Mack Reynolds - Border, Breed Nor Birth

The colonel said stiffly, “This is military information which I am not free to discuss, Mr. Ostrander.”

Fredric Ostrander went on, his voice still even. “We have further been informed that the Reunited Nations has withdrawn its ban on aircraft, which would seem to free your paratroop-carrying planes.”

The colonel remained silent, waiting for the bombshell. It was obvious that he expected a bombshell.

Ostrander said, “As representative of the State Department I warn you that if these paratroop-carrying planes take off tomorrow morning, the Seventh Airfleet of the United States of the Americas will enter the conflict on the side of El Hassan. Good evening, Colonel.”

The C.I.A. man reached out and flicked the switch that killed the set. Then he took the snowy white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and wiped his mouth.

Isobel said, “Heavens to Betsy.”

Kenny said indignantly, “Good grief, you fool, it won’t take more than hours for your superiors to repudiate you. Then what happens?”

“By then, I assume, the battle will be over and Tamanrasset in El Hassan’s hands. The Arab Union will then think twice before committing their paratroopers, particularly with captured armor in El Hassan’s hands.”

“And your name will be mud,” Kenny blurted.

Ostrander looked at Homer Crawford. “Gentlemen, you must remember that I, too, am an African. I had thought that perhaps there would be a position for me on El Hassan’s staff.”

Crawford reached for the Tommy-Noiseless that leaned up against the improvised desk at which he worked. He said, “Let’s get moving, Bey. We haven’t much time. We’re going to have to be able to announce its capture from Tamanrasset in a couple of hours.”

“Not you,” Bey said, grabbing up his own weapon and motioning with his head for Kenny and Cliff to come along. “You’re El Hassan and can’t be risked.”

“I’m coming,” Homer said flatly. “It’s about time El Hassan began taking some of the same risks his followers seem to be willing to face. Besides, the men will fight better with me out in front. Got a gun, Fred?”

Ostrander said, “No. Where am I issued one?”

“I’ll show you,” Homer said, stuffing extra clips in his bush jacket pockets. “Come on, Dave.”

The whole group began heading for the open air, Bey already yelling orders.

Fredric Ostrander looked at Dave Moroka. “Strange bedfellows,” he said.

Moroka grinned wryly. “My long view hasn’t changed,” he said. “It’s just that this African matter takes precedence right now.”

“Nor mine, of course,” Ostrander said. He cleared his throat. “However, I hope you last out the night. El Hassan needs strong men.”

“Same to you,” Moroka said gruffly. “Let’s get going, or the fight will be over while we hand each other flowers.”

El Hassan stood in the smoking, war-wasted ruin of Fort Laperine, his mind empty. The body of Jack Peters was ten feet to his left, burned beyond recognition and crumpled over a flame thrower which he’d eliminated in the last few moments of the fighting. Had he let his eyes go out the gun port before which he stood, it might have been possible for El Hassan to have picked out the bodies of David Moroka and Fredric Ostrander amidst those of the several hundred Haratin serfs who had swarmed out of the souk area at the crucial moment and stormed the half-manned fort—unarmed save for knives and farm implements.

To his right, Dr. Warren Harding Smythe supervised two Tuareg who were carrying off the broken body of Kenny Ballalou; there was still faint life in it.

The doctor looked at him. “You are satisfied, I assume?”

El Hassan failed to hear him.

Smythe turned and stomped off, following his impressed nurses.

In the distance, Bey-ag-Akhamouk called hoarse orders from an overstrained throat, placing guns for a counterattack that would never come. The Arab Legion was broken and Colonel Ibrahim a prisoner. Large numbers of the survivors were defecting to the banner of El Hassan.

He threw his empty Tommy-Noiseless to the side. All he wanted now was sleep, the surcease of a few hours of oblivion.

Isobel, her face wan from the horror of the agony of the combat whose result was everywhere visible, was picking her way through the wreckage with Cliff Jackson.

El Hassan looked at her absently. Whatever message she bore held little interest to him.

Cliff said, “India has recognized El Hassan as legal head of state of all North Africa. It is expected that Australia will follow before the week is out.”

El Hassan nodded, for the time not caring.

Isobel said, “We have other word. It came by messenger.” She closed her eyes in pain and handed him a small box.

He opened it and recognized the ring on the enclosed finger. He looked up at them.

Cliff Jackson growled low in his throat. “Elmer Allen. He’s been captured by a leader of the Ouled Touameur clan of the Ouled Allouch tribe. You know this Abd-el-Kader?”