by Gar Wilson
Even so, Katz had insisted from the start that the lethal baby buggy be towed. The FAV must be at peak efficiency when the Phoenix cavalry answered that first bugle call.
Now Keio Ohara crammed his lanky frame into the FAV. Salibogo, dogging him like a shadow, a chipmunk grin on his leathery brown face, piled in beside him. "Let's haul ass," Keio called.
"Haul ass," Salibogo parroted.
McCarter goosed the Land Rover's starter, and the rugged, four-wheel-drive vehicle roared. Once more Phoenix Force was under way.
For the next hour they passed through desolate desert. No one spoke, the total emptiness of the terrain — nothing but ridged, wind-feathered sandhills stretching to the end of the world, seemingly — pushing each man deeper into private, doubting thoughts. Memory of the massacre encountered at Abu Darash still haunting, they chafed for action.
The afternoon wore down. Twice before they reached Alliat the Land Rover got bogged down where the hardpan of the narrow goat path was overrun by drifting sand. Much grunting, lifting, shoving, digging — and a profound wealth of cursing — got them out each time. But each setback taught new respect for the desert.
The handless man was at last delivered to his relatives in Alliat. Phoenix Force began hasty backtrack, hoping to find a main road — ageless caravan trail — that would provide hard evidence that Black Cobra forces had passed this way.
It was cooler now. The raw desert night was before them. They could expect temperatures in the midforties before the sun once again showed its mocking, hell-hot face.
The best they made in that stretch was thirty miles an hour. The wind gradually died, and the eerie stillness of the desert served to further unnerve them. At this rate Blackwell would blow the Aswan, meet them on his way back.
The sense of futility built, a kind of catch-up urgency and tension gnawing to the marrow of their bones.
Ahead of them the towering dunes stretched forever, a vast storm-tossed ocean of sand, wave cresting on wave with silent, frozen, taunting crashings.
And, God, they thought. Should they somehow suffer miscue, get lost in this everlasting wasteland...
4
Jeremiah Blackwell had the citizens of Al-Rashad stirred to a fever pitch. Four hundred strong, they crowded in the village square, cheered every word of the new prophet's diatribe. Blackwell stuck with his pidgin Arabic, keeping his speech simple. When a public execution was promised within the hour, a simple speech was all the madman needed.
He was talking a universal language.
He was talking hate.
Today's victim was a grossly fat, bearded Libyan merchant who had lived in Al-Rashad for only six years. Captain Angel DeRosa, the Cuban advisor assigned to Blackwell, had fingered the merchant for this particular propaganda effort. Dedicated advance man for the schizoid black's traveling circus, DeRosa had been in the village twenty-four hours prior to the main force's arrival. And he had uncovered a perfect fall guy.
What crime had Amal Jazirah committed against his fellow townspeople? Merely the crime of being the richest man. And some of his riches had been acquired illegally. Somewhere along the line, he must have cheated every villager at least once.
Jazirah was trussed like a Christmas pig, his hands tied behind his back, ropes around his fat ankles. His turban askew, his clothes rumpled, he made a pathetic picture. Terror distorting his features, his eyes rolling pleadingly, his lips moved in whimpering entreaty every time there was pause in the black zealot's monologue. "I am innocent," he protested feebly. "I am an honest man. I have done you no wrong."
"You all know this man," Blackwell shouted. "You know that he has cheated you."
"Aywa, aywa," the villagers chanted. "Yes, yes."
"He has taken food from the mouths of your children," Blackwell prompted. "He has scorned and insulted your wives."
"He has stolen from us all," came the refrain led by shills deliberately placed in the crowd.
"He has taken improper liberties with your women?"
"Aywa," the crowd replied, surging forward in rage at the picture, totally false, that the black-uniformed officer so glibly painted. "Aywa. Let us have him. Let us kill him."
It was not as easy as all that. Poor Jazirah had a long way to go before punishment was meted out; Blackwell felt he must milk the moment of all possible emotion before he indulged their blood lust. He accused the sweating, cringing merchant of selling tainted food, of molesting children, of scorning the High Days. Blackwell said he was like all the rich, like all the white devils who backed him; he was heartless and cruel, he was an exploiter of the poor. He would not be happy until he had bled them all of every last piaster they owned.
"The white man," Blackwell raved, his voice rising to ragged pitch, "he is the cause of all our suffering. The white man must go. He must be toppled, killed, ground into the dirt."
"Aywa, the white devil must go," the crowd bellowed, the death fever mounting.
"That is why I have come." Blackwell smiled persuasively when the clamor subsided. "I have come to save you, to save Africa. Africa will once again become yours. Africa for the black man, not the white man.
"I am on a mission to the east," he went on, as if sharing a special secret with them. "But when it is finished, I will come back here. I will help you to fight the white man. Together we will defeat him. This country... your birthright... will be returned to you, the rightful owners."
So it went for the next half hour, Blackwell whipping the ignorant mob to a screaming frenzy. One moment his focus was on Africa's glowing future, the wealth each of them would acquire once the white man was vanquished. Next he vented his hatred on the cowering merchant, until the two issues became one, and the mob virtually swayed in a trance.
Somewhere along the line Blackwell craftily injected his main pitch, the recruitment of fresh troops for the Black Cobras. The pitch brought, as expected, a marked decrease in crowd fervor. Back to Jazirah's crimes. Back to a free Africa, an Africa in which they would all be rich, vested with many concubines.
Then, finally, the crowning stroke. "What would you have me do with this filthy bloodsucker?" he raged. "How shall he be punished?"
The usually docile and gentle citizens of Al-Rashad, caught up in the spell of a master of mob psychology, went amok. No punishment was too extreme now.
"Chop his head off. Cut off his hands. Disembowel him. Hang him." The suggestions came at rapid-fire pace. Blackwell knew he finally had them in his control.
Blackwell was nothing if not a man of his word. The hangman's rope appeared, the terrifying, long panga was produced and the thin pokers were plunged into the charcoal braziers that had been waiting from the outset. Bellows wielded by Black Cobra bullies turned the tips white-hot.
A table was lifted onto the platform where Jeremiah Blackwell and the sobbing, hyperventilating Libyan merchant were standing. His soldiers carried Jazirah to the impromptu torture rack. As he was untied, as he realized what they were going to do, the fat man screamed hideously and fouled himself before the chanting throng.
''For black Africa!" Blackwell bellowed, hyping the frenzied dementia. The machete came down with a vicious smash, and the man's left hand shot across the table, fell into the dust where it was retrieved by a babbling, wild-eyed citizen.
"For black Africa!" The fingers of Jazirah's right hand went hopping across the tabletop. Quickly the bully boys affixed tourniquets to each arm; the sacrificial cow must be made to last.
Before the dragged-out bloodfest was over, the man's eyes were put out and his tongue was pulled from his mouth with long-handled tongs. Finally, his throat was slit — Jazirah was long dead now — and the required bowl of blood was drawn. Blackwell ordered that what was left of the mutilated body should be hung by one foot in the top of the village's lone baobab tree.
Then came the grand gesture. "To black Africa," Blackwell intoned. The compound became deathly silent. Making great, slow show, raising the silver bowl of blood to the crowd, then to h
is lips, he drank the blood. When the bowl was empty, he smilingly faced the crowd.
Instantly his troops fell to one knee in the sand, forced all nearby natives to do likewise. "Blood Doctor," the low, spooky chant commenced. "Hail, all hail. Blood Doctor..."
Blackwell waved the mesmerized mass to silence. "Where are the brave patriots of Al-Rashad?" he boomed, his voice a stirring battle cry. "Where are there twenty brave enough to fight at my side?"
At least fifty of the men in the square surged forward. Blackwell's lieutenants moved in and began singling out the more ablebodied, the youngest.
Shortly twenty-two males were cut from the jostling herd, escorted to their huts to gather personal belongings. They were then taken to a marshaling area and put under heavy guard; they would change their tune once the hysteria wore off. But by then it would be too late.
Later, as General Blackwell strolled through the village, congratulating the natives for the brave sacrifice they had made, he was joined by Captain DeRosa, the Cuban watchdog. "You were brilliant, General," he enthused, "absolutely brilliant. I have never seen you in such good form. You had them totally hypnotized. They were putty in your hands. Now if only the Aswan situation can be executed as brilliantly."
Blackwell glowered, a dangerous light clicking on behind his eyes. "You bastard," he snapped, his vehemence causing DeRosa to edge away from him. "I'll hold up my end of things; that pile of concrete is going down. If that fucking Castro kept his word half as well as I keep mine..."
"I meant no offense, General Blackwell. I..."
"No big deal," Blackwell snorted, wandering off.
It was 1940 hours and the desert dusk was at hand. Freshly bathed, shaved and wearing a clean uniform, Blackwell was coming down from the day's extreme high. Scarce as water was in the desert, he insisted on his daily bath and a fresh uniform. Tonight it was the royal blue, with gold fringe across the shoulders and chest. He wore a flamboyant peaked garrison cap — the Black Cobra insignia emblazoned in silver and black on one side — even though he sat indoors.
The cleanliness fetish, the love of gaudy uniforms — these were but a few of the Blood Doctor's quirks. Others would be revealed before the night was over.
Though he had already downed several stiff snorts of the Dewar's Scotch that was always kept stocked in his quartermaster trucks, he was still restive. Seeking some extra outlet to confer peace of mind, he let his thoughts drift to the lovely girl they had snatched at that last village. Blackwell was no womanizer; but tonight there was a need. He summoned Major Ochogilo.
"That babe you've got stashed away for me," he said. "Nobody's touched her, have they?"
"No, General," the fat clown reassured effusively. "Of course not. No one would dare. Your direct orders."
"Good. Get her cleaned up. Put some decent clothes on her. Deliver her here in exactly one hour."
The exotic, dusky-complexioned twenty-year-old beauty with the haughty eyes was named Nemtala — this much Blackwell had bothered to learn in the interim.
Her lustrous eyes were wide with fear as Ochogilo led her into Blackwell's quarters; her mouth was drawn to a thin, tense line. But still, even though she knew full well what to expect from him, she did not cower or cringe.
The gauzy, mint green, sarilike garment she wore emphasized her tawny coloring. And though the rustling gown concealed her lithe figure, it provided an aura of mystery, enhancing her desirability. Regarding her silently, gloating over the life-and-death power he held over the exquisite girl, Blackwell felt quick, itchy stirrings in his belly.
It would happen very fast. He was in no mood for games.
"I'm told that you speak English," he said finally.
"Yes, effendi," she replied in hushed tones, her eyes darting nervously. "I learned at a Christian mission school."
He sipped at his Scotch. He indicated the bottle.
"No," she said. "My religion forbids it."
"Never mind. I can do enough drinking for both of us. Enough everything for both of us." His snicker was ugly. "You know why you're here, don't you?"
She dropped her eyes. "I believe so, sir. To the victor belongs the spoils..."
He chuckled. "I think we're gonna get along just great. I can use a smart woman to keep me company once night comes on. Treat me right, and you'll make out okay. Plenty okay. Enough of this shit. Over here, Nemtala."
Nemtala swayed in place, her face registering a mixture of loathing, shame and terror. She made a brief survey of the room, as if seeking an escape route. Then, as suddenly, her expression went empty, stoic. Moving like a robot, she started toward him.
Blackwell chuckled throatily and began blowing out the candles in the room. Again seated in his chair, the girl standing in stolid resignation before him, he began to run his hands over her body.
Nemtala hissed, jerked. She fought to stifle the tears, to swallow her cries of protest. There was nothing she could do. He would kill her if she fought him. It was the end for her.
Her tragic fate.
Blackwell grasped her by the hips, forcing her to kneel before him. He began opening his trousers.
His hands closed on her shoulders, forcing her forward. When she whimpered, fought to pull away, his fingers dug into her flesh like talons, sending a fireball of pain shooting through her.
The helpless girl forced her mind to go blank. She surrendered, let herself be forced to the vile act.
Her night in hell was begun.
* * *
She was unconscious by the time Blackwell was finished with her. Checking her pulse to see that she was still breathing, he smiled in the darkness. It was a forced smile. Deep inside, the man was suffering a rare torment of guilt.
He groaned and pulled further away from Nemtala. Yet fight the filthy pictures suddenly flashing on the screen of his brain as he might, he could not exorcise them. No, he raged. Please, not again.
Blackwell ducked his head, jammed the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if to physically obliterate the memories once and for all.
But they would not go away.
Once again he was a nine-year-old boy in Alabama, heading home from his backwoods school, with Marva, his eight-year-old sister in tow. Once more the three white-trash bullies, the boys all sixteen or older, were upon them, dragging them into the woods. Once more they were forcing him to undress, ripping away Marva's clothes as well.
They hit him again and again, twisted his arms, forced him to do sick things to his sister.
The remembrance of how they had made him rape Marva cut through his brain with jarring, cauterizing fury. He groaned, writhed in the tangle of his bedroll.
It had become his and Marva's secret. They had never mentioned that afternoon to each other again. The secret had gone to Marva's grave with her when she was killed in a school-bus crash in 1969.
As for Blackwell, he had managed to keep it stored in his subconscious. But sometimes the horror escaped.
With a muffled curse, he heaved himself up from the floor. "Ochogilo!" he roared as he pulled on his trousers and moved to light a candle. The man appeared, his smile turning sly as he appraised the crumpled, nude figure in the corner.
"Get that bitch outta here," Blackwell spat. "Outta my fucking sight. Have a party with her if you want. When you're finished, get rid of her. I don't ever wanna see her again."
"Thank you, General," he snuffled as he gathered Nemtala up and began edging from the hut, her body hanging limply in his arms. "A thousand thanks..."
The swarming bats were shrieking and fluttering inside Blackwell's brain again. He wanted to howl, to roll on the floor.
Instead he fell back onto the stool before the primitive table. He courted oblivion as he began knocking back shot after shot of Scotch.
5
Nemtala's eyes slowly opened. She shuddered, sucked in a quick breath. She realized she was no longer in the general's quarters; and the man forcing himself on her was not Blackwell.
Heart-searing despair
slammed her. The total enormity of her degradation threatened to crush any last, lingering remnants of sanity. She did not want it to end with every man in the Black Cobra army using her.
No, she thought, recoiling. In the name of Allah, no! I won't let them do this to me. I will fight them. I will scream and claw and...
But she did nothing of the kind. Instead she sank back in despair, allowing the fat, wheezing slug to continue his exertions over her. She struggled wildly to focus her thoughts, to arrive at some reasonable escape plan.
"So," Ochogilo snickered, never pausing for a moment, "the pretty little whore is awake? She finds that she enjoys being serviced by a real man? Jayed, jayed. It is good."
The man's breath, the reeking odor of his unwashed body almost did Nemtala in. Her stomach tipped; her head spun. Somehow she maintained control. But then, as she realized that Ochogilo had not even bothered to remove his clothes, she was further revolted. The pain, the hard object digging into her side, with each new thrust... She slid her hand upward, to move the hard case or buckle away.
Her brain whirled as her fingers closed on what was the hilt of a short field knife, still nestled in its sheath. For a moment it seemed she could not breathe. As her fingers tightened on the weapon, the plan formed in her mind.
Ochogilo stirred as he felt her touch. "The haughty maiden begins to feel excitement?" he chuckled. "She finds that she needs a man after all? Yes, my pretty. Enjoy."
Nemtala sighed, feigning passion, letting her hands slide around his sweaty back, pressuring him to move faster.