Mack Reynolds: The Best Ye Breed

They were led to the conference room where Isobel had originally interviewed them.

Inside the door, to the wall at one side, was Guémama, armed with a Soviet PPPSh submachine gun. As before, it was not only cocked but the safety was off.

At the heavy table were seated five men, all in khaki uniform, and Isobel Cunningham, notepad and ball pens at hand. There was no doubt which of the group was El Hassan. His personality dominated even before he said a word.

They were all seated side by side at the table, Isobel down a bit. One of the five, not El Hassan, motioned them to chairs opposite and they sat themselves. Isobel Cunningham performed introductions.

Homer Crawford looked at them appraisingly and they could feel the strength of him.

He said finally, “Miss Cunningham has told me of your proposition. I won’t waste time. We are not interested. In the first place, it would be a slap in the face of our present loyal bodyguards to hire whites to replace them. And the word would soon spread throughout the Sahara. Secondly, although as bodyguards you might be more experienced in a large city than my tribesmen, I rather doubt that in the erg or on the reg your troopers, inexperienced in desert warfare, would be as efficient as Guémama’s Tuaghi. You’d be out of your element.” He hesitated, before adding, “But there is a third matter.” He turned to Kenny Ballalou. “This is my Vizier of Security.”

Kenny took in the three silent soldiers of fortune and said, “The El Hassan movement has differences from other revolutions that have taken place in recent decades in Africa. In a sense, we’re an international movement. There are few major cities in the world that do not contain educated blacks who are in sympathy with El Hassan’s cause.”

The three of them looked at him unblinkingly. Bryan O’Casey wanted to reach for his pipe, but didn’t. Sean Ryan wished that he had a drink. Raul Bazaine touched with a forefinger his perfect mustache.

Kenny looked at a paper before him. “Field Marshal Bey-ag-Akhamouk was rather surprised at one aspect of your appearance. “You arrived in three vehicles which were in excellent condition, though not quite new. You also arrived well equipped with arms and all other supplies needed to operate in the desert. Your story to Miss Cunningham was that you had pooled your resources to purchase this equipment.“

He looked at them momentarily, then back to his paper. “It seemed unusual to the Field Marshal for a group of mercenaries to have such resources. Traditionally, they are financially strained and must be equipped by he who hires their services.”

Sean began to say something, but then shook his head and held his peace. There was obviously more to come.

Kenny Ballalou went on. “So I put out feelers and backtracked, winding up in Algiers, where most of the equipment was purchased. Algiers is currently to North Africa what Lisbon was to Europe during the Second World War, the espionage-counter-espionage center. Needless to say, we have friends and followers there. They were put to work. The name Saul Saidi was come upon. It was he who financed your expedition. His name and reputation are not unknown throughout the Near East and North Africa. It is not a name that inspires confidence. For some time now he has been in the employ of the Arab Union.”

Kenny put his paper down and turned his eyes to Homer Crawford.

Homer looked at Sean Ryan and said, his voice expressionless, “I suggest that you gather your men, Major, and leave immediately for Algiers. There are a good many journalists and other representatives from various world powers in this vicinity. We do not wish to give them the excuse for reporting sensational news from Tamanrasset, particularly any news involving clashes between my people and Europeans.

“Your equipment will all be returned to you. My adherents will be notified by radio of your passing through our country, but though they will keep you under observation, you will not be molested, if you do not deviate from the road. That will be all… gentlemen.”

The three mercenaries stood, their faces empty and Major Ryan began to say something.

Homer shook his head. “That will be all.”

Guémama, though he couldn’t understand the language, now came even more to the ready, his weapon half raised, his eyes alert.

Just as the three reached the door, Megan McDaid came through it.

She looked at Bryan and said crisply, “I’m remaining. I’ve discussed it with Isobel and Doctor Smythe. They need me. They need any doctor who’s really sincere about helping North Africa.”

All three of the white mercenaries were staring at her, Bryan obviously completely flabbergasted. “But… but…”

She said definitely, “El Hassan was hesitant, but both Isobel and Dr. Smythe put in their support. I’m staying.”

Her lover put out one hand, as though in supplication, “But Meg… why?”

She looked at him and then the other two, making no effort to keep contempt from her eye. “Possibly because I have met El Hassan and his colleagues and was impressed by them. Possibly because of a bit Kipling once wrote.”

Bryon O’Casey’s stare was blank.

She recited:

“Take up the white man’s burden, Send forth the best ye breed.”

They didn’t know what she was talking about.

Meg said bitterly, “Are you three an example of the best my race can breed to send to help North Africa?”

She turned her back to them and marched over to the conference table and stood behind Isobel’s chair, her eyes closed.

Homer gestured with his head, and Guémama gestured with the muzzle of his gun.

The three mercenaries went out, Bryan weaving, each of his companions taking him by the arm.

Outside the administration building, Bryan said to Sean desperately, “What can we do?”

But it was Raul Bazaine who answered curtly, “Nothing.”

“We can’t leave her here,” he pled. “With those niggers.”

Their twenty men were standing about the tents, waiting.

Bazaine snapped in command, “On the double. Break camp. We’re moving out!”

The twenty moved at disciplined speed, no immediate need to have the urgency explained to them.

While Bryan stood there, breathing deeply, completely disorganized, Sean said to one of the hurrying men, “Where in the name of the Holy Mother is the sergeant?”

“He’s not around,” the man said back, and hurried on.

Sean groaned and turned to Raul Bazaine. “Hustle them up. I’ll go to our quarters and get our gear.” He left at a trot for the non-com billets.

Bryan grabbed the Frenchman by the arm. “We can’t leave Meg!”

Bazaine smiled reassuringly and said, “Come along. I’ve got something to show you.” He led the way to the back of one of the desert lorries. “In there,” he said, reassuringly again.

Scowling puzzlement, Bryan O’Casey pulled the canvas curtain back and peered into the interior. The Frenchman clipped him neatly on the back of the neck in a practiced karate blow and Bryan crumbled.

Bazaine said in French to two of the men who came up lugging a section of tent, “Put him in the back and tie him securely. Too much sun, without doubt. A touch of cafard .”

They looked at him questioningly, but obeyed. He went back to supervise the loading of the trucks.

Guémama, accompanied by a double dozen of his men, and looking unhappy at the orders he was fulfilling, came up and turned over the weapons that had been confiscated from the white men when they had first made their appearance. The equipment included the breeches of four machine guns.

Sean returned from the billets, carrying three duffle bags. “Where in the hell’s that damned sergeant?”