“And our friend El Hassan leans not at all in our direction?”
The man the Party called Anton shook his head. “He leans in no direction, except that which will unite and modernize North Africa. Neither do his immediate followers. They’re a well-knit group and it seems unlikely that I could pry any of them away from him in case it became desirable.”
“I see,” Kirill Menzhinsky muttered. “I understand that a delegation from Moscow has arrived in El Hassan’s camp. Have you contacted them?”
“Certainly not. My orders were to rise in the El Hassan hierarchy and await further orders. None of my current, ah, colleagues have any suggestion that I am identified with the Party. Which reminds me, an American C.I.A. man, Fredric Ostrander, has shown up. The fool seems to be under the impression that El Hassan is a Party tool.”
“I know this Ostrander. Don’t underestimate him, Anton. He’s an extremely competent operative in the clutch, as the Americans call it.”
“Perhaps. But nevertheless, there is no indication that the El Hassan movement leans either to East or West, nor do I see any signs that it is apt to in the future.”
The Russian was scowling. “I see. Then perhaps it will be necessary for us to do something to topple our El Hassan before he becomes much stronger, and to find another to unite North Africa.”
Anton frowned in his turn. “I don’t know. This man Crawford—and his followers, for that matter—are motivated by high ideals. As you have said, North Africa is not ready for our socio-economic system. Men of the caliber of Homer Crawford could bring it into the modern age perhaps more quickly than another.”
Menzhinsky chuckled. “Don’t worry about it, Anton. Such matters of policy will be decided by others than you, or even me. Keep in touch with me more often, in the future, Anton.”
“Yes, Comrade.” His face faded from the screen.
* * * *
Tamanrasset lies at an altitude of approximately 4,600 feet, about average for the Ahaggar plateau. Around it, such peaks as the Tahat reach 9,600 feet above sea level. The country is rugged, jagged, bleak beyond belief. With the possible exception of Southern Afghanistan in the Khyber area, there is no place in the world more suited for guerrilla warfare, less suited for the proper utilization of modern armor, particularly when the latter is forced to work without air cover.
Homer Crawford, equipped with an old-style telescope, was spread-eagled on top a rock outcropping, his only companion Isobel Cunningham. Directly before him, possibly two miles in distance, was the desert city of Tamanrasset, to the right, a kilometer or so, Amsel where palatable water was to be found at eighteen meters depth.
“Our friend, the colonel, is up to something,” he grumbled.
She had a pair of binoculars, of considerably less power than his glass.
“It looks as though Guémama’s boys are on the run,” she said.
“As per orders. The primary theory of partisan warfare is not to get killed. The guerrilla never stands and fights. If the regular forces he opposes can bring him to bay, they’ve got him.” He interrupted himself to clip out, “Look at that tank, darling! There on the left!”
Isobel tightened, looked at him quickly from the side of her eyes. No. He’d said it inadvertently, his mind concentrated on the fighting men below. She had often wondered where she stood with Homer Crawford the man, as opposed to El Hassan the idealist. The tip of her tongue licked the side of her mouth, as she surreptitiously took him in. But Crawford the man would have to wait, there was no time, no time.
Isobel swung her glasses. “The one starting to go in a circle? There, it stopped.”
“One of the snipers got its commander,” Homer said. “You can’t fight a tank without the commander’s head being up through the hatch. That’s a popular fallacy. You can’t see well enough to fight your tank unless you’ve got your head up. And that’s suicide when you’re against guerrillas. The colonel ought to send his infantry out first.”
Isobel said, “What did you mean when you said that he’s up to something?”
Homer’s eye was still glued to the eyepiece of his glass. “He’s leaving his entrenchments and sending his vehicles out to capture our…our strong points.”
“You mean our water, don’t you?”
Bey came snaking up to them on his belly. He came abreast of Homer and brought forth his own binoculars. He watched for a moment and then muttered a curse under his breath.
“Guémama better start pulling back those men more quickly,” he said.
“He will. He’s a good man,” Homer told him. “What’s up?”
“Evidently, Colonel Ibrahim has decided to come out of retirement. He’s sent small motorized elements to Effok, In Fedjeg, Otoul and even to Tahifet.”
“And—?”
“And has taken them all, of course. Our men fall back, fighting a stubborn rear-guard action, taking as few casualties as possible.”
“I don’t get it,” Homer bit out. “He’s using up his fuel and ammunition and losing more men than we are. Certainly he can’t figure, with the thousand odd troops he has, to be able to take and hold enough of the oases and water holes in this vicinity to push us out completely.”
Bey said, “What worries me is the possibility that he knows something we don’t. That he’s figuring on being relieved or has a new source of fuel, ammunition and men on tap.”
“The roads are cut. Our men hold every source of water from here to Libya and the Reunited Nations has put thumbs down on aircraft which eliminates an air lift.”
“Yeah,” Bey said, unhappily.
* * * *
That evening, following the day’s last meal, Cliff came into the headquarters tent grinning, broadly. “Hey, guess what we’ve liberated.”
“A bottle of Scotch?” Kenny said hopefully.
“A king-size portable radio transmitter. Ralph Sandell knew about it. The Sahara Afforestation Project people were going to use it to propagandize the tribesmen into coming in and taking jobs in the new oases.”
Dave Moroka, who’d been censoring press releases, shook his head. “That’s why we need an El Hassan in this country,” he complained. “They put a couple of million dollars into a radio transmitter, never asking themselves how many of the bedouin own radios.”
Jack Peters said, “Wait a moment, you chaps. Didn’t Bey capture a couple of Arab Legion radio technicians today?”
“They defected to us,” Homer Crawford said, looking up from an improvised desk where he was poring over some supply papers with Isobel. “What did you have in mind, Jack?”
“There are radios in Tamanrasset. In fact, there’s probably a radio in every one of those military vehicles of Ibrahim’s. Why can’t we blanket these Arab Union chaps with El Hassan propaganda? Quite a few of them are from Libya, Tunisia and Egypt. In short, they’re Africans and susceptible to El Hassan’s dream.”
“Good man. Take over the details, Jack,” Homer said. He went back to his work with Isobel.
Jimmy Peters entered with some papers in hand. He said, seriously, “The temperature is rising in the Reunited Nations—and everywhere else, for that matter. Damascus and Cairo have been getting increasingly belligerent. Homer, it looks as though the Arab Union is getting ready to go out on a limb. Weeks have passed since Colonel Ibrahim first took Tamanrasset and the Reunited Nations, the United States, the Soviet Complex and all others interested in North Africa, have failed to do anything. Everybody, evidently, afraid of precipitating something that couldn’t be ended.”
All eyes went to Homer Crawford who ran a black hand back over his hair in weariness. “I know,” he said. “Something is about to blow. Dave has sent some of his best men into Tamanrasset to pick up gossip in the souks. Morale was dragging bottom among the legionnaires just a couple of days ago. Now they seem to have a new lease.”
“In spite of the sabotage our people have been committing?” Isobel said.
“That’s falling off somewhat,” Cliff said. “At f
irst our more enthusiastic followers were able to pull everything from heaving Molotov Cocktails into tanks, to pouring sugar in hover-jeep gas tanks, but the legionnaires have both smartened up and gotten very tough.”
“Good,” Dave Moroka said now.
They looked at him.
“Atrocities,” he said. “In order to guard against sabotage, the legionnaires will be taking measures that will antagonize the people in Tamanrasset. They’ll shoot a couple of teenage kids, or something, then they’ll have a city-wide mess on their hands.”
Isobel said unhappily, “It seems a nasty way to win a war.”
Dave grunted his contempt of her opinion. “There is no way of winning a war other than a nasty one.”
Bey came in, yawning hugely. His energy was inconceivable to the others. So far as was known, he hadn’t slept, other than sitting erect in a moving vehicle, for the past four days. He said to Homer, “Fred Ostrander has been bending my ear for the past hour or so. Do you want to talk to him?”
“About what?” Homer said.
“I don’t know. He has a lot of questions. I think he’s beginning to suspect—just suspect, understand—that possibly the whole bunch of us aren’t receiving our daily instructions from either Moscow or Peking.”
Dave and Cliff both laughed.
Homer sighed and said, “Show him in. He’s the only thing we have in the way of a contact with the United States of the Americas and sooner or later we’re going to have to make our peace with both them and the Soviet Complex. In fact, what we’re probably going to have to do is play one against the other, getting grants, loans, economic assistance—”
“Technicians, teachers, arms,” Bey continued the list.
Kenny Ballalou looked at him and snorted. “Arms! If there’s anything this part of the world doesn’t need it’s more arms. In fact, that goes for the rest of the world, too. In the old days when the great nations were first beginning to attempt to line up the neutrals they sent aid to such countries by the billions—and most of it in arms. How ridiculous can you get? Putting arms in the hands of most of the governments of that time was like handing a loaded pistol to an idiot.”
Bey hung his head in mock humility. “I bow before your wisdom,” he said. He left the room to get Ostrander.
* * * *
The C.I.A. man had lost a fraction of his belligerence, but none of his arrogance and natty appearance. Homer wondered vaguely how the other managed to remain so spruce in the inadequate desert camp.
Jack Peters said, “What did you wish to ask El Hassan? I will translate.”
“Never mind that, Jack,” Homer said. “We’ll get tougher about using our official language when we’ve gone a little further in building our new government.” He said to Ostrander, “What can I do for you? Obviously, my time, is limited.”
Fredric Ostrander said, “I’ve been gathering material for reports to my superiors. I’ve been doing a good deal of questioning, and, frankly, even prying around.”
Cliff grunted.
Ostrander went on. “I’ve also read the various press releases, manifestoes and so forth that your assistants have been compiling.”
“We know,” Homer said. “We haven’t put any obstacles in your way. We haven’t any particular secrets, Mr. Ostrander.”
“You disguise the fact that you are an American,” the C.I.A. man said accusingly.
Homer said slowly, “Only because El Hassan is not an American, Mr. Ostrander. He is an African with African solutions to African problems. That is what he must be if he is to accomplish his task.”
Ostrander seemed to switch subjects. “See here, Crawford, the State Department is not completely opposed to the goal of uniting North Africa. It would solve many problems, both African and international.”
Kenny Ballalou laughed softly. “You mean, you’re on our side?”
Ostrander turned to him, for once not incensed at being needled. “Possibly more than you’d think,” he rapped. He turned back again to Homer Crawford. “The question becomes, why do you think that you are the man for the job? Who gave you the go-ahead?”
Bey, who had settled down into a folding camp chair, now came to his feet, his tired face angry.
But Homer waved him to silence. “Hold it,” he said. Then to Ostrander. “It doesn’t work that way. It’s not something you decide to do because you’re thirsty for power, or greedy for money. You’re pushed into it. Do you think Washington, a retired Virginian planter wrapped up in his estate and his family, wanted to spend years leading the revolutionary armies through the wilderness that was America in those days? He was thrust into the job, there was no one else more competent to take it. Men make the times, Ostrander, but the times also make the men. Look at Lenin and Trotsky. Three months before the October Revolution, Lenin wrote that he never expected to see in his lifetime the Bolsheviks come to power. Within those months he was at the head of government and Trotsky, a former bookworm who had never fired a gun in his life, was head of the Red Army and being proclaimed a military genius.”
Ostrander was scowling at him, but his face was thoughtful.
Homer said quietly, “It’s not always an easy thing, to have power thrust into your hands. Not always a desirable thing.” His voice went quieter still. “Only a short time ago it led me to the necessity of…killing…my best friend.”
“And mine,” Isobel said softly, almost under her breath.
Dave Moroka said, “Abe Baker,” before he caught himself.
Kenny Ballalou looked at him strangely. “Did you know Abe?”
The South African recovered. “I’ve heard several of you mention him from time to time. He was a commie, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” Homer said without inflection. “And a man. He saved my life on more than one occasion. As long as we worked together with only Africa in mind, there was no conflict. But Abe had a further, and, to him, greater alliance.”
He turned his attention back to the C.I.A. man. “A man does what he must do,” he finished simply. “I did not ask to become El Hassan.”
Ostrander said, “Your motivation is possibly beside the point. The thing is that the battle for men’s minds continues and your program, eventually, must align with the West.”
“And get clobbered in the stampeding around between the two great powers,” Kenny said dryly.
“You’ve got to take your stand,” Ostrander said. “I’d rather die under the neutron bomb, than spend the rest of my life on my knees under a Soviet Complex government. Wouldn’t you?” His eyes went from one of them to the other, defiantly.
Homer said slowly. “No, even though that was the only alternative, which is unlikely. Not if it meant finishing off the whole human race at the same time.” He shook his head. “If it were only me, it might be different. But if it was a matter of nuclear war the whole race might well end. Given such circumstances, I’d be proud to remain on my knees the rest of my life. You see, Ostrander, you make the mistake of thinking the Soviet socio-economic system is a permanent thing. It isn’t. It’s changing daily, even as our own socio-economic system is. Even if the Soviet Complex were to dominate the whole world, it would be but a temporary phase in man’s history. Their regime, in its time, right or wrong, will go under in man’s march to whatever his destiny might be. Some day it will be only a memory, and so will the socio-economic systems of the West. No institutions are less permanent than politico-economic ones.”
“I don’t agree with you,” Ostrander snapped.
“Obviously,” Homer shrugged. “However, this is another problem. El Hassan deals with North Africa. The other problems you bring up we admit, but at this stage are not dealing with them. Our dream is in Africa. Perhaps the Africans will be forced to taking other stands, to dreaming new dreams, twenty or thirty years from now. When that time comes, I assume the new problems will be faced. By that time there will probably be no need for El Hassan.”
Ostrander looked at him and bit his lip in thought.
It came to him now that he had never won in his contests with Homer Crawford, and that he would probably never win. No matter how strong his convictions, in the presence of the other man, something went out of him. There was strength in Crawford that must be experienced to be understood. When he talked, he held you, and your own opinions became nothing—stupidities on your lips. He had a dream, and in conversation with him, all other things dropped away and nothing was of importance but that dream. A dream? Possibly disease was the better word. And so highly contagious.
* * * *
While they talked, an aide had entered and handed a report to Bey-ag-Akhamouk. He read it and closed his eyes in weariness.
“What’s up, Bey,” Homer asked.
“I don’t know. Colonel Ibrahim has stepped up his attacks in all directions. At least two thirds of his force is on the offensive. It doesn’t make much sense. But it must make sense to him, or he wouldn’t be doing it.”
Ostrander said, and to everyone’s surprise there seemed to be an element of worry in his voice too, “I know Colonel Midan Ibrahim, met him in Cairo and in Baghdad on various occasions. He’s considered one of the best men in the Arab Legion. He doesn’t make military blunders.”
Bey said, “Come on, Kenny. Let’s round up Guémama and take a look at the front.” He led the way from the tent.
* * * *
There was a guard posted before the tent which doubled as press and communications center, and the private quarters of David Moroka.
The figure that approached timidly was garbed in the traditional clothing of the young women of the Tégéhé Mellet tribe of the Tuareg and bore an imzad in her left hand, while her right held a corner of her gandoura over her face.
The guard, of the Kel Rela tribe, eyed the one-stringed violin with its string of hair and sounding box made of half a gourd covered with a thin membrane of skin, and grinned. A Tuareg maid was accustomed to sing and to make the high whining tones of desert music on the imzad before submitting to her lover’s embrace. Wallahi! but these women of the Tégéhé Mellet were shameless.
The Mack Reynolds Megapack Page 84
