The Best Ye Breed

XVIII EL HASSAN

When El Hassan’s hoverlorry entered the main gate of Fort Laperrine, it was unescorted. Homer Crawford and his companions had met a gown of Guémama’s camel corps several kilometers out, but had waved off the desire to accompany their ultimate leader and his viziers.

The vehicle came to a temporary halt immediately inside the entry and the four occupants in the front seat looked out over the parade ground. Less than precision drill was going on. What were obviously older veterans of desert warfare were putting younger tribesmen through European type evolutions.

Bey, who was bandaged at the waist but otherwise didn’t look the less for wear, said, “Who in the hell are they?” indicating with a thumb.

They were some twenty white men, dressed in a wide variety of desert uniforms and sitting on the ground before three vehicles and four tents, over against the non-com quarters. On the faces of some were expressions of undisguised contempt of the efforts of the desert men.

“Damned if I know,” Homer said. “Let’s see what’s going on.” He drove the hoverlorry toward the administration building.

Isobel came running out anxiously, to be followed at slower pace by Jimmy Peters.

The four emerged from the lorry and grinned at the girl.

She said, looking as though she didn’t know which one of them to grab and hug first, “You’re all right?” Her eyes went to Bey and they were wide. “You’ve been wounded. What happened?”

“I should have zigged instead,” he told her. “I’m all right.”

She grabbed Homer’s arms. “Elmer?”

He put his arms around her and bussed her firmly. “He’s in the back of the truck. Mostly exhaustion.”

Cliff said, “He’s eating us out of house and home. Where’s the Doc? Hey, how about me? I’ve known you longer than Homer has.”

Jimmy Peters came up with his shy, slow smile. “It’s about time you blokes got back. This place has become a bedlam. Elmer’s all right, what?”

Isobel said hurriedly, “I’ll get Doctor Smythe and a couple of nurses,” and started to turn.

But, from the back of the hoverlorry, Elmer said, “The hell with the bloody nurses—unless they’re good looking. I can walk.”

He had managed to get out of the desert vehicle from the rear. He looked emaciated, the appearance enhanced by the clothes Homer and the others had brought for him. They were several sizes too large and he looked like a black scarecrow.

They hurried toward him, Isobel and Jimmy Peters muttering soothing inanities.

Bey said, “Hey, here I am. I feel worse than he does. All’s wrong with him is he’s hungry and sleepy.”

They ignored him and shortly the whole group moved toward the administration building, Elmer being aided by Jimmy and Isobel.

Elmer grinned at her. “You look even better than I remembered, old girl. You haven’t got a friend have you?”

“Yes,” she said, “You. Oh, Elmer, you’re so thin!”

He grinned again, even as he stumbled along. He still didn’t have complete control of his legs, which had been cramped so long. He said mockingly, “Oh, indeed? I saw the way you leeched onto Homer.”

They disappeared into the administration building.

Across the square, in the door that led into the non-commissioned officer’ billets, Captain Bazaine watched. When they were gone, he turned and sauntered into the non-com mess where Sean Ryan and Bryan O’Casey were slumped in ennui over age-old copies of European magazines, largely French and German.

They looked up at his entry and Sean said, “Something new?”

“I think that El Hassan has appeared on the scene. It’s the same hoverlorry we passed on the other side of In Salah. There’s five of them now. Two seem wounded.”

The other two sat erect.

Sean’s eyes went right and then left as he considered it. He said finally, “We can’t push them. Tomorrow, we’ll check to find if it’s really El Hassan. What does he look like?”

Raul sank down into a chair. “I couldn’t tell which is which. They don’t act as though any single one is especially the leader. Two of them are big brutes. All blacks, of course.” There was the faintest of sneers on his Gallic face.

Bryan said, “Let’s find Lon and see if he located that spot north of town where we’ll make our stand until the plane comes.”

Raul nodded and said, “If there’s five of them now, most likely they rescued that follower who’d been captured up north. In which case, El Hassan’s stock in this part of the world will have zoomed. We had better get about our business before this whole area, including Adrar, with our helio-jet, goes over to him.”

Sean said, “Yes, damn it. But I’m thinking that we have to make doubly sure it’s really El Hassan, before we can move.”

In the morning, Sean Ryan strolled over to the administration building and to Isobel Cunningham’s office. He had a minimum of difficulty getting in to see her in spite of the fact that her reception room was packed with both European-suited whites, and native garbed tribesmen.

When her guards had passed him, he found her at her desk, looking, as usual, harassed with overwork. Her two secretaries didn’t even bother to look up at his entry. They were, at long last, beginning to get into routine.

Sean touched the bill of his cap with his swagger stick and told her good morning.

She nodded and said, “What can I do for you, Major?”

“The rumor has it that El Hassan has returned… with his viziers.”

“That is correct, Major.”

“Obviously, he must be up to his eyes in detail that has accumulated.”

“Yes. Obviously. Dakar has come over to us, which means all of Senegal. And such major towns as Colum-Béchar, Laghouat, Ouargla and Touggourt. Everywhere, El Hassan’s people are triumphant.”

Inwardly, Sean Ryan winced. Colum-Béchar was to the north of Adrar and quite considerably. However, he managed to smile and say, “Congratulations, but I am thinking that, if anything, he will more than ever need an adequate bodyguard.”

Isobel sighed and looked down at the sheafs of paperwork before her. She said, “He has been informed of your presence and proposition and undoubtedly will interview you within a few days.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, but… no sooner?”

“El Hassan is very busy, Major.”

He touched his swagger stick to his cap again, did an about face and left.

That night, the three mercenary officers and Sergeant Lon Charles were able to raise Saul Saidi on their tight-beam radio.

He listened to the news of El Hassan’s return and to their fears that their aircraft, their potential escape mechanism, would be overrun at Adrar.

He said impatiently, “Adrar is now in the hands of El Hassan’s adherents but we have established a safe cover. All is confusion and the pilots have managed to assure the local El Hassan heads that the helio-jet belongs to their supreme leader and that as soon as they receive word from him they are to fly it down to Tamanrasset.”

Sean said, “But the town it was to have taken us to is reported to have been overrun as well.”

Saidi said, impatience in his voice, “It is a long distance craft and capable of flying you all the way to Tunis or Tripoli. Get about your task before those cities too fall. The El Hassan movement is flooding north like a tidal wave. His presence is not even needed. The people are acting on their own initiative, in his name.”

When the Levantine had finalized his message, Sean flicked the set off and looked at the others. He growled, “I’m wishing the spalpeen himself was down here. It’s enough to choke the pooka.”

Lon Charles said, “Maybe we ought to call it quits, man. That greaseball don’t give a damn if we get out of here or not. Just so we lower the boom on this El Hassan.”

Bryan glowered at him. “Two hundred ounces of gold,” he said. “And another hundred and fifty for Meg. You know what that comes to in your American dollars? About seventy thousand, I’ve taken risks before, but never for anything like that much.”

Raul Bazaine flicked his cute mustache. “Ow!,” he said.

It was four anxious days later that the mercenary officers were summoned to the presence. A French speaking camelcorps man came to summon them.

They had been ready. In fact, they had been ready since Sean Ryan had seen Isobel Cunningham. They followed the Tuareg tribesman, as militarily spruce as they could make themselves.

As they proceeded over the sandy parade ground in the direction of the administration building, Sean said, out of the side of his mouth, “And where is the sergeant?”

Raul Bazaine said, “Without doubt, in the town, drinking that miserable date wine.”

They were led to the conference room where Isobel had originally interviewed them.

Inside the door, to the wall at one side, was Guémama, armed with a Soviet PPPSh submachine gun. As before, it was not only cocked but the safety was off.

At the heavy table were seated five men, all in khaki uniform, and Isobel Cunningham, notepad and ball pens at hand. There was no doubt which of the group was El Hassan. His personality dominated even before he said a word.

They were all seated side by side at the table, Isobel down a bit. One of the five, not El Hassan, motioned them to chairs opposite and they sat themselves. Isobel Cunningham performed introductions.

Homer Crawford looked at them appraisingly and they could feel the strength of him.

He said finally, “Miss Cunningham has told me of your proposition. I won’t waste time. We are not interested. In the first place, it would be a slap in the face of our present loyal bodyguards to hire whites to replace them. And the word would soon spread throughout the Sahara. Secondly, although as bodyguards you might be more experienced in a large city than my tribesmen, I rather doubt that in the erg or on the reg your troopers, inexperienced in desert warfare, would be as efficient as Guémama’s Tuaghi. You’d be out of your element.” He hesitated, before adding, “But there is a third matter.” He turned to Kenny Ballalou. “This is my Vizier of Security.”

Kenny took in the three silent soldiers of fortune and said, “The El Hassan movement has differences from other revolutions that have taken place in recent decades in Africa. In a sense, we’re an international movement. There are few major cities in the world that do not contain educated blacks who are in sympathy with El Hassan’s cause.”

The three of them looked at him unblinkingly. Bryan O’Casey wanted to reach for his pipe, but didn’t. Sean Ryan wished that he had a drink. Raul Bazaine touched with a forefinger his perfect mustache.

Kenny looked at a paper before him. “Field Marshal Bey-ag-Akhamouk was rather surprised at one aspect of your appearance. “You arrived in three vehicles which were in excellent condition, though not quite new. You also arrived well equipped with arms and all other supplies needed to operate in the desert. Your story to Miss Cunningham was that you had pooled your resources to purchase this equipment.“

He looked at them momentarily, then back to his paper. “It seemed unusual to the Field Marshal for a group of mercenaries to have such resources. Traditionally, they are financially strained and must be equipped by he who hires their services.”

Sean began to say something, but then shook his head and held his peace. There was obviously more to come.

Kenny Ballalou went on. “So I put out feelers and backtracked, winding up in Algiers, where most of the equipment was purchased. Algiers is currently to North Africa what Lisbon was to Europe during the Second World War, the espionage-counter-espionage center. Needless to say, we have friends and followers there. They were put to work. The name Saul Saidi was come upon. It was he who financed your expedition. His name and reputation are not unknown throughout the Near East and North Africa. It is not a name that inspires confidence. For some time now he has been in the employ of the Arab Union.”

Kenny put his paper down and turned his eyes to Homer Crawford.

Homer looked at Sean Ryan and said, his voice expressionless, “I suggest that you gather your men, Major, and leave immediately for Algiers. There are a good many journalists and other representatives from various world powers in this vicinity. We do not wish to give them the excuse for reporting sensational news from Tamanrasset, particularly any news involving clashes between my people and Europeans.

“Your equipment will all be returned to you. My adherents will be notified by radio of your passing through our country, but though they will keep you under observation, you will not be molested, if you do not deviate from the road. That will be all… gentlemen.”

The three mercenaries stood, their faces empty and Major Ryan began to say something.

Homer shook his head. “That will be all.”

Guémama, though he couldn’t understand the language, now came even more to the ready, his weapon half raised, his eyes alert.

Just as the three reached the door, Megan McDaid came through it.

She looked at Bryan and said crisply, “I’m remaining. I’ve discussed it with Isobel and Doctor Smythe. They need me. They need any doctor who’s really sincere about helping North Africa.”

All three of the white mercenaries were staring at her, Bryan obviously completely flabbergasted. “But… but…”

She said definitely, “El Hassan was hesitant, but both Isobel and Dr. Smythe put in their support. I’m staying.”

Her lover put out one hand, as though in supplication, “But Meg… why?”

She looked at him and then the other two, making no effort to keep contempt from her eye. “Possibly because I have met El Hassan and his colleagues and was impressed by them. Possibly because of a bit Kipling once wrote.”

Bryon O’Casey’s stare was blank.

She recited:

They didn’t know what she was talking about.

Meg said bitterly, “Are you three an example of the best my race can breed to send to help North Africa?”

She turned her back to them and marched over to the conference table and stood behind Isobel’s chair, her eyes closed.

Homer gestured with his head, and Guémama gestured with the muzzle of his gun.

The three mercenaries went out, Bryan weaving, each of his companions taking him by the arm.

Outside the administration building, Bryan said to Sean desperately, “What can we do?”

But it was Raul Bazaine who answered curtly, “Nothing.”

“We can’t leave her here,” he pled. “With those niggers.”

Their twenty men were standing about the tents, waiting.

Bazaine snapped in command, “On the double. Break camp. We’re moving out!”

The twenty moved at disciplined speed, no immediate need to have the urgency explained to them.

While Bryan stood there, breathing deeply, completely disorganized, Sean said to one of the hurrying men, “Where in the name of the Holy Mother is the sergeant?”

“He’s not around,” the man said back, and hurried on.

Sean groaned and turned to Raul Bazaine. “Hustle them up. I’ll go to our quarters and get our gear.” He left at a trot for the non-com billets.

Bryan grabbed the Frenchman by the arm. “We can’t leave Meg!”

Bazaine smiled reassuringly and said, “Come along. I’ve got something to show you.” He led the way to the back of one of the desert lorries. “In there,” he said, reassuringly again.

Scowling puzzlement, Bryan O’Casey pulled the canvas curtain back and peered into the interior. The Frenchman clipped him neatly on the back of the neck in a practiced karate blow and Bryan crumbled.

Bazaine said in French to two of the men who came up lugging a section of tent, “Put him in the back and tie him securely. Too much sun, without doubt. A touch of cafard.”

They looked at him questioningly, but obeyed. He went back to supervise the loading of the trucks.

Guémama, accompanied by a double dozen of his men, and looking unhappy at the orders he was fulfilling, came up and turned over the weapons that had been confiscated from the white men when they had first made their appearance. The equipment included the breeches of four machine guns.

Sean returned from the billets, carrying three duffle bags. “Where in the hell’s that damned sergeant?”

“Probably in town, drunk,” Bazaine said. “We can’t take the chance of sending looking for him. This bunch of wogs would love the opportunity to start shooting.”

The men were working with brisk military efficiency.

Sean looked around. “And where’s Bryan?”

“All shook up. He’s in the back of the second lorry.”

“Poor bastard,” Sean groaned. Then, “All right, let’s get the hell out of here before that son-of-a-bitch El Hassan changes his mind. He’s obviously as suspicious as a leprechaun.”

The two officers climbed into the jeep, Sean behind the wheel. The men, their camp breaking completed, their guns now in hand, were swarming into the lorries.

The jeep led the way, over the parade ground, out through the large gate. Guémama and his men watched after them, their faces unhappy.

As soon as they were clear of the fort, Sean snapped, “Get on that tight-beam, Raul. Notify those pilots in Adrar to get on down here as quickly as possible. Tell them we’ll be approximately two or three kilometers north of Tamanrasset. When we see them, we’ll send up a flare.”

The Frenchman leaned over the seat to reach into the back. He said, surprise in his voice, “There’s four bottles of cognac here. That damned nigger sergeant must have located some more.”

Sean rasped, “I’ll be having some, wherever it came from. Hand me a bottle and get on that damned tight-beam.”

The Frenchman shrugged and handed over one of the bottles and took up the tight-beam radio phone. He spoke into it in French.

Back in the fort, Homer Crawford looked at Bey and said musingly, “I suppose that was the best thing to do.”

His field marshal nodded. “Yes, So far this revolt has been all but bloodless, save for our confrontation with the Arab Union. It wouldn’t do for some garbled accounts of a massacre of whites—mercenaries or not—to filter back to the media in Europe and America. Sorry you returned their weapons, though.”

Cliff said, “What in the hell did they really want?”

Meg, invitation obviously not necessary, had slumped into one of the chairs vacated by Sean Ryan and his two captains. She said flatly, “They wanted to assassinate the lot of you.”

Homer nodded. “That seems to fit in. Though they would have had their work cut out.” He looked at Megan McDaid. “You made a noble gesture. I understand that Captain O’Casey was your fiancé. Isobel and Doctor Smythe are correct. Advanced medicine today is in the hands of the developed countries. I suggest that, as a white, you be attached to the doctor’s staff as a laison officer in our negotiations with medical bodies of other nations.”

A knock came at the door.

Homer frowned and made a motion to the returned Guémama who opened up.

It was Lon Charles, bearing a military gray cannister, and, of all things, looking on the sheepish side.

Bey scowled and said, “Why in the devil aren’t you with the others? They must be ready to take off.”

“Man, they’re gone,” Lon told him. “This cat’s defected. I like the looks of things around here and thought I’d enlist with El Hassan. Miss Isobel, maybe she wasn’t trying to, but she kind of talked me into it.”

“Welcome to the club,” Cliff said. “You must have holes in your head—like the rest of us.”

Homer said, “Sit down, Sergeant. I understand that was your rank with the mercenaries. Tell me, how did they expect to get away with it, this far into El Hassan’s territory? If they tried to gun us down, they would have had to run all the way to the Mediterranean. And some of the El Hassan followers are on the fanatical side.”

Lon put his cannister down on the table gingerly and sat himself. He said, “We had a helio-jet coming in to pick us up.”

Kenny said, “That makes sense. But it doesn’t make sense to think that they’d get a crack at us at all. Isobel even had their guns taken away from them, as obviously she would.”

Lon said gently, “They wasn’t gonna use guns.”

All eyes were on him and Lon Charles was a simple enough soul to enjoy his moment.

Bey rasped suddenly, “What’s in that can?” And Lon said, “Fission grenades. That can’s their supply of miniature fission grenades.”