They knocked back the vodka in stiff-wristed motion.
“And how go things in Indonesia?” Blagonravov rumbled.
His operative shrugged. “It is unbelievably corrupt, Comrade. At all levels. The worker in the street would become a communist for one cigarette. For two, he would become a Christian, and for three he would slit your throat.”
The other growled, “I understsnd that the corruption applies even to ranking members of the local party.”
Sverdlov cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “Even petty graft. No one seems free of it.”
The minister sighed his disgust. “How can one sponsor revolution with such elements? But enough of Indonesia.” He refilled the glasses.
The colonel looked at him to go on, attentively.
His superior finished his drink first and said, “What do you know of El Hassan?”
Sverdlov said, “Very little. It would seem he makes considerable effort to remain a mystery man. From what came through in Djakarta, he attempts to unite the whole of North Africa. To maintain his air of mystery, he has adopted the artificial language Esperanto, which supposedly all of his followers and all delegations from foreign countries must speak in his presence.”
“Do you have Esperanto?”
“No. Arabic, yes. As you will recall, I was stationed in Algeria during the most recent revolution.”
Blagonravov nodded. “You can begin your studies of Esperanto immediately. I understand that it is possibly the easiest language in the world to acquire.”
Serge Sverdlov inwardly winced. He was no student.
The minister went on. “We have already lost two top agents in this matter and have had a third, not so important, defect to El Hassan.”
The KGB operative stared at him. “Already? But he has been on the scene but a few weeks.”
“Comrade Abraham Baker, the black comrade who did so much work in America, was one of his original team of the Sahara Division of the African Development project of the Reunited Nations. When matters came to a head—we do not know the details—evidently El Hassan, whose real name is Homer Crawford, an American professor of sociology, seemingly liquidated him. Shortly after, we sent in Anton…”
“Anton!”
“Yes. To infiltrate the El Hassan movement and attempt to rise high in its ranks, with the far future in mind. What happened to this outstanding comrade is confused. It would seem that he resigned, or pretended to, from the Party on the same night, just recently, that El Hassan’s tribesmen destroyed the Arab Union forces in Tamanrasset who were attempting to annex the Sahara. Anton died in the fighting.”
“And who was the third agent who was eliminated?”
“Not exactly eliminated. This former comrade, Isobel Cunningham, had been recruited by Abe Baker while they were still both students in New York. When the crisis came, she evidently defected to El Hassan and now is one of his intimate clique.”
The minister poured still a third vodka.
“And what is my assignment?” Colonel Sverdlov said.
His superior looked at him, all but apologetically. “Frankly, I would rather have sent Ilya Simonov, but he is busy on an assignment in Prague, Czechoslavakia, seeking out the sources of the dry rot which seem to surface so often in the Soviet Complex these days, the elements who are dissatisfied with our society in spite of the fact that we have now attained to the affluence we have so long promised.”
He knocked back the stiff vodka. “Your task is to promote the program of El Hassan.”
Serge Sverdlov gaped at him. “Promote it! You say that he is attempting to take over all North Africa. This would include Algeria, Libya, Mauretania, Tunisia—not to speak of some of the smaller nations to the south. All are Marxist, or, at least, to some degree socialist.”
Kliment Blagonravov sighed a fat sigh. “Serge, Serge,” he said. “It is astounding how few, even among those who deal in the field of political economy and dialectics, have studied the basics. It is the same in the West, as it is in the Soviet Complex. Half a century ago, an American president, a wealthy capitalist and aristocrat himself, Franklin D. Roosevelt, realized that if he was to promote the continuation of the American social system that a good many reforms were necessary. Otherwise, there would have been a revolution during their great depression. He inaugurated them. Immediately his fellow capitalists began to scream that he was a socialist, a communist, a Marxist, or even an anarchist. Obviously, they hadn’t the vaguest idea of what any of these movements actually were.”
Serge Sverdlov was frowning. He hadn’t any idea of what the other was getting to.
The Minister wagged a lardy finger at him.
“Serge, when Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels originally called for the proletarian revolution, they envisioned it as first taking place in the most advanced nations in the capitalist world. England, Germany, the United States and so forth. Socialism, or communism—they used the terms interchangably and meant the same thing by them—was the next step beyond capitalism, and could not be attained until there was a highly developed economy. Backward, primitive societies, could not realize true socialism, or communism, since they did not as yet have the foundations for it. Capitalism was a necessary step in the evolution of society. Without it, following feudalism and chattle slavery, in their turn, socialism was impossible.”
The colonel stirred in his chair. Of course, all this had been taught in his classes in Marxism while he was still in secondary school. However, no one interrupted the minister when he was on one of his lengthy harangues.
Blagonravov went on, pontifically, “It was bad enough, in Russia and later in China, when, as a result of the confusion following World Wars One and Two, that the Party was able to come to power.”
The colonel blinked at a statement such as that from a ranking Party bureaucrat, but held his peace.
The other went on. “The communists were in power, but did not have the base upon which to build true communism. Under Stalin in our country and Mao in China, the most ruthless measures were taken in order to lift them by their bootstraps, as the Yankees put it. Nothing counted but quick industrialization. Five year plans in Russia, Great Leaps Forward in China. Anything, anything, to industrialize. Until, at long last, industrialization was achieved and now the Soviet Complex is as powerful as any of the imperialist powers, even the United States of the Americas. For instance, as far back as 1974 we passed them in the production of steel, the most important basic of an industrialized society.”
A question came to the colonel’s mind, which he wouldn’t have dreamed of asking. If the Soviet Complex had at long last achieved full industrialization, then why was not the dictatorship ended and true communism, or socialism, established? Why did not the State wither away, as once called for by Marx?
The minister poured another drink and pushed Sverdlov’s over to him. Hadn’t they both been Russians, both would have been smashed by this time. Even as it was, the colonel could feel the alcohol. Happily, he had known what was coming and had eaten a huge breakfast. He wondered if his superior went through this routine with everyone whom he interviewed during the process of a long day.
Blagonravov continued with his explanation. “Of recent years, a good many movements throughout the world have sprung up proclaiming themselves socialist. Usually, not always, they are actually military dictatorships. They use the term socialism because it is often popular with the people, few of whom actually know what it truly means. They usually nationalize a few basic industries such as the railroads, communications, the airlines, if any, and expropriate foreign holdings such as mines and oil fields, and anything else of value, and proclaim this to be socialism, or Marxism. Allende was a good example, down in Chile, some decades ago. Algeria, Libya, Tunisia and Mauretania are other good examples. In actuality, capitalism in such countries has not been done away with. The State has simply taken the place of individual capitalists; workers continue to work for wages, farmers continue to sell their products on the ma
rket, banks continue to operate the old monetary system and foreign trade is pushed in order to make profits—for the State. The term for such a socioeconomic system should be State-Capitalism, rather than socialism or Marxism.”
“I believe that I have assimilated all this, Comrade Blagonravov,” Sverdlov said.
“Very well. Then the point remains that North Africa is not as yet ready for the communist movement. It does not as yet have the foundations. Even those comparatively advanced countries such as Algeria. They have far, far to go. Indeed, in some parts of the interior, feudalism and even elements of slavery still exist.”
“So what are we to do, at this stage?”
Blagonravov nodded before finishing off his latest vodka. He said, “It is the belief of the Central Committee and Number one, that this El Hassan, evidently a charismic character beyond the ordinary, can bring advance to North Africa more quickly than the largely corrupt and opportunistic military elements now in control. Our present line, then, is to support him. Let him come to power. Let him utilize whatever forces he can bring to bear, including the cooperation of the Reunited Nations, to bring North Africa into the 21st Century. When he has done so, then North Africa is ready for our propaganda.”
“I see,” the colonel said.
“That was the task of Comrades Baker and Anton before you. They gave their lives for the world revolution. You are to take their places.”
Serge Sverdlov frowned. “Nothing more?”
“Yes, something more. You are to insinuate yourself into their inner circles as Anton did. Work your way as close to El Hassan himself as is possible. When you are well established, then we will infilter other Party members and you will make every effort to make them prominent in the government of El Hassan as well. This will continue, indefinitely, and until the day arrives when we will be ready for our coup d’état and take over.”
The other stared at him. “But Comrade, I am a white man. El Hassan proclaims the black, the Hamitic, the dark skinned Arabs and Berbers. The Caucasians are an anathema.”
Blagonravov laughed his humorless, heavy laugh.
“My dear Serge, you are unacquainted with the latest in cosmetic surgery and related sciences. We have drugs today which can change the pigmentation of your skin—it is reversible, of course, and you can change back later. We will not make you as black as a Senegal or Bantu, but you will be as dark as the average member of El Hassan’s immediate clique. Seemingly, ah, touched with the tar brush, as the American Southeners say. Your somewhat too light hair will be cut short and dyed black. You will have a supply of dye to renew the treatment as often as necessary.”
The minister laughed with heavy joviality. “My dear Serge, you are about to become a nigger.”
V
BEY-AG-AKHAMOUK
They had cornered the remnants of the forces of Colonel Midran Ibrahim, of the Arab Union, in a wadi, not far north of Tazerouk which boasted one of the few wells of potable water which the colonel’s forces had still held at the time Fort Laperrine and Tamanrasset had been taken by storm by the Taughi and other rampaging tribesmen of El Hassan.
The more proper name of a wadi is oued since it implies a fissure in the earth which channels off water when there is any and that is seldom in the Ahaggar, the land of the Tairog Tuareg and possibly the most desolate area on earth save Antarctica. When the occasional deluges of rain precipitate—and there can be years between when not a single drop is seen—the wadi becomes a rushing river, sweeping everything before it and woebetide he so foolish as to have placed his encampment at its bottom. Otherwise, it is dry, baked hard by the sun, and for this reason often used as a road through the erg, the shifting sand dunes of the Sahara, or the reg, the areas of the desert covered by gravel. The wadis split up the land into deep, and sometimes wide, cracks and fissures and are somewhat the equivalent of the arroyos of the American Southwest and of Mexico.
Bey-ag-Akhamouk and Kenny Ballalou, both of El Hassan’s immediate staff, with a force of local Tuaghi and Teda tribesmen from the south were having little in the way of difficulty. The Egyptian colonel, obviously shaken by his defeat and trying desperately to escape north, had entered the wadi to obtain greater speed. He had a half dozen desert lorries, two hover jeeps and two light armored cars. Bey and Kenny were not sure of the exact number of infantrymen, but it probably numbered several hundred. Certainly, no more.
They were whip-lashing the Arab Union force, up and down the wadi for a distance of approximately a kilometer. Bey-ag-Akhamouk, with a flac rifle and two heavy machine guns and perhaps a score of riflemen, were dug in beyond a bend in the wadi, to the south. Behind another bend to the north was Kenny Ballalou with another flac rifle, another machine gun and another score or so of tribesmen.
The flac rifle was probably the most universal hand portable firearm ever devised. It combined the virtues, if virtues they could be called, of the recoilless light cannon, the bazooka, the heavy machine gun, and a light anti-tank gun. The clip held twenty rounds, which were armor piercing and explosive. Short of a heavy tank, they would take any motorized military vehicle. And the ergs of the Sahara do not lend themselves to even medium tanks, not to speak of heavy ones.
In short, the flac rifles were competent to hold anything that Colonel Midran Ibrahim had at his command.
Almost from the moment the ambush was sprung, the Arab Union forces dissolved into hysteria. They had already been fleeing for long hours from the debacle they had left behind them, in terror of being flushed by the hordes of Tuaghi camelmen. The Tuareg! The Forgotten of Allah! The Apaches of the Sahara! The Sons of Shaitan! And El Hassan’s most devoted followers—to a man. The Arab Union trucks were insufficient to carry more than their water and supplies and a few wounded officers. Their tanks, their artillery, the gun carriers, the Soviet Complex equipment that had been their pride as the crack regiment of the Arab Union, had all been abandoned at Fort Laperrine and Tamanrasset. They were fugitives in an area that has been named the end of the world and their refuge was the better part of a thousand miles to the northeast.
For the first hour or two, Bey and Kenny had whip-sawed them back and forth, up and down the wadi. Spurred on by officers and non-coms almost as terrified as they were themselves, the Arab Union soldiers would charge up the wadi, only to be met by a curtain of fire they could not resist. Back they would head in the opposite direction, only to be met at the next bend by another sheet of flame.
Individuals and sometimes small groups would attempt to scale the wadi banks but to do so they could carry with them naught but holstered handguns, or rifles or submachine guns slung over their shoulders, their hands needed to climb. At the top they would be knocked off as soon as they appeared by Bey-ag-Akhamouk’s snipers, settled comfortably behind rocks or thorny bush. The tribesmen were at a pinnacle of glee. Now this was the manner in which to fight the Arab Union and the Arabs who for long centuries had come south to conduct their razzias, to round up the men to be herded north for the slave markets, to violate the women and steal the goats and camels. “Yes, this was the way to fight them, rather than to dash wildly into the fire of their automatic weapons, their tanks, or to submit to the bombings of their aircraft. Wallahi! But El Hassan and his viziers would sweep the Sahara of the troops of the Arab Union and bring the Peace of Allah to all.
Bey groaned inwardly. Like the veteran combat man he was, he did not like indiscriminate, useless slaughter. Victory was necessary but to the extent possible the fewer casualties inflicted the better. But he knew why the crazed enemy failed to surrender, though confronted with an impossible situation. They were more terrified of falling into the hands of the Tuaghi alive than they were of death. They, when they were successfully advancing across the Sahara, in their strength, with the support of their armor and motorized artillery, had not conducted themselves exactly as benevolent liberators.
And now it came to a head. In a final desperate frenzy, they were charging again, and this time, one of the armored cars g
ingerly edged its snoot around the bend in the wadi. Bey, who was himself manning the flac rifle, winged a couple of shots at it, deliberately aimed to bounce off the side. He didn’t want to destroy the vehicle. The forces of El Hassan could utilize it to advantage, later. It took the message and hurriedly backed up around the wadi bend.
This time, the full force of the remaining infantrymen were charging, wild-eyed. A last desperate attempt to break out, and, for a moment, Bey wondered at his ability to hold them. A flac rifle, no matter how universal, held but a twenty-round clip, and wasn’t meant to be utilized against individual foes. It was meant for tanks, armored cars, machine gun nests, pillboxes, foes intrenched in buildings, even aircraft under certain conditions, but not hundreds of frantic charging infantrymen. The two machine guns flanking him, mowed down the attackers, but they continued to advance, on the run.
One of his machine guns fell silent. The gunner had obviously been hit by one of the random shots being fired by the advancing elements. It soon started up again, as one of the others took over, but less accurately now.
The frantically charging enemy had nearly reached Bey’s emplacements when from behind came the pounding of hundreds of the pads of hejin racing camels, the sound of the ululating war cry of the desert, Ul-Ul-Ul-Allah Akbar!
He swung his eyes about from the Arab Union soldiers who had only yards to go to reach his gun’s nest.
Behind him, up the wadi, at full tilt, swarmed the Camel Corps of Guémama, war chief of the Kel Rela clan of the Tuaghi. Some shook modern rifles at the skies, some ancient long barreled muzzle-loaders, some brandished the Tuareg, Crusader-like broadswords, with their two edges, their round points and their flat, rectangular cross members. Some were armed only with long bladed spears, though all had strapped to their left arms the traditional razor sharp arm daggers of the Tuareg.
“Sweet Jesus,” Bey groaned at the sight.
The Best Ye Breed na-3 Page 4
