Mack Reynolds - The Best Ye Breed

Rex Donaldson, El Hassan’s Minister Without Portfolion, as he had named himself, in dismay at the work piling up, had headed south for Dagon country where he had operated before, on the excuse that the tribes there weren’t coming over to El Hassan fast enough.

Isobel had found it necessary to take over command. Jimmy Peters was a workhorse but hadn’t the capability to make firm decisions, and Doctor Smythe was fully occupied with his medical problems.

No, it was a matter of Isobel, as the secretary of the supposedly temporarily withdrawn El Hassan, to assume direction. It was piling up so fast that she couldn’t even remember the names of these two young men who were now looking at her, waiting to be told what to do. One was Donald something or other; but the other?

She had turned over the greeting of the flood of newcomers to Jimmy Peters and he was assigning them as rapidly as possible to tasks within whatever abilities they laid claim to. Most likely, upon Homer’s return—knock on wood—there’d be a lot of switching around, but meanwhile they were doing their best.

The foreign delegations and newsmen, including Tri-Di TV cameramen, were temporarily at loose ends. She refused to make decisions involving them until El Hassan’s return from his alleged seclusion with his viziers.

But now, there was commotion out on the parade ground. She came to her feet wearily and said to her two aides, both of whom were manfully trying, with little success thus far, to figure out just what it was they were supposedly doing, “Carry on, fellas. I’ll check out what’s cooking.”

She left by the door that led onto the parade ground and put a hand over her eyes to shield them from the glare of the mid-day sun, after the comparative dimness of the office.

Approximately fifty of Guémama’s camel corps and two of the weapon carriers, liberated from the Arab Union, had filed in through the gates, accompanying a jeep and two desert lorries. In the jeep were seated four whites, including a woman, and a black driver who wore, of all things, a bedraggled green beret.

Isobel walked out aways and waited for them.

The stranger vehicles came to a halt and some twenty men issued forth from them. They were in a wide variety of desert uniform and half carried advance model rifles, and the other half submachine guns.

The occupants of the jeep also climbed from their vehicle and the green bereted black one barked commands. The soldiers lined up, in two lines of ten men apiece, those with rifles in the front, those with submachine guns to the rear. They were efficiently snappy in their drill. The black stood to one side of them and snapped another command and they all came to salute.

Guémama’s camelmen had formed a semi-circle behind the newcomers and now the young Tuareg chieftain came up to Isobel on his white hejin camel, struck in smartly with his mishab stick, struck it smartly again and barked the usual Adar-ya-yan . The camel was not quite to the ground before he nimbly jumped off and saluted the American girl.

“ Aselamu, Aleikum, Sitt Izubahil,” he said.

Isobel knew that Homer’s chosen leader of the Tuaghi forces wasn’t quite sure just where she stood with El Hassan. Whether she was his wife, or concubine, or simply one of his most intimate associates. Vizier, certainly she could not be. As all men knew, never had there been a woman vizier. Yet, before his leaving, El Hassan himself had made it clear to Guémama that until his return, the Sitt Isubahil’s word was as his own as she was to be obeyed by all followers.

Isobel nodded to him and said, “ Salaam Aleikum , O Guémamaa, mokkadam of El Hassan’s most faithful. And what transpires?”

The three white men from the jeep had taken their place before the two lines of soldiers. One, in advance of the other two, bore a swagger stick, nothing more. The others had side arms, the holsters buttoned. The young woman stood a bit to one side of them. The men were at attention.

Guémama said in Tamaheg, “Verily, it is strange. One of my goum patrols of twenty came upon them as they advanced down the way from In Salah. They offered no resistance and allowed themselves to be captured.”

“ Wallahi!” Isobel said. “And what do they will, O Guémama?”

The Tuareg warrior shrugged hugely. “They do not speak Tamaheq, O Sitt Izubahil. Few of the Roumi do, as each man knows.”

Isobel nodded and looked at the lead stranger.

Guémama stepped one yard to the left and rear of her.

Sean Ryan marched forward, came to a halt before her, tucked his swagger stick under his left armpit and saluted, British style.

He said, “ Parlez-vous Francois, Mademoiselle! ”

She took him in for a long moment and finally said, “Yes, however, you may speak English, if you would rather. Your Irish accent is somewhat overpowering.”

She was by far the most attractive woman that he had seen thus far in North Africa. He grinned in self-deprecation, saluted again and said, “Major Sean Ryan. At your service, Miss…”

“Cunningham. Isobel Cunningham. And your companions?”

Sean half turned and looked at Raul, Bryan and Meg. They came forward, the two officers marching perfectly. They stopped a few yards off and came to attention again.

Sean said, “Doctor Megan McDaid, Captain Bryan O’Casey, Captain Raul Bazaine. I introduce you to Miss Isobel Cunningham.” He raised his eyebrows at Isobel. “Of El Hassan’s staff?”

“That is correct,” Isobel said, without even a nod at the introduction. She looked cooly at Sean Ryan. “And why do you come to the headquarters of El Hassan, fully armed?”

“To offer our services.”

She took him in, her eyes narrow. Finally, she said, “This sun is unbearable. We’ll discuss it inside. Meanwhile, your men cannot bear arms in Fort Laperrine, nor in the vicinity of Tamanrasset.”

Raul Bazaine made an about face and called, in French, which was the language most common to the mercenary company, “Ground arms!”

Isobel turned to Guémamaa and clipped out a few words in Tamaheq.

He said, “ Bilhana !” and turned and called an order to the suspicious camelmen who had watched all this, weapons in hand.

A score of them dismounted and began disarming the mercenaries, who stood, empty-faced, and offered no resistance.

Guémama himself went forward and relieved the two captains of their sidearms.

Sean said, with all courtesy, “Is there some place my men can be sheltered? As you say, the sun…”

Isobel frowned. She said, “Tamanrasset is not a large settlement. Hundreds of premature newsmen, trade delegations, diplomats and recruits to El Hassan’s banners have been descending upon us. All facilities in Tamanrasset are filled to capacity. Many are living in tents, or in the vehicles, some of which are trailers or campers, in which they arrived. It is quite chaotic. The fort, here, is reserved to the officials and forces of El Hassan. However, for the time, I suggest that your men and their vehicles retire to the shade of the former non-commissioned officer’s mess, over there.” She pointed. “They will be guarded but otherwise free to bring forth their cooking equipment and prepare food. I assume you are short of fresh provisions. You may have delegated two of your men to go into Tamanrasset and to the souk to purchase food—under guard.”

She turned to Guémama and gave instructions and then turned back to them. “And now will you follow me?”

Bryan O’Casey went over quickly to Lon Charles and spoke to him briefly, then turned and hurried after the others who were heading for the administration building. The two camelmen at the portals saluted as Isobel and the four strangers passed into the interior. Guémama brought up the rear and, as he passed, took the submachine gun from the hands of one of the guards.