Mack Reynolds - The Best Ye Breed

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

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

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

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

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

Meg laughed at that last one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They stirred a bit, but no one answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned and headed back for his chair.

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