by Barry Sadler
Carl just shook his head. There simply wasn't much that could be done with Gus. Going over to Sharif Mamud, he took his bag and removed the photos that Monpelier had given him from it. "Want to take a look at these?"
Sharif Mamud took the pictures and examined them closely. When he came to the one Monpelier had said he thought was the area where Sunni Ali had the captives held, Carl pointed it out to Mamud. "Know this place?"
Squinting his eyes, Mamud moved closer to the hangar door for a better look. "Yes. I have been there. It is a good place with water inside the caves and many tunnels to hide in. It is very old. Inside are pictures of many animals who have long since left the desert. They were drawn when the Sahara was covered with grass. Very, very old indeed."
Carl took the photo from him. It was one taken before the war. That didn't bother him. It wasn't likely that things had changed. He took his map out and he handed it over to Mamud. "Show me exactly where this cave is located."
Mamud spread the map on the floor of the hangar. Taking a moment to orient himself, he touched the map with a forefinger. "There, near the southern end. It is a place well suited for defense. If I were you I would consider the possibility of coming in from some place on the other side, as I told you earlier. It will take longer but you will have a better chance. Sunni Ali and the Tuaregs think there is no one but them who can survive in the desert or cross the mountains. It is a vanity of theirs which has, in the past, proved fatal more than once."
Carl nodded. "Let's hope this is one more time."
Parrish was talking to Monpelier, who nodded agreement and announced, "All right, gentlemen, let's get aboard. It's time to move out. Our captain said that the weather report indicates there is a strong head wind approaching which may slow us up a bit. If he's right, then we'll have to leave now in order to make it to the strip outside of Fort Laperrine by dawn."
As they climbed on board, Parrish told them to secure their personal effects in the rear of the plane and then sit down. There were only canvas seats of the military type, not very comfortable for a long haul. But after they were airborne, they'd be able to move about or even lie down in the aisle to sleep if they chose to.
The co-pilot opened the hangar doors all the way and climbed back in to take his place in the co-pilot's seat. The twin engine started smoothly with no hesitation. That always made one feel a bit better about flying. Parrish taxied out to the runway, checked the wind sock, faced into it, and took off without further ceremony. There was no tower control. You just came in and left when you thought you could make it. Carl took a seat in front of the wing on the port side. The plane gained altitude easily heading its nose south, deep into the heartland of the sea of dunes.
The flight was long and monotonous. Parrish turned on the heaters. At 11,000 feet it was near the freezing point when the sun fell. The night was clear; the winds were yet in front of them. Below Carl could see the dunes, dark waves of sand that moved with the winds. Some were hundreds of feet high. There was nothing but the mountains to resist the movement of the sands and even those would in time be worn away by the hard polished grains that came every day, century after century, to chip away at the stones.
Parrish knew the area well, at least from the sky, anyway. He'd been flying the African circuit for the last ten years, from Pretoria to Benghazi. Checking the time, he knew exactly where they were, the southern edge of the Great Eastern Erg. The sand waves were less dominant here and he couldn't see them anymore. The earth below was scarred by pale brown ridges and gorges, sandstone and granite ranges that expanded and contracted under the alternating heat and cold of the Sahara. If front of them was the Tassili N'Ajjers, a low range of mountains where thousands of wall paintings had been found. Another hour and half from there and they would come to the Ahaggar range with Mount Tahat rising up over 9,000 feet.
He would swing around the range. If his timing was right, they would hit the head winds before then. He didn't want to get caught in the upper air currents, which raged at times over the high peaks. Parrish would play it safe. He'd swing a bit to the left and come from the south into Fort Lapperine, or as the nomads called the city by the fort, Tamanrasset. From the south two roads led into the city, one from Niger and the other from Mali. He had used them as guides more than once and was glad that he never had to make the trip by land.
The inside of the plane was lit by a red light. Parrish looked back at the men sitting or lying asleep on the deck and wondered how many of them he would be taking back out. He had been on jobs like this before and knew that when he returned his plane would be lighter than when he had come. Some of them back there were probably dead men.
"Rigsby, take her for a while. I'm going to get some shut eye. Wake me when we get near the Ahaggar Mountains."
Rigsby grunted an affirmative reply, which was about all he ever did. He was a short, dark, barrel chested, taciturn man of Irish descent who had little use for any conversation that wasn't absolutely necessary.
After taking one last look at the gauges and instruments, Parrish shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the cushions of his seat. Rigsby didn't say much, but he was a hell of pilot. As good as he was. Well, almost.
Those in the rear had their own thoughts, all except Gus, who had as near to a complete vacuum as the human mind could produce. The rest half slept as the Dakota sailed through the wine colored skies of the African night. Nowhere on earth were the nights so clear and the stars so bright.
Carl leaned his head against the side of the plane, letting the vibrations seep into his flesh. It was steady, almost comforting in its trembling rhythm. He knew this land, too. In his mind he could hear the trampling of the Roman Legions as they formed the battle square, the war cries of Crusaders who fought for the glory of Jesus and plunder. And the nomads: Moors, Berbers,
Tuaregs, and Arabs who had swept out of the deserts crying out for all to hear. 'La ilah ilia' Allah: Muhammad rasul Allah. There is no god but Allah: Mohammed is His prophet."
The only way the sand below could have ever bloomed would have been if blood were as nourishing as water. Rivers of blood had flowed from those who had tried to claim the desert, floods that had claimed millions of lives instead. So what difference would a few more drops spilled onto the sands in the next few days make? Carl answered the question before sleep hit him: None. Malesh.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Dakota C 47 lurched a bit when Parrish banked it to the port. The head winds had reached them, slowing the plane's ground speed down to a little over a hundred miles per hour. For the next hour the plane bucked and rocked, swayed and dipped. Those lying on the floor woke up and sat back in their seats where they had the comfort of safety belts.
Parrish would have liked to go higher but his plane wasn't pressurized. Still he took it up to 12,000 feet. That was it. He had oxygen for himself and Rigsby but if he went any higher some of the guys in the back would start to pass out.
Gaining 1,000 feet helped a bit. At least he'd gotten above the sandstorm. Below him it was as though the floor of the desert had come up to meet him. It was a solid sheet of darkness sweeping past him. If he had stayed down lower it would have sandblasted his plane down to the frame.
He told Rigsby to tune in Radio Niamey for the weather report.
"Looks like the storm should be over in another hour or two, boss."
Parrish was glad. The plane was kept in good repair, but one never knew. The remote possibility of having to go down in winds of over fifty miles per hour with zero visibility was less than appealing. "Glad to hear that. We'll just ride it out till it passes, then go in. By then we should have first light. I don't want to go down till then, anyway. "
Rigsby jerked his head to the rear. "What do you think about those guys back there?"
Parrish shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows. I'm just glad we're not going with them. It's bad enough hauling this crate around for a living."
Rigsby grunted in agreement. "Yeah, but it still seems
a bit strange. You know, taking these guys in and knowing that not all of them will be coming back. Strange, kinda like we're a hearse rented in advance."
Parrish leaned back to get more comfortable. "Knock it off, Rigsby. They got their job to do and we got ours. Don't think too much about them. They're expendable. That's why they're here, and they know it. But I would like to think that we're not, so just keep this bucket's nose in the wind and off the deck till then. I'm going to try and catch a few winks."
"You got it, boss. I'll wake you at first light. That should be in about two more hours." Rigsby took over the yoke.
Carl watched the faces of his men as they tried to sleep through the buffeting of the air currents. Gus was the only one who slept peacefully, his head bobbing and jerking from side to side as the plane rode the bumps. Shard Mamaud looked a bit green, maybe had a touch of airsickness. Carl checked his watch. Dawn would be coming soon. His eyes closed.
The winds below began to slacken until they didn't have enough force to keep the grains of sand flying. The storm was dying with the new day. The earth was still dark but to the west Rigsby saw the sun edging up over the rim of the world. "Wake up, boss." He nudged Parrish. "Time to put this crate down."
Parrish stretched in his seat, trying to work out the kinks in his back. He extended his long arms, nearly hitting his co-pilot in the face. "Sorry about that. Okay, I got her. Now let's take her in.” They were 100 miles off course, which was no big deal. The Ahaggar Mountains could easily be seen off to the starboard.
Parrish banked to the port and lined up on the southern end of the range. "One hour till touchdown. Hope they got some coffee at the strip."
Carl's eyes came open when he heard the landing gear being lowered. The plane shuddered a bit, then steadied.
The sky was crystal clear, visibility unlimited. Parrish made one pass over the runway to check the wind sock. It was calm, though sudden gusts could blow up at any time. The strip had been cut by bulldozers leveling off a small mountaintop during the time when Fort Laperrine had been one of colonial France's southernmost outposts. Nothing had changed since the last time Parrish had been there: a few huts with metal roofs, a couple of frame hangars, some fuel tanks, and a building that had once housed a poor man's control center. Now it was abandoned.
Lining the nose up he lowered his flaps to full and cut back on the throttle. One good thing about the C 47 was that it had a hell of a good glide factor with the cool morning air. He set it down easy, smoothly cut the power, and taxied straight to one of the hangars. Off to the side of the runway were a few goats under the care of shepherd boys, their eyes large with wonder as the plane coasted in.
As they taxied Rigsby hit the intercom mike, announcing to his passengers in the rear. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to lovely Fort Laperrine, onetime romantic outpost of the Foreign Legion, now host to an unknown number of ghosts and goatherds. While our captain taxies us in, please remain in your seats and observe the no smoking sign until we have come to a complete stop, at which time stay where you are, pending further instructions. Thank you for flying with us, and we hope we have made your trip as much a pleasure for you as it has been for us to serve you." Parrish looked at Rigsby with raised eyebrows. He hadn't said that much at one time since Parrish had known him. Rigsby just shrugged.
Rigsby's impression of an airline stewardess did much to set a good mood. It lightened the moment. As they taxied down the runway Carl looked out the porthole. There were three other aircraft visible, another Dakota and a couple of single engine Cessnas. None of them had military or government markings.
Monpelier went to the cargo door and pulled it open, then leaned out to get a look around. Carl wondered who he was expecting. He didn't think the other crew in the Land Rovers could have made it in that fast, not with the storm of last night.
When they came to a stop in front of the open doors of a frame hangar with a tin roof and peeling gray paint, he heard a hail from the ground.
"Marhava yessun. Welcome, effendis, to Tamanraset. "
Monpelier greeted the turbaned man in a threadbare white suit, with: "Allah maak, Yousef."
"And God be with you also, Mr. Monpelier. All is as you requested. Please to leave your transport and feel at ease. "
Monpelier pulled his head back inside "It's okay, he works for me." Carl saw him adjust a bulge under his shirt the size of one of the 9mm before jumping down to the ground. Gus looked at Carl who gave him the nod. Gus took one of the Mats 49 SMGs out of its box and slapped a loaded magazine in it. When he did this, the rest of the crew instantly cleared any fog from their brains and were on the edge of their seats, ready to move.
"Sit still. I'm just playing it safe," Carl said. Gus moved to where he could keep an eye on Monpelier and Yousef, who was escorting Monpelier into the hangar.
Gus kept the submachine gun out of sight but ready to fire if needed. Monpelier went over to a few crates and drums, inspecting them, nodding his head up and down, then waved for the rest of them to come on in.
Carl stretched his legs before leaving. To the rest of the men he ordered, "Break out the pistols. Fill clips and take them with you but keep them out of sight. When you leave the aircraft, move loose and easy but place yourselves where we can keep an eye out for a full 360 degrees. Like I said earlier, I'm just playing it safe. Gus, you stay with the plane until I send someone to relieve you. I wouldn't want any of our cargo to disappear or get into the wrong hands."
The men did as he ordered and casually spread out. Carl followed Monpelier inside the hangar and found him talking to the Arab who had greeted him, a tall, thin man with hot eyes and long delicate fingers, wearing his white tropical business suit which had long since seen better days.
"This is Yousef, an old acquaintance of mine, Carl. He is a very useful man as long as you can outbid your competition. But at least he doesn't make any bones about it. You always know where you stand with him."
Carl nodded to the Arab. "Then he won't have any hard feelings if I let him know that if he does anything that screws up our job I will find him and kill him in a way that his ancestors would have appreciated."
Monpelier grinned widely. He always liked to provoke a reaction where he could. It made the job so, much more interesting. Yousef had a wary look to him as he tried and failed to meet the gaze of the scar faced man.
"He means it, Yousef. He will find you and do exactly as he has said he would. Perhaps you heard of him during the troubles. Some of your people gave him a nickname, al Kattel, the killer. Does that ring a bell, old boy?"
Monpelier was obviously delighted with Yousef's reaction. Suddenly sweat beads appeared on his brow and upper lip. A slight nervous tremor shook the hand that wiped the sweat away with a yellowish handkerchief. He had heard of al Kattel.
"La, ya akhi! You misjudge me, sirs. I am an honorable man doing only my very best for my friends. I assure you that I am here only to serve your needs. See, have I not delivered to this most difficult and lonely place all that you asked of me?" He indicated the fuel drums and supplies. "In the office I have also installed, as per your instructions, the radio. It is a most fine radio, sir. With it you can speak to the whole world if you should so desire. Please do not think that I would break our long friendship by a hasty act."
Monpelier had to control a burst of laughter that had started low in his gut and threatened to explode out his mouth. He swallowed to keep it down and said quite seriously, "I know that, old friend. And now I am certain that your new acquaintance will become a good friend to you also, providing you both live long enough to learn to appreciate each other's good points."
Nodding his head at what had once been the hangar office he said, "Come with me. We might as well get as comfortable as possible."
As they headed for the office, Parrish and Rigsby were already checking over their plane, getting it ready for the next flight. They wouldn't lie down until that was done. They'd learned from past experience that it was best to be ready for
an instant take-off.
The office still held some furniture, a rolltop desk, two cane chairs, and a couch whose leather cushions had cracked and dried. Carl chose a chair.
Monpelier went to the desk, on which sat the radio. He turned it on to check it out. Satisfied, he turned it back off. "This is so I can keep in contact with you for most of the time and perhaps be able to provide any extra assistance you might need. There will be one more like this with the Land Rovers."
They were interrupted by Sims sticking his head in the door. "I say, sir. Your man, you know, the big brute, is asking about food and drink. What should I tell him?"
Carl looked at Monpelier, who said, "Tell him to come on in. Yousef has provided for that as well. Find him and tell him to get everyone fed."
Sims looked at Carl for confirmation. After all, he was their leader now.
Carl nodded in agreement. "Go ahead, Sims, and tell the others to take it easy but keep an eye out. Also, I want the crates with the weapons brought inside. The rest of the gear can stay on the plane."
"Very good, sir."
Sims disappeared to do as he was told. Monpelier grunted. "Very conscientious, that one, n'est ce pas?"
"Yes, I think he'll do all right. But right now I would like to know when the rest of the team will be in. That storm will probably have slowed them down."
Monpelier agreed. "You are right, of course, but if they haven't had any motor trouble, even with the storm they should be in by nightfall or early morning at the latest. If you want to rest some more there'll be some sleeping bags among the gear that Yousef brought. They're good ones American army."
"Not right now. I'll wait a while."
Carl left Monpelier in the office. He wanted to get outside for a while. Here in the Ahaggars the air was cooler. At night it would drop to freezing quite often. Just out of sight behind a ridge was Fort Laperrine. He had been there before, years ago when they had fought the Tuaregs and Riff raiders that had been driven from the Atlas Mountains into the desert. The town was like all the others. For centuries it had been a juncture where caravans could rest and water. Whoever controlled the Ahaggars controlled access to the heart of the Algerian Sahara. "Vive la Legion."
