The Sahara Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  "Anything out there?" Amadeo startled me. He had the next shift.

  "Nah, lots of stars though, looks like the sky is on fire doesn't it."

  "No moon so far, last night we only had a thin crescent."

  "Almost dark of the moon. Kind of spooky. Sorta reminds me of old ghost towns back home." I sighed. "Kind'a expect a legionnaire to walk around the corner any minute."

  "You okay? Dylan told me about you and…"

  "Oh man, you gotta help me out on this thing. I 'm not sure what she's up to. She runs hot and cold. Believe me, I need to keep clear of her, I got responsibilities now."

  After a long pause, he said, "What do you want me to do? It's not like—"

  "Hey — do you hear that?" A low-pitched drone reverberated through the night air.

  Amadeo cupped a hand to his right ear. "Sounds like an airplane."

  "Sure does. Kind of eerie though, hard to tell how far away it is."

  We stood in silence and continued to scan the dark night sky. The buzz grew more distinct, a piston engine, sounded like an older type.

  I said, "May be twin engine, must be a flight between Tam and Djanet."

  "Sort of late for a regular flight don't ya think?"

  "Yeah, you're right." Then it hit me. "I don't see any lights. Whatever it is should be displaying navigation lights … green, white, and red."

  "Easy to lose 'em in all the stars. The sound carries farther in the desert, he could be too far away."

  "Maybe, but we should at least detect movement." The noise passed overhead, and I took the binoculars and scanned the sky for a full minute. "Nothing. Don't see nothing. I'm going to hit the sack and try to get some sleep. Roger said we got another long hard day tomorrow." I handed him the Mosin-Nagant and binoculars, then turned to go back inside.

  Amadeo called, "Wait."

  "What?"

  "A flicker … there it is again." He raised the binoculars and focused on the sky. "Something's up there."

  I strained, squinted, my eyes tired and sore from the sun. Then a glimmer in my peripheral vision, I refocused. "Saw it. You got—"

  "Hell, it's a chute." He panned the glasses. "No there's two of them." He scanned the sky, searched again for the first sighting.

  Parachutes. A sudden realization — danger. You just don't jump out of a perfectly good airplane over the Sahara at night unless you have a reason. And we were the only reason. Hells bells its about to get hot.

  Amadeo shouted, "Go wake everybody. We need to set up a defensive perimeter."

  Before I had a chance to respond, a scream shredded the stillness of the night — Alix. A shot rang out, a pow-woah sound I recognized as coming from a Tokarev. Then a second shot. That's from inside the building. What the hell's happening. A third shot, different, more like a 9-mil, echoed through the mud walls — The Makarov —another shot — then silence.

  I approached the door and peeked in. The lantern cast a dim light over the room. Dylan kneeled close to the entrance Makarov in hand. Goulon and Roger lay on the floor. Alix hunkered up on her sleeping bag. Tauzin sprawled on the dirt beside her.

  A second later, Amadeo rushed to my side and aimed the rifle at Dylan. "Drop it. Don't try anything or you're dead."

  Dylan complied and pitched the pistol on top of his gear. "Not what you think Mate." He glared at Alix. "Tell him."

  She rose and moved away from Tauzin's body. He appeared to be dead, a red dot centered on his forehead. She trembled, her voice quivered, "He tried to kill us."

  I asked, "Who?"

  She pointed. "Tauzin … He grabbed me in my sleep and threatened me with his pistol." She buried her face in her hands and gasped for breath.

  Dylan responded, "That's right. He stayed up listening to his radio with his headset on. Then, I heard a scream. He had Alix with a pistol to her head. Roger and Goulon were facing him without their weapons. Goulon tried to rush him and Tauzin fired. Roger was right behind him and took one, that's when I pulled out my Makarov. No one, not even Roger, knew I had it. I don't—"

  Amadeo broke in, "We got bigger problems outside. We spotted two chutes coming down. Someone's trying to come in on us doing a HA-HO." I knew HA-HO meant high-altitude-high-opening, a type of jump where the jumper uses the chute to sail to his target.

  "Bloody hell — the little bastard must've been waiting for 'em." Dylan motioned to Alix. "See to Roger. We're gonna be busy outside." He grabbed the rifle from Amadeo and we followed him to the main gate.

  Amadeo pointed. "They were coming down over in that direction, should be on the ground by now."

  "Righto and I bet they heard the gunfire." He pointed to the top of the column by the gate. "I'm going to climb up there. Ruiz, take a position up on that redoubt. Brannan, take a position right inside the opening. Lie low and don't fire until you see a target. Those pop-guns ain't the best for this, so go full auto when you're ready and keep shooting till they go down."

  Amadeo waved for me to go and I slinked over, hugging the building as I went. At the corner, I kneeled and stretched out on the ground, trying to take a prone position with the awkward handling pistol.

  Who are these guys? — If they were good enough to parachute in on us, gotta be pros. — Tauzin — what was he up to? — He had to be in contact with the plane. Must be more than a coincidence he pulled his stunt just as these guys showed up. — Gotta stop thinking and keep my eyes and ears open.

  No movement only silence. I started to get antsy, about to change positions when a shot rang out from the roof. The sharp discharge from the Mosin-Nagant echoed through the compound. Dylan's spotted someone.

  A yell — seemed close — a blast of full auto — chat-chat-chat-chat-chat-chat-chat — unmistakably an AK-47 — the muzzle flash lit up the night. I held my fire, so did Amadeo.

  Dylan fired again, the intruders responded, spraying the walls. Specks of dry mud peppered my face as rounds hit too close for comfort. — Silence, then another burst of AK. We waited without firing and then a shout — someone yelling in French — no answer. We waited. Despite the cold, I was sweating.

  I recoiled, startled as another round of AK fire split open the night revealing two shadowy figures barreling through the faint starlight, zigzagging towards the opening into the fort. I tried to relax, control my breathing, and take aim. A shot from above — one figure disappeared — Dylan got him.

  Amadeo opened up and I followed. The Škorpion's clacked away like a couple of typewriters. The second man spun to the ground. I dropped the empty magazine and popped in the backup. We waited — the intruders might be playing possum. Minutes passed in complete silence, the only sounds, my gasping breath and rapid heartbeat.

  Dylan called, "Ruiz go check em' out. I'll cover. Brannan, stay with him a few meters behind."

  Moments later Amadeo rushed towards the direction the shots came from. I bounded up and followed. Two dark objects lay on the gravel. Amadeo raised a hand for me to halt. He approached the bodies. I stepped aside to cover him. He nudged the first body with his boot, then the second. He knelt and checked for a sign of life.

  "Clear. They're both dead. I'll check em—"

  "Don't use your torch," called Dylan, "we can't be sure there's not more of 'em."

  The thought hadn't occurred to me, saw only two chutes, but there could be more. I scanned the area. The night was still almost pitch-dark, even with the bright starlight. Every rock out to the horizon held the prospect of being another intruder.

  Amadeo motioned towards the AK's on the ground. "Help me with these weapons. We don't want to leave them out here."

  "Did you find an ID or anything?"

  "No and we're not going to. These guys knew what they were doing." He paused. "At least up until the last minute"

  "Go inside and check on Roger. I'll keep watch. Check back with me in thirty," ordered Dylan with an authoritative tone. Once the trouble started, Dylan took charge. Amadeo, being a pro, understood and did his part without questioning. I felt l
ucky to be alive.

  Inside, Alix was kneeled over Roger trying to stem the flow of blood from his left shoulder. He was conscious. His eyes registered a sign of faint recognition as Amadeo bent over to examine him.

  Amadeo ordered, "Ross, get the medical kit. Alix, take his shirt off. I need to inspect the wound."

  She asked, "Are you trained?"

  "Yes. We don't have time to talk, just help me." Amadeo was a qualified combat medic, part of his training in the Air Force.

  I helped turning Roger over and examined the exit wound. "Looks like the bullet went straight through."

  Amadeo smiled, "Roger, you're a lucky man. The Tokarev round penetrated clean. Judging from the location on your shoulder, I don't think there'll be major damage — Hey, Roger — He's passed out again, lay him back down and I'll give him a shot of painkiller."

  While Amadeo busied himself with wrapping up Roger's wounds, I inspected Tauzin and Goulon. A red spot decorated Tauzin's forehead and a bloody shirt betrayed a wound to the chest. Goulon, hit in the face, wasn't a pretty sight.

  I checked out a telltale chip in the wall and dug out a spent round, the one that passed through Roger's shoulder. I looked back, it lined up perfectly.

  Dylan mentioned Tauzin had been listening instead of sleeping and I decided to examine the radio. The dial wasn't set to our mission frequency, but I recognized the readout right away, an aircraft frequency for air-to-ground radio traffic. I flicked the switch and turned up the volume. The speaker emanated a steady stream of white noise with no audible transmissions.

  Amadeo finished with Roger and instructed Alix on what to watch for. I asked, "Think he'll be able to travel?"

  "Yeah, but he won't be comfortable. I'm going out to get some fresh air and spell Dylan. I'll fill him in on Roger's condition."

  Moments later, Dylan entered and hurried over to examine Roger. He bent down, checked his pulse, opened his eyelids, and stood. "He did a good job, couldn't have done better myself."

  The radio crackled, an unmistakable Australian accent cut through the air, "Air to Ground — Over."

  I asked Dylan, "Could that be Harry Dawson?"

  "Air to Ground — Over."

  He responded, "Right-o mate, dead-on."

  "Air to Ground — Over — SitRep — SitRep — Over"

  "Sounds like he's getting impatient." I rushed out and yelled to Amadeo, "Do you hear anything, like an engine?"

  "Negative."

  I walked back in, trying to think of the best way to respond.

  "Air to Ground — SitRep — SitRep — Over."

  I grabbed the microphone, squeezed the transmission button, scraped the face of the mike across my shirt, repeated, and released the button.

  "Clever," said Dylan. He understood what I was trying to do.

  Alix chimed in, "I do not understand."

  "If he doesn't get a response, he'll get suspicious. We don't know if they have a protocol and don't know what he expects to hear. When I drag the mike, it sounds like some sort of interference or malfunction."

  Dylan grinned. "Where you learn that trick?"

  "We used it in the Army when we didn't want to respond to our sergeant. Worked too."

  "Air to Ground — Say again — Say again — Over"

  I repeated the process twice more before he gave up.

  "Air to Ground — Unable to read your transmission — Proceed as planned — Out."

  I asked Dylan, "Proceed as planned, what you think that means?"

  "They most likely intended to kill us all and drive out with the Land Rovers. Or he could come back at daylight and fly 'em out."

  "Yeah, the ground is flat enough to land about any sized plane. Think we should hang around and find out?"

  Dylan grimaced as he thought it over. He kneeled and inspected Roger's wound. "We shouldn't move him so soon. With those AK's we have enough firepower." He stood and headed for the door. "I'll go talk with your partner, see what he thinks."

  I asked Alix, "How are you doing?"

  She gave a nervous laugh. "What do you think? He had his pistol at my head. I thought I was going to die. He collected the other's weapons as they slept." Her voice trembled. "If it wasn't for Goulon—" She took a deep breath and walked away.

  I wanted to comfort her but didn't dare — enough dangerous activities for one night. I switched off the radio and began to examine Tauzin's things. A thorough search turned up nothing, except his switchblade. I pocketed the knife, a fine Italian made model. He wouldn't need it in hell.

  Amadeo returned. "We think it'll be best to hang around for the night. Roger's out-cold and driving in the dark would be too risky. Besides, we couldn't get far."

  "What's the plan?"

  "We'll check out the stiffs at first light, load'em up, and bury them down the road. Don't leave them here for some traveler to find."

  "Yeah, let's hope someone don't arrive tomorrow before—"

  Alix broke in, "What about Goulon?"

  "Seems cold-blooded to bury him with the others."

  Amadeo shook his head. "No choice, he'd understand, I'm sure."

  "Yeah, I guess so." I could tell he was thinking about The Rasta Man, his partner when we first worked together in Ethiopia. We had to abandon his body in the southern Sudan after rebels killed him. I know they like to say no man left behind, but sometimes there's no alternative.

  Sunday, 5 October 1980, Tasilli n'Adjjar, Algeria

  The sun peaked over the horizon at 0620. After a few hours' sleep, we were ready. The Land Rovers repacked and topped off with fuel. The bodies moved into the compound and loaded on the hoods of the vehicles.

  Roger's condition improved. Amadeo said he would be all right if we took it easy. Roger, still groggy from the painkiller shot, agreed, and told us the piste to Fort Gardel was not as rough. However, he advised against going into the town, deeming it safer to avoid contact with the authorities. We spread out our red Michelin Map 153 and plotted a route skirting to the south. By the time we left, no aircraft had shown up. We kept a careful eye to the sky never the less.

  An outcropping of volcanic rock protruded from the desert floor about five miles down the piste. We buried the dead in a large dune between two black hills. Dylan guessed one of the men was Russian, as evidence by his steel dental work, and the other Southern European or North African. They had no identification.

  Out of respect, we interred Goulon away from the others. I said a prayer and we observed a moment of silence. I suggested firing a salute, but Dylan reckoned we might need the ammo.

  The sun was high when we approached our intended halfway point for the day, the outpost of Fort Gardel, seventy-five miles from Serouenout. Dylan turned due east down a dry riverbed about ten miles southwest of the fort. A couple of miles later we turned back to the northeast and drove across open country until we encountered the massive dunes of the Erg d’Admer.

  "Bloody hell," uttered Dylan as he stepped out of his Land Rover. "We can't cross this. We'll get bogged down and they'll never find us."

  I agreed, the dunes appeared to be several hundred feet high and we had no hope of crossing them. I asked Roger, "What now? We can't go into that stuff."

  "Turn back north," he examined the map, "we should find the piste in about ten kilometers. We are past the fort and the road will be much better."

  "Hope you're right." I palmed the compass over the map and pointed in the right direction. I told Dylan, "That way. Roger says they got cold beer in Djanet."

  "If I believed you, we'd be there by now."

  Roger managed a grin. "He is right. Cold beer is available for the tourists."

  Dylan boomed, "Bloody hell, let's go."

  * * *

  Roger was right, the track improved — not good, just better. We made excellent time as we headed southeast between a long line of black volcanic mountains on our left and the giant sand dunes of the Erg to our right. Roger suggested we pull off and camp for the night before venturing into Djanet
. We needed to figure out a new course of action.

  I still wanted to try for an intercept but didn't have a clue how it was going to happen. Harry Dawson would be looking for his men. If he saw us, the game would be up. Then there was Roger. I was still unclear how his condition might affect our options.

  We ate a cold meal, not risking a telltale fire, and turned in early. Alix chose a spot on the far side of the camp. Dylan took the first watch.

  I was almost asleep when the idea came to me. If we could pull it off, the mission could be saved.

  18 ~ The Plan

  Monday, 6 October 1980, Outside Djanet

  The genesis of the new plan rattled through my brain. Excitement coupled with the bone-chilling temperatures of another cold night made for a long restless ordeal. All I had to do was convince everyone the scheme could succeed. Amadeo would agree. I counted on that, but the rest of the crew: Do I need them? It'll work. It's the only chance I have.

  At first light, someone nudged my sleeping bag with a boot. "Come on Ross, were leaving." Amadeo stood over me, a sleepy grin on his face. I squinted at the others, already up, their gear packed and ready to go.

  "Let's get moving, we'll find something to eat in town," ordered Dylan.

  I rolled out of the sack and yelled, "Hold everything. We need to talk."

  "We'll talk later," snapped Dylan in an emphatic tone with an undercurrent of finality.

  "No, I'm taking charge. This mission is still on."

  An incredulous Dylan turned away, took a couple of steps, and spun around. "We don't have time for—"

  "The mission's still on. I have a plan." I shouted to Roger. "What do you say?"

  He started to speak, but hesitated, his appearance tired and painful.

  A thought occurred to me, one at the back of my mind ever since we landed in Algeria. "Okay Roger, tell me, what's this whole thing about. You keep saying you're going to tell us.