The Best Ye Breed na-3

by Mack Reynolds

  “There is something that hasn’t been completely clear to me,” Bazaine said. “This plane that comes to our rescue. Suppose, after we’ve pulled the job, we go to ground somewhere out in the hammada, the rocky uplands between the mountains in that area. How is it going to land to pick us up, hein?”

  The Levantine beamed greasily at him. “The craft, which we already have on hand at Adrar, is a helio-jet. It can land anywhere, and has sufficient capacity for all of you. Have you located the pilots you wish to utilize?”

  “Yes,” Sean said. “In fact, they’re waiting in Tunis to get the message on where they are to go.”

  “Excellent,” the Levantine said. “We’ll phone them tonight and they can proceed down to Adrar. Of what nationality are they?”

  “Both French, both acquainted with the Sahara, and the helio-jet will be no problem. They can fly anything,” Captain Bazaine said. “I contacted them, on Bryan’s suggestion, when he got in touch with me. In fact, Bryan is well acquainted with one of them. They served together in the guerrilla fighting in Indonesia.”

  Sean said, his voice flat, “I want to see those two pilots and the helio-jet before we go in after El Hassan.”

  The Levantine nodded as though his words were absolutely to be expected. “And that calls for a change in route. You will all fly to Columb-Béchar, which is not too far from the Moroccan border in northeastern Algeria, and is the startoff point for the Tanezrouft route across the Sahara. Your equipment will be there, a hoverjeep and two desert lorries. Also your weapons and uniforms. There are rumors that already small elements of El Hassan adherents have appeared in Timimoun, 564 kilometers to the south of Columb-Béchar, but they have not completely taken over. Frankly, I cannot understand the Algerian government. They seem powerless to raise defenses against this madman.”

  Captain Bazaine said dryly, “I understand that on some of the occasions they’ve sent troops to deter the growth of his following, they have defected to El Hassan, and the authorities dare not send more.”

  Saul Saidi sniffed but said, “At any rate, you will make your contact with your rescue craft and the two pilots in Adrar, then push on over to In Salah to the east and then head down to Tamanrasset, always making inquiries as to where El Hassan might be. It is quite possible that he has already left the vicinity of Tamanrasset.”

  Meg said, “I can just see us trekking all over the desert seeking this elusive El Hassan. He might be in Timbuktu, by this time, for all we know.”

  “Or, Kano,” Captain Bazaine said unhappily. “I read in one newspaper account that they’re going over to him wholesale in upper Nigeria. In which case, we’d have one devilish wait for our rescue craft to get through to us.”

  “Just who in the hell is this El Hassan, anyway?” Bryan O’Casey growled. “The more I hear about him, the less I know.”

  Saul Saidi tried to smile but it came off inadequately. “It truly doesn’t matter a great deal, from our viewpoint. He has been named everything from a deserter from the former French Tirailleurs d’Afrique, to a Moroccan marabout, to the second coming of the Christian messiah, to an American professor of sociology.”

  Meg laughed at that last one.

  Sean said, “As we travel around the desert looking for our mysterious El Hassan, what is our cover when we run into his adherents?”

  “That’s no difficulty. Simply tell them you are in search of El Hassan to offer your services. You won’t be alone. Delegations from the countries of the developed world are zeroing-in upon him for a multitude of reasons, usually opportunistic. And individuals and groups are trying to find him to offer themselves as technicians, teachers, doctors and what-not. He has evidently issued orders to his followers not to molest such groups at the risk of their heads. And now, should we join the enlisted men and make final arrangements about pay and related subjects? I myself would like to check them out before you leave on your mission.”

  In its day, the Hotel Oasis, on rue de Laurier, had been one of the better hostelries in Algiers. This was no longer its day; still, it boasted a small banquet room and it was here that the full strength of the so-called commando expedition met in force for the first time.

  The men, twenty of them, had lined up three rows of chairs, and were sprawled in them.

  Saul Saidi, his three officers, Meg and the sergeant were seated behind a longish table facing them. The sergeant was an American black and the oldest man present save, perhaps, the Levantine.

  The men were as unreassuring looking a group as could easily be imagined. They all bore the air of those who have been there—and back. And more than once. It was difficult to put one’s finger upon just what it was that amalgamated them. Some were moderately handsome, some vicious of face, some scarred to the point of ugliness. Some were moderately well dressed and seemingly semi-prosperous. Others were in the unkempt clothes and shoes typical of a sailor long on the beach.

  They were of at least half a dozen nationalities, French and German predominating.

  From the side of his eyes, Bryan O’Casey could see that Meg had her lower lip in her teeth, in dismay. Inwardly, he was sourly amused. What had she expected, swashbuckling types such as the Errol Flynn she loved to watch in the old film revivals?

  When all were settled down, Sean Ryan stood and looked out over the men. It was a new Sean to Meg McDaid. He projected a cold air of command.

  He said, “You’ve all been briefed on this assignment. If anybody wants to back down, now is the time. If he does, and talks, he will, of course, later be subjected to the code of the mercenary. No matter to what part of the world he goes, sooner or later one of us will run into him. Our lives depend on the true nature of our expedition not becoming known to El Hassan and his people.”

  They stirred a bit, but no one answered.

  Sean said, “I’ve served with several of you before. The others, I don’t know. I’ll introduce the other officers, our non-com and doctor. Later on, we’ll get to know all of your names. It’s not important now.”

  He turned and indicated Bryan. “This is Captain Bryan O’Casey. Some of you have served with him. Those who haven’t probably know his reputation.” He indicated the Frenchman, who was sprawled lazily, one arm on the table, looking quizzically at Meg, as though wondering how she was taking meeting this riff-raff. “And this is Captain Raul Bazaine. Once again, some of you have served with him, others will know his reputation.”

  He turned to Meg. “This is Doctor Megan McDaid, a licensed doctor. We’re going into unhealthy territory with an unhealthy assignment. We’re lucky to have a medico along.”

  The men were staring at her in open appraisal. Some, too open.

  Bryan said mildly, “In case there is any question, Doctor McDaid is my fiancée.” He brought his ancient briar from a side pocket, his tobacco pouch from another and began to load up.

  Meg bobbed her head at them, nervously. One in the rear gave a small wolf whistle. Bryan glared, but was unable to fix its origin.

  Sean turned to the black who sat at the table with them. “And this is our sergeant, Lonzo Charles. Lon’s an old hand.”

  The American black nodded out over the group. He was typical of thousands you might have run into in any large northern city of the United States. About five-eight, stocky of build, he was obviously at least a quarter white, since his features were largely Caucasian, though his lips were thick, his skin a dark brown. He had a look of tiredness and disillusionment, but that wasn’t out of place in this gathering.

  Somebody in the second row, one of the Germans, said in poor English, the language all were using, “I don’t believe I haff ever heard of the sergeant. Most of us haff been sergeants in our time. Some of us haff held higher rank.”

  Sean looked at Lon Charles. He had never heard of the other either. Raul had recommended him.

  Lon said, “I done most of my fighting out in the Orient, like. I started off with the Green Berets.”

  Someone else blurted, “Green Berets! You mea
n the Vietnam thing? You must be as old as the hills. Why, I was only a child when that took place.”

  Lon Charles said mildly, “So was I. I was seventeen when I went into Nam. Off and on, I been fighting ever since.”

  A Frenchman in the first row smiled nastily and said, “I’ve never served under a wog non-com.”

  Lon sighed and came to his feet and rounded the table and approached the other. He said, still mildly. “They don’t say wog where I come from. They say nigger, but it means the same thing. Stand up, soldier.”

  The Frenchman, who was approximately the same size as the sergeant not only came to his feet but suddenly turned partly sideways and kicked high with his right foot, as gracefully as a ballet dancer.

  The black moved viper-fast. He stepped slightly back, reached out with his left hand, grasped the foot and lifted it higher still. The Frenchman went over backward and crashed his head to the wooden floor, dazing himself.

  Lon Charles looked down at him and then out of the rest of the mercenaries who were regarding him without expression. He said, “I seen this savate type of fighting before. But you got to remember it was us Americans who invented stomping. If you want to see what fighting with the feet can come to, I’ll give you a lesson in stomping some time. A man gets stomped once and maybe he gets by; maybe even twice. But no man ever gets stomped three times and goes around normal. His kidneys and his gall and his balls and the rest of his guts and his ribs is all busted up.”

  He turned and headed back for his chair.

  Meg, her face white, began to rise to hurry to the fallen man, but Bryan put a restraining hand on her. “Easy,” he said.

  Sean took a breathful and said, “That’s the last fighting between ourselves we’re going to have until this assignment is successfully terminated. Anyone who disobeys this order will be turned out of the group.” He looked at them emptily and added, “I suppose you all realize what it means to be turned out alone into the Sahara without transportation and only the amount of food and water you can carry on your back.”

  He turned and looked at the Levantine, who had remained expressionless of face and silent, thus far.

  Sean said, “And this is Mr. Saul Saidi, the representative of the government which has employed us. He will speak to you and answer any questions pertaining to our pay, or whatever.”

  Sean sat down and Saidi took his feet. He said, “Your gold can be deposited to the bank of your choice in Victoria, Hong Kong. Most of the largest of world banks have branches there. I recommend, in particular, First National City Bank of New York, Barclay’s of London, or the Suisse Bank of Geneva.”

  IX

  SERGE SVERDLOV

  Colonel Serge Sverdlov was retracing almost identically the route a colleague and close friend—if it is possible to have a close friend in the colonel’s trade—had taken only short months before.

  His complexion, all over his body, was that of a light skinned negro and the cosmetic surgeons in Moscow had also made a few tucks about his lips to give him a heavier mouth. To his disgust, they had also circumcised him, since his cover indicated him to be a Moslem. His darkened skin was reversible, but hardly the circumcision.

  He bore a Libyan passport and had flown in to Gibraltar on an Arab Union roco-jet. He had no difficulty whatsoever in passing through immigration and customs and took a taxi the short distance into town. He inquired in a store owned by supposed fellow Arabs, though it turned out they were from Tunisia, rather than Libya, and was told that the Mons Capa ferry to Tangier wouldn’t leave for an hour. He left his two bags at the store and spent the time wandering up and down Main Street which he found to be aptly named, since it was the only main street in town. It was a tourist way par excellence; save for a couple of bars and two or three hotels, all was devoted to tax-free shops, largely in the hands of Indians. With the exception of cameras and other optical and electronic equipment from Germany and especially Japan, the products offered were of second or third rate quality, obviously aimed at sailors and tourists.

  He went up a side street, found a bar, and went in to find they stocked only British brews. He had long since arrived at the conclusion that British bitter was the worst beer in the world, but he had no time to spend seeking out another bar. He ordered and drank a pint of bitter.

  The ferry running to Tangier took approximately two hours and he spent the time on deck, watching the rock of Gibraltar drop behind. The straits of Hercules were moderately choppy and Tangier, once the Tingis of the Phoenicians and hence one of the oldest continually occupied cities in the world, was at the far end of them, across from Trafalgar where Admiral Nelson triumphed… and died. The city was built on the end of a peninsula with a crescent bay before it and a perfect beach that must have stretched for at least three miles. It was an impressive setting. The town ran up the mountainside and, from a distance, with its mosques, its aged palaces, its white, pink and blue typically Moslem houses, presented an appearance suitable for a time traveler. Tangier must have looked thus when the Moorish hordes swept across the straits to bring the blessings of Allah to Spain.

  When he landed, he made the same mistake as had his earlier arriving colleague. He assumed that Arabic would be the prevailing language. It wasn’t. Rif, a Berber tongue, was that largely spoken. Serge Sverdlov resorted to French, both at customs, where again he had no difficulties, and in ordering a Chico mini-hovercab. Peculiar to Tangier, it was the smallest cab he had ever been in with room hardly for himself and his bags.

  He directed the driver to the El Minza hotel, which was immediately off the Plaza de France, the main square of the European section, and on Pasteur Boulevard, once, he had read, a financial center rivaling those of Switzerland and New York, when the International Zone had prevailed and Tangier had been a free city.

  At the door, there were two natives, jet-black as bantus, rather than Rifs or other Moroccans. They were dressed in red jackets, yellow barbusha slippers, voluminous yellow pants and on their heads wore the red fez of Northern Africa. He had changed money in Gibraltar and hence had the dirhams to pay the cab and later to tip the boys, who took his bags and hustled him to the reservation desk. He had cabled ahead for a room.

  It was necessary to leave his passport overnight for the routine of police redtape. He didn’t bother to check out the room but sent the boys up with his luggage and immediately left for his contact.

  Had he known, he was duplicating the movements of his colleague almost exactly. But then, they had both received their instructions from the same source.

  He strolled, as any tourist might stroll, up the Boulevard Pasteur and turned right at the king-size sidewalk cafe there, across from the imposing French Embassy, and began descending the Rue de Liberté toward the medina, the native section of town. And now those in European dress thinned out and their place was taken by swarms of costumed Rifs, Arabs, blacks, and even an occasional Blue Man up from the desert. The name, he had heard, came from the fact that their cotton robes were dyed in an inadequate indigo that came off on their skins, giving them the eerie blue look.

  At least half of the men wore the brown, camel hair burnoose, that universal garment with its hood, which tripled as coat, rain coat and blanket. The women wore either the white tent-like haik and veil, or the more attractive tailored jellabah of the upper classes.

  The section he had just come from could have been part of the French Riviera, but now he was descending into the world of Medieval Islam, into the Baghdad of Harun-al-Rashid.

  He passed through the teeming Grand Zocco street market, with its hundreds of stands, and multi-hundred merchants squatted down on the ground before rugs upon which sat their products, ranging from fruits and vegetables, through herbs and magic potions, to openly displayed kif—marijuana, as it is called in the Americas—and the Cantharides beetles, commonly known in the West as Spanish fly and utilized in North Africa as an ingredient of El Mojoun, along with kif, in the making of hashish fudge.

  Across from the mark
et he passed through the ancient, horse-shoe shaped gates of the old city and took the Rue Singhalese, which was the only street in the medina wide enough to allow even a small car. He descended this as far as the Zocco Chico, once considered the most notorious square in the world.

  He was playing the stranger, the tourist, and from time to time stopped to look into windows. As in Gibraltar, most of the shops seemed Indian-owned. At last, he peered into one, as though in indecision. The window featured ebony figurines from the interior, carved ivory from the Orient, Japanese cameras, chessmen of water jade, odds and ends of supposed art objects from all over the world.

  A fat Hindu materialized in the doorway, smiled greasily and made motions of washing his hands in a gesture so stereotyped as to be ludicrous. He said in English, “Sir, would you like to enter my shop? I have amazing bargains.” And he repeated the same in French.

  Serge Sverdlov assumed that the shop owner could repeat the message in Arabic, Spanish and a dozen other languages, but before the other could do so, seemed to come to a decision and entered. The seemingly innocent invitation had been the first of a routine of passwords.

  The Russian looked about the overstocked shop and was satisfied to find it empty of customers. He said to the Indian in French, “I was looking for an ivory elephant from the East.”

  The other’s round face went empty but he said, “A white elephant, sir?”

  “A red elephant,” the colonel told him.

  The Hindu’s face was still bland, but he bowed slightly and said, “In here,” and led the way to the rear where he brushed aside a curtain. Behind it was a heavy door which he opened. The rooms beyond were more spacious than the shop front had been and more comfortable. They passed through a livingroom cum study to an office beyond. The door was fully open and the Indian merely gestured for the colonel to enter, and then left.