The Military Megapack

by Harry Harrison

  And then suddenly the old B.E. coughed and went as dead as a brass bull. Some perverse bullet must have got the engine somewhere—the feed-pipe probably—during that last mix-up. A groan escaped him. Ahead, the surviving Fokker was winging swiftly back toward Deraa. Below, and a half mile off to the left, he could still see Hussein ibn Zaid’s cavalcade. It was the irony of fate. By Allah, it was worse than that, for out of the mirage Deraa gleamed scarcely half a dozen miles northward.

  He put the plane’s nose down and let her ride earthward. And for the next minute he scanned with anxious eyes the terrain below. East of the railroad, low basalt hills cut the earth up into scarred, uneven surfaces on which no plane could land. It was too far to the level desert for the ship to glide before making ground. He must find a place somewhere in the tortured hills below.

  Suddenly Burke caught a gleam of white in the broken black hills—a sandy valley—a tiny, narrow interval in the desolation. A perilous place to land a plane, but he must make the attempt. He spiraled slowly down toward it—couldn’t get into the wind, had to take it with the wind under his tail. God, it looked narrow! He held his breath as the precipitous walls swept up. It seemed his wings brushed them on each side. She bumped—bumped—

  He let out a sharp cry. A jagged rock lay fair in the path of the wheels. He let his body go limp.

  Crash!

  The old B.E. leaped into the air like a startled hen—one of her wing tips struck the ravine wall. She turned about. And bang, she put her nose crashing into the basalt. For a matter of some minutes Burke sat in the cockpit seat trying to get his wind. He had put his weight against the safety belt to let it take the strain—a trick he had learned from previous crashes—but in spite of that the impetus had all but knocked him out.

  Unfastening the belt, he climbed dazedly out of the plane, gazed at her ruefully. She was a hopeless wreck.

  “And, by God,” he growled, “I’m in a hopeless mess.”

  * * * *

  From where he stood it was a matter of seventy miles to Azrak oasis, with the burning Sirhan between. To attempt that on foot was suicide. But Jerry Burke had long ago planned what he would do if he were ever brought down in these parts. In the fuselage behind the flying seat were stored certain articles after which he now went. Item, one cotton cloak; item, one camel-hair kaftan; item, one brown kafieh with agals.

  Having dragged these out, he proceeded to divest himself of his uniform and array himself in them. Then he took off his shoes and stockings. His feet and legs were as brown as an Arab’s, for he had followed Lawrence in training to live exactly the Arab life. Having flung his uniform into the cockpit of the ship, he took his revolver, glasses, water bottle and iron rations from her, and having wet his tunic sleeve in gasoline, struck a match to it. Before he was clear of the valley the old B.E. was in flames.

  He struck up over the hills in the direction of the railway, looking for all the world a son of Ishmael. His intention was to return to Minifer and, in the guise of a native, steal or purchase a camel on which to make Azrak. He had also the hopes of running into Colonel Oldfield, who, with Abdulla el Zaagi, the captain of Lawrence’s bodyguard, had gone off the night before on a raid against Amman, which town lay ten miles south of Minifer.

  He was still a quarter of a mile from the line, and not yet in sight of it, when he heard far to the south the whistle of a locomotive. The daily train moving north. Evidently Oldfield’s party hadn’t been able to detain her. He pressed on. Finally, from the top of the hill overlooking the railway, he could see smoke some distance below. He clambered down the long, steep bank to the line, started southward along it. There was quite a stiff south to north grade here and he was not surprised when he finally caught sight of the oncoming train to see that she was laboring badly. He stood aside and watched her as she panted up and past. Two engines drew a long line of empty box and flat cars with three passenger cars away down at the end.

  As the second engine passed the driver yelled something at him—the Turk’s insult to the Bedu. Burke grinned back at him. His disguise was evidently good. But suddenly, as car after empty car went crawling by a thought leaped full-born into his brain. This train was going to Deraa. Once clear of the rise ahead the line ran downhill all the way. She would get there before Hussein ibn Zaid!

  He leaped suddenly forward, grabbed the iron handrail on the rear of a passing truck and swung himself aboard. A few minutes later, between two cars, he was hanging on for dear life as the long train rattled and clanged down the grade toward Deraa. There was a wide grin on his dust-grimed face. He knew Deraa. He’d been in Deraa more than once. Hussein ibn Zaid hadn’t got clear of him yet!

  * * * *

  But though the scene from Deraa Station had all the familiarity of an old haunt, Burke could feel his nerves tingling as he dropped from the now stationary train and started across the wide, munition-piled square to the town. In spite of the fact that he had done all this before and had passed many a time for a native because of his familiarity with the Arab speech, it remained in the back of his head that if he were recognized his fate would be swift and certain. Every sense wary, he entered the crowded streets of the busy Trans-Jordanian town and pressed through the mob of Turkish soldiers and bawling natives that surged in every direction. All the time he moved toward the southern suburbs of the town, and at last found himself in the long rue behind whose high stone walls lived the more prosperous merchants.

  Finally he stopped in front of a gate and knocked. It swung open presently, and the gate man, recognizing him with a start, stepped back quickly and let him in. The door clanged to abruptly.

  “Is Ali Bender within?”

  “Yes, Sidi.”

  Burke strode across the flagged court and into the house. In the makad he found the corn merchant seated on the floor smoking an afternoon pipe. Ali leaped to his feet and greeted the airman cordially, yet with an uneasiness, realizing that danger had come to roost on his hearth again. In brief, terse sentences Burke explained the reason for his coming, and said in the end:

  “We must prevent Hussein ibn Zaid from getting to Djevid Pasha. Hussein and his followers will be close to Deraa by this time.”

  Ali flung out his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “Who am I, el Bourque, to cope with the jackals of the desert? I am a corn merchant—a man of peace.”

  Burke repeated grimly: “He must not get to Djevid with his information.”

  Suddenly the merchant’s face cleared: “Wellah, Djevid is in Damascus today and will not return until the train arrives at midnight.”

  “That won’t present Hussein spilling his soul to the Turkish staff in the meantime,” growled Burke.

  Ali Bender shrugged his shoulders again. If it was the will of Allah that the jackal was to talk he, Ali, could do nothing.

  “Can’t you get a crowd of your friends together and go out armed to meet him? He has only twenty men. You could seize him and bring him here,” cried the airman.

  But again Ali Bender shrugged. The peaceful citizens of Deraa were not of a kidney to go on such an expedition against lean Arab fighters from the desert.

  From pacing the floor anxiously Burke let out an oath and said brusquely: “I will go up to the roof and watch for his coming.”

  “Go with Allah,” said Ali piously.

  Leaning against the parapet of the flat-topped roof the airman gazed southward along the road. But though he stayed there an hour there came no sign of the Weled Ali. Finally, realizing that they must already have gotten into the town, he went below, growled at the still smoking merchant:

  “They have slipped in while we were talking. Go, Ali, and get the talk of the bazaars. Find out where the devils are.”

  Not without reluctance the corn merchant rose and waddled away. Burke began to pace the makad again like a caged lion, fretting at the delay. From time to time he took a dried date from the bowl on the stand and munched it. Somehow, someway he must put a spoke in Hussein ibn Zaid’s wheels, b
ut how he did not know. After an hour Ali Bender returned.

  “The dog entered from the west, el Bourque,” he said, “and came alone, leaving his men encamped beyond the railway in the hills. Rahail, the contractor, was at headquarters when he arrived there and heard his encounter with the chief of staff. ‘Ho, fellow,’ the dog cried, ‘where is thy master, Djevid?’ And when the Turk answered, ‘In es Shem,’ Hussein cursed into his beard. ‘I have information from el Auruns,’ he bellowed, ‘all that is in el Auruns’ mind I know.’ The Turk said: ‘Speak, O sheik!’ But Hussein cried: ‘I speak only to Djevid. And I speak only when Djevid lays gold at my feet.’ They have given him lodging in the palace of Abd el Kader until Djevid returns. Verily, el Bourque, there remain four hours in which a man may work to stop his tongue.”

  Burke’s eyes gleamed. Four hours! In that time he must find some way to stave off this disaster that faced the Arab Revolt. He swung sharply on Ali.

  “Where is the palace of Abd el Kader?”

  “Beyond the bazaars, to the north, el Bourque. A large house with lions at the gate.”

  “Come,” said the airman, “show me the way.”

  * * * *

  They went out. Darkness had fallen by this time and with muffled heads they made their way through a maze of narrow, twisted lanes that were practically deserted save for mendicants already settling down for the night in the more sheltering doorways. At length they were through the bazaar, beyond which stretched an open square, and beyond this again a row of pretentious native mansions surrounded by the inevitable high walls.

  Halfway across the open space Ali Bender stopped, pointed with his staff and said: “That is Abd el Kader’s palace.” It was plain that Ali considered he had now done his bit.

  Burke turned on him. “If I do not come back by dawn make inquiries of me in the morning and send whatever tidings there are to el Auruns.”

  “May Allah grant it that you return to el Auruns yourself with such tidings, el Bourque.”

  They shook hands. Ali Bender slipped away, wraith-like, into the darkness. Burke moved on toward the wall of the house that had been pointed out to him. He had still no plan in his head, was simply moving on toward some crisis which he would have to meet as best he could when it arose. But in the grim set of his jaw was evidence that he had made up his mind to tie Hussein ibn Zaid’s tongue or perish in the attempt.

  A Turkish sentry plodded along the wall that faced the row of mansions, for many of the Turkish staff had their quarters in this neighborhood. Burke waited until the fellow had got well down to the end of his beat and then, crouching low, dashed forward. With a leap that took him several feet into the air he got a grip on the top of the wall and quickly dragged himself over its parapet. Dropping into the garden beyond, he proceeded to push his way through palm trees, acacias and shrubbery toward the house.

  A light shone from a window whose shutters had been thrown wide to let in the cool night breeze. Toward this he crept, but on reaching it found it some distance above his head. A vine climbed up the side of the house. He took hold of it, found it bore his weight, drew himself carefully up, peered in the corner of the window. On the floor within sat two men, a short, squat, evil-featured Arab, who would be el Kader, and Hussein ibn Zaid. They were smoking bubble-pipes and chatting. Burke caught odd words, but realized more from Abd el Kader’s manner than from what he said that he was trying to pump the Bedouin. Hussein wasn’t being pumped. That wily one trusted no man and knew that his host would doublecross him with the greatest of pleasure.

  Suddenly Burke heard a sound behind him. Dropping from the vine, he flung himself on the ground close to the wall and lay there palpitating. The crunch-crunch on a stick on the gravel walk came ever nearer. The muttering of a voice in guttural Arabic. Scarcely daring to breathe, he turned his head slightly, saw approaching a native with a long staff, one of those night watchmen the wealthier Arabs keep to guard their inner approaches. The fellow stopped directly opposite him, scarcely two yards away, and looked up at the window. The faint sound of voices within stirred in him that curiosity that is the mark of your true easterner. He took a couple of steps nearer, put his hand to his ear.

  Supposing he, too, decided to climb the vine and further satisfy his curiosity! Tense, breathless, Burke’s grip tightened on his revolver barrel. If need be that he had to come to grips with this fellow he must knock him out silently, and before he could make an outcry. There ensued a horrible two minutes of uncertainty. And then, still muttering under his breath, the fellow moved off.

  Rising to his knees Burke wiped the cold sweat from his dripping face and let out a sigh of relief. Once more he climbed the vine. Abd el Kader and his guest had risen, the former was saying: “In the morning, O sheik, we will go to Djevid Pasha and you will tell him your story.”

  “Aiee, by Allah, and he will spread gold before the Weled Ali!” answered Hussein, wetting his narrow lips.

  Abd el Kader took up the lamp and the two men moved out of the room. Hardly had the heavy curtains fallen behind them than Burke had drawn himself half in the window. A moment later he was standing in the dark room, listening tensely. He slipped across the floor stealthily, put his ear to the curtains. Voices were sounding fainter up the stairs and along an upper hall. He pushed through the curtains, crept along with a hand against the wall, until he came to steps.

  Above a door opened.

  “The sleep of Allah, O sheik.”

  “And the bounty of forgetfulness, O Abd el Kader.”

  The door closed. The light moved further along—disappeared.

  Suddenly Burke saw his problem unwinding itself. Presently he would ascend the stairs, enter Hussein ibn Zaid’s room, wake the fellow with his revolver to his head, bind and gag him and carry him back to Ali Bender’s place. Ali would produce camels. Then away out of Deraa. One snag, and one only, continued to trouble him. Hussein’s followers lay encamped beyond the railway. They, also, must know Lawrence’s plans. How could he deal with them single-handed?

  It was a question he could not answer. He must go on with what lay at hand and let the more distant problem rest in the meantime.

  * * * *

  A quarter of an hour later he stood outside the door that he had heard open and close in the hall above. The house lay shrouded in silence. Guest and host slept.

  The airman’s heart pounded against his breast. So much depended on the next few minutes. The slightest accident could spoil everything and put him into direst jeopardy. His hand went out stealthily toward the door, feeling for the handle. Suddenly he drew it back again, held his breath, listened intently. Had something moved behind him or was it his overstrained imagination? A minute passed. And slowly he got that ominous impression, that sensation that strikes some other than the ordinary senses, that he was not alone in that upper hall, that someone else in that upper hall knew he was there. He swung slowly around, his grip tight on his revolver.

  Not a sound broke the silence. His straining eyes saw no movement. Minutes passed. Finally, he told himself that he was fancying things. And then the urgency of his business faced him toward the door again. This time his hand reached out, touched the handle—and then again he heard that faint flutter of movement. Too late he swung. A pair of iron arms went about him, pinioning his own arms to his side. A voice hissed:

  “Yusef!”

  Curtains parted up the hall. An Arab servant appeared carrying a lamp in one hand and a long-bladed knife in the other. At the same moment the door alongside opened and Hussein’s face appeared in it.

  “By the life of Allah, what is this?”

  Although Burke had exerted his strength to the fullest he had not been able to break the grip of those iron arms. Suddenly they loosed—a hand found his wrist, twisted it, his revolver clattered to the floor. To his astonishment he found himself staring down into the evil face of the squat Abd el Kader. This potbellied, middle-aged town Arab had handled him as though he had been a child!

  The
servant held the light into his face.

  Suddenly Hussein yelped: “By Allah and the prophet of Allah, it is the Inglezi birdman, el Bourque!”

  “What!” cried Abd el Kader. “That one?”

  “No other, O father of miracles!”

  “Then Allah be praised, the reward that Djevid has offered for his capture alive or dead is mine! Bind him, Yusef! And you, O sheik, watch the prowling Christian dog while I go to the headquarters of Djevid. By this time he has returned from Damascus. Wellah, I will not wait until morning lest he slip through my hands!”

  Five minutes later Burke found himself standing in the makad below, his arms bound tightly to his side. In front of him on the divan sat the Arab sheik, and Hussein’s crafty eyes were etched in cruelty. Abd el Kader had gone some minutes since into the night to bring a squad of Turkish gendarmerie. Under his breath the airman cursed steadily the damnable luck that had gotten him into this hole. He had failed utterly and disastrously. Within an hour he would pay the penalty of that failure.

  “Yah!” the Arab taunted him. “The Inglezi are fools and the sons of fools—may their plans come to destruction! I, Hussein, have made a laughing stock of that little cock of the dunghill, el Auruns. And now I will see you, the dropper of the eggs of death, hang on the gibbet.”

  Burke forced a mirthless laugh. “The stupid talk in their pride, O sheik,” he said, grimly. “But one day el Auruns and his followers will requite you fully for your treachery, dog that you are.”

  The Arab leaped to his feet, eyes blazing, the saliva slobbering from the corners of his thick-lipped, ugly mouth. In his hand he brandished his knife. “By Allah,” he bellowed, “I’ll cut your impudent tongue from your head!”

  Suddenly his eye lighted on the lamp. A sinister grimace swept across his face. “Aiee!” he cried. “Aiee—I shall have amusement! I will teach you to talk in folly to Hussein ibn Zaid!”