North Africa - 1941

Corporal Chris Erikson stood on the rear tray of a Patrol Chevrolet 30. A vehicle designed specifically for desert work. He kept the buttstock of the Lewis Machine gun firmly wedged against his shoulder, index finger touching the trigger, staring down the metal sights. The New Zealand soldier scanned his arcs in slow, smooth movements from left to right, watching for threats. He'd volunteered for the Long Range Desert Group three months before and had since been involved in nine skirmishes with scouting elements of the German Afrika Korps. On more than a few occasions, his patrol vehicle had helped insert soldiers of a new unit raised under the Special Operations Executive of the British Army deep into enemy territory. The new force had been dubbed with the title the Special Air Service, but Chris had never known them yet to have been inserted by air. Those soldiers didn't speak much. But they were good at their job, on one raid destroying a squadron of German aircraft parked beside a makeshift runway.

Driven by Jonno, the Patrol Chevrolet growled across the desert at a sedate pace, to hinder the amount of dust kicked up behind them. A dust cloud could be spotted for miles in every direction. Jonno wore leather gloves, to protect his hands from the hot steering wheel. Mike, the patrol commander, sat beside the driver, clutching an M1919 thirty cal medium machine gun mounted on a swivel in front of him.

Chris glanced over his shoulder to ensure the second vehicle followed. The other Patrol Chevvy, also crewed by three New Zealanders, shimmered from heat rising off the red-hot sand, but the T1 was there nonetheless.

Then there was the newcomer and the reason for the mission. A civilian nonetheless. He'd never worked with civilians before and if he was being honest, the man was a bloody liability. Clenching his teeth, he shifted his footing and looked down at the man sat in the middle of the rear seat just in front of his boots. The bald man, who simply introduced himself as Foxtrot was dressed in a business suit, clutching a briefcase. Chris had laughed at him when Foxtrot had said he'd be going out on the patrol wearing his suit.

He smirked, shook his head and returned his attention to the Lewis Gun and their immediate surrounds, watching for the telltale sign of vehicles or troops in the distance. Foxtrot rarely spoke. All Chris knew was that he'd been hired by a Scottish man by the name of Graeme Baird to track down and capture an African Cyclops. Chris's laughter had boomed around the briefing room prior to their departure.

“This is World War Two, not some mythological storybook!” he'd chuckled.

But he'd soon been silenced by the stern glare of Mike, allowing Foxtrot to finish speaking.

“The SOE know nothing about this mission,” Mike had explained. “They don't know about the money we'll be getting paid by Foxtrot, either.” The older soldier had winked. That had piqued Chris's interest. This one scouting mission might make him a very rich man.

A voice snapped him from his thoughts and he glanced down. Mike stared up at him.

“I said, you see anything?”

“Nothing yet.”

Mike nodded, turned away and clamped a hand back onto the M1919.

As if they were going to find a Cyclops. He snorted, shifting his attention to the desert's open expanse to the right of their vehicle. Occasionally he browsed the sky, watchful for the dark dots of aircraft. Out here, in such a small group, they'd be easy pickings for the Luftwaffe, and a Royal Air Force fighter pilot could be forgiven for firing upon them.

Nothing, no vehicles, or soldiers and a complete lack of bloody Cyclopes. He chuckled to himself. They'd be getting paid whether they found the mythological creature or not. If what Mike had told him was true, when this was all over, he'd be able to afford to buy a house on a small parcel of land back home. Chris wiped sweat from his brow with a sleeve and tugged his wide-brimmed hat down more securely. He leaned down and tapped Foxtrot on the shoulder. The well-dressed gentleman looked up at him.

“Remember to keep sipping on your water.”

Foxtrot smiled, nodded and then returned his attention to the desert immediately before them.

“Dunno why I bother,” Chris whispered, taking a few gulps from a canister attached to his belt.

Screwing the lid back on, he reattached the metal container in place. Swinging the Lewis Gun to cover the left side, the cold spear of dread skewered his guts. He noticed a dust cloud, the light brown haze still faint.

“Dust nine o'clock.”

He watched the area. No vehicles were yet visible and at that distance, it was difficult to know in which direction the vehicles were travelling, their number, or whether they were a friend or otherwise.

Mike stood up on his seat, brought binoculars to his eyes with one hand and clutched the other on the gun mount to which Chris's gun was attached.

“See anything, boss?”

Mike ignored him.

“Is it a Cyclops?” Foxtrot asked.

Chris rolled his eyes. Mike ignored the suited man as well.

Dropping the binoculars, Mike allowed the cord around his neck to arrest their fall. He sat down, swung the M1919 to point left and shot a glance over his shoulder at Chris. “Keep an eye on 'em.”

Foxtrot leaned forward. “So is it a Cyclops or not?”

“Vehicles,” was Mike's reply. “Can't tell if they're enemy or not from this distance. You armed?”

Foxtrot patted the briefcase. “Sure am.”

“You might need to help out if they turn out to be enemy vehicles.”

Chris watched the dust cloud through the open sights of the Lewis Gun. The haze had taken on a darker hue and appeared thicker, suggesting whatever was causing it was closing the distance. He looked over his shoulder at the Chevvy following and noticed both guns were also swung to the nine o'clock position.

“Good,” he muttered.

Ensuring he wasn't becoming too focused on the approaching threat, Chris raked his gaze across the right horizon at intervals. That side remained clear.

At the base of the distant brown blotch staining the sky, dark dots appeared.

“I got vehicles,” said Chris.

Mike clambered to his feet, snatched the binoculars up and stared through them.

“Afrika Korps scouts.” He dropped the binoculars.

Chris turned to the vehicle following them and gave a thumbs down, indicating the approaching group were enemy.