much had happened to her today, she told herself, for her to allow a few leering troopers in pith helmets and kilts to worry her. But the truth was her stomach churned; it was never good for a woman to be captured.
The heavy gates were open, and carts drawn by mules passed through. What looked like a stripped-down artillery piece was carried on the back of a couple more mules. The mules were driven by Indian troopers—what Bisesa heard the white soldiers call sepoys .
Inside the fort there was an air of bustle and orderly activity. But, Bisesa thought, what was more remarkable than what was here was what was lacking, such as any kind of motor vehicle, radio antenna or satellite dish.
They were taken into the main central building, and led to a kind of anteroom. Here McKnight issued a blunt order: “Strip.” His sergeant major, he said, wasn’t about to let them into the Captain’s hallowed presence without a thorough check of what was concealed under their bulky flight suits.
Bisesa forced a grin. “I think you just want to take a peek at my butt.” She was gratified by the look of genuine shock on McKnight’s face. Then she start to peel off her layers, starting with her boots.
Under her flight suit she wore a load-bearing harness. Into its pockets she had crammed a canteen of water, maps, a set of night-vision goggles, a couple of packs of chewing gum, a small plastic first aid pack, other survival rations and gear—and her phone, which had the sense to keep itself inert. She crammed her useless wraparound microphone into an outside pocket. Off came shirt and trousers. They were both allowed to stop when they got down to their dirt-brown T-shirts and shorts.
They were unarmed, save for a bayonet knife Abdikadir carried strapped under his harness. He handed this over to McKnight with some reluctance. McKnight picked up the night goggles and peered through them, evidently baffled. Their little plastic boxes of kit were snapped open and rummaged through.
Then they were allowed to dress again, and were given back most of their gear—but not the knife, and not, Bisesa noted with amusement, her chewing gum.
After that, to Bisesa’s astonishment, Captain Grove, the commanding officer, kept them waiting.
The two of them sat side by side in his office, on a hard wooden bench. A single private stood guard at the door, rifle ready. The Captain’s room had a certain comfort, even elegance. The walls were whitewashed, the floor wooden; there was rush matting on the floor, and what looked like a Kashmiri rug hanging on one wall. This was obviously the office of a working professional. On a big wooden desk there were piles of papers and cardboard folders, and a nib pen standing in an ink pot. There were some personal touches, like a polo ball set on the desk, and a big old grandfather clock that ticked mournfully. But there was no electric light; only oil lamps supplemented the fading glow from the single small window.
Bisesa felt compelled to whisper. “It’s like a museum. Where are the softscreens, the radios, the phones? There’s nothing here but paper.”
Abdikadir said, “And yet they ran an empire, with paper.”
She stared at him. “They? Where do you think we are?”
“Jamrud,” he said without hesitation. “A fortress—nineteenth-century—built by the Sikhs, maintained by the British.”
“You’ve been here?”
“I’ve seen pictures. I’ve studied the history—it’s my region, after all. But the books show it as a ruin.”
Bisesa frowned, unable to grasp that. “Well, it isn’t a ruin now.”
“Their kit,” murmured Abdikadir. “Did you notice? Puttees and Sam Browne belts. And their weapons—those rifles were single-shot breech-loading Martini-Henrys and Sniders. Seriously out of date. That stuff hasn’t been used since the British were here in the nineteenth century, and even they moved over to Lee Metfords, Gatlings and Maxims as soon as they were available.”
“When was that?”
Abdikadir shrugged. “I’m not sure. The 1890s, I think.”
“The 1890s?”
“Have you tried your survival radio?” They both carried tracking beacons sewn into their harnesses, as well as miniaturized survival radio transceivers, thankfully undetected during McKnight’s inspection.
“No joy. The phone’s still out of touch too. No more signal than when we were in the air.” She shivered slightly. “Nobody knows where we are, or where we came down. Or even if we’re alive.” It wasn’t just the crash that spooked her, she knew. It was the feeling of being out of contact— cut off from the warmly interconnected world in which she had been immersed since the moment of her birth. For a citizen of the twenty-first century it was a unique, disorienting feeling of isolation.
Abdikadir’s hand slipped over hers, and she was grateful for the warm human connection. He said, “They’ll start search-and-retrieve operations soon. That crashed Bird is a big marker. Although it’s getting dark outside.”
Somehow she had forgotten that bit of strangeness. “It’s too early to get dark.”
“Yes. I don’t know about you but I feel a little jet-lagged …”
Captain Grove bustled in, accompanied by an orderly, and they stood up. Grove was a short, slightly overweight, stressed-looking officer of perhaps forty, in a light khaki uniform. Bisesa noted dust on his boots and puttees: he was a man who put his job before appearances, she thought. But he sported an immense walrus mustache, the largest facial growth Bisesa had seen outside a wrestling ring.
Grove stood before them, hands on hips, glaring at them. “Batson told me your names, and what you claim are your ranks.” His accent was clipped, oddly out of date, like the British officer class in a World War II movie. “And I’ve been to see that machine of yours.”
Bisesa said, “We were on a peaceful reconnaissance mission.”
Grove raised a graying eyebrow. “I’ve seen your weapons. Some ‘reconnaissance’!”
Abdikadir shrugged. “Nevertheless, we’re telling you the truth.”
Grove said, “I suggest we get down to business. Let me tell you first that your man is being taken care of as well as we can.”
“Thank you,” Bisesa said stiffly.
“Now—who are you, and what are you doing at my fort?”
Bisesa narrowed her eyes. “We don’t have to tell you anything but name, rank, serial number …” She faltered to a halt as Grove looked baffled.
Abdikadir said gently, “I’m not sure if our conventions of war apply here, Bisesa. And besides I have the feeling that this situation is so strange that it may be best for all of us if we are open with each other.” He was eyeing Grove challengingly.