Assignment Golden Girl

by Edward S. Aarons

  THE SUN was halfway to the western horizon. They were moving again, leaving the little oasis, the mysteriously deserted salt pans, and empty shacks. The floor of the Kaisata Desert was absolutely flat here, gleaming pure white, blinding with its reflections of the sun. But the hills were closer now, and Durell could see changes beginning in the contour of the land. There were a few isolated boulders first, then craggy outcroppings of rock. A few acacia trees slid past the tracks. He looked back at the searing waste behind them. The locomotive began to labor against a slight upgrade, and their speed, such as it was, slowed. He judged the rim of the desert to be another fifty miles ahead, growing better defined in the light of the sun behind them. His eyes blurred, and he wiped his glasses again and took a drink of water from Khwama, who had replaced the original fireman. Their supply of wood was low, and the fireman who had attended the boiler all this time had collapsed from the heat. Khwama's long, lean body swung endlessly in a smooth, even rhythm. There was no sweat on his black torso.

  Sally was asleep under the canvas in the tender. She had not really spoken to him since their moments together on the river island. That time seemed far away now in another world, an illusion lost in the distance and the terrible hours behind them. He thought of Colonel Yi and wondered if the man had drowned in the river, been lost there, or if he had been picked up by his float plane.

  Durell did not venture any guesses. It was too hazardous in his business. But somewhow he felt that the Chinese was up ahead somewhere waiting for him again, adamant, cruel, hungering for Durell's life, determined to stop the train. From Yi's viewpoint the train had to be stopped. If Atimboku—or Sally—told their story of invasion, of the rape of their little country, the bald and naked grab for the railroad, the UN and the world would know the truth. Not that this was any guarantee that Pakuru could be saved. But it might help. Every little bit helped. The world was enmeshed in a system of lies and propaganda, outrageous and blatant twistings or torturings of fact. The awesome power to destroy that stalked the globe made simple truth old-fashioned, out of date. The bombs talked. The threat of the bomb made nations compromise their honor, swallow pride, fall into the convoluted trap of power politics.

  The train passed through a cut between tall, raw cliffs that gleamed white and red and yellow in the searing sunlight. The brief shade was welcome. Smoke from the stack made fat black clouds against the stone. Then they were out in the open sunlight again, the echoes of their passage lost behind them.

  "Ngami country," Oyashi said.

  The Japanese's breath smelled of the ketones forming in his blood. His eyes looked strange. He lifted one hand, then dropped it. He swayed with the rocking of the locomotive as they came out of the little gorge and entered a land of savage rocks, basalt slag, scoria. The boulders made long shadows on the desert floor. But there were patches of grass here, a few scrubby bushes, some acacia trees again.

  "How far to the frontier?" Durell asked.

  "Normally? Three, four hours."

  "What's the matter?"

  "There are usually some goat herders here. Ngami itself—the town—^is about twenty miles farther on. The farms I started should be in sight soon. Do you know what the Ngami motto is? Pula. *Let the rain come.'"

  "Take it easy. Lev."

  "Do you honestly think we'll get through?"

  Durell did not answer.

  "We've been lucky so far," Oyashi said. He spoke slowly with an eflEort. "We don't owe fate any apologies though. The Ngamis are Muslims, did you know that? They say a man is only an instrument of fate in the hands of Allah. They used to raise cattle—still do somewhat— and they'd drive the herds in great treks over three hundred miles to the markets. They used to cross the desert —skirt it, anyway—and leave everything in the hands of God. Mostly God wasn't too good to them. They often suffered from famines and starved. So I came and showed them how to grow their own food."

  Durell said, to keep Oyashi off his personal problem, "The new miracle seed?"

  "Not really. At the agricultural research stations I set up I just tried to get them to make what they already grew just a bit better. I set up some controlled patches of their crops—maize, rice, casava. We did well last year. The Ngami used to think themselves lucky to get a yield of half a ton per acre in maize. I got them to raise three tons an acre, and if they're given more guidance, they could even double that. It's a matter of resisting pests, using a type of maize with a shorter stiffer stalk to resist the rains. Oh, yes, it rains here. But in short seasons and in storms like buckets. Too much of a good thing. Knocks down the maize half the time. They need it for protein, you know. Their main food is maize and yams. I don't talk to them about amino acids or protein, though. Just about having bellies that are fuller than they used to be. I've even started them on cash crops like cocoa and coffee. The Ngamis are an intelligent people. They used to be feared for hundreds of miles around once. Brilliant fighters. Absolutely without fear. Maybe it's because they never had much to lose."

  Oyashi stopped talking. He seemed to be out of breath. The track curved for the first time in a hundred miles, arching to the right along a low sloping shoulder of rock where a few scrubby bushes grew. Durell looked back again. The desert stretched out blindingly in the late afternoon sun. It seemed to be below them, and he realized that Old 79 had been climbmg steadily and without much complaint toward the lower slopes of the mountains. The air had lost some of its fumacelike quality. IChwama threw some logs into the boiler and slammed the door shut with a clang. Old 79 rumbled on.

  The landscape continued to change. There were more clumps of trees, a wider expanse of grassy veld. The desert was definitely behind them now, and the afternoon Sim had lost some of its bitter, overwhelming power. The veld rolled southward, following the line of the mountains. The upgrade along the right-of-way was gentle as they climbed toward several distant passes ahead. Now and then they saw herds of cattle, and once there was a group of Ngamis, the men in long skirts and round caps with another piece of bright cotton like a shawl around the shoulders. Some were armed with rifles, others with spears and long-bladed knives. They turned and stared solemnly as the train passed, but none waved or came toward the tracks, and their faces were blank and impassive, totally neutral.

  The track swung eastward. Now there were more rock outcroppings lifting from the grassy plain like huge monoliths, the stone red and gray and occasionally glittering with encrusted minerals. Off in the distance to the right was a village, a shantytown with wooden shacks and a few windmills to pump water from driven wells. There was a distinct boundary around the village, and there were neat fields of com along with kraals for milk cattle and goats. Smoke rose from several of the wooden, barracks-like buildings. There was a tall, wooden watchtower with sentinels visible in it. Oyashi explained that this village, Makale, was one of his first kibbutzlike settlements.

  "If we can reach Nakuru," the Japanese said, "We'll be aU right. My friends there—and the headman—^will see that we get through. It's only another twenty miles."

  One more hour then, Durell thought. He studied the rolling landscape, the increasing rockiness, the white African sky. Buzzards wheeled over something along the foothills to the east. When he looked back, the desert seemed far behind them.

  The light in the sky was tinged with red, and a gathering violet grew over the rocky hills ahead. Durell's eyes felt gritty. His shirt stuck to his back, and his face and arms were scratchy from the blowing sand and cinders. He felt a deep bone weariness. His shoulder ached, his thigh burned where Colonel Yi had creased him with his two shots. He wasn't sure if he had a fever or whether it was just heat exhaustion. The entire trainload of people had been reduced to a stupor, a numb silence that quieted their earlier complaints. There should be nothing to worry about now, he thought.

  But he was aware of uneasiness, a disquiet that went all through him, an uncertainty along his nerves and muscles, a cautionary tension in the back of his mind.

  He could not p
ut his finger on it.

  They passed more fields, more windmills pumping water up from deep wells, the spidery pattern of irrigation pipes in green fields. Then they were among huge rocks and low cliffs, and the chufiing thrust of Old 79's drivers echoed and slammed back and forth from the high, canyonlike cliffs as they rolled through a pass.

  He leaned far out from the cab window, trying to see ahead. Beyond the opening of the gorge there was the veld and then the first high spur of the mountain range that marked the border. The rails ran through a long trough like a valley in the lower arms of the hills. He saw a trail of dust drifting in the air across the opening of the gorge through which the train rumbled.

  His sense of unease suddenly sharpened and burst into open alarm.

  "There's Nakuru," Oyashi said. "There, way across the plains—"

  Durell did not hear what else the Japanese began to say. There was a sharp, whistling sound above the clank and thud of Old 79's pistons. Light gushed on the track a few hundred yards ahead. Smoke burst and mushroomed upward like an evil flower. The train came out of the gorge into the open plain beyond. To the right and left were wide grassy areas rolling with the lift of the foothills, green with crops, marking Ngami fields and fences. Durell jumped for the brake lever. The track ahead disappeared in another eruption of black smoke, clods of earth, gushing red and yellow flames. Oyashi had his mouth open. Khwama shouted something in a deep voice. Durell hauled back harder on the brake handle. He heard the deep, racketing, stitching noise of automatic fire.

  There came another crump and another blast of explosives to the right of the train. Metal clanged, and stones thudded into the body of the locomotive. The drive wheels locked. Oyashi fell forward and his hands checked his fall on the scalding hot boiler door. His scream of pain was soundless. Sally tumbled down from the tender onto the floor of the engine cab. There were dark objects speeding over the grassy plain and a roar of engines. Durell leaned out of the cab and saw sparks and sand fly from under the locked drive wheels. The train kept sliding ahead.

  He could not stop it. He saw part of the ore car, and little spits of flame came over its steel flanged top. The dark, speeding objects on the plain were armored cars, half-tracks, armed with pom-poms. He tried to count them. Sally was on her hands and knees at his feet, shaking her head. Her long dark hair swung this way and that. Khwama kneeled down and tried to pick her up and then put his hand to his heart and slowly laid himself down on his side. His black face with its tribal scars looked serene. He was almost smiling. Blood welled up from a gaping hole in his chest.

  One of the armored cars hit a pothole and botmced high in the air, turned on its side and came down with a crash and a cloud of dust. Men spilled from its steel sides like beans from a burst car. The other cars swung away. Old 79 was slowing. There came the crashing of couplers and then one excrutiating blast of sound as the ore car was hit. The smooth slide of the locomotive became a series of jarring impacts. Durell saw the front of the ore car go off the tracks twisting to one side, and Abdundi's men came falling out of the bottom. Smoke blotted out everything. The locomotive jolted and jarred through the black cloud of dust and smoke as if in a tunnel, tearing up rail and ties, and then came to a halt.

  Durell found himself on the cab floor lying across Khwama. Khwama's eyes were wide open. He was dead.

  Hissings and clankings filled the air.

  "Sally?"

  "Here, Sam."

  "Oyashi?"

  The Japanese sat with his back against the opposite side of the cab. He held his hands up in front of him, looking at them. His face was blank. His burned hands were enormous, swelling, dark red, the fingers like sausages.

  Durell picked himself up slowly.

  "Sally, stay where you are."

  "What happened? What are those things?"

  "Armored cars. Colonel Yi got ahead of us."

  "Are we wrecked?"

  "I don't know."

  Passengers were spilling down out of the coach behind them. Their shouts were feeble pipings of despair and terror under the rumbling and groaning of the stalled locomotive. Durell jumped down to the groimd and moved forward. The armored cars jolted across the tracks ahead. Two of them had stopped, and their guns swung like pointing fingers at the train. The ore car was derailed, the forward trucks smashed and caught in the twisted, broken track. It was still coupled to the locomotive at the nearer end, however. Abdundi's men were still climbing out of the high, steel sides. Some of them, more disciplined than others, had thrown themselves down and were firing back at the armored cars. There were five of the vehicles, not coimting the one that was wrecked and burning. Two shells whistled over the train and exploded beyond on the other side. A third struck the supply coach and burst with a heavy blast of wood splinters and firewood that hurtled high in the air. Smoke and the smell of burning drifted over the train. Durell ran toward the passenger coach. There came a rattle of machine gun fire and some of the passengers running from the train stimibled and fell in the tall grass. There was a dim screaming sonnd. Colonel Abdimdi swung down from the coach and stopped in Durell's path.

  "Who are they?" Abdundi shouted.

  "Neighbors. And probably Colonel Yi."

  "We cannot fight their armor!"

  "Just keep your men firing."

  Abdundi ran forward to the wrecked hopper car. Durell swung up into the passenger coach and turned down the aisle to the compartments at the rear. Machine gun bullets had stitched ragged holes in the sides of the car. Two men and a woman were dead, sprawled on the seats and in the aisle. He stepped over them.

  "Atimboku!"

  Gloria came out of her compartment opposite. Her face was pale but composed. She had even managed to put on lipstick. Her hands twitched for a moment, and she clutched at one with the other.

  "Sam, help us. I've got to get Harvey out."

  "His chances are as good here as outside."

  "We'll all be killed, Sam!"

  He listened. Oddly, there was no more firing from armored cars. The light in the coach was quite dim. They were in the shadows of the gorge from which they had just emerged. The sun must be getting low. He tried to calculate how much time was left until darkness came. He couldn't guess. He hammered at Atimboku's compartment door.

  "Tun! Come out of there!"

  Flames crackled from the coach behind them. The air began to fill up with smoke. Durell banged on the door again. From inside came a thump, a mumbling, a shouted curse of exasperation. Durell backed up and slammed his shoulder against the door. His wound exploded with pain. The lock snapped, and the door burst inward. Atimboku's huge, powerful figure loomed darkly in the small cubicle. His face was swollen with rage.

  "What do you think you're doing?"

  "I need you," Durell said. "Come with me."

  The air in the compartment was stifling. It stank of sweat and stale liquor and food. There were three empty bottles of Cape Town bourbon on the carpeted floor. Atimboku was half-naked. He wore his touraco feathers and a leopard loincloth and nothing else. His eyes were red, rolling drunkenly. Spittle drooled from his slack mouth.

  "Get out," he rumbled.

  "We're being attacked," Durell said. "Armored cars. You've got to stop them."

  Atimboku laughed. "Me? Let Khwama throw his spears at them."

  "Khwama is dead."

  Atimboku shook his head. He turned aside, then halted, put his hands down on the green leather bench, and vomited. It went on for several long, agonizing moments. The air smelled even worse. Durell felt his tiredness deepen. For the first time he wondered about defeat. If Colonel Yi was out there, Durell was not only beaten; he was dead. He took Atimboku by the shoulders and forced the big man to stand up. Atimboku's eyes rolled toward the door.

  "What—what do you want me to do, Cajun?"

  "You can go out there and talk to them. You're still head of the government of Pakuru."

  "Me? They won't listen to me. They'll cut my head off. That's all they want. Do
n't bug me. I'm sick."

  "Then sober up. Get out there. Running a country isn't all fun and games. They're waiting out there for something. They can stand out of range and blow us to pieces at their leisure. So get out there and gain some time imtil dark comes."

  "What for? What can we do?"

  "We can get help. Just hold them off for a while."

  Atimboku's face screwed up. He looked like a small, frustrated boy. "I can't do it, Cajun."

  "You've got to."

  "Listen, man—" Atimboku paused. He drew a deep, shaking breath and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His eyelids drooped. "Listen, you know what?"

  Durell waited.

  Atimboku said, "I'm scared. Out of my wits.

  "I'll help you."

  "Nobody can help me, man."

  Durell said, "I'm scared, too."

  Twenty-Five

  THE SKY was blood red. The rocky gorge behind them was darkly shadowed. Durell estimated there was half an hour until sundown. Some of the passengers had' recovered from their panic and had helped put out the fire in the supply coach. Durell gave them orders and instructions to imcouple it. It wouldn't be needed any more. A few hundred yards across the veld the five remaining cars were drawn up on a small slope in an ominous, silent line, their guns aimed at the stalled train. The dead refugees along the tracks were ignored. Those who had survived the first attack were mostly seated in despairing groups along the rails. Durell walked forward toward the locomotive. He heard Sally crying in the engine cab.

  "What is it?" he called.

  Her head appeared in the cab window. "Nothing, Sam. "I'm sorry."

  "Were you hurt?"

  "No. It's iust—"

  "Khwama?"

  "He was loyal. He loved my mother. He loved me. He | was trying to shield me from the bullets—"

  "He's dead," Durell said roughly. "I'm going to need t you. So pull yourself together."

  "What can I do?"

  "Come wtih me."

  She saw Atimboku and hesitated on the ladder from the engine cab. Atimboku looked at her sullenly. He swayed slightly as if in a high wind.