Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

“Don't just sit there, you chump!” Bertie Wells called. “Come aboard!”

It was named the SS Britannia, and was captained by General Aitken himself-the director of all British military operations in East Africa-whom Burton remembered from the bombing of Dar es Salaam back in 1914.

“It's good to see you again, Bertie!” the famous explorer enthused as Wells and three British Tommies led him through the ship toward the bridge. “What happened to you? And how did you end up aboard this behemoth?”

“Adventures and perils too numerous to recount happened to me, Richard, but eventually I made my way to Tabora like everyone else. Practically every free Britisher in Africa-perhaps in the entire world-is there now.”

“Bismillah!” Burton swore, grabbing at his friend's arm. “Praise to Allah that you rescued me now and not two minutes earlier!”

“What do you mean?”

“First, answer me this: how were my captors shot with that kind of precision at such a distance? I've never seen anything like it!”

“Marksmen with the new Lee-Enfield sniper rifles. A remarkable weapon-the most accurate long-range rifle ever manufactured.”

“And these marksmen, would they have recognised the men they were shooting?”

“As Germans? Of course! The uniform is unmistakable.”

They passed through a room lined with gun racks then rounded a corner into a corridor along which many men were moving.

“You should have examined the bodies, Bertie, instead of just leaving them there.”

“Why so?”

“Because one of them was Generalmajor Paul Emil von Lettow-Vorbeck.”

Wells stumbled to a halt, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide. His three companions stopped, too, but instinctively retreated a few paces, displaying a typically British sensitivity to Wells and Burton's need for a moment of privacy. Nevertheless, having heard the pronouncement, they gaped.

“Wha-what?” Wells stuttered, then his voice rose to a squeal: “We just killed Lettow-Vorbeck? We killed him? Are you sure?”

“He was holding a pistol to my head when he took a bullet through the heart.”

Wells smacked a fist into his palm and let loose a whoop of triumph. “Bloody hell! This could change everything!”

“No, Bertie, it's too late.”

“Too late? What do you mean, it's too late?”

Very quietly, Burton said: “In forty-eight hours, a German flying ship is going to drop a bomb on Tabora.”

“That's nothing new. The plants fly over, we shoot 'em down.”

“This one will be at a high altitude, and it's carrying an A-Bomb.”

“A what?”

In a whisper, Burton explained, and as he did so, his friend's burn-scarred and sun-browned face turned white. Wells looked to the right and left, gestured to the three guards, indicating that they should wait, then pulled Burton back along the passage and into the gun room. He spoke quietly and urgently: “We have to tell Aitken, but don't give away too much about yourself. Keep your true identity under wraps, for starters. The situation is complicated, and there's no time to fill you in right now. Suffice to say, your impossible presence in Africa has been detected. Colonel Crowley himself sent us to rescue you-”

“Your so-called wizard of wizards?”

“Yes. Apparently he's been aware of an anomaly on the continent since 1914 and has been trying to identify it ever since. He finally traced it to the Ugogi Stalag, then homed in on you as you were being transported. He sent the Britannia to intercept the vehicle and retrieve you.”

“But he doesn't know who I am?”

One of the Tommies appeared in the doorway, cleared his throat, and jerked his head to suggest that they should move on. Wells gave a slight nod. He guided Burton back into the corridor and they followed a few steps behind the three soldiers. They came to a staircase and started up it.

“All Crowley knows is that you don't belong in 1918,” Wells whispered. “I think, through you, he's hoping to unlock the secrets of time travel.”

“Lettow-Vorbeck had the same idea.”

“Listen, this is important. My old editor, the man who used to run the Tabora Times before it folded, needs to see you. I don't know the full story, but there are moves being made, and we can't allow you to fall under the wizard's spell.”

“What does that mean?”

“Crowley is a tremendously powerful mesmerist. Once pierced by those fiendish eyes of his, you'll have no willpower of your own.”

“I'm no mean mesmerist myself,” Burton pointed out.

Wells grunted. “I remember reading that. You're no match for our chief medium, though. But my editor has connections. He pulled a few strings and arranged that these men-” he gestured toward the three soldiers, “-and myself be aboard the Britannia. We're going to kidnap you.”

“Kidnap?”

They reached the top of the stairs and started down a short passage.

“Just trust me, Richard.”

The Tommies stopped at a door. One of them opened it, and Wells led Burton through onto the bridge.

The explorer found himself in a chamber filled with consoles and levers, wheels, pipes, and gauges. There were twelve crewmembers at various stations, but Burton's attention immediately centred on a tall man standing before a wide curved window.

“Private Frank Baker, sir,” Wells announced.

The man turned. He was slim, with sad eyes, unevenly arranged features, and a clipped moustache, wearing a dark uniform with a double row of silver buttons and a peaked cap. He looked Burton up and down.

“You've attracted the attention of men in high places, Baker,” he said. His voice was sharp and precise, with a nasal twang. “Why?”

Burton saluted. He staggered.

“It's all right,” Aitken said. “Steady yourself. We're going over some hills.”

“I didn't realise we were moving,” Burton answered.

“The only time you'll feel it is on rough terrain, and even then not much. It's like being on an ocean liner. Answer the question.”

“I honestly haven't the vaguest idea why there's any interest in me at all, sir. I've been in a POW camp for two years.”

“And before that?”

“Civilian Observer Corps at Dar es Salaam and Tanga, then a guerrilla fighter until I was captured at Dut'humi.”

“Where were they taking you?”

“To the Lake Regions, but they didn't tell me why.”

“Sir,” Wells interjected. “Apparently one of the men we just shot dead was Lettow-Vorbeck.”

Burton watched as Aitken's Adam's apple bobbed reflexively. All the crew members turned and looked at the general. He cleared his throat, glared at them, and snapped, “Attend your stations!”

“There's something else, sir,” Wells added. “I think you might prefer to hear it in private.”

Aitken gazed at the little war correspondent for a moment, gave a brusque nod, then turned away and issued a sequence of orders to the bridge crew concerning the velocity and course of the ship. He returned his attention to Burton and Wells, jabbed a finger at them, and said, “You and you-follow me.”

They did so, trailing after him back out into the corridor and through a door into the captain's office. Aitken positioned himself behind a desk but remained standing with his hands held behind his back.