Mack Reynolds - The Best Ye Breed

The three vehicles, when underway, looked like a gypsy caravan, with pots, pans, jerricans, tires, tents and a multitude of other necessities bound everywhere there was an empty space. The jeep was monopolized by the officers and Meg, and ten of the mercenaries occupied each of the trucks. There was ample room; the vehicles were large as desert trucks went.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir,” Lon said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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