The Lost Caravan

Marshall Riggan

Description

Four aging members of the New York Explorers Club head to the Arabian Peninsula to find an ancient missing camel caravan, never expecting the danger that awaits.

Four old friends, members of the New York Explorers Club, decide to search for a legendary camel caravan that disappeared in 180 A.D. somewhere in the Empty Quarter of the Arabian Peninsula.



Although past their prime, these adventurers are determined to make one last great discovery in the spirit of the brave explorers of the 19th Century. A retired American war correspondent, a former Russian Cosmonaut, an aging British mercenary, and a beautiful actress—and runaway wife of one of Osama bin Laden’s brothers—set off together.



The quest starts as something of a lark yet evolves into a struggle for survival as they encounter soaring temperatures, sandstorms, rogue sheikhs, bandits, and other unforeseen dangers. Along the way, they rediscover the skills, resilience, and ingenuity that have kept them alive throughout their long and exciting lives.

Sujets

• Arabian
• Arabian Peninsula
• Adventure
• Fiction
• Action

Informations

• Publié par: Archway Publishing
• Date de parution: 22 septembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781665726467
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

THE LOST CARAVAN
MARSHALL RIGGAN


Copyright © 2022 Marshall Riggan.
 
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.
 
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
 
Archway Publishing
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.archwaypublishing.com
844-669-3957
 
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.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
ISBN: 978-1-6657-2647-4 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6657-2645-0 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-6657-2646-7 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022912331
 
 
 
Archway Publishing rev. date: 09/21/2022
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Paul O’Leary listened for the footsteps of the delegation of the dead on the stairway. It was raining outside and the heavy summer air softened the sound of traffic passing below on Broadway, muted the bronze bawling of bells from Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, but did not diminish the whispery shuffling of Captain Tran and the others on the stair.
They came more often these days, just at dusk, when Paul sat at his desk before his Mac, his journals and dog-eared dispatches scattered about him, a third tumbler of vodka at his elbow empty as his resolve. In a way, he welcomed the visitors for they were at the center of the book he was trying vainly to write. They were the substance of his memory, the characters that haunted him even more as time passed, the ghosts of those whose deaths he had been paid to witness during his long career as a war correspondent.
Some, like Captain Tran, had died in the hills above Khe San, Paul’s first assignment in Vietnam. They were hopelessly outnumbered and were being decimated by mortar and artillery fire. Unlike the South Vietnamese captain, Paul had been able to escape over the border into Laos before their position was overrun. Because Tran had died in his arms, the young officer had since, in death, presumed an intimacy Paul didn’t feel. Tran had been chosen as spokesman and leader by the other members of the delegation of the dead, probably because the story of his death had earned Paul a Pulitzer Prize and they believed that might make the retired correspondent beholden. Now they came through the door, folding their umbrellas, craning their necks to see if their names were among Paul’s notes, eyeing the bottles of liquor on the shelf above the sink. Paul recognized most of the phantoms, many by their wounds. They were the slaughtered of Vietnam, Kenya, the Congo, Algiers, Ireland, Israel, Cyprus, Botswana, Guatemala, Uganda, Nicaragua, San Salvador, and the settings for a dozen or more other wars he had covered over the years. Now the dead stood in his apartment, drinking his vodka, arguing among themselves about the efficacy of their lost causes.
“You are pitiful,” Tran said. It was a mantra repeated every time the delegation came. “You drink when you should be writing.”
Paul remembered how the trench had been filled with the dead and dying and how he and Tran had to climb over bodies, living and dead, to move toward the rear. Then Tran had been hit and he had died and toward the end, as Paul moved through the shadowed craters toward the border, there had only been one ARVIN gun returning fire.
“What do you want of me?” Paul asked the specter.
“We fear you will not write the book. For us to die and be forgotten would be a terrible thing.”
“I’m tired,” Paul said. “I’m old and I’m tired.”
“I lived only nineteen years. And you complain of living too long. You are an awful person,” the Captain said, and he turned on his heels and walked away, the others following without a backward glance.
Paul knew he had not been visited by Captain Tran and the dead, that they moldered only in some peculiar dimension of his mind. He knew Tran didn’t exist, just as he knew God was a creation of lonely and desperate minds. But neither ghosts nor God were easily dismissed when you were alone in a room with far more years behind you than ahead, and the third tumbler of vodka was as empty as the blank screen on the computer.
The water was hot, the old pipes drummed and complained, the bathroom filled with steam fogging the mirror across from the shower where Paul’s reflection became as insubstantial as he felt. In recent years, he had observed the disquieting fact that he was disappearing. It was not that he no longer appeared on television, insinuating himself into people’s living rooms to titillate them with the nature and prevalence of savagery. Rather, he knew full well that each passing year was accompanied by a diminishment of body and spirit. People did not seem to see him when they passed him on the street. When he tried to make eye contact, it was as if they were blind, oblivious to his presence. He stepped from the shower and wiped away the moisture on the mirror. He faced himself and tried to determine where he had gone, and when, only to be replaced by this gaunt, half-familiar stranger. The remaining condensation on the mirror gave his image the quality of an Impressionist nude, a full-frontal Van Gough. The naked man glared back at him defiantly. He was tall and broad-shouldered with long, lean muscles beneath skin as white and thin as parchment. The hair on his chest was white, his penis long and heavy. For a moment, he held the flesh in his hand, feeling the heat from the shower, remembering, reliving, regretting, wondering if he would ever be inside a woman again. He thought of Rhonda and the relatively few women he had known. He felt the thought like velvet in his hand.
Paul pulled a brush through his hair, creating order from the chaos of toweling. He examined his face and felt it had not aged badly. His hair was still thick, the color of pewter. His dark blue eyes were somewhat hooded by gravity and the years, deep-set as if shrinking from the things he had seen. He leaned close to the mirror and peered into those eyes and failed to see hints of whom he had been as a young man. He looked and looked but couldn’t find evidence of the passion and delight, the curiosity and ambition, the high-hearted spirit of adventure that had burned there in years past.
As he shaved, he posed before the mirror, turning his head first to the left, then to the right, tried several expressions, seeking to see himself as others saw him. What did they see? What would Rhonda see after so many years had passed? His expressions became more exaggerated. He smiled broadly, frowned, feigned wild-eyed-surprise, then laughed out loud at the absurdity of an old naked man making faces in the mirror.
He dressed in khaki slacks, a white polo shirt, a blue blazer and moccasins, the uniform of his retirement. Returning to his study, he poured a fourth tumbler of vodka. The hot shower had diminished the light-headed buzz created by his first three. Then, from the cupboard, he removed a half loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. After examining the bread for mold, he spread the peanut butter on the half slice, and carried both drink and supper to his study. He considered watching the news but decided it would be too annoying. It would remind him that George Bush was step-by-step subjecting America to the ridicule and hatred of the world. How this ignorant, arrogant fool had become leader of the free world was one of the great mysteries of the times. Often, when the views of the White House were reported, Paul would be shocked by the lies, idiocy and hypocrisy that was masquerading as policy. Where once he would have been furious, he now felt a numbing futility and sorrow. So Paul merely stared at the empty screen, eating his peanut butter, drinking his vodka and trying to empty his mind of the fact that there was less and less he cared to think about.
But there was Rhonda. And so, he brought her into his mind, into the room, real as blood and breath and flesh. It was a skill he had, a gift of memory and imagination, the ability to re-invent her presence at a moment’s notice, especially after a fourth vodka. Now she was there beside him and he saw her as she had been, in Kenya, where they had first met. He had returned from covering tribal warfare in Upper Volta and she had been on location with a film crew, a young actress in her first starring role. They had been in the bar, at Treetops. She was surrounded by her admiring entourage, including Burt Lancaster, he remembered. She was small, dark, perfect and entirely unapproachable. At midnight, Paul had gone out on a deck overlooking a waterhole to await the nightly arrival of the elephants. He was alone with the great unknowable expanse of Africa, the moon revealing a horizon wide and deep as a holy mind. He could hear the laughter of the celebrants in the b