Casca 16: Desert Mercenary (8 page)

The salt flat shimmered. Heat waves rose in undulating crests, creating updrafts on which vultures rode with wide spread wings. Dominic looked to the skies, checking the time. It should be any minute. To the south, dust devils whirled and rose, dancing across the furnace of heaven. Out on the flat there was even less life. Scorpions and snakes tended to avoid it. Few plants were hardy enough to survive. It was a place as dead as could be found anywhere on the planet.

At the north end the other two heavy duty Land Rovers waited. Only Dominic stood at the southern end of the flat. He had driven over the landing site, making certain there was no unseen boulder that would burst a tire, no hidden ditch that could cause the plane to crash. He needn't have bothered. The flat was nearly as smooth as tarmac and almost as hard. The team of Land Rovers had spread out to provide security for the landing site. It wasn't likely anyone would be watching them but then again, who could tell. In clear, dry air, visibility was nearly unlimited. A man twenty miles away with sharp eyes could have focused on them.

The trip had been long, hot, and difficult over trails that even goats would avoid. Several times they'd had to stop to either pull one of the vehicles out of a sand trap or use the strips of perforated steel plating they had brought with them to dig down under the tires and pull themselves out.

Dominic would have liked to take his shirt off but that would have been foolish. His tender skin would have developed second degree burns in a matter of minutes. The glare of the salt flats was eye piercing and the sun was only reflected and amplified by its whiteness.

His body tried to cool itself by sweating; it did no good. As soon as moisture appeared on his lips or face it was gone, evaporated. The sweat that reached his shirt lasted little longer. When it was gone it left white streaks from his own body salts soaked into the material.

Dominic put on dark glasses to ease the strain under the brim of his hat. He liked the desert; it felt good. The aching white was a comfort. For many the silence that could come to the barren lands was maddening. Not for him. It felt good. Clean.

He felt better now that he was going to work. That was what he needed, and the desert was a good place for killing. And for dying. It had been too long since he was operational. He knew that something had started to go wrong with him in Indochina at Dien Bien Phu. A need to fight, not just kill, though that was an important part of it. Even his strong desire for women had diminished. Though he still enjoyed a little ass, it didn't have the same satisfaction to it unless he had been in battle. He knew that Carl and Gus were worried about him. But there was no need for such concern. He would not last much longer. Like Carl and Gus, he too had known men like himself who had become infected with the same disease he now carried in his soul. They had all died sooner than their compatriots. And it was almost always a violent death.

He laughed out loud. The sound startled him; it was so unnatural in this place of silence. Maybe he would die this time. The thought of his own termination didn't upset Dominic at all. It gave him only a vague feeling of curiosity as to what would come next, if anything. Either way it didn't matter.
He
didn't matter anymore. He was like the others with the death sickness. He was just waiting, waiting for a time and place to die...

One more check of his watch. It was time to try and make contact. Getting on the radio he adjusted the squelch, set the frequency, and hit the talk button.

"Silver. This is Gold. Do you read me? Over." Only static responded. He fine-tuned the frequency and turned up the volume. "Silver, this is Gold. Do you read me? Over." This time the response was a welcome voice, crackling a bit, requiring him to adjust the squelch.

"Roger that, Gold.
This is Silver. We are on our approach. How is it there?"

"Wind from the south about ten to fifteen. The deck is clear. Come on in, the party's waiting."

"Roger on that, Gold. Wind from the south ten to fifteen. Party is ready to play. Should be on the deck in ten. Do you roger that? Over."

"Roger, on deck in ten.
Out." Switching channels he spoke to the rest of the crew, reaching them on the walkie talkies. "Okay out there, keep your eyes and ears open. Silver is coming in. Let's not get careless. Keep your eyes off the strip and on the desert. We could still get company. Some of you never dealt with Tuaregs before. They can be sitting under your ass before you know they're there. So keep sharp and keep off the air till I call you."

One by one they
responded, acknowledging Dominic's orders. They would do as they were told. Those that had fought the Tuaregs before knew he was right. The serious manner in which they took Dominic's orders had the desired effect on the others who had had no experience with the nomads. All eyes faced out from the salt flat, fingers on the safeties of their weapons though the metal was so hot it was painful to touch. One of the men new to the desert wondered how hot it had to get before the bullets in the magazine would explode.

Dominic saw the glint of silver in the sky before he heard the motors. The plane was making its approach. It rode just above the heat waves, co
ming straight on. The pilot must have had the salt flat lined up perfectly.

The shape of the aircraft was visible for a minute,
then it vanished as it dropped into the heat waves and was lost in the shimmering brightness. Then it was there again. The engines were out of place in the land of silence and desert winds. Landing gear down, the plane was only a hundred feet off the deck, gliding in smoothly. It touched down gently, rubber tires pushing into the salt crust. Flaps full, throttles cut back, it slowed to a near stop, then taxied over to where the Land Rovers waited. The side door was already open.

Dominic climbed into the cab of his vehicle and drove across the salt flat to meet them. The arrivals were out of the plane and off
-loading gear when he reached them.

Gus greeted him as he got out of the Land Rover. "Well Dominic, you pretty bastard, where are the girls? I send you to this beach and now you don't have a proper welcome for Uncle Gus.
Shame on you."

"Knock it off, Gus, and give the others a hand,"
Langer barked.

Langer
had come from behind the plane followed by Sharif Mamud ibn Hassani. Dominic brightened up. It was good to see him and the huge German. Mamud wore his usual outfit of jellaba and turban while Langer, like the others, was in battle dress, French camouflage splinter pattern, a Mats 49 slung at his side, full battle fit. Dominic picked his pack out of the pile and dug out his own uniform. Changing into it made him feel good. It was like the old days, Indochina, Algeria.

Gus did as
Langer had ordered and helped the other men with the last of their gear. As soon as the cargo bay was clear Parrish moved out, taxiing to the southernmost end of the strip, pointing his nose into the wind, and taking off without further ceremony. His job was done and now he wanted out. In a few hours he would be drinking cold beer and wondering if the men he took out to the "devil's hammer" would ever be seen again. In the event that they did not make it back, he promised himself to have at least one cold beer in each man's memory.

Sims, their gay British medic, was handing out salt tablets and chiding the men to be careful about insect stings and snake bites.

"Get the gear loaded and let's move out!" Langer ordered. "Dominic, where do we go from here?" He knew that Dominic had made his recon of the area so he let him take over.

Dominic pointed to the west across the desert to where a dark shape rose up seventy miles away.
An island in a sea of sand, their destination, Mt. Baguezane.

"We go southwest for about fifty
kilometers," he explained, "then follow a wadi back to the north for another two until it turns almost due west. We can stay in the wadi till we are about five or six kilometers from the base of the mountain. Then it gets too rough and we'll have to pull out of it. "

"Good," Carl said. "I like that the
wadi will give us some cover. We'll hole up when we get to within five or six kilometers of the base. By then it'll be dark. We'll rest for a while before going on, just to play it safe." To Mamud he queried, "What do you say, old one? Is that the way to go in?"

Stroking his beard between long fingers, Sharif
Mamud looked toward the mountain. He had never come to it from exactly this direction. It took only a moment for him to realign his internal compass, then all was clear. "It's the best way at this time. Once we are near the base of the mountain it will be more clear to me. But we should hope to be near to the southern half of it."

Dominic referred to his map. "That's where we'll be, near a rock formation that looks like a camel's head."

Sharif Mamud knew the place. "That will be good."

"All right then," Carl said. "Let's get to it."

Sharif Mamud and Carl sat with Dominic in the lead vehicle, putting Gus in the rear to bring up drag. They headed out into the desert, leaving the white death behind them. Langer made them take their time. To hurry in the desert was to invite disaster. If one of the Land Rovers broke down they'd have to abandon it. They would take it easy.

For the first five hours the mountain never seemed to get any closer.
Langer knew that it would be near nightfall before they were close enough to feel its presence.

There was little talk from any of the men. Dust coated their faces and lips. It wasn't long before all of them had the long scarves of the Legion wrapped around their faces to keep out the cloying dust. To open your mouth was to dry it out. It was easier to just try and let your body go with the movement of the Land Rover and nod, half asleep, which would eat up minutes of heavy time.

They came to the wadi formed by the infrequent rains which gathered on Mt. Baguezane, ran off in floods to barely feed the sands, and then vanished, soaked up as if they had never been. But over the centuries the rains had cut away at the kalichi soil.

The
wadi was wide enough at most places for two or even three vehicles to drive abreast in it. Boulders appeared more frequently. They had to steer around them, constantly changing gears to navigate through the wadi's maze of twists and turns, soft sand, and chock holes. The Land Rovers did noble duty. As they neared the mountain, the terrain outside the wadi became more rocky. Larger patches of brush and cactus spotted the landscape and inside the gully the going was even rougher. But they were getting closer.

Suddenly Mt.
Baguezane loomed ahead of them. Heavy, ominous, it stood out of place. From a distance it had looked smooth and soft. Now it was clear that the mountain was anything but soft. It stood naked, daring them to come to it.

At last they came to where Dominic said they were to stop. Bodies ached. Every muscle had its own special pain. Gratefully the crew stretched legs and arms, twisting their backs to loosen them of the stiffness that had set in. Gus spread his arms out and breathed in deep, thumping his chest.
“My God, a little drive in the country does make one feel just marvelous."

He was roundly cursed by the rest of the party but only under their breaths. Carl felt the same way as the rest. Sometimes Gus could be a real pain in the ass.

"Okay, men," Carl commanded, "we wait here. Cold camp. No fires. Gus, set out a perimeter and see that everyone gets fed and watered. The rest of you stay out of the sun and if you want to lie down, scrape away the top layer of sand. It's so hot it'll pull the moisture out of your body, but underneath the top layer it's cooler. Find cover and rest. Drink your fill but do it slow so you don't get sick. If you fall out you'll be left to get back on your own, and you know what the chance of that is. None!"

Langer
called Sharif Mamud to him. Taking the old man by the arm, he led him to a rocky rise that looked toward Mt. Baguezane.

"We'll start over it in the morning,"
Langer told him. "The Land Rovers will be sent one ahead. You said it would take two days to make the crossing, but I want to get there before nightfall so I can get a look at the layout. Also, at some place on the way when we come across a setup similar to Sunni Ali's camp, I want to run a rehearsal with the men."

Sharif
Mamud clasped his arms together. "It grows cold, al Kattel. The chill of the night sets deep into the bones, but it is a good cold. You know this is not an easy thing for me to do. In many ways my heart is with Sunni Ali and his desires. It is a pleasant dream, a fantasy most inviting. But it is only a dream, He cannot win. If I thought for one moment that he had a real chance to succeed, I would not be here with you. I would be with him. I do this only to save lives and pain. Yet it is most hard to give up the past and even harder to lose one's dreams."

Carl looked to the mountain. His voice distant he said, "I know, my friend, what it is to lose dreams. More than you would believe, I know."

Sharif Mamud watched the face of his companion. Softly he touched the scar faced man's arm. "Yes, I do think you understand."

Gus had sent out the sentries,
Stachel and Sins taking first watch. The temperature was dropping quickly. It would be a long, cold night but Carl had known nights longer and colder. He would survive.

Roman and Dominic had drawn the last watch. At first light they roused the rest of the team. Carl gave pe
rmission fora hot meal to be fixed if they used the stemo stove. If anyone was watching, in a few minutes the movements of the Land Rovers pulling out would give their position away anyway, so it didn't make much difference.

When they finished eating he ordered them to sterilize the area. All trash was to be put in the Land Rovers and any sign of their night in the
wadi to be erased as much as possible. It was, of course, impossible to completely wipe out their presence, but he didn't want to give anything away about their numbers if he didn't have to.

When they cleaned up he told them: "Get out the gear and divide up the heavy stuff. Everyone shares the load.
Weapons on safety till I say otherwise. I don't want any accidental shots going off this early in the game."

This was the quiet time, when weapons and ammo were distributed. Jokes stopped as the tools of battle were put into their new master's hands: grenades, clips of ammo, magazines, battle dressings, and rations. Roman took the 30
cal light machine gun with the shoulder stock and biped, with Abdul acting as his loader. Between them they divided up the machine gun ammo. They were ready now, waiting for the word from Langer.

"Alright, this is how it plays. Sims, I want you, Graves, and Felix to take the Land Rovers and head back north around
Baguezane." On their map he pointed to the location he wanted them to reach. "I want you to be at this point in Mt. Baguezane, where the letter `E' is on the map. We'll make radio contact with you when we've got the hostages and it's time to move out. We'll need you to be on time if we're going to break contact with the Tuaregs and make it to the LZ where Parrish is to pick us up. Stay away from anyone you see nomads, goatherds, tourists. Don't let anybody get close to you. If Sunni Ali has word about our geological expedition, I don't want him to get a different count on the number of men involved with it. He's probably going to be suspicious anyway if he just hears of a couple of ferengi vehicles roaming around the desert within a hundred miles of him. I would be."

Sims interjected, "Wouldn't it be best, love, if I went with the main party? You might have need of my tender touch, wouldn't you
now?"

Carl shook his head. "No. I want you with the Land Rovers. I told you before that anyone who couldn't keep up was dead meat. Any minor injuries we'll be able to deal with. Anything major and you wouldn't have time to treat it anyway. I want you where I know you'll be able to help after we make the raid."

Sims pouted a bit. "Well, if that's the way you want it, love, then that's the way it'll be. But do try to get as many back to me as possible. I have grown attached to you bleeding rotters just a bit, you know?"

Carl walked them over to the Land Rovers.
"We'll be on the radios at 1200 hours and again at 1800 hours every day. Captain Parrish will choose one or the other of those times to make a radio link to you. So keep your ears on them. In the mountains we might have some trouble with communication but don't worry about it. Once we're on the western slope we should have no problems. However, if by the fourth night you don't hear from us, get out. Make your way back to Fort Laperrine or into Mali."

Felix showed no sign of emotion. If anything he felt a touch of relief. He knew that he, Graves, and Sims had the best chance of living out the week, and one did not question providence when it worked in your
favor.

A wind was starting to rise. Carl looked to the south. "Good, that will help cover our tracks and those of the Land Rovers. That's it. Get going and good luck."

Sims led the way in the head vehicle. It was going to be a long drive. The rest of the team watched the Land Rovers disappear from sight, then turned to look toward Mt. Baguezane.

"Get your gear on," Carl instructed. "From this time on there will be patrol discipline. No smoking because someone will leave butts lying around. If you eat, put the wrappings back in your packs. Leave nothing on the ground, and stay out of your canteens. We'll all drink at the same time and the same amount. Sharif
Mamud says there are water holes up there, but no one knows for certain. If you run out then you go dry, for I'll let no man give another any from his share think about it. Now let's form up, we have a lot of distance to cover."

He turned things over to Sharif
Mamud who took point, taking the first steps to guide them through the labyrinths of gullies, canyons, and crevices that was Mt. Baguezane. They weren't much as far as numbers went: ten men in single file. They began the long climb to the pass which Sharif Mamud said waited for them at the 7,000 foot level.

Once they hit the trail Sharif
Mamud wanted, Carl had him point out the way. Then he moved back from the point and turned it over to Dominic. As they climbed Dominic set a good pace, not too fast not too slow. Carl tried to get a feel for their rate of movement. They probably would be on the way down before their legs got used to the strain.

After an hour's climb
Langer stopped on a cliff, looking back down to the desert. Heat waves rose and wavered as far as the eye could see. Sand dunes were broken by reefs of stone beds worn smooth by the passing of centuries. Squinting his eyes, miles away he saw a thin tendril of dust rising into the air, then another, and another. The Land Rovers, most likely.

After the first hour they had switched off on point, giving each a chance to set the pace. Breathing was heavy and hard. Even as they climbed it didn't seem any cooler. The rocks were hot enough to cook meat on. Thin patches of scrub brush poked out between granite boulders, pathetically seeking enough moisture to sustain life.

Sharif Mamud held up better than most of the others. His body was acclimated to the desert heat. Steadily and with sure feet he climbed silently now as they moved up the narrow trails to the pass. The rest of them were quiet except for gasps of labored breathing. Flies had come to buzz over them, swanning on their backs to suck at the salty sweat that had begun to turn their tunics white, adding a lighter pattern to the brown and green camouflage.

All breaks were set by Sharif
Mamud. Only he knew how long it would actually take to reach their kickoff point. The team did well, no grumbling, no bitching; they had settled in. Once more Monpelier had proved his accurate judgment of men. They all helped each other, giving someone a hand or taking a load from another over the rough spots.

At midday they rested, taking shelter in the shade of sun splintered boulders. They would wait now for a few hours and try to sleep. Most put scarves around their faces, leaving only their eyes uncovered. Exposed skin drew the flies.

Sharif Mamud squatted on his haunches, rocking back and forth for a time as though trying to reconcile great problems. It was in these lands that the great philosophers and prophets of the Moslem world had been inspired. Here where the supernatural
djinns
of the desert and God were always close at hand, to touch them one had only to reach out and feel the wind.

When the sun began its descent they moved once more. Loads became heavier with each
kilometer. With the dark Sharif Mamud took the lead again, guiding the way through gullies and canyons that he had not seen in forty years. They were still fresh in his mind and here nothing had changed. They would march all night. It would be easier to keep warm that way and once they set foot on Baguezane, Carl would permit no fires. When they stopped it would be a cold camp.

Near midnight
Mamud called a halt. Gratefully men slid to the earth, easing the pack straps from sore shoulders. Boots were taken off and feet rubbed to rid them of the thousands of tiny grains of sand that had worked their way inside. Canteens were drunk from sparingly, though each man wanted to open his throat and let the water flow. Some opened cans of fruit to suck at the sweetness of tinned peaches or pears.

Sharif
Mamud ate nothing and only once had Carl seen him take a small drink of water. He knew it was the barren rocks and dry winds which fed something deep inside the old man and gave him strength. Carl came to sit beside him while Egon and Gus stood watch, one at each end of the trail.

Sharif Maraud stared into the distance. His nostrils flared, breathing in the cool air.

"What do you see in the night, old one?"

Ma
mud didn't move. "I see the past and the present. I see times yet to come when my people will be lost. Bit by bit they will change, becoming less and less until they are no more."

Carl knew he was talking about their souls. This, the desert, was the true home of his Bedouin people.

Resting his back against the smooth hardness of a boulder, Sharif Mamud spoke softly. "Why do you do this, al Kattel? I know that it is not for gold. I have read your eyes too many times in the past to believe that."

Carl scratched at the dirt with a fingernail.
"Sharif Mamud, my friend. Has it not been written that one has no control over the path his steps will take? All has been written long before we drew our first breath or nursed at our mother's breast. I am no more than what has been ordained for me and do not control it. I am what God has made me.
In sha' Allah!
"

Mamud
nodded his head in understanding. "As you have said, all is in the hands of God. Yet that troubles me. If it is so, then why do we attempt to change anything? Ah, I am ready for paradise. The questions of this life plague me more with each passing year. When one loses the passions of youth, the disease of thinking too much takes over." He paused. "Will you kill Sunni Ali, my friend?"

Carl shrugged his shoulders. "That depends on circumstances. I have no orders to that effect. If we could, I would prefer not to kill anyone. But I wouldn't bet on that happening, and from what little we know of Sunni Ali, I think that it will be very hard not
to kill him. He may demand it."

Mamud
understood. "Yes, there is a time to die. If one lives on dreams then what has one to live for when the dreams are dead? For such a one it is best that he go with his dreams. It would be a kindness."

Carl rose to make the rounds.
"Rest now for a time. We still have a long way to go before that judgment has to be made. Rest well. I will be close by if you need me."

He left Sharif
Mamud in the same position as he had found him. He had the feeling that the old man had not only been talking about Sunni Ali; he had been speaking of his own dreams. Even in that Carl wished him well, for indeed there was time to die. For most men, anyway...

Leaving the camp behind, Carl climbed to the edge of a granite outcrop. From there he could look out over the endless wasteland stretching to forever. Forever... How long was that? For some it was
minutes, for others, eternity. But all things must end. He believed that, though at times he had difficulty believing that about himself.

Cold winds washed over him, causing ripples over and through the myriad scars on his body. Closing his eyes he stood and swayed back and forth on the lip of the ridge. He almost let himself fall forward, but it would have done no good. Death was denied him now as it had been for two thousand years.

Two thousand years... From the time of Golgotha to now he, Casca Rufio Longinus, had marched and fought under the banners of innumerable armies and kings. Time and again he had been slave and soldier, and more often a slave to his own weaknesses. He was trapped in the pattern of his past and there was no escape. He was on the endless wheel which the ancient sage Shiu Lao had spoken of on the galley heading for Rome, the great wheel of eternity which turned upon itself, always repeating never ending cycles.