The Best Ye Breed na-3

by Mack Reynolds

  Sean, Bryan and Raul Bazaine had immediately contacted the two pilots awaiting them as soon as the group had gotten in from Algiers. They were French and Raul knew them both. Sean and Bryan instantly accepted them for what they were, pilot mercenaries. In fact, later, over wine in one of the canteens, they found that they knew a good many colleagues in common. It was a time for reminiscences and a time for the last drinks that Sean’s expedition would probably enjoy for quite a while. South of Adrar, there were precious few Europeans or other whites, and the Moslem doesn’t drink alcohol.

  The hoverjet, carefully placed under canvas in an improvised hangar on the edge of the airfield, had proven satisfactory. It would most surely carry the full twenty-five of them if too much equipment wasn’t taken along. And they didn’t figure on carrying much equipment, save weapons, once the job was done. All else would be abandoned.

  They headed southeast toward In Salah. The pilots reassured them about one thing they’d had in mind. It would hardly do for a convoy such as their own, twenty-five persons, all armed to the teeth, save Megan, all looking the tough customers they were, to be intercepted by the local military. But there evidently was no local military. The whole area was in a state of chaos. The Algerian government, in at least temporary confusion, was pulling its small outposts back further north. Too many had already defected to El Hassan. And although there were bands of El Hassan adherents here and there and the other place, they had not as yet coalesced to the point of taking over the few centers. No, twenty-four well-armed veterans had little to fear. Nevertheless, they kept on the alert.

  Sergeant Lonzo Charles, now wearing a well-worn green beret, to the amusement of the others, drove. Megan McDaid, attired in a chic denim desert travel outfit from an Algiers shop, sat beside him. Sean Ryan and Bryan O’Casey were in the rear, their automatic rifles with their thirty round clips, handy. Raul Bazaine, who had taken on plenty of cognac the night before, was in the second truck, stretched out on several blankets and groaning his regrets. A hangover, Sean and Bryan had inwardly decided, must be something in this broiling sun. They felt virtuous, having stuck to the excellent Algerian wine the night before.

  Lon Charles said over his shoulder, “Dust up ahead. Not much. Must be a single vehicle.”

  It was the first traffic that they had thus far run into, though they had been some hours on the road.

  Both Sean and Bryan quietly took up their weapons, checked them, threw cartridges into the firing chambers, and set the safeties, then put the guns down again.

  Bryan said to the driver, “Remember what Captain Bazaine said. When you meet another vehicle in the desert, you always stop and exchange greetings, ask if they’re having any difficulties, and swap information on the road ahead.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lon said.

  The approaching vehicle turned out to be a moderate sized desert hoverlorry, containing four blacks, all dressed in khaki desert uniform rather than in native attire.

  The small convoy dragged to a halt when it came abreast of the other vehicle and so did the hover-lorry.

  A door in the lorry opened and a smiling head protruded from the driver’s side. It was a handsome negro, by the looks of him, somewhere in his early thirties. He said something in a language none of those in the jeep understood.

  Lon Charles shook his head but grinned back in friendly fashion.

  All four of the blacks in the lorry were in the wide front seat. One of them leaned over the driver a little and called out in French.

  The three whites had that language, but Sean whispered, “Hold it. I’d like to know if they speak English.”

  So Lon Charles called out, “Man, don’t you talk no English?”

  All four of the hoverlorry occupants got out, stretching, and approached the jeep, smiling.

  One of them said, “I speak English. How’s it going with yawl? Everything okay?”

  “Sure,” Lon said. “We just come through Adrar this morning. Everything’s fine. You got lots of gas and water?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” the other told him. “We’re having no trouble at all. And you folks’ll find the road fine between here and In Salah.”

  Sean said, in a whisper, “Ask him the whereabouts of El Hassan.”

  So Lon said, “Man, you wouldn’t know the whereabouts of El Hassan, would you?”

  The other’s face went blank and he said, “Why would you enquire about El Hassan? May his life be as long and flowing as the tail of the horse of the prophet.”

  “Oh, oh,” Bryan murmured. “El Hassan men.”

  Lon said cheerfully, “We’re looking for to join up with him.”

  The faces of the four blacks were empty, though not unfriendly. The speaker said, “But three of you, including the Sitt are white. And the others, back in the trucks?”

  Lon said, “They’re white too. But we figure, before it’s all over, El Hassan is going to need all sorts.”

  The other shook his head in disbelief but said, “The last we heard about El Hassan, he was in Tamanrasset, his new capital. It’s about a thousand kilometers and a spell from here but you can pick up any supplies you need in In Salah.”

  The four returned to the hoverlorry and got back in and, after a friendly wave from the driver, the desert vehicle took off.

  Before they started up again themselves, Sean said thoughtfully, “None of those four were Africans.”

  Meg looked around at him. “How do you mean? They were all as black as Lon, here.”

  Sean grunted acceptance of that but said, “Lon isn’t an African either. He’s an American. That chap who was speaking English had an American Southern accent you could hang your hat on.”

  Bryan said, his head cocked questioningly, “And how about the others?”

  Sean shook his head. “They all projected an—how would you put it?—an educated, sophisticated air.” He hesitated before adding, “And I’m after wondering if we just ran into El Hassan and some of his intimates.”

  Bryan snorted. “Unescorted, out here in the wilds?”

  Sean shrugged and said to Lon Charles, “Let’s get going, man dear.”

  Further up the trail, Bey was saying to Homer Crawford, “What do you think?”

  “Damned if I know. That black driver spoke with a New York or New Jersey accent. There must have been twenty-five or so of them altogether.”

  “And from what I could make out of those in the trucks behind, as we passed, as tough a bunch as I’ve ever seen in Africa.” Kenny muttered. It had been he who had spoken to Lon Charles.

  “Hell, it’s not important,” Cliff said. “Isobel and Guémamaa can handle them. There’s only twenty-five. They might have a couple of machine guns in those trucks, but certainly nothing heavier than that. One of our armored cars could do the lot in.”

  XII

  ISOBEL CUNNINGHAM

  Isobel Cunningham looked up from the mountain of paperwork on her desk. The French and English was easily enough handled but although her Arabic was fluent, spoken, she had her work cut out writing in the language. She had taken over one of the larger offices in Fort Laperrine’s administration building, since Homer and the three of the El Hassan inner circle had headed north. She had two male secretaries, newly recruited from the former Africa For Africans Association, the teams of which had all come over to the El Hassan movement when the New York headquarters had joined lock, stock and barrel. They were trickling in daily, along with elements of Homer’s former Reunited Nations project and even Doctor Smythe’s American Medical Relief organization. Not to speak of units from the French African Affairs sector and the British African Department. All of these, educated blacks, born, raised and schooled in lands beyond Africa.

  Rex Donaldson, El Hassan’s Minister Without Portfolion, as he had named himself, in dismay at the work piling up, had headed south for Dagon country where he had operated before, on the excuse that the tribes there weren’t coming over to El Hassan fast enough.

  Isobel had found it necessary
to take over command. Jimmy Peters was a workhorse but hadn’t the capability to make firm decisions, and Doctor Smythe was fully occupied with his medical problems.

  No, it was a matter of Isobel, as the secretary of the supposedly temporarily withdrawn El Hassan, to assume direction. It was piling up so fast that she couldn’t even remember the names of these two young men who were now looking at her, waiting to be told what to do. One was Donald something or other; but the other?

  She had turned over the greeting of the flood of newcomers to Jimmy Peters and he was assigning them as rapidly as possible to tasks within whatever abilities they laid claim to. Most likely, upon Homer’s return—knock on wood—there’d be a lot of switching around, but meanwhile they were doing their best.

  The foreign delegations and newsmen, including Tri-Di TV cameramen, were temporarily at loose ends. She refused to make decisions involving them until El Hassan’s return from his alleged seclusion with his viziers.

  But now, there was commotion out on the parade ground. She came to her feet wearily and said to her two aides, both of whom were manfully trying, with little success thus far, to figure out just what it was they were supposedly doing, “Carry on, fellas. I’ll check out what’s cooking.”

  She left by the door that led onto the parade ground and put a hand over her eyes to shield them from the glare of the mid-day sun, after the comparative dimness of the office.

  Approximately fifty of Guémama’s camel corps and two of the weapon carriers, liberated from the Arab Union, had filed in through the gates, accompanying a jeep and two desert lorries. In the jeep were seated four whites, including a woman, and a black driver who wore, of all things, a bedraggled green beret.

  Isobel walked out aways and waited for them.

  The stranger vehicles came to a halt and some twenty men issued forth from them. They were in a wide variety of desert uniform and half carried advance model rifles, and the other half submachine guns.

  The occupants of the jeep also climbed from their vehicle and the green bereted black one barked commands. The soldiers lined up, in two lines of ten men apiece, those with rifles in the front, those with submachine guns to the rear. They were efficiently snappy in their drill. The black stood to one side of them and snapped another command and they all came to salute.

  Guémama’s camelmen had formed a semi-circle behind the newcomers and now the young Tuareg chieftain came up to Isobel on his white hejin camel, struck in smartly with his mishab stick, struck it smartly again and barked the usual Adar-ya-yan. The camel was not quite to the ground before he nimbly jumped off and saluted the American girl.

  “Aselamu, Aleikum, Sitt Izubahil,” he said.

  Isobel knew that Homer’s chosen leader of the Tuaghi forces wasn’t quite sure just where she stood with El Hassan. Whether she was his wife, or concubine, or simply one of his most intimate associates. Vizier, certainly she could not be. As all men knew, never had there been a woman vizier. Yet, before his leaving, El Hassan himself had made it clear to Guémama that until his return, the Sitt Isubahil’s word was as his own as she was to be obeyed by all followers.

  Isobel nodded to him and said, “Salaam Aleikum, O Guémamaa, mokkadam of El Hassan’s most faithful. And what transpires?”

  The three white men from the jeep had taken their place before the two lines of soldiers. One, in advance of the other two, bore a swagger stick, nothing more. The others had side arms, the holsters buttoned. The young woman stood a bit to one side of them. The men were at attention.

  Guémama said in Tamaheg, “Verily, it is strange. One of my goum patrols of twenty came upon them as they advanced down the way from In Salah. They offered no resistance and allowed themselves to be captured.”

  “Wallahi!” Isobel said. “And what do they will, O Guémama?”

  The Tuareg warrior shrugged hugely. “They do not speak Tamaheq, O Sitt Izubahil. Few of the Roumi do, as each man knows.”

  Isobel nodded and looked at the lead stranger.

  Guémama stepped one yard to the left and rear of her.

  Sean Ryan marched forward, came to a halt before her, tucked his swagger stick under his left armpit and saluted, British style.

  He said, “Parlez-vous Francois, Mademoiselle!”

  She took him in for a long moment and finally said, “Yes, however, you may speak English, if you would rather. Your Irish accent is somewhat overpowering.”

  She was by far the most attractive woman that he had seen thus far in North Africa. He grinned in self-deprecation, saluted again and said, “Major Sean Ryan. At your service, Miss…”

  “Cunningham. Isobel Cunningham. And your companions?”

  Sean half turned and looked at Raul, Bryan and Meg. They came forward, the two officers marching perfectly. They stopped a few yards off and came to attention again.

  Sean said, “Doctor Megan McDaid, Captain Bryan O’Casey, Captain Raul Bazaine. I introduce you to Miss Isobel Cunningham.” He raised his eyebrows at Isobel. “Of El Hassan’s staff?”

  “That is correct,” Isobel said, without even a nod at the introduction. She looked cooly at Sean Ryan. “And why do you come to the headquarters of El Hassan, fully armed?”

  “To offer our services.”

  She took him in, her eyes narrow. Finally, she said, “This sun is unbearable. We’ll discuss it inside. Meanwhile, your men cannot bear arms in Fort Laperrine, nor in the vicinity of Tamanrasset.”

  Raul Bazaine made an about face and called, in French, which was the language most common to the mercenary company, “Ground arms!”

  Isobel turned to Guémamaa and clipped out a few words in Tamaheq.

  He said, “Bilhana!” and turned and called an order to the suspicious camelmen who had watched all this, weapons in hand.

  A score of them dismounted and began disarming the mercenaries, who stood, empty-faced, and offered no resistance.

  Guémama himself went forward and relieved the two captains of their sidearms.

  Sean said, with all courtesy, “Is there some place my men can be sheltered? As you say, the sun…”

  Isobel frowned. She said, “Tamanrasset is not a large settlement. Hundreds of premature newsmen, trade delegations, diplomats and recruits to El Hassan’s banners have been descending upon us. All facilities in Tamanrasset are filled to capacity. Many are living in tents, or in the vehicles, some of which are trailers or campers, in which they arrived. It is quite chaotic. The fort, here, is reserved to the officials and forces of El Hassan. However, for the time, I suggest that your men and their vehicles retire to the shade of the former non-commissioned officer’s mess, over there.” She pointed. “They will be guarded but otherwise free to bring forth their cooking equipment and prepare food. I assume you are short of fresh provisions. You may have delegated two of your men to go into Tamanrasset and to the souk to purchase food—under guard.”

  She turned to Guémama and gave instructions and then turned back to them. “And now will you follow me?”

  Bryan O’Casey went over quickly to Lon Charles and spoke to him briefly, then turned and hurried after the others who were heading for the administration building. The two camelmen at the portals saluted as Isobel and the four strangers passed into the interior. Guémama brought up the rear and, as he passed, took the submachine gun from the hands of one of the guards.

  Isobel led to the way to the once-staff room, with its long, heavy table and its ample complement of chairs. She took the larger seat at the table’s head, once the prerogative of the commandant of the fort and motioned them to chairs.

  She looked at Megan and said, “Would you like to freshen up a bit, Doctor?”

  Meg said, “Thank you, but I can wait.”

  Isobel turned her eyes to Guémama, who had stationed himself to one side of the door and said in his own language, “Please order mint tea for the strangers, O Guémama. Let all men know that El Hassan is aware of the hospitality due… strangers.”

  “Bilhana,” the Tuare
g said, but didn’t himself leave on the errand. He opened the door and spoke to one of his two camelmen who were stationed there, then turned back and resumed his stance.

  The three mercenaries had noted that not only was his sub-machine gun cocked but the safety was off.

  Isobel looked at them, one by one. “Very well,” she clipped. “The purpose of your intrusion into the realm of El Hassan?”

  Sean said, with all the gentle tone of the Irish, “Intrusion is not quite the term, my dear Miss Cunningham. And would it be possible to present our petition to El Hassan himself?”

  “Not at this time. El Hassan has withdrawn into seclusion with his closest viziers to lay further plans for his uniting of all Ifriqiyah. He is not available.”

  Bryan looked over at Sean, remembering what the other had said about the possibility of the four men they had passed on the other side of In Salah being El Hassan and some of his confederates. Sean realized what was behind the glance, but ignored it.

  He said, “Could you tell us when he will be available for an audience?”

  They were interrupted by the advent of the tea, and waited until all had been served.

  Then Isobel said, “I truly cannot say. He is in ekhwan, in great council, with his viziers and it might go on for days… or even longer.” Isobel looked at him flatly. “However, I am El Hassan’s secretary and presently detailed to make minor decisions until the problems he works upon are resolved.”

  Captain Raul Bazaine said gallantly, “You seem young, as well as supremely attractive to hold such an arduous post, Madamoiselle.”

  She looked at him bleakly but didn’t deign to answer. She returned her level eyes to Sean Ryan.

  The Irishman cleared his throat and went into his pitch. “Our group is composed of soldiers of fortune, Miss Cunningham. For the present, at least, there are few openings for our profession in the world. When word of El Hassan’s, ah, movement began to filter out we came to the conclusion that perhaps here was employment. We banded together, pooled our resources to buy our vehicles and other equipment, and headed south to offer our services.”