Mack Reynolds: The Best Ye Breed

“I ought to. I found the place.” He came over and pointed it out. “It’s a little less than two miles north of town. Good terrain for a stand.”

“How are they armed?”

Bey said, “Half automatic rifles, half submachine guns. Four heavy machine guns.”

“No mortars?”

“Not that I know of.” Bey looked at Lon Charles.

The veteran mercenary shook his head. “No mortars. We considered them but didn’t think they’d look right for bodyguards.”

Homer nodded at that and said, “That helio-jet. Is it armed?”

“I never seen it,” Lon told him. “The officers did, but I didn’t. But it’s big enough to carry the whole bunch, so it’s probably big enough to have a coupla guns.”

“Or bombs, for that matter,” Bey said, scowling.

“All right,” Homer said. “We’ll go in similarly armed. We could, of course, stay back and lob mortar shells into them. Or even bring up a couple of the field pieces we captured from the Arab Union. But that wouldn’t look so good to the TV cameras.”

“For that matter,” Cliff said. “We’ve got some light tanks and armored cars. Now, that’s the way I figure wars should be run. You dash around in a tank while the other guy’s got nothing but a rifle.”

Homer grunted at him. “We’ll take our two flac rifles in to counter their machine guns and anything that might be in the aircraft but otherwise we’ll be armed the same way they are. Bey, start getting it organized.” He looked back to Lon Charles. “How good a man is this Major Sean Ryan?”

“The best,” Lon said flatly. “I never fought under him but I know his rep. He’s probably had more experience than any fighting man alive. But we got one thing going for us, far as he’s concerned.”

“What?” Kenny said.

“I left four bottles of cognac in his jeep. He’s a rummy.”

At that moment, Sean Ryan took another pull at the bottle he held in his hand and eyed the twenty soldiers of fortune gathered before him and Raul Bazaine. “You know most of the story,” he said. “But not all. Our employer expected us to carry out this assignment thinking on our feet, pulling it off any way we could.”

A big German snarled. “We boshed it. We didn’t make our play. We should have rushed that building they were in.”

“Without arms?” Bazaine sneered.

“We could have seized arms from the wogs, taken them unawares!”

Sean Ryan held up a hand. “Saul Saidi knew something like this might develop, that we might not get a chance to cut El Hassan and his people down with standard weapons. So he gave us an ace in the hole. Captain, get those rifle grenades.”

Raul headed for the nearest truck.

Sean looked about the area they were in. It was almost like an arena, somewhat rectangular in shape. The perimeter was somewhat elevated, the center a depression in which the helio-jet could sink, out of line of fire while landing and taking off.

He said, “All right. Three men each on the machine guns.” He indicated: “We’ll spot them there, there, there and there, on each point of this rectangle. Dig in but good and keep improving your entrenchments until they come up on us. If this comes to a fire-fight, they might bring in mortars or even artillery. We’ve got to last until the aircraft gets here. Portion out all of the ammunition between the four guns. We’re not going to be able to send runners back to the trucks after the action’s been joined.”

He took another heavy slug from his bottle, ignoring the resentful, thirsty, longing looks on the faces of the men.

He said, “The other eight men will dig in, with their rifles, two to a side. So far as we know, they don’t even know we’re here. We’ll wait until we spot the helio-jet coming. Then we’ll use our secret weapon .”

“What secret weapon?” the Frenchman who had confronted Lon Charles back in Algeria said, obviously voicing the unhappy thoughts of them all.

“We have a way of knocking out Fort Laperrine and Tamanrasset, taking El Hassan and his gang with them. Now, get your equipment, including your canteens, and especially your entrenching tools.”

They began moving off, to follow orders, muttering among themselves about the mysterious secret weapon. Sean Ryan returned to the jeep to get a fresh bottle. His instincts told him that this wasn’t going right.

Captain Raul Bazaine came up, his handsome face white. “That goddamned nigger,” he said. “That goddamned nigger.”

The mercenaries stopped and turned back to listen. Sean Ryan stopped twisting the top off his new bottle.

“What’s the matter?” he rasped.

“The cannister of mini-fission grenades—it’s gone. He’s the only one, besides us, who knew where they were, and what they were.”

The major closed his eyes in resigned pain. He finished opening the bottle and tilted it up. When he took it away from his mouth, he said, his voice on the slightly blurred side, “Where in the hell’s Captain O’Casey?”

“Tied up in the back of that lorry,” Bazaine gestured with his hand. “He wouldn’t have stood for using the grenades with his damned female pig there in the fort.”

“Turn him loose,” Ryan said wearily. “We can use every gun.”

His eyes went about the men and he said emptily, “The sergeant took the secret weapon. We’ve come a cropper. It’s our lives now. We’ve got to hold out until the aircraft gets here.”

The aggressive German said, “We can surrender.”

Bazaine laughed bitterly. “To Tuaghi?” he said. “You don’t know these Forgotten of Allah.” He turned and headed for the lorry to release Bryan O’Casey.

El Hassan lowered his binoculars and said to Lon Charles sourly, “You certainly know your terrain, sergeant. It looks as though that rectangle was bulldozed out especially for the purpose.”

“Sorry,” Lon said. “At the time I dint know I was going to be in on the party going up against it.”

Homer Crawford turned to the collected photographers. He said, “This should be the best covered action since the Normandy invasion. I hope the hell you’re well equipped with long range tele-photo lenses.”

They were, with binoculars as well. One American TV man lowered his and said, “There’ve probably been some photographic advances since you took your last snapshot, Professor Crawford.”

Kenny Ballalou, who had one of the heavy flac rifles over his shoulder and a Tuareg behind him carrying two cannisters of ammo for the deadly weapon said, “His Excellency is addressed as El Hassan,” and was ignored.

Homer said, “At least I hope you’re knowledgeable enough not to get in the line of fire. I wouldn’t want to see any of you take a hit.”

A French still-photographer, two Nikkon-Leicas around his neck, said laconically, “Some of our best have taken hits before, Professor. How are you going in?” He looked back over Guémama’s camelmen, all now on foot.

Homer said, “The Field Marshal will give you a rundown. He’s the tactician.”

Bey took over, pointing. “Our big job is to get the flac rifles close enough. We’ll work in toward that northern point of the rectangle. That’ll mean only one of their machine gun emplacements will have a clear line of fire. That other one on the west will be able to be brought to bear somewhat, but not as efficiently.”

“Suppose that they bring up one or more of their other guns?” a Britisher from BBC said, not taking his glasses away from his eyes.

“They won’t,” Bey told him, still staring out at the field where they were shortly to commit themselves. “It’ll never occur to them that we haven’t brought more men to bear than their own number. Major Ryan is an old hand. He’ll even suspect our attack is a feint. He’s got to keep the whole perimeter covered. Right now, they’re sweating blood; afraid of tanks, afraid of artillery, afraid of mortars. Guémama’s men will act as skirmishers, fanned out and advancing a few yards at a time, from cover to cover. They’ll try and keep the mercenaries pinned down so we can advance the flac rifles the same way. A flac rifle doesn’t have the range of those heavy machine guns but once it gets in, it’s more destructive. In spite of my protests, El Hassan will participate with one of the flac rifles. Vizier of Security Ballalou will carry the other. You men had better figure out your locations for your cameras. We’re moving in immediately.”