by Gar Wilson
7
The trick, as Salibogo eventually explained it, was as old as the Koran; nomad children were taught it from early on. When there was danger from an opposing tribe, when the slavers came, the children were instructed to run into the desert and bury' themselves in the sand.
This was explicitly explained by every parent; each child had to perform a dry run under his father's watchful eyes. A deep hole was scooped into the desert, the sand carefully piled to one side. All clothing was pulled tight, the face wrapping was wound, leaving only a tiny hole at the mouth. The individual then arranged himself in the depression, began covering his body from the feet up, smoothing the sand over himself as he went. Finally the head and upper shoulders were buried, the hands being left for the very last.
Sand was smoothed at every step; any obvious buildup was a dead giveaway. When the ground was as level and smooth as possible, the arms were finally drawn in. A well-practiced vibration procedure followed, the buried person shaking for prolonged periods, causing further sift-down, making the hiding place indistinguishable from the rest of the desert.
To breathe, the person used foot-long reeds, which were collected at oases. The reeds were placed between the lips, poked out inches above the level of the sand. A person could survive for hours, until danger had passed.
"So that's what those bastards were doing..." Encizo smiled in numb appreciation of Nemtala's stunt "...when they were shooting up the dunes. I thought the sun had finally got them."
Nemtala had used the gimmick twice during her flight from Al-Rashad, Salibogo explained. Each time she had managed to evade the party Blackwell had dispatched after finding Ochogilo and his stooges dead. But each time they had somehow managed to pick up her trail and had dogged her relentlessly.
Only upon hearing the familiar Muslim prayers and recognizing her father's voice had she thought it safe to rise from her sandy grave.
McCarter's tone was admiring. "That's what I call a tough girl," he said. "After the hell she went through. Then to kill them buggers, steal their fucking weapons to boot. To make her way back here. I'm sure as hell glad she's on our side."
Nemtala had withdrawn into a sullen, watchful silence once the reunion with Salibogo and the brief rundown on details of her escape from Blackwell two days before were finished. Her eyes haunted, she needed a long sleep in the worst way.
Whenever one of the Phoenix team got close she shuddered, appeared to shrink inside her grubby clothes. She cringed, avoided their eyes, despite her father's repeated assurances that these were good men,
.kind men. The very men responsible for saving his life — her life, for that matter.
After answering Katz's questions about Jeremiah Blackwell's location, his route and possible destination, Nemtala shyly requested some water to clean herself.
There was water, she was told. Especially after capture of the Black Cobra vehicles. Water to waste. Soap, towels, even extra, fresh clothing were provided, the latter from Katz's duffel — he was the smallest Phoenix member. Manning returned to the dunes and came back with a pair of boots small enough to fit her.
While Nemtala bathed behind an improvised tarp, the rest of them transferred water and fuel supplies from one Unimog to the other. Salibogo, of course, would not be content until every rifle and round of ammo was gathered and flung into the Unimog they would take along.
The abandoned Unimog was expertly gutted, set on fire. The Black Cobras — twenty-two in all — were left where they had fallen, consigned to the mercies of the blazing sun — and the buzzards.
An hour later, they were loading up. Manning would drive the Unimog, with Salibogo proudly ensconced beside him. A place had been cleared in back where Nemtala could sleep.
As she appeared, dressed in Yakov's tan camo top, shorts and socks, the boots on the large side, she struck a surprisingly fetching picture. Her long black hair wet and glistening, her curves visible even through the baggy military issue, she sent a timid smile as she appeared. Quickly she scurried to climb up behind Salibogo and disappeared into the back of the Unimog.
"Hey, now," David McCarter chuckled, "that's a bit of the all right, ain't it, mates? Adds a touch of class to the joint, wouldn't you say?"
Manning nodded, then gunned the Unimog engine.
Once more Phoenix Force set out.
In the Land Rover, seated beside the driver, Katzenelenbogen was busy with his charts. He hummed tunelessly to himself, an unmistakable signal that he was distressed. "What's it look like, Yakov?" Encizo asked, leaning over the back of the seat, studying the quadrant maps with him. "We any closer to catching up with that slimeball?"
"Hardly," Katz said, his lips pursed. "He's still got four days on us. I f I can go by what Nemtala told me, he was here, at Al-Rashad, two days ago." He indicated a point on the map. He flipped the drafting compass, took in an equal distance to the west of the hamlet. "Which should put him here, somewhere near Abu Tabari."
"Did Nemtala give you any clue where he's heading?" McCarter joined in.
"She was a bit vague, sad to say. But she did hear some mention of Jebel Oda. Which is here, practically on the Red Sea, about two hundred miles south of the Aswan Dam. At elevation two thousand, it provides some of the worst fighting terrain you could ask for. And if you think this desert is tough, wait until we hit the Nubian desert. Rock there that will chew our tires to shreds. Wadis we'll never get out of."
"Sounds bloody charming." McCarter laughed. "We've all had things too damned soft of late."
"Otherwise Nemtala says that Blackwell's well organized," Katz went on, "that his men are fanatics, well-disciplined robots who'll follow him to hell and back. Oh, yes. They travel mostly by night, sleep by day. Their camouflage people are, apparently, experts. Once they set up a base nobody spots them again."
He grunted. "So, even if we had Grimaldi or somebody up there, doing air recon, it's more than likely that we'd never find trace of them."
"So?" Encizo prodded. "What do we do?"
"Play it by ear. With this damnable dead-air policy Brognola has imposed, we're virtually reduced to Stone Age tactics. Follow our nose and hope for the best. If worse comes to worst, we can always key on Jebel Oda and pray that we get there at the same time Blackwell does."
"Mighty slim odds," McCarter said.
"Have you got any better ideas?" Katz frowned.
"Can't say that I have."
So the long day passed, Phoenix somewhat heartened by knowledge that they were basically on track, that, if there was such a thing as a just God, they would catch up with the Black Cobras in due course and settle some nasty scores.
At midafternoon they came upon a band of nomads. They stopped briefly while Salibogo questioned them. Studying the primitive family unit, seeing the malnourished children — impassively staring, oblivious to the swarms of flesh flies that formed dark rings around their eyes and mouth — they wondered what pleasures, if any, life held for the nomads.
What could the average life expectancy be in these godforsaken backlands? If the tsetse flies and their various forms of encephalitis did not get you, then the water would. The bilharzia parasite was everywhere, infecting eighty percent of the population.
From the outset Phoenix had been warned about the drinking water. Even Salibogo (among the more enlightened of his brothers) harped constantly on this. They boiled the water for a half hour; for good measure they faithfully added the Halizone tablets that Stony Man had provided in their survival kit.
Abruptly Salibogo interrupted the wordless staredown between the commando team and the sadsack nomads. "They know nothing," he reported to Katzenelenbogen. "They have seen no strangers except for us. They have been in desert for many weeks. Let us go on."
The Land Rover roared, lurched forward. Gradually they shifted into third gear, reached a speed of thirty-five, the vehicle rolling viciously as they fought to stay on the road's high ridges. The stiff springs transmitted every rut, jolted them nonstop, seemingly loosenin
g teeth, disconnecting hip joints. Here the wind had eroded deeply, left a washboard of stone, the gaps two feet wide.
Low gear. Five miles per hour.
"God almighty," McCarter complained. "I feel like the cork ball in a bobby's whistle."
The wind picked up toward 1700 hours, and the trail became obscured by blowing sand. Still they pressed on, eating dust, spitting, wiping the tiny particles from blood-streaked eyes. They could only hope that Blackwell was encountering similar conditions.
They stopped in a village called Gahwak — a sorry collection of eight stick huts, a thorn-tree palisade to contain a herd of six cows — which boasted a population of twenty-six starving souls. Again there was no report of passing strangers. If the Black Cobras had come this way they had deliberately bypassed the village.
Blackwell, the wily bastard, was not about to advertise his unauthorized presence in Sudan.
They made another thirty miles before daylight began to fade. There was pause for chow. Again there was dust-off, prolonged spit-fest. But no scrub down. Katz decreed that they would put in another six hours before sack time. They could crash for a few hours sometime after midnight.
There was no grumbling. If eighteen-hour-days allowed them to gain on Blackwell — go for it. They had come to Africa with a mission in mind.
They sat in close huddle, saying little, chewing the tasteless rations, gulping harsh, black coffee, which Salibogo prepared. Steaming hot in Arab tradition, the coffee almost seared away the roofs of their mouths. Yet it was satisfying, especially with the first chill of the desert night coming on.
Sipping the scalding brew, they noticed that Manning had disappeared. A walk in the desert, they mused. But they were mistaken, for shortly he returned, a stiff smile on his face, his mess tin in his hands.
"I tried to get Nemtala to eat," he said, his tone carrying concern. "But she didn't want anything. Poor kid, she's bushed. Scared to death of me."
* * *
The first light of dawn had barely made itself known to the horizon when Katz stirred from his sleeping bag, shrugged into his clothes and began making the rounds. He nudged each man where he slept on the ground.
Behind the Land Rover Salibogo was already clattering the primus stove. The temperature stood at forty-five degrees.
Grumbling, the men crawled from their bedrolls, began their morning washup, such as it was. There was not a hell of a lot they could do on a quart of water apiece, but amazingly they made it stretch. Shivering in the muted light, they stood and scrubbed vigorously. Shaving, of course, was out of the question. Or was it?
"Will you look at that?" Encizo dug Ohara in the ribs. They both stared over at Manning, who had heated his water ration and was sawing at his stubble with a razor.
"Someone's got ideas," Keio smirked.
They were on the trail an hour later, the Land Rover in the lead, the FAV in tow, the Unimog grumbling in the rear, all spaced apart to minimize dust blowback. The men yawned, drew field jackets tighter, fought to clear sleep-muddled heads. Gradually the day's heat built.
Another mangy village rose like a mirage from the desert at 1040 hours. The answer was the same: no one had passed.
At the village, Nemtala finally awoke, came forward to the Unimog and held a whispered conference with Salibogo. She studiously put distance between herself and Manning, sitting on the seat's outer edge. She ravenously tore chunks from the oversized doughnut-shaped loaf of bread — ka'ak — that her father had purchased from one of the village wives.
Once more they set out.
They stopped for lunch at 1230 hours. Nemtala, less standoffish, her color definitely better, an inner glow of vitality returning, took the food that Manning offered and ate.
Nevertheless she hung close to her father and regarded the hard-eyed crew apprehensively. When McCarter and Ohara attempted to joke with her, she sent quiet, imperious glances their way, but made no reply.
"Talk about frostbite..." Keio remarked.
There was curious change of status as Phoenix moved out this time. Nemtala, though still owlish and silent, now chose to sit between Salibogo and Manning.
They reached Al-Rashad, birthplace of Nemtala's infamy, at 1500 hours, and she became more edgy with each approaching mile. "It's all right," Manning repeated in slow careful phrasing. "Nobody will hurt you. We'll be beside you to protect you. It's all right."
Salibogo went in first — the convoy standing off a mile away, concealed by a sandy bluff — to get the lay of the land. A half hour later, as he reappeared, waved them ahead, the engines were revved up.
Once Phoenix was inside the small town — the villagers were definitely uneasy over the presence of a second military convoy in a few days — there was a concerted recon by Salibogo, with Katzenelenbogen in tow to provide the necessary muscle.
Seeing the mutilated, rotting body still hanging in the branches of the baobab tree, McCarter made a sour face. "This must be the place. Looks like our jolly butcher friend's been here."
Again there was a quiet conversation between Nemtala and her father. Moments later, the AK-47 hanging menacingly on his shoulder, he followed her into the village's woebegone souk. Salibogo drove a hard bargain as his daughter picked out items of clothings. She looked pleased as she climbed aboard the Unimog, secreted her purchases in one corner of the truck box.
"Blackwell pulled out three days ago," Katz informed the others as they clustered at Al-Rashad's primitive well and topped off their water tanks. "Took a gang of their young men along with them. The townspeople are definitely angry. Blackwell had approximately three hundred men." He paused. "Minus twenty-odd as of yesterday. I expect he'll pick those up along the way. Has quite a persuasive way about him, I hear."
All eyes drifted to the baobab tree.
His smile became confident. "So. Three days. We're making progress of sorts."
An hour after reaching AI-Rashad, they were on their way again. The sun bore down with blistering fury, and even in the shaded LR, the men sweated like steelworkers, their uniforms plastered to their bodies, rimed with salt. The sweat provided a base for the dust, and they were again coated.
Back in the Unimog, Nemtala, breathing easier once Al-Rashad was behind them, loosened even more. Her black hair coiled in a lush bun, a heavy burnoose-type covering draped around her head, she had a dusky, exotic appeal, which Manning found quite unsettling.
Manning was surprised when — a half hour under way — she addressed him. Her English was lilting, charming. "You have name, effendi?"
"Manning," he blurted, his pulse racing for no good reason. "Gary Manning. Call me Gary."
"I am called Nemtala. Those who are friends call me Tala. You would call me Tala?"
"Yes... Tala."
"You have been very kind... Gary. I want you to know your concern has been appreciated. I have been... I am so afraid."
"You have good cause. Not many girls... women would have the courage to kill... to come out of that situation the way you did. I... we all admire your bravery."
There was a long silence. But her faint smile betrayed her pleasure at his praise. "You bring me food," Tala said softly. "You build shade place for me sleep. You are good man, I think."
"Thank you, Tala. It was the least I could do."
"Please, effendi... Gary. You do one more thing for me? A favor, I think you call it?"
"Certainly. What is it?"
Her eyes dropped. When she looked up again, they were clouded with a hard, unreasoning glitter. "That man in Al-Rashad. He do evil things to me... he force me to do evil things. I am unclean. I have been shamed beyond recall."
"Don't, Tala," Manning protested gently, his heart filling with sudden compassion for the tormented woman. "Try not to think about those things. You are not shamed. You couldn't help what happened to you."
Her stare was implacable. Her voice was eerie, muffled, a paranoid note creeping into it. "I do not care what you say. I am dishonored. I will be avenged. I want to kill
thai man, fix so he will never hurt another woman again."
The steely vehemence in her voice caused Manning to shiver. He was momentarily at a loss for words.
"There are many guns back there." She tossed her head backward. "Much ammunition." Her eyes flared, locked in his. "The favor, Gary..."
"Yes?"
"You teach me to shoot. You give me chance to kill that animal?"
8
Nemtala proved to be an excellent pupil. Morning, evening — virtually every time they stopped — she was setting up targets of rocks, cans, ration packages. Manning was always nearby, patiently explaining, chiding, congratulating. Though she recoiled at first when he put his arms around her to show her precise aiming procedure, how to overcome the AK-47's drift to the left, she gradually relaxed.
He taught her shoulder stance, snap-sighting, the full prone positions. She practiced rapid exchange of magazines by the hour; her switch-ins from safe to semiautomatic to full automatic became as natural as breathing; she could clear a jam with less than ten seconds down time.
The rest of the time she was content simply to hold her rifle in her lap, fingers moving over the polished stock, lightly fretting the trigger.
"Fucking spooky if you ask me," McCarter once commented, watching the display from a distance. He shuddered. "If she ever gets Blackwell in her sights..."
Manning, with his lifelong kinship with weapons of all sorts, was the best possible teacher. And she was an exemplary student. Within thirty-six hours' time she was holding a full thirty-round grouping in a three-square-foot perimeter — that at full automatic.
Her expression as she tore up the marked side of a deserted hut was demonic. Her lips were drawn into a snarl, her eyes glazed with hatred.
By the third day Nemtala had drawn almost completely from her shell; she turned into a glowing, beautiful woman. Returning Katz's baggy camouflage shirt, she replaced it with a tan top that fitted more snugly. She retained the shorts and the liberated boots.
