Barry Sadler - Casca 16 - Desert Mercenary

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CASCA #016

Desert Mercenary

by Barry Sadler

__________________________________________

Charter edition/February 1986

ISBN: 0-441-09336-1

eBook scanned & proofed by Binwiped 12-9-02 [v1.0]

CHAPTER ONE

Tunis still bore the scars of World War II. In the harbor the hulks of dead ships were serving as

breakwaters. From the docks the last survivors of Rommel's Afrika Korps had tried to escape under the

guns of the Allied forces. Few made it back to Germany. Most of the shell holes pockmarking the streets

had been filled, but many buildings still stood as gutted ruins inhabited only by rats, scor-pions, and some

occasional human vermin.

Gustof Beidemann sat, contentedly enough on the surface, stuffing his mouth with dates and sweet

rice, using his fingers as a spoon. His com-panion was more silent. The last months had been exceedingly

boring. Their last job had been merely that of shotgun riders on convoys taking supplies out to where

some American and British companies had been putting up drilling rigs. Not much action, only a plenitude

of sun, flies, and bad water when you could get it.

Carl Langers rinsed his mouth with sips of wine grown from French cuttings in Algeria. It was good.

"Gus?"

The chewing stopped only long enough for the bear of a man to quickly respond, "Ja?"

"Where do we go from here? Central Africa?''

The bear belched, drawing an appreciative look from the other customers of the harbor-side bistro.

"I don't know. There are the Gulf Emirates. I would prefer them to working in Central Africa. There

are too many uncertainties there, and it is not always easy to get your money."

Langers leaned back in the chair of woven reeds. To the north he could see the Mediterra-nean, the

calm blue sea as clear as glass, but the sense of peacefulness that it inspired was only temporary. He had

long ago determined that con-flict, not peace, was the natural order of man, for peace and calm were

always transitory things for Carl Langers aka Casca Rufio Longinus. Since that fateful moment 2,000

years ago when he had sunk his spear into the crucified body of Christ, Casca had been denied the rest

of the weary, dying countless times only to wake once again in the world of the living. Eternal death

would have been sweet salvation for Casca alias Langers. But he was destined to live the hell of one

damned to immortality until the Second Coming would re-prieve him.

He and his giant friend would have preferred to be in Algiers, but the memory of that notorious time

in the Legion Etrangere there was still too fresh. Too many knew them by sight and old grudges die hard.

That had been a bad and bloody time when he and Gus had come back from In-dochina after the fall of

Dien Bien Phu, a very bad and bloody time. They had taken their discharges as soon as their time was

up, not wishing to participate any further in the seemingly random and insane slaughter that had taken

place between the French Colonials and the Algerian Nationalists. It was one of those cases where

everyone was the bad guy and there was no abso-lute right or wrong—only the fanatics.

Gus opened his throat to take in a handful of couscous, then farted with satisfaction. Several nearby

diners promptly left their tables, meals uneaten.

"Don't be impatient, Carl. Monpelier said he would meet us here and he will. He said only that he

would arrive by the fifteenth. It is as of yet only the thirteenth. Two days is not such a long time to wait.

Perhaps, as he said, he will have some work for us."

Claude Monpelier had been their boss when they were working the supply lines. He had had the job

of contracting and locating specialists for many companies in North Africa. Prior to that, the Belgian-born

Monpelier had served as sergent chef with the Troisieme Battalion Parachutiste des Etrangere. It was

from there he knew Langers and Beidemann.

"Well, I hope he comes soon. The way you eat up our money, it won't last much longer."

Gus gulped down half a liter of wine to top off his meal. "Carl, I am surprised at you. You never

have any faith in our luck. Something will hap-pen. It always does."

Sourly Langers grunted back, "I know, but when you're around it usually means trouble."

Gus finished his wine, blithely ignoring the slander. Suddenly he rose from his seat, beaming with

smugness. "See! I told you he would come. Trust me, I know that he brings our fortune with him. Claude

is not one to waste talent such as ours."

Looking over his shoulder in the direction Gus was facing, Carl did indeed see Monpelier coming

toward them: sunburned, hair and eyebrows bleached by years in the desert sun to an albino white. He

still had the look of the Legion to him, straight back, strong, spare body. His face might have once been

handsome, but too many fights had rearranged the bone structure. A once-proud Gallic nose now rested

between his cheekbones like a mutilated piece of sausage.

Gus swept him into a chair, gurgling happily, "Welcome, mon vieux. What is it you have for us?"

Claude merely gave Gus one of the looks he normally reserved for jackals, vultures, and other vile

things that crawled upon the face of the earth. Carl ignored both of them. It was an old and time-honored

ritual between them.

"Well first, you great hulking beast, can you not see that I am faint from lack of wine?"

"Good idea!'' Gus roared out loud enough that the snakes living in the ruins of nearby Carthage

could hear. "Wine, do you hear? Wine for the troops. We've been raping and ravaging all day and we

thirst.'' He collared a terrified waiter with a fez on his curly head and barked, "Bring wine, and while

you're at it water my mule.'' The waiter started to ask the effendi, or master, where his mule was, but a

playful slap on his shoulder sent him reeling toward the kitchen.

Claude sighed wearily and cast a doleful look at Langers. "Can't you put a leash or at least a muzzle

on this foul creature?"

Langers smiled for the first time. "No, but I give you permission to do so if you want to try."

Claude knew he was being outmaneuvered and as any wise, old soldier would do, he ignored the

remarks completely and got straight to business once he was certain that the other tables were not

listening in.

"If you can lower your voices to a normal level, we will get on with what I wish to speak to you

about, my friends," he said.

The timid approach of the waiter bearing a liter of the Algerian wine gave them a moment's pause

before Claude continued, leaving Gus to pour for them. Gus had no real interest in the details of the job

at this point. If Langers liked it, then they would do it, so why bother himself with superflu-ous dialogue?

He was, after all, a most practical man.

Sipping his wine after first testing the bouquet, Claude began.

"Am I not correct in saying that before I had the dubious honor of serving with you, you and your

animal here were stationed for a time out of Fort Lapperrine in the Ahaggar Mountains, and from there

went on several raids into the territory of the Azbine Tuaregs, the Berber Moslems who inhabit the land

between the Talak Air Plains and the Tenere Desert?"

Carl nodded. "Yes, we spent some time there. Bad country, hard people. Why?"

"Well, my friends," he touched his forefinger to the side of his nose to indicate a matter of great

confidence, "I have an acquaintance in need of men who know the area and are not afraid to take a small

risk." That worried Carl a bit. When Claude referred to anything as a "small risk,'' he meant the

equivalent of trying to mount a bayonet attack across quicksand with sixty-pound packs on your back.

"Just what is this small risk, Sergent Chef?" Carl automatically went back into addressing Monpelier

by his old rank.

"You know that since we were 'invited' to leave Algeria, there have been many troubles. One of

them has to do with a chieftain of the Azbini. He is trying to form an alliance with the other Tuareg tribes,

the Allimideni, Ifora, Azjeri, and Ahaggerni, and even those of the Bedouin. He wishes to form an

autonomous state of their own. You and I know this will not happen, but it takes only a few fanatics to

cause great trouble. And the trouble is this." He paused to refresh his palate. "One of the Azbine

chieftains who calls himself Sunni Ali has captives. The son of a rich man and the son's wife, an American

girl. They are being held for ransom."

Langers took a drink of his own wine. This was beginning to get interesting. "What do they want,

money?''

Claude shook his head. "No, my old one. The son's father is an arms manufacturer. They want

weapons, many weapons: machine guns, mortars, anti-aircraft guns. But the father cannot supply them.

His government has found out about the ransom and will not permit the exchange for as you know, it

does not take much to start a guerrilla war and keep it going for some years with a few thousand modern

rifles and machine guns.

"So, as he cannot give them what they ask for, he has come to me to find men who will attempt a

rescue. That is all. You just go in, get the boy and his wife, and bring them out. Tres simple, n' est-ce

pas?"

"That's all! You know that country. It's hell out there. How do we get in and how do we get out?

There's nothing but thousands of miles of nothing out there!"

Claude affected a wounded look. "Ah, but that is why the father will pay so well. However, if you

feel it is beyond your talents and do not have the need for twenty-five thousand American dollars, I will

go elsewhere, eh?" he said, shrugging his shoulders matter-of-factly.

Carl pushed him back down in his chair. "Knock the crap off, Claude. We're interested, but we

need to know more before making a deci-sion."

Monpelier knew he had them or he would not have been stopped from leaving. "Very well. This is

what I can tell you now. Our weaponsmaker is a very rich man, and while he cannot get guns to trade for

his son, he can supply you with whatever else you may require in terms of equipment. Airplanes, vehicles,

communica-tions equipment. His government knows what we wish to try and they have no objection to

it. As long as the Tuaregs receive no weapons, we can do as we wish in the matter.''

"You did say we, didn't you, Claude? Are you going in with us?"

Claude hid behind his wine glass. "Alas, no, my friends, I am afraid that I have other duties which

will prevent me from accompanying you on this minor excursion. I do wish that I could attend the

festivities. I know you and your creature. I am confident the desert will never be the same after you two

leave."

Gus ordered two more bottles of wine, making certain the waiter knew to put them on Claude's bill.

Langers went back to the subject. "Okay! The price is all right for me and Gus but there'll be other

expenses, and we may have to hire a few more men. In fact, I know we will."

"I have anticipated your needs, my friends. And if we have, as the Americans say, 'a deal,' I will

leave you with advance funds now so that you may begin to plan the operation. But know that it must be

done quickly. The Tuaregs can be stalled in the matter for only a short time. Then they will do horrible

things to the boy and worse to the girl. Remember Medea?''

Langers remembered. There had been great evil done there, torture and slaughter on both sides that

would have left the Nazi Gestapo in awe. "All right, how much time do we have?"

"Two, perhaps three weeks. No more."

Sitting silently Langers tried to recall all he could of the terrain between the Talak and the Tenere.

None of it was good. "I need more in-formation," he said. "Do you have any idea of just where they are

being held and by how many tribesmen?"

Claude gave Gus another dirty look as the sec-ond order for two more liters of wine was given to

the waiter, before replying, "Yes, of course we have some information and I hope to acquire more in a

few days. For now concern yourself with transport and finding the other men you will require—I may be

able to help you there. Also, the chieftain who has the prisoners has at best three hundred men, but

probably less than half will be with him as the others will be needed to tend their flocks. So you will have

to deal with perhaps only one to two hundred Tuaregs."

Carl groaned. One to two hundred of some of the meanest and toughest men the desert had ever

spawned. Speculating more to himself than to anyone else, he mumbled, "I'll give odds that they're holed

up on Mt. Baguezane northeast of Agadez."

Claude nodded in agreement. "You are proba-bly correct. But it is not such a great mountain; it only

rises to about six thousand feet. As I said, I have some more information coming. It should give us the

exact location where they are being held. There cannot be too many places up there with enough water

to sustain them. So we will find them.

"Have confidence in me. I will contact you again in two days, three at the most. By this time you will

have considered the worst possible condi-tions and will be able to give me your require-ments in men

and material."

This was going to be a bit rough. But if it went down right the money was good for a few days'

work. What was the name Claude had called the Azbine chief? Sunni Ali? To Claude he asked, "Sunni

Ali? Wasn't that the name of the king of the old Songhai Empire in the fifteenth century?''

Claude rose, leaving a stuffed envelope on the table. "But of course it was. I am so glad to see that

you, unlike your pet ape, are not a complete illiterate. It makes me feel so much more reas-sured that I

have been correct, as I always am, in my decisions. I will see you here at the same time in two or three

days, no more. If I do not appear, then the money in the envelope is yours. Au revoir, mes amis."

"Yeah. Good-bye, Claude.''

Monpelier was headed for the door when Gus yelled to the waiter, "Be sure to collect for the wine

from the little shit before he gets away."

Claude Monpelier shrugged his shoulders as only the French can do and paid the waiter. He left the

cafe murmuring the word merde over and over.

CHAPTER TWO

Leaving the cafe they wandered back into the streets. They were laid with cobblestones hun-dreds of

years old, many taken from buildings that had seen the coming and the passing of Crusaders. The faces

that watched the backs of the two feringi, as the foreigners were disdainfully re-ferred to, could have

belonged to that distant time.

In the envelope was enough money, a mixture of enough dinars and American dollars, to last them

for a week or two, or to buy passage to another place if the deal with Monpelier didn't work out. Either

way they were better off than they were before. But there was one thing about Monpelier: he didn't pass

out money unless he wanted you committed. As far as Carl was con-cerned, this job was a go.

A change of residence to a hotel which had telephone service and showers was their first move.

Tunis was baking beneath the hammer of the North African sun. It was near the midday hour and, as in

all hot climes, activity slowed down. Those that could found shade to take naps or ate slow lunches and

sipped sweet mint tea served from brass pots. Carl and Gus took the opportunity to avail themselves of

the hotel's shower. There was no hot water but it didn't matter. The water temperature was warmer than

blood, anyway, yet it still cooled the skin.

Gus settled on his single bed by the window where he could catch what little breeze existed. Carl lay

back on his bed, naked save for shorts, his eyes closed as he felt the moisture left on his skin from his

shower evaporate. Soon it would be gone, then his own body fluids would replace the water from the

shower.

A horrible rasping, gurgling noise broke through the hum of flies swarming outside the screened

window. Gus was snoring. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, Langers thought for a mo-ment about

strangling the sleeping giant, but the desire passed quickly. It was much too warm to keep such hostile

thoughts for very long. It simply required too much effort. Besides which, Gus did have some good

qualities. One day, Langers promised himself when he had time he would take a few hours and try to

think of one.

Outside he heard the plaintive cry of an Arab water vendor wandering the narrow streets, filling the

cups of the thirsty with water he promised was as pure as the tears of a virgin, but smelled like the

bladder of a dead camel. He rolled over to get on a dry spot. Beneath him the thin cover was already

soaked with his sweat.

Gods! It had been a long time since he and Gus had frozen on the steppes of Russia. There had

been the ice and the snow winds that peeled frostbitten skin from the face and froze the deli-cate tissue in

the lungs. He almost wished they were back. No! That was a lie. There was no way he could ever wish

for that time to return. The Twenty-sixth Panzer Regiment. He and Gustaf Beidemann were the last

survivors of their tank crew. All the others were long dead, left on the frozen fields of Mother Russia

along with hun-dreds of thousands of others who had fought and died—for what? An ideology of some

sort. Memories overcame the present. Once more Langers smelled diesel fumes and cordite, heard the

rasping rumble of tank treads as they crashed into each other during the Battle of Kursk. There the

smoke of battle was so thick, tanks couldn't see each other at a distance of thirty meters and a hundred

thousand men a day were killed or wounded. Kursk! The Dnieper River Line! Red Guards, SS,

Kalmuks, and partisans. Trains filled with munitions and living cargo that was to be taken to extermination

centers. German soldiers with shell casings hammered into the backs of their necks or left crucified on

battlefields. On both sides such an incredible madness.

Mind half-awake, half-numb he dreamed. Faces passed before and around him, hundreds of dead

men. Storms of lightning, caused by thousands of heavy guns, crashed, ripping open the earth to receive

the dead. Faces, faces …

His eyes jerked open. He couldn't take any-more. Through his nightmare Gus had slept the sleep of

a child. He was the only true innocent Carl had ever known. Nothing bothered him. His memories of pain

were short, therefore he could sleep when others cried out in the night.

Carl slept no more, afraid of what might come. It was easier to just put his mind at a distance and

wait for the sun to begin its decline. When the shadows at last grew longer, he rose and showered again,

changed into his cleanest dirty shirt, and shook Gus back into the real world.

"C'mon, let's go out for a while, maybe get something to drink or eat."

"Eat! Drink! Be right with you, comrade."

By the time they hit the streets the temperature had dropped into the nineties, almost comforta-ble.

There were people everywhere: Arabs, ven-dors, women with the veil and without, children running in

packs among stalls, wilted Europeans with red, sweaty eyes. One and all seemed to be on the streets

now that the worst heat of the day had passed. Near the bazaar they stopped for Gus to refuel. Spiced

meats and wine once more dis-appeared down his maw.

"Let's go over to the Club Chat Rose. I want to see if there's anyone around we might be able to

use," Carl said.

Gus took the lead, cutting through the throngs; he was a human battering ram that ignored all in its

path. Dirty looks and curses describing his parentage for ten generations slipped off of him. But no one

stood in his path. Leaving a wake behind him of frustrated, angry people, they pass-ed the street of

coppersmiths, cut over near the old mosque where muezzins still called the faithful to prayer, made a

sharp left by the dyers' streets, walked three more blocks, and they were there.

It was the good time, too. The sun was near setting and the streets were growing darker with the

creeping shadows, which at dusk took over the city. Vendors were taking down their stalls, clos-ing till

the rise of the new sun, but other shops were just preparing to open. It was shift change in Tunis.

The Chat Rose, or Pink Pussy, as Gus liked to call it, was one of the watering holes for the leftovers

of a dozen nations. The smell of alcohol drove Gus through the door first. Carl let him go. It was never

wise to get in front of Gus when he was after food, booze, or pussy. One might get trampled,

unintentionally of course, but the pain-ful end result would be the same.

Gus cast his eyes over the motley crew which the Chat Rose catered to. A few limeys, several

Germans, a couple of Polish sailors without good sense to stay closer to the harbor. And in the corner

sipping Pernod quietly, his hands holding the small glass between them, was the one they sought.

"Dominic!"

At Gus's greeting several of the customers started to dive under their tables looking for cover,

mistaking the explosion of sorts for a mor-tar attack.

Dominic showed no response; it was a saluta-tion he was long used to.

Slowly raising his eyes from the table he looked up to see the dark hulk of Gus coming toward him,

followed by a shorter but not much less squarer form.

"Ciao, Gus, Carl. What brings you to the ass-hole of the world?''

Gus took Dominic Ciardello's glass from him, tossed the remains down neatly, made a face, and

ordered a bottle of scotch to be brought to the table. Carl sat on his left, Gus on his right, letting their

chairs face the door and inner room.

Carl worried about Dominic. His face, though still handsome, was drawn. Thick black, curly hair cut

short framed his old-young face. His body was slight, almost boyish, but very strong and quick. Carl

knew his ailment. He had fallen vic-tim to the sickness called killing. Since Dien Bien Phu and then

Algeria he had seen the sickness eat up the Italian. Dominic knew it, too. He was not stupid and the need

to kill made him sick of himself. He knew what his problem was but had no way to resist it.

The bottle was brought by a tavern wench of mixed ancestry. For centuries Tunis had been a

stopping place for every ship that plied the Mediterranean. The girl was only the long-term genetic result

of such visits. Deftly she avoided Gus's paws as she placed the bottle on the table with three semi-clean

tumblers and a pitcher of water. She stood back out of range till Carl paid her and then quickly put

distance between her and the beast-man.

Carl did the honors, pouring drinks all around, leaving the others to add water if they pleased.

"How is it for you, Dominic?"

The Italian sipped his whiskey slowly between fingers which held only a trace of tremble to them.

"It goes the same, my friends, but it doesn't matter. Like you two, I wait."

Carl nodded in understanding. "Well, perhaps the waiting is about over. You remember Sergent

Chef Monpelier?"

Not waiting for Dominic to answer—he already knew they had met—he continued, "He says he has

work for us. Do you wish to hear what the job is?"

Dominic shook his head. "It makes no differ-ence. If you have accepted then I do too." The

response was not unusual. They had fought many times side by side.

His eyes showed their first spark of life. He needed to get back into the field again. He could have

taken many jobs as an assassin. There was much work of that kind to be had, but he hadn't taken any of

it. He still had some of his pride left. He was not a murderer, only one who enjoyed the kill, if a bit

excessively.

For a few minutes they sat quietly. Even Gus seemed to slow down a bit as they worked their way

through the bottle of whiskey. With the true dark of night on the streets, the Chat Rose began to slowly

fill with ex-soldiers, mercenaries, deal-ers in opium, heroin, and slaves, and with smugglers and thieves.

The lights were turned on to provide what fee-ble illumination forty-watt bulbs could give. From a

phonograph behind the bar the girls played records that somehow all sounded the same whether French,

Italian, or American. Among the clientele were a few Arabs with their robes cover-ing expensive suits

made in Paris or Rome. Being good Moslems they did not drink the whiskey or wine, leaving that to the

men they bargained with, men with hot, hungry looks in their eyes.

Carl knew some of them and knew what they did. Sitting with a man wearing the striped robes of a

Berber, though the mixed blood in his face showed he was not, was Alexis Sulman, a specialist in the

selling of flesh, usually that of young girls, none older than fourteen, for the brothels in Marseille or

Hamburg. He had once approached Carl about working for him. Now when he saw the scar-faced

man's eyes on him he felt his stomach nearly turn over. The ex-legionnaire's response to his proposition

had been somewhat less than friendly; Sulman had not been able to enjoy sampling any of his stock for

several weeks.

Gus saw where Carl was looking and spat on the floor. "Now, there is one who needs to be

removed from this vale of tears. I have no argu-ment with honest whores who are old enough to make up

their own minds, but that swine sells children. One of these days I think I'll kill him.''

Neither Carl nor Dominic commented; it was unnecessary. Since it had been said, it was now only a

matter of when Sulman would die. Gus used his chunky forefinger to point straight at Sulman's face.

Closing one eye, he sighted over it and whispered bang! loud enough for the girls in the back of the bar

to hear. Sulman left the cus-tomer at his table hurriedly, saying they would meet on the morrow in a more

civilized environ-ment.

The cafe girls plied their ancient trade among the clientele, approaching all but the table where the

hard-looking man sat. The girls knew them and understood this was not a night to disturb them. The men

were left alone. The bottle at their table grew empty.

At last, bored with the Chat Rose, Langers left them, handing Dominic a hundred dinars from the roll

Monpelier had given him. "You move over to where me and Gus are staying. I'll see you in the morning.

Gus, no trouble for now. Behave your-self. I don't want you in jail. If Monpelier comes through, we

could move out at anytime. So be good and keep away from Sulman. We can always settle with him

later."

Gus affected a pout which didn't work. Mockingly he replied, "Ah! You are a hard master, effendi,

but this lowly one hears you and will obey. I shall, in an attempt to gain merit, take this lost child," he

nudged Dominic,' 'into my protec-tion until the morrow."

Langers just shook his head. Gus never changed. Paying the bill, he left them sitting, knowing they

would be okay. After all the jokes and bullshit were done with, Gus was reliable where it counted.

Langers wanted to get outside and be alone for a time. The city was too heavy, confining. Letting his

feet pick their path, he wandered through the streets filled with the smells that can only be found in a city

of the East. Smells of cinnamon and curry, sandlewood and musk mingled with that of industrial

chemicals and DDT. Mounds of trash moved as though they had a life of their own from the maggots that

bred in them. There was nothing new; he had seen and smelled the same ten thousand times before.

His feet led him at last to the outskirts of the city. The night was clear as only the desert night can be.

Moisture from the sea had been pushed back by winds from the desert. Resting his hip on a boulder,

Carl looked back to see the way he had come.

He was on a rise outside of the city. In front of him lay the main town and harbor where ship lights

rose and fell with the slight movement of the Mediterranean waters. To his back were the rocky hills and

mountains, passes and gorges. In those hills and beyond lived, by Western standards, barbarian tribes,

Berbers, and some members of the Tuareg tribe if you went far enough. In those same passes lay the

bones of Romans and Carth-aginians, Vandals and Byzantines, Americans, English, Italians, and

Germans. For a dry land it had been well watered over the centuries with blood.

Watching the stars run their eternal course overhead, Carl thought of the land to the south. A harsh,

unforgiving land. The job itself sounded simple enough, but few things were ever what they appeared to

be. There would be unseen, unknown problems which would end up killing someone. Even that wasn't of

any great import. The men they would take with them knew what the odds were.

A breeze from the hills rolled over him. It was good. There would not be many cool breezes when

they passed over the mountains. Until they came out, by day it would be an oven designed by a shaitan,

an evil spirit, to bake the souls of men in their own shells and by night almost freezing.

CHAPTER THREE

It was with dawn that Carl returned. He had needed the night in the desert to think and feel. Dominic had

done as he'd asked and had gone with Gus to their hotel. He was sleeping in Carl's bed, no great

surprise. Gus had opened one red eye when he'd come in and been told to go back to sleep, an order

promptly obeyed.

After taking a quick shower, Carl went out to breakfast. Until it was time for him to go to the

waterfront cafe he just walked. The sounds of the city washed over him: crying children, beggars,

muezzins calling out from their minarets for the faithful to come to morning prayer. He moved aside to

make room for a group of Coptic priests with tangled beards walking in orderly squads, swinging censers

of incense on their way to some place or other.

The appointed time found Langers at the same table as he'd been at the previous day with Gus.

Monpelier was relieved to find him sitting alone. Gus always made things so difficult.

"I am glad to see that you are on time, my friend. It is good. Fortunately, I have been most

productive and have most of the information we require, but more will be coming shortly." Carl nodded

for him to continue.

"It's as we thought. Sunni Ali has made his camp at Mt. Baguezane. The last word is that the boy

and girl are well. At his camp he has only perhaps forty armed men full time. The others are with the

animals or their families, but they can be summoned within an hour or two. At the massif Ali uses some of

the large caves for his strong-hold. They control three or four spring-fed ponds for their water. The

springs usually flow all year. From here to the massif we can go one of two ways: we can drive the whole

way or fly to the strip at Fort Laperrine in the Ahaggar Mountains, where I can have transport and

supplies waiting. From there it is not far to the Talak Air Plains and stronghold of our friend Sunni Ali and

his Azbine tribesmen. Getting out, well, that leaves us with the same problems. By ground or by air?"

They spoke around the attentions of the waiter and passing customers. "What about the other men?''

Carl asked. "If it's as you say, then we are going to need at least nine or ten more. I found Dominic

yesterday and will be taking him. Do you have any others in mind that we can get?"

Monpelier removed a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "I have already found ten more. Like

you and your friends, they are all former legionnaires or combat-experienced men. I think they will do

quite well for our purposes."

He handed Langers the list and leaned back while it was read. Refolding the paper, Langers handed

it back to Monpelier.

"I think you're right. I know a couple of the men on your list; they are good. And if the others are

just as good then we should have no problems. Now what about equipment? We'll need a bit of

everything just for contingencies."

Monpelier ordered a coffee and cakes. His stomach was beginning to rumble a bit. "I can get almost

anything you need. Just make up your list. But let us take things in order. What is your first requirement?''

Langers leaned forward. "More information. I want pictures of the massif, more info on the

background and history of Sunni Ali and the time frame we have to work in.

"As for what transport we need, this is the way I think we should approach it at this time. We'll fly

into Fort Laperrine, but only to refuel. First we'll send a few of our men on ahead with the vehicles.

They'll meet us in the desert as close to Baguezane as we can get without spooking any-one. If we pulled

into any of the villages in a group, the Tuaregs would know of it im-mediately. We'll take all weapons and

heavy gear with us on the plane. There are plenty of salt flats out there that can be used as a landing strip.

We'll have the advance party select one and notify us by radio which one we are to use.

"Once the advance party gets clear of the Ahaggar Mountains, they shouldn't have any problems

getting out to . . .1 would say some-where . . . ," he searched his memory, "to some place between

Tarazit and the oasis at Bilma. Dead between them are several places suitable for our purposes. Also,

that would put us in back of Mt. Baguezane. We may want to go after the boy and girl that way. Sunni

Ali would most probably not expect a rescue to come at him from the Tenere Desert. Get me all the

photos you can on the area and just what section of the moun-tain he is keeping his camp in. That might

change a few things as far as equipment is concerned."

Monpelier agreed. He gave the impression that he had just started putting things together in the last

couple of days when, in truth, he had been on the job for the last three weeks. And most of that had been

spent in gathering intelligence for just such an operation. "Very good, my friend. I will meet you at

Ghudamis in three days. At that time I will bring the rest of your team with me. With your agreement I will

go ahead and arrange for air transport to be waiting to take us to Fort Laperrine."

Carl agreed, glad that they wouldn't have to make the 2,000-kilometer drive out there.

Taking another envelope from his jacket pock-et, Monpelier handed it across the table, "in here are

what salient facts you may need about the hostages and a profile of Sunni Ali, or at least as much as I

was able to find out. The Tuaregs, as you know, are a most secretive people. I wish that I had a photo

for you but then, it wouldn't do much good since the Tuaregs nearly always keep their faces covered. But

he does wear a distinctive jellaba, the traditional cloak, and has gray-blue eyes much like yours."

Rising from the table Monpelier said, "Well, that is all I have for now. Three days, then, and I will

see you in Ghudamis. Stay at the Hotel Saharienne. You might be able to pick up some more current

information as to what conditions prevail among the Tuareg tribes. I know that you did have some

contacts among some Berbers and Arabs in that area. Perhaps they will know some-thing."

Langers rose with him. There was no longer any need to sit there in the heat of the day. "All right.

Three days. And bring more money. We'll need to have it for the unexpected expenses that always arise.

And bring me at least ten thousand in gold. The contacts I used to have all had one thing in common, they

like the sound of gold better than paper."

Carl left with Monpelier. Outside the cafe Monpelier handed him a set of keys.

"These are yours. There is a red and white Land Rover at the end of the block. It is fully equipped:

extra gas cans, water, some rations, blankets, etc. Just what you need for the trip to Ghudamis. I didn't

include any weapons. They come later. I don't want you caught with anything that could give the

authorities any reason to detain you. I presume you still have some money left. So I'll leave you here."

Langers had thought about taking one of the local buses to Ghudamis. It was with relief that he now

had an alternate form of transport. Bus travel in North Africa was an experience most would much rather

do without.

At the hotel he rounded up Ciardello and Gus. "Get your things while I pay the bill. We're moving

out. Monpelier got back to me in a hurry, so it looks like a go."

Gus stuffed his few belongings into an over-sized musette bag. Dominic had had his ready to go

since the previous night. Neither asked where they were heading till they were settled in the Land Rover

and on the way out of Tunis.

Dominic looked around him and then at the mountains in the distance. "Where are we head-ing?"

"Ghudamis for now. From there we'll just have to see. Monpelier will join us in three days with the

rest of the team."

Traffic was sparse. There were only a few buses, which were jam-packed with people and animals

ranging from goats to chickens. More common were carts pulled by weary donkeys and small,

thin-haired horses. Their masters urged them along loaded for the marketplaces with heaps of dead

wood gleaned from the mountainside to be used as fuel for cooking fires. The only change Carl could see

in the carts from 500 years past was that some of them had on old truck or automobile tires instead of

wooden wheels.

They had to take the coastal road through Sfax, then around the Gulf of Gabes to the border of

Libya. They were eyed with suspicion as they passed over the border, the numbers of their vehi-cle

carefully noted to be passed on later. Carl had decided to take the route that was the better road, in fact

the only road. There were trails they could have taken to intercept the road from Tripoli to Ghudamis, but

that could have taken them two or even three days to travel. Ghudamis was on the Tunisian side of the

border nestling at the point where Tunisia, Libya, and Algeria joined. He figured that they might as well

get it over with as far as passing through the border was concerned. Guards at heavily trafficked sites

were not nearly as jumpy as those in the more isolated regions. Once they had the Libyan stamp on their

passports, it should help them if they ran into any problems before reaching Ghudamis.

Monpelier had it about right. It would take them two days to reach their destination if they didn't run

into any problems, and in this part of the world it was a rare excursion when you did not. At Sabratha

they took a trail south to intersect the road from Tripoli. They had passed three military patrols since

they'd crossed the frontier. The looks they'd received from the crews made Carl uneasy. Best to play it

safe.Fifty kilometers on a donkey trail and they picked up the main road. By then night was full on them.

Carl and Dominic switched places, leaving Gus in the back to eat on dates and figs they had picked up

from a roadside vendor. At the village of Nalut they spent the night, taking the vehicle into an enclosed

area that served as a patio for the hostel. Theirs was the only motor vehicle in evi-dence.

Inside they were greeted profusely by the owner, a man with Arab features. Not unusual, this was

one of those places where the Bedouin Arabs' and the Berbers' lands merged. Most of the clientele were

Arabs who kept to themselves. They sat in small groups sipping their tea or coffee mixed with cardomon,

a spice which Arabs have a great fondness for.

The common room was a spare area with a fireplace at the sound end of one wall for cooking.

Raised areas for eating rimmed the room which was lit by coal oil lamps. Electricity was fifty kilometers

to the south and would have been too expensive if it had been available.

Carl called the innkeeper over as Gus went to inspect what was cooking on the spit over the coals in

the fireplace. Dominic looked around uninterestedly.

"We want one room for all of us," Carl told the innkeeper. "And I would advise against any-one

getting too close to our vehicle. It would upset me terribly if anything were wrong with it tomor-row." His

fingers dug into the muscle running from the neck to the shoulder of the tavern master. "We do

understand each other, do we not?"

"Oh yes, effendi. It is most clearly under-stood. I have great love for the English and the French. All

will be well. Please be at ease. I give you my word."

Carl released the pressure. "Very well. But if things are not as you say, I will take from you more

than your word. Now show me to our room."

Calling Gus away from the fireplace, they fol-lowed the innkeeper up to the second floor and were

shown into a room with two cots and a wash basin, nothing more.

"This is the best in my establishment, good sirs, the very best. But there are three of you. Will you

not wish another accommodation?"

Carl pushed him out the door. "No! This will do."

Gus looked around and opened the window to let in some air. From their window they could see

the Land Rover parked close to the wall. "Why just one room, Carl?"

"Because, you great ape, we are going to take turns staying with the Land Rover so we know it will

be there in the morning. You and Ciardello go and bring our things in. I'm going to hit the rack first,

seeing as how I did most of the driving. Dominic, you and Gus settle on who takes first watch in the Land

Rover."

Carl was asleep before they made it to the Land Rover and back with their gear. He opened one

eye when they came back in, then closed it im-mediately after first looking out the window at the night.

He didn't want to go to sleep with the face of Gustaf Beidemann as the last thing he saw. It was just too

depressing.

Gus graciously took the job of sleeping in the Land Rover. After all, he could sleep anywhere as

long as he had a full stomach, and he 'd seen to that by taking half of the goat the innkeeper was

pre-paring for his other six guests with him as a midnight snack.

Several of the hotel guests had looked with lust at the Land Rover, knowing its worth. When the

shock absorbers groaned under the weight of Gus as he climbed in, and was obviously not going to

leave, there were several silent moans of frustra-tion. None would go near the Land Rover this night, not

unless they wanted to use guns and that would wake the city.

The trio was on the road at dawn, not waiting to take breakfast. They preferred their own cold

ra-tions to the fare of the inn. All ate except Gus, who slept peacefully until they were another fifty

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CASCA#016DesertMercenarybyBarrySadler__________________________________________Charteredition/February1986ISBN:0-441-09336-1Copyright©1986byBarrySadlereBookscanned&proofedbyBinwiped12-9-02[v1.0]CHAPTERONETunisstillborethescarsofWorldWarII.Intheharborthehulksofdeadshipswereservingasbreakwaters.Fromth...

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