Casca 16: Desert Mercenary (6 page)

Monpelier and Dominic were waiting for Langer when he and Gus returned from Wadi Jebel. At two other tables were what Carl presumed to be the rest of the team.

He was glad he made it back at the time when the electricity was on and the ceiling fans were turning. Leaving the bar, Dominic and
Monpelier joined him and Gus at a table directly under one of the rotating fans. To Dominic and Gus, Carl said, "Just to be on the safe side, spread out where you can keep an eye on things."

Dominic went to where he could see the lobby. Gus went to the bar, stationing himself behind the new arrivals. Carl faced off with
Monpelier. Drinks were ordered, then Carl filled him in on what he had found out from Sharif Mamud.

Monpelier
frowned. "I have heard the same. It bears out what I have learned. In essence, I have nothing else to add at this point. I wish we had time to plan this more carefully but we're running out of time. Planning ahead, I have already sent vehicles to Fort Laperrine. If you have no objections to the rest of the team, we'll pull out tomorrow by plane. We should arrive at about the same time, maybe a day earlier than those driving."

"Looks like you have the logistics pretty well in hand. You must be getting a hell of a bonus if we pull this off."

Monpelier shrugged. "You know me,
mon vieux
. I am a humanitarian, interested only in returning those youngsters to the arms of their families."

Carl couldn't have cared less. As long as his end of the bargain was lived up to, whatever side deal
Monpelier had was his business. "All right. What kind of aircraft do we have and what about weapons?" Carl asked.

Monpelier
leaned over the table. "I have a Dakota C 47 in excellent flying condition. As for weapons: grenades, Browning 9 mm pistols for everyone, four Mats 49 submachine guns. The rest of the arms are American. They consist of one Browning automatic rifle and one 30 cal LMG. The rest of the team will be outfitted with Garand rifles. That way all the ammunition will be interchangeable except for the SMGs and pistols. I also have a 60 mortar with fifty rounds, and a bazooka. All the weapons are on the plane, which will be touching down here at dawn tomorrow.

One thing Carl had always liked about working with
Monpelier was that the man planned ahead and did it right. He had no doubt that all the equipment would be in excellent condition and ready for use. "Good enough. Now fill me in on the team. Then I want to meet the men you have here. I presume the others are taking the vehicles south?"

"Yes, you are correct. Very well,"
Monpelier began. "The small, nervous looking one with the thinning hair and mustache is Gerome Sims. He's English. He will be your medic; he is also proficient with most small arms. His prior service, former British Eighth Army, then a bit of time with the Rhodesians and South Africans. He has some desert experience, naturally."

Carl knew what he meant. The
Eighth Army had been Field Marshall Montgomery's men in the North African Campaign. "The others?" he asked.

Monpelier
sipped his drink. "They are of our sort, former legionnaires with no place to go. One is German, the other is, I believe, Spanish or possibly South American. I don't know for certain, but he calls himself a Spaniard, so that's that. His name is Roman Portrillo. He is a weapons man, a specialist with automatics. I would suggest giving him the BAR or the LMG.

"As for the German,
Egon Stachel. Ex-Wehnmacht. I believe he might have been an officer at one time; he has the look. At any rate, he is good with just about everything. A bit pushy but a good man when the shit gets deep. Like you and your animal, he is an alumnus of Russia. He has little real desert experience though, only what he got during training at Sidi Slimane. He was discharged for wounds in Indochina. Since then, I believe he has spent most of his time in the Orient."

Monpelier
ordered one more bottle of wine. "The others with the transport are much the same; you will meet them at Fort Laperrine."

Carl poured a glass of wine from the bottle. "There will be one other going with us.
Sharif Mamud. I want him and he wants to go. He knows the mountain and a way over it from the Tenere side."

Monpelier
glanced at the men at the table. "Why does he want to go? Isn't he a bit long in the tooth for such a job?"

Carl nodded. "Let's just say he has his reasons and I understand them. As for being long in the tooth, he can still out
-march most men half his age and, like I said, he knows the area. That can be very important. It might make the difference in getting in and out alive."

"
C’est bien
. If that is the way you want it, then I have no objections."

"Good. I'll send Gus and Dominic over to get him in the morning. They should be back by dark."

Monpelier drained the last of his glass. "That will work out. When Mamud gets here we'll head out to the strip and load up. If we pull out at, say, four in the morning, we should be at the strip in Fort Laperrine around noon. It is twelve hundred kilometers, give or take a few."

Carl put his glass down.
"What about landing at Laperrine. Are we going to have any problems?"

Monpelier
rose, yawning. "Excuse me, my friend. My eyes feel like sand pits. But as to your question, there will be no trouble; we will have plenty of cooperation. That is one thing great wealth can usually buy. We will go in and refuel under the guise of being a geological survey crew looking for oil. And if anyone in authority thinks any different, they have but to radio their headquarters to be put in a cooperative mood. All has been prepared."

Carl agreed. "It seems like you've pretty well covered all bases. Go ahead and get some sleep. I'll introduce myself to the others."

"Very well. But please try not to piss them off until we are operational. It is too late to look for replacements. Therefore be tolerant and don't let Gus play games with them."

Carl laughed. "All right,
Sergent Chef. We'll be good. Now go on and get out of my way. I have to meet them sooner or later."

Monpelier
left the lounge feeling a bit uneasy as he saw Gus take down a liter of wine in one draught. But he had made Langer the boss. He would have to go along with him This was no time to start a split in the leadership and, of course, he was not going all the way with them. His job was, for the most part, complete once he had them in their transport and on their way into the desert. After that, the next time he saw them would be when they were picked up and brought back, hopefully successful. But if they were not? He shrugged mentally. That was life, or death, whichever the case turned out to be.

The three recruits sat quietly, knowing they had been discussed. Now they waited to meet their leader and size him up. The two former legionnaires had heard of Gus and
Langer, and Roman had even met Dominic at Sidi Bel Abbes.

Egon
Stachel was a serious looking man, hair sun bleached, eyes very pale blue. His mouth had once been sensitive; now it was only a slash through which he took sustenance and spoke. He had grown dry with war. Roman was tall, handsome with a proud nose and dark eyes. He stood over six feet and moved gracefully like one of the famed dancers of Seville. Langer liked him on the spot. Sims, the medic, sat patiently drinking straight gin. A filthy habit, Carl thought, but then no one had ever figured the English out. Sims didn't seem to be at all interested in what was going down.

"Gentlemen, I am Carl
Langer. Monpelier has told you about me. I am to be in command of the actual operation. I only want one thing from you and that's to do the job and do it right. Supposedly you've all been around the horn, so I don't have to explain basics. Do as I say when I say it, that's all. Once we're committed, there will not be time for arguments. If you have anything to contribute, do it before we move out into the desert. I'll listen, but I make the final decisions and they are not debatable.

"I have known
Monpelier for years. He is one of the best organizers in the business. If he says he has something then he does. All the equipment is ready and will be on site when we need it. There will be one other going with us, an Arab sheik who knows the terrain. I trust him, therefore you will trust him.”

He ran his eyes over them as he spoke, looking for any signs of nervousness or fear. There were none. Roman's face was a bit flushed but Carl put that down to excitement, not fear. The German looked intense but not upset. Carl knew that he and
Egon would have to have a talk in private later. Sims just smiled in acceptance of whatever conditions were to be imposed. He didn't like responsibility anyway, and whoever was in command was fine with him, as long as he knew his job. And it certainly appeared that this scar faced man did. Therefore he was satisfied.

Egon
spoke first. "What is to be the chain of command?"

Carl eyed him. "We'll settle that when I meet the rest of the team."

Gus and Dominic came over to stand casually behind Langer. They said nothing, but their presence reinforced his authority in Egon 's mind. "As you say, sir," Egon toasted him with an empty glass. "What are our orders for now?"

To all of them Carl said, "Just be ready to move out when I say so. It could be anytime, so don't bother unpacking your gear. Stay off the booze and leave the locals alone. You are all restricted to the hotel unless I tell you otherwise. No phone calls and no trouble. As of now we have had our last drink until the job is over. "

Egon stood. His frame was slender but well-muscled. He bowed his head slightly, accepting the commands. Roman put the cork back into the bottle of wine he'd been sipping and Sims sighed with deep regret as he neatly tossed off the last of the gin.

"That's it for now. Once we have the rest of the team together we'll go over the actual mission and the time schedule. Till we pull out, stay together when you out of your rooms and if any tourists show up, we're going out on a survey job for an oil company. If they get any nosier, tell them the company doesn't like you talking about your work.
They'll understand that. I they persist refer them to me.

"That's it. I'll see you all tomorrow. I am sure you are all tired after the day's trip. Rest well."

They accepted their dismissal with good grace. Egon looked back as they left the bar and saw Gus starting to pour another drink.

"That goes for you to
?, Gus," Carl snapped. "No more booze till we're through." Gus grunted something obscene and carefully poured the drink back into its bottle and screwed the cap on.

Egon
smiled. He liked what he saw. Langer would enforce the same rules on everyone. That was good. It saved problems in the future. Yes, Langer would probably do quite well. He wondered if they'd served on the same front in Russia.

Sharif
Mamud was picked up by Gus and Dominic early in the morning. True to his word, the old man was ready to go, waiting in front of his tent with his single sack of personal effects. They promptly headed back to Ghudamis. It was nearly three in the afternoon when they returned to the Saharienne.

Monpelier
had requisitioned the town's only taxi to take Egon, Roman, and Sims over to the airstrip. The other four followed in the Land Rover. Monpelier's Dakota was inside one of the strip's two hangars. The pilot and co-pilot, Browning 9mm automatics on their hips, were guarding the cargo inside the plane, which was worth a fortune. They stayed with the aircraft while Monpelier paid the taxi and assembled his team.

"I know it's a bit early in the game but I would rather have you all here," he explained. "That way, if anything goes down wrong we'll all be together and not spread out. Inside the plane is the equipment: weapons, uniforms, medical supplies, as well as radios, rations, and water.

“From this time on, guard this plane with your life. That's all from me. Your pilots, Captain Parrish and Co-captain Rigsby, have been briefed. They know what they are to do. In the air your captain is the boss. Other than that you will, of course, do as I said earlier and take your orders from Mr Langer."

Parrish looked over his passengers with a jaded eye. They were a rough looking crew, especially the gorilla beside the one called
Langer. Parrish was not unimpressive himself. With wavy, premature pure silver hair, he stood six feet six at 227 pounds. He could carry his own weight in most circumstances, but Gus bothered him. The beast fit no category he had ever seen before. When he watched the big German move he had a sudden urge to offer him a banana, but he wisely resisted the temptation when Gus casually picked up a fifty five gallon oil drum and moved it over to where he could sit on it in the shade. The drum was full.

Carl called
Monpelier over to him. "I want to take a look at the gear. Do you have an inventory list with you?"

“
Go right ahead. There is a list in the box marked medical. I'll just wait out here with the others. It's too hot inside the plane."

Before climbing inside the Dakota, Carl told Dominic, "Take
Stachel with you and keep an eye posted outside. Let me know if anything looks suspicious or if we're going to have any company.”

Boxes lined the
center of the plane, tied down with retaining straps. Looking them over he found the one marked medical. Releasing it from its strap, he opened the box up. On top was the list. He read it over. Monpelier had done good. Cracking the lids on the boxes containing the weapons, he examined every piece. All were brand new. A voice behind him coughed politely.

"I say, would you mind terribly if I had a quick look at my kit? I want to make certain that nothing we might need later has been left out."

Carl nodded at Sims and pointed out the medic box. Sims fluttered over it, humming as he unpacked it, carefully laying everything out in order: antibiotics, battle dressings, salt tablets, a minor surgery kit, and even several IV setups. When he was done he carefully placed everything back in proper order. "Well now, it seems as if it's all here. I do hope that I don't have to put any of it to use but then, it is better to be prepared, what?"

Carl sat down on a box of ammo and said; "Tell me a bit about
yourself, Mr. Sims."

The medic cocked an eye and sat down by the open cargo door. "Not much to say really. I've kicked about a bit.
Africa with Monty, then a turn or two in the south, Rhodesia and the Congo. You know that wherever you types go, there always has to be someone like me to try and patch you up a bit. I did have two years of medical school, but circumstances dictated that I depart from those hallowed halls. Though I would one day like to go back." He sighed deeply. "Ah, but life takes its own hand in the game and who knows? I am content enough. That's about it, sir."

Carl lit up a smoke, offered one to Sims but was politely refused.
"You ever work with any of the others here?" Carl asked.

Sims nodded his head.
"Only with Egon. Herr Stachel is not a bad sort. He looks like a bloody Prussian, but he's all right. Does his job and is selective about who he works for. Won't just take anything for money. We were in the south together for a few months. He's steady and will be where you need him. I don't really think he cares much about whether he lives or dies. Some men, you know, are always ready for the last game, even anticipating it. He is one of those, but he won't do anything that jeopardizes the rest of the team."

Carl was glad to hear that. The last thing he needed was a hard headed former Nazi with something to prove.
"The Spaniard?"

Sims shook his head in the negative. "Don't know a thing about him, love. But he seems a good sort. I only hope he's not one of those hot blooded
Latins who always settles minor quarrels with knives." He shuddered at the thought.

Carl got up. "Good enough. We'll all get a chance to know each other a bit better before this job is over."

Back in the hangar Gus and Stachel were speaking in German, finding that they had only one thing in common and that was the Russian front. Calling Gus over to him Carl. said, "Take it easy on these boys, Gus. I don't want any broken bones. Like Monpelier said, it's too late to get any replacements."

Gus laughed. "Uncle Gus wouldn't harm the hair on a fly's head. You know that. Besides which, I like Herr
Stachel, even if he was once a member of the officer class. May all their children have terminal hemorrhoids."

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
.