Have dug out this story from my files (3550 words).

To the north, a range of rugged rocks and bizarre peaks stretches along the entire horizon. Abruptly, at the foot of this range, the desert takes over, with millions of soft and silky sand dunes, and they create a silent sea of tranquillity and harmony as far the eye is able to reach. There are a number of gaps in the rocky range and in one of the gaps a small dot appears and stays there for a while without getting bigger. It is very early in the morning. The sun has just risen and the light is of a pale orange.

There is no sound in this timeless world, not even a breath of wind. The air stands still and gets heated up rapidly. A nosy sand viper creeps along the ridge of a dune and soon descends on the far side of the crest. The sand on this side of the dune is as smooth as the surface of a mirror except for the regular traces the reptile has left and they resemble the patterns of a kid playing in the sand.

A faint hum can be heard now while the dot in the distance becomes distinguishable. The chopper approaches the target area, hugging the topography and sneaking through every valley. Then it reaches the flat open space and gains just enough height to avoid the sand being whirled up excessively. The noise is deafening, brutal, painful and alien. Finally, the chopper touches down in a swift and decisive manoeuvre and the engine is cut immediately after landing. While the rotors slow down, they create the only noise, slicing the still air and the blades reflect the sun rays each time they turn until they stop with a lazy movement. A few minutes elapse until both doors are pushed open. The pilot and two young soldiers jump out and help their passenger to leave the cabin. The soldiers carry machine-guns slung from their shoulders while the pilot has got a pistol attached to his belt. They wear desert head dress, black and white, Palestinian style, although Palestine is a couple of thousand miles away. Their uniform is Air Force, whithout rank and insignia.

Without a word, they extract some equipment from the chopper while their passenger walks away and climbs one of the surrounding dunes and turns round and watches the men at work. The sun is higher now, ascends visibly, and the temperature rises by the minute. The colour of the sky is light blue, and there is not the tiniest cloud to be seen. The three soldiers nod to each other and they unfold a large prayer carpet. The passenger returns and he takes up the place of honour and they group themselves towards Mecca and commence with prayers. There are comforting murmurs and reassuring movements, the softly spoken words of the Holy Koran with the gestures of submission and faith. Although only a short time has passed since the sun has progressed, it is very hot now, dominant and very bright. The soldiers have rolled out a number of thick Berber carpets and set up a field table with a chair, and a large sand coloured umbrella provides plenty of shade. One of the crew places a book bound in dark green leather on the table, very respectfully, and gets an army thermos with a screw-on cup from the chopper cabin. The uniformed men line up and salute their passenger who nods gravely and watches them board the chopper. The pilot fires the engine and slowly the blades begin to turn, faster and faster, until a huge sand cloud conceals the chopper from view, and the noise of the engine defeats the whirr of the rotor blades, the noise increases and reaches the previous level of aggression, then the big insect takes off, emerges from the sand cloud like a saint from the grave, and drifts swiftly towards the mountain region from where it had come half an hour ago. Soon it turns into a spot again which vanishes between the huge rocks known as the Three Teeth.

The man who has remained standing until the helicopter is out of sight, walks to the carpet, leaves the sandals tidily in the dust and sits down with crossed legs. He needs some time to adjust to the peace and quietness of the desert. He sighs deeply, relieved that he is alone at last. It is impossible to determine his age as he is covered from head to feet with a turban-like head dress and a long ghallabeyah, all of an immaculate white. His face is concealed behind the head scarf which leaves only space for a pair of expensive gold-rimmed sun glasses and his very dark brown and flat nose. His hands are hidden in the folds of his garment, only his feet show with their soles turned up. An hour passes and he has not moved. He has entered the state of equanimity he was looking for. Then he gets up, slips into the sandals which are burning hot from the sun and walks to the table under the umbrella. Here he removes the turban and scarf, sits down, takes some tea from the thermos, finally opens the book and reads. The man is probably in his late fifties, judging from the grey streaks in his hair and beard. He reads without haste, occasionally he stops and stares into space. The sun is high up now and hits the desert without mercy. A big fly has appeared from nowhere and circles around the thermos. The man pours a few drops of the sweet tea on the table and watches the fly as it gingerly dips into the liquid. Leaning back, he lets his eyes roam over the dunes around him. Would he walk up the slope, he would be able to contemplate the quiet succession of rolling sand waves which continue to the horizon without interruption. He has selected this seating position as he would feel oppressed by the grim mountain range in his back. His one and only concern is to find the peace of mind and strength for the task ahead of him.

"We should inform someone of your whereabouts, Sir, just in case..." the captain had said, with a heavy frown on his face. - "No!" - "Sir, really!" - "You heard me!"

By sunset, the captain would return with the chopper to take him back to the Ministry outpost. He would spend an hour to deal with priority matters and then go to sleep. Tomorrow he would be back here at this table. He would do that for a period of one week, at least, until his prayers were answered and he would know for sure which way to go and what to do and whom to trust and when to strike. The captain had not liked the order but he had shut up. He was loyal enough to shut up and accept the decision.

The man gets up from the table and puts his turban back on again. It is very hot and he is hungry and thirsty. The tea would have to last until the evening. There is no food, he had been adamant about that. Food would distract from his meditations, he had told the captain. It is prayer time and he steps on the carpet and positions himself towards Mecca. It is absolutely windstill and absolutely quiet. What a change from the Ministry outpost beyond the mountains. What a change from the capital way up north. No radio, no television, no telex machines. No conferences, no stupid discussions, no uniforms to look at. No shots fired after early morning prayers to execute some silly criminal. What a change. He must value every minute of it. He must thank Allah for this blessing. Allah will find the answers to show him the way. He prays with concentration. Later he sits at the table, reads for a while, swallows a sip of tea, stares into the distance and reads again, a procedure which repeats itself until it has become a routine. At first, he had wanted a tent, bedouin style, but that meant that he would have to stay in an enclosure, keeping the desert from his view, from his grasp, separated and isolated from the great void and not being part of it. He has left his watch in the camp, another item of distraction. He suffers from the heat, dry and scorching, but this is the first day and tomorrow things will be easier. The afternoon passes, and once more he performs prayers. Soon the chopper will return to take him back to the outpost, to his office.

"Don't waste thoughts," he orders himself, and he realizes that he has spoken aloud. The desert does that to you, he muses. The sun has completed the half circle and the man gets up and ascends one of the soft dunes to check the northern horizon. He does not need to wait long to detect the tiny spot over the mountain range and soon he can hear the engine of the helicopter. In a straight line, the machine makes for his location, hovers over the landing site and touches down.

The early morning ritual takes place in reverse, and within ten minutes, the chopper lifts off and, save for a few foot marks in the sand, nobody would ever assume that a man has spent a whole day in this valley of the dunes. The sun has gone down, and the fast transition from desert day to desert night is under way. For the following three days, the same pattern occurs: the crew unload their sole passenger, he spends all day meditating, reading, praying, and just before sunset, they return to fly him back to base. There is only one change, after the second day, when they do not bother to load the umbrella, the table and the chair and the carpets back into the aircraft. Someone in the air base could notice that stuff and might wish to know what's going on. They leave everything in place, with the exception of the green leather bound book and the thermos which the captain takes care of.

On the fifth day, the caravan appears. It is midday with the sun at the apex and an intensity unknown elsewhere on earth. The man's bones ache and he gets up and he stretches his limbs. Despite the heat, and because he has made this a part of his routine, he climbs the biggest dune, very slowly, to avoid unnecessary exertion. He reaches the top and peers over the ridge and pulls back instantly. In the distance, maybe ten miles away, it is difficult to guess because the air seems to be liquid, a long line of camels appears to be floating in space. The caravan moves slowly, steadily, the way they do since thousands of years, one camel following the other, and although the distance is considerable, they can be seen clearly. The man kneels down behind the ridge, ignores the sharp pain in his knees from the burning sand, and he watches the procession of the animals. Straining his eyes, he distinguishes the men leading the camels and although it is impossible to hear anything, he knows about the shouts and encouragements to keep the animals going. One of the camels falters and stops and kicks its legs and wants to break away, and immediately, three, four, five men rush up and try to help, and after standing still for a few seconds, the camel folds its legs and collapses in the sand, together with its load. The caravan halts. It could be a mirage, but the man behind the ridge is certain that the image is real. Why is there this sudden and nervous desire to get up and start running towards the caravan? Presumably, he would never make it, because by the time they'll continue on their way, he would have to pursue them and might not catch up with them by nightfall. He realizes that the balanced state of mind he has acquired over the past days is about to disintegrate.

And why should he not do it? Why not cancel everything and become a man of the desert again, without responsibilities and without the need to maintain position, rank, prestige? Would it not be a release from the trap he has built for himself? Would it not save his life, for sure? There could be a bullit for him any day, or a knife, or a hand grenade tossed under his car. Even the captain... Today you trust them, tomorrow is another day... The caravan, could that be an answer? Fascinated, the man remains immobile behind the ridge and watches the long string of camels and men. And there it is, he had expected it, the sharp crack of a gun shot travels across the desert, reaches him, followed by another one. They've killed the camel, and that means that they will stay there for at least a couple of hours as they'll have to redistribute the load and almost certainly, they will cut the carcass into pieces. He might be able to get into shouting distance, sounds travel far in this world, perhaps they would wait for him and allow him to join them? The only tribe to travel this area are Tuareg. They would accept him as he is a desert man himself. "Go now!" he says. It is hot, he is thirsty, and gnawing hunger bothers him. He has endured long days of solitude. A lonely desert traveller will have the same emotions when he has found an oasis in the distance. Palm trees, flat roofed clay buildings, water, people, a few friendly words, the mosque. Should he...? Now...? What a stupid idea! How can he assume that he is in a position to leave everything behind and simply step from one life into another one? Anyway, they would find him. They would have to find him.

In the end, he leaves the crest of the dune and slithers down the slope and back to his seat. He is alarmed at the sudden impulse that had hit him. He must be crazy.
He spends the remaining afternoon trying to focus back on his priorities. Maybe it is normal to experience this sudden urge to escape from everything? But the life he leads was of his own choice, he has always been the master of his decisions. Nobody has ever forced him to do something he didn't want to. Was there a hidden fear that everything could be in vain? When you die, everything you have achieved will die as well? What's the point, then? What's the point to waste energies on something you can't take with you when Death catches up with you? He tries to shake these thoughts off. Yes, it is the desert which puts you back in your place. Maybe you feel that you're an important bastard when people salute you, but when you sit here, in this ocean of sand, very quickly you'll find out that you're nothing.

Finally, he smiles. To hell with these camel drivers. Who in his right mind wants to hang around with them, anyway? He feels better now. He must process this experience. He must learn that even in his age, temptations can appear out of the blue to distract him from his way and to dilute his beliefs and convictions. After a while, he returns to his reading. The afternoon passes by but the dry heat remains. The thermos is empty: the man has not been economical. According to the position of the sun, maybe one more hour until the 'copter returns. There will be a luxurious shower, to hell with these camel drivers, a simple but excellent dinner, evening prayers, some paperwork and then a good night's sleep. Maybe two more days in the desert. Then he will know what course to take, what to do. In his mind, he has already formulated a strategy, he just has to follow the plan, without compromise.
Meanwhile, about sixty miles to the north, the chopper takes off and commences with the zig-zag course to confuse the radar station at Tazrouk. Eventually, the crew reach the mountain range and follow a southern course.

About fifteen miles ahead of them, a group of eight Tuareg take up their positions and wait for the chopper to appear. They have felt threatened during the past four days when the helicopter had made its way through their territory, flying low and menacingly through the valleys. Had the area been photographed? Was someone after bandits in the mountains? The men do not tolerate intruders, and they do not care for government people or soldiers. They are used to protecting themselves.
They had decided if the chopper would return today, they would do something about it. The men, all dressed in grey ghallabeyas and black khaffiyahs, have selected their places and settle down to wait.

They do not have to wait long. Even before the sound of the engine reaches their ears, they can perceive a reflection of sun rays on the wind shield as the chopper flies parallel to a lesser range of rocks, before it changes course and turns directly towards the spot where the eight men are waiting. They take their time and stand by until the helicopter is in range. The distance decreases rapidly, and when their target is only a quarter of a mile away, they pick up their machine guns and fire several volleys at the chopper. They hit the engine and the kerosene tank and watch the chopper explode in mid-air. The chopper seems to be suspended for half a second, as long as the rotor blades are still in action, then it drops five hundred feet and hits the ground in a ball of fire.

The eight men don't bother to look for survivors and group themselves and leave the ambush area.

The sun travels quickly now, and more than forty miles to the south, a solitary man starts to wonder what has happenend to his pick-up party. Why are they late? The skin on his face is dry and his tongue feels uncomfortably heavy while his eyes begin to burn. He walks along the edges of the carpet, first clockwise, then the other way round, then he ascends the dune and positions himself at the top to view the horizon to the north. There is no chopper. There can be many reasons for the delay but this operation has been allocated such a priority that there should be no room for errors.
The man watches the descent of the sun and estimates that there are only sixty minutes left until darkness.

He has learned that to panic is lethal and therefore he attempts to cut down the various options to a minimum of three.

There has been a leak in the operation, and the captain and the crew have been arrested.
There has been treason and the captain or one of the crew have sold out.
There has been a technical failure and the chopper does not come today. It will be impossible to take another helicopter without the need to give explanations.

The light becomes heavy and yellow and the sky turns dark grey. There is a wind from the east but the oppressive heat remains for the time being. The man wishes that there was some tea left. The mountain range is dark orange and massive in the distance, and there is still no sign of the chopper. The wind's intensity increases and the sun descends further. The temperature falls some degrees and the big fly returns. It goes straight to the table and makes for the spot of dried tea, tests the substance and is not impressed with the result. For a few seconds and with an angry snarl the fly hovers over the table and buzzes off into the evening. The size of the sun has doubled and touches the horizon. The mountain range is black and threatening and the land between the range and the dunes is pale yellowish grey while the rolling dunes are bright yellow and dark yellow, depending on the shadows.

The man sits at the table and tries not to think. "Allah," he says,"Allah".

The wind which was cooling and soothing at first, gets stronger and more prominent and disturbs the man's head scarf and he rearranges the cloth. He puts his hands on the cover of the Holy Book.

"Allah," he says. He takes the sun glasses off and pulls the shawl high up to protect his nose and mouth from the sand which the wind whirls up now. He bows his head and closes his eyes. He'll prepare himself for the night. The caravan will camp somewhere far away. Tomorrow is another day. On the horizon, the sun touches the dunes and the sky is covered with dark blue and mauve shades. Now only a third of the dying sun is visible and life in this world appears to be dying too, with the horizon eating away greedily at the blood red disc. A few moments later, the sun has disappeared entirely.


Munich, 14 June 1995