<div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Original</div><div class="spoiler_body">Italian forces have attacked Egypt, seizing the port city of Sidi Barrani.  British forces prepare to counterattack, even as uncertainty spreads among the command staff due to reports of German forces heading south towards the Great Sand Sea.  With no previous reports of German soldiers in North Africa, officers fear reinforcements have secretly arrived.  <br/><br/>A local fixture, often referred to just as ‘the Colonel,’ offers to lead a small group of volunteers to investigate.  A man who has lived in Egypt for the twenty-plus years since his retirement, Colonel Augustus Ayers only ever seems to leave the bar he inhabits to venture into the deep desert every few months.  He rarely talks about what he does or what he has seen.  The lucky, or perhaps unlucky, few who have been around him when he has consumed excessive amounts of alcohol have been gifted with stories of the horrors of trench warfare, embellished with strange creatures surely straight from hell, stories of great temples that no living man, except apparently the Colonel, have ever laid eyes on, and stories of dark magic.  <br/><br/>Of course, few believe the Colonel, instead explaining his stories with trauma he experienced during the war.  Which perhaps explains the eclectic collection of people the Colonel has chosen to accompany him.  A small convoy, cobbled together with what gear, equipment, and people could be scavenged, borrowed, or stolen prepares to set out in pursuit of the German expedition.</div></div><br/><br/>The Colonel had spent nearly a week gathering his expedition at the Kharga Oasis, also known as Al-Kharijah.  A dozen trucks in half a dozen different models, each loaded with water, fuel, food, and staffed by anyone that the Colonel had been able to recruit.  At dawn of the sixth day, they headed west into the desert.<br/><br/>For two days the convoy navigated through a land of harsh sand and rock, following landmarks that only the Colonel and a few of the locals seem to be able to pick out.  On the third day, as the sun approached its zenith, a sandstorm seemed to sweep in from nowhere.  In minutes, the drivers could barely see the truck ahead of him.  And yet the convoy pressed on, in search of the promised safety of some rocks that the Colonel claimed were close.<br/><br/>In one truck, the last in the convoy, an eclectic group sat in the rear of the covered flatbed among barrels of water, stacks of emergency rations, survival supplies, and several boxes of ammunition.  The driver was a local, hired for a pittance, and even from the rear of the truck the group could hear him cursing as the storm swept in.<br/><br/>Finally, after what felt like hours of howling winds, the truck lurched, threatened to tip over, then crashed to the ground thankfully still upright.  It leaned heavily to the front and right.  A quick glance out of the covered flatbed revealed that the storm was still raging, with visibility near zero and stinging sand assaulting any uncovered skin.  A large dark form loomed up to the right of the truck, but otherwise nothing could be seen.  No trucks, no plants, no people, nothing but sand and rocks.<br/><br/>There was the sound of the truck’s cab opening and slamming, then loud cursing that carried over even the sound of the storm.