by Anthology
Bey, who had settled down into a folding camp chair, now came to his feet, his tired face angry.
But Homer waved him to silence. "Hold it," he said. Then to Ostrander. "It doesn't work that way. It's not something you decide to do because you're thirsty for power, or greedy for money. You're pushed into it. Do you think Washington, a retired Virginian planter wrapped up in his estate and his family, wanted to spend years leading the revolutionary armies through the wilderness that was America in those days? He was thrust into the job, there was no one else more competent to take it. Men make the times, Ostrander, but the times also make the men. Look at Lenin and Trotsky. Three months before the October Revolution, Lenin wrote that he never expected to see in his lifetime the Bolsheviks come to power. Within those months he was at the head of government and Trotsky, a former bookworm who had never fired a gun in his life, was head of the Red Army and being proclaimed a military genius."
Ostrander was scowling at him, but his face was thoughtful.
Homer said quietly, "It's not always an easy thing, to have power thrust into your hands. Not always a desirable thing." His voice went quieter still. "Only a short time ago it led me to the necessity of ... killing ... my best friend."
"And mine," Isobel said softly, almost under her breath.
Dave Moroka said, "Abe Baker," before he caught himself.
Kenny Ballalou looked at him strangely. "Did you know Abe?"
The South African recovered. "I've heard several of you mention him from time to time. He was a commie, wasn't he?"
"Yes," Homer said without inflection. "And a man. He saved my life on more than one occasion. As long as we worked together with only Africa in mind, there was no conflict. But Abe had a further, and, to him, greater alliance."
He turned his attention back to the C.I.A. man. "A man does what he must do," he finished simply. "I did not ask to become El Hassan."
Ostrander said, "Your motivation is possibly beside the point. The thing is that the battle for men's minds continues and your program, eventually, must align with the West."
"And get clobbered in the stampeding around between the two great powers," Kenny said dryly.
"You've got to take your stand," Ostrander said. "I'd rather die under the neutron bomb, than spend the rest of my life on my knees under a Soviet Complex government. Wouldn't you?" His eyes went from one of them to the other, defiantly.
Homer said slowly. "No, even though that was the only alternative, which is unlikely. Not if it meant finishing off the whole human race at the same time." He shook his head. "If it were only me, it might be different. But if it was a matter of nuclear war the whole race might well end. Given such circumstances, I'd be proud to remain on my knees the rest of my life. You see, Ostrander, you make the mistake of thinking the Soviet socio-economic system is a permanent thing. It isn't. It's changing daily, even as our own socio-economic system is. Even if the Soviet Complex were to dominate the whole world, it would be but a temporary phase in man's history. Their regime, in its time, right or wrong, will go under in man's march to whatever his destiny might be. Some day it will be only a memory, and so will the socio-economic systems of the West. No institutions are less permanent than politico-economic ones."
"I don't agree with you," Ostrander snapped.
"Obviously," Homer shrugged. "However, this is another problem. El Hassan deals with North Africa. The other problems you bring up we admit, but at this stage are not dealing with them. Our dream is in Africa. Perhaps the Africans will be forced to taking other stands, to dreaming new dreams, twenty or thirty years from now. When that time comes, I assume the new problems will be faced. By that time there will probably be no need for El Hassan."
Ostrander looked at him and bit his lip in thought.
It came to him now that he had never won in his contests with Homer Crawford, and that he would probably never win. No matter how strong his convictions, in the presence of the other man, something went out of him. There was strength in Crawford that must be experienced to be understood. When he talked, he held you, and your own opinions became nothing--stupidities on your lips. He had a dream, and in conversation with him, all other things dropped away and nothing was of importance but that dream. A dream? Possibly disease was the better word. And so highly contagious.
[Illustration]
While they talked, an aide had entered and handed a report to Bey-ag-Akhamouk. He read it and closed his eyes in weariness.
"What's up, Bey," Homer asked.
"I don't know. Colonel Ibrahim has stepped up his attacks in all directions. At least two thirds of his force is on the offensive. It doesn't make much sense. But it must make sense to him, or he wouldn't be doing it."
Ostrander said, and to everyone's surprise there seemed to be an element of worry in his voice too, "I know Colonel Midan Ibrahim, met him in Cairo and in Baghdad on various occasions. He's considered one of the best men in the Arab Legion. He doesn't make military blunders."
Bey said, "Come on, Kenny. Let's round up Guémama and take a look at the front." He led the way from the tent.
* * * * *
There was a guard posted before the tent which doubled as press and communications center, and the private quarters of David Moroka.
The figure that approached timidly was garbed in the traditional clothing of the young women of the Tégéhé Mellet tribe of the Tuareg and bore an imzad in her left hand, while her right held a corner of her gandoura over her face.
The guard, of the Kel Rela tribe, eyed the one-stringed violin with its string of hair and sounding box made of half a gourd covered with a thin membrane of skin, and grinned. A Tuareg maid was accustomed to sing and to make the high whining tones of desert music on the imzad before submitting to her lover's embrace. Wallahi! but these women of the Tégéhé Mellet were shameless.
"Where do you go?" he said gruffly. "El Hassan's vizier has ordered that he is occupied and none should approach."
"He awaits me," she wavered. There was kohl about her eyes, and indigo at the corners of her mouth. "We met at the tendi last night and he bid me come to his tent. It is for me he waits."
Wallahi! but his leader had taste, the sentry decided.
"Pass," he said gruffly. Even a vizier of such importance as this one must need solace at times, he decided philosophically.
She slipped past silently to the tent entrance where the Tuareg guard noticed she paused for a long moment before entering. He grinned into his teguelmoust. Aiii, the little bird was timid before the hawk.
She stood for a moment listening, and then slipped inside, dropping the desert musical instrument to the ground. Dave Moroka's back was to her and even as she entered he flicked off the switch of the video-radio into which he had been speaking and scowled at it.
When he stood and began to turn, she covered him with the small pocket pistol. She had an ease in handling it which denoted competence.
His eyebrows went up, but he remained silent, waiting for her gambit.
Isobel said evenly, "You're a Party member, aren't you, Dave?"
"Why do you say that?"
She nodded infinitesimally to the set. "You were reporting just now. I heard enough just as I came in."
He took in her disguise. "My guard isn't as efficient as I had thought," Dave said wryly.
Isobel said, "You knew Abe Baker, didn't you?"
He looked at her, expressionlessly.
She said, "I already knew you belonged to the Party, Dave. No matter how competent an agent, it's something difficult to hide from any other long-time member. There's a terminology you use--such as calling it the Soviet Union, rather than Russia. No commie ever says Russia, it's always the Soviet Union. You can tell, just as a Roman Catholic can tell a person raised in the Church, even though the other has dropped away, or even as one Jew can tell another. Yes, I've known you were a Party member for some time, Dave."
"And?" the South African said.
"Why are you here?"
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br /> Dave Moroka said, "For the same reason you are, to further the El Hassan dream, the uniting and modernization of the continent of my racial heritage."
"But you are still a Party member and still report to your superiors."
Dave Moroka looked at the tiny gun she held in her hand.
"Don't try it," she said. "I have seen you in action, Dave. I have never seen a man move so ruthlessly fast ... but don't try it."
"No reason to," he bit out. "Come on, let's go see Homer."
She was slightly taken aback, but not enough to release her control for even a split second. "Lead the way," she said.
* * * * *
Even at this time of evening, the headquarters tent was brightly lit and most of the immediate El Hassan staff still at work. Homer Crawford looked up as they entered.
Cliff Jackson saw the gun first and said, "Holy Mackerel, Isobel."
Fredric Ostrander was sitting to one side in discussion with the sober faced Jack Peters. He took in the gun and slowly came to his feet, obviously expecting climax.
Isobel said, "Dave's taking over control of communications had method. I just found him reporting to what must have been a superior ... in the Party."
Homer Crawford looked from the South African to Isobel, then back to Dave again, without speaking. His eyes were questioning.
Dave said, his voice sharp. "I haven't time for details now. Isobel's right. I was a Party member."
"Was?" Ostrander chuckled. "That's the understatement of the year. I hadn't got around to revealing the fact as yet, but our friend Dave is the notorious Anton, one of the Soviet Complex's most competent hatchetmen."
Dave looked at him only briefly. "Was," he reiterated. He turned his attention to Homer and to Bey, who was staring tired dismay at this new addition to the load.
Homer still held his peace, waiting for the other to go on.
"I found out tonight why Colonel Ibrahim is attacking, instead of pulling in his horns as reason would dictate." Dave paused for emphasis. "The Soviet Complex has thrown its weight, in this matter at least, on the side of the Arab Union. They have insisted that Sven Zetterberg be dismissed as head of the Sahara Division of the African Development Project and that his threat to use Reunited Nations aircraft if the local fighting spreads to the air, be repudiated."
Kenny blurted, "Good grief ... that means--"
Dave looked around at them, one by one. "It means," he said, "that the Arab Legion is going to be reinforced tomorrow morning by a full regiment of paratroopers."
"Holy Mackerel," Cliff groaned. "We've had it. Another regiment of crack troops in Tamanrasset and we'll never take the town."
Dave shook his head. "That's not the big thing. The paratroopers aren't going to drop in Tamanrasset. They're going to hit every oasis, every water hole, in a circumference of two hundred miles."
There was an empty silence.
Homer Crawford said finally, evenly, "In the expectation that every follower of El Hassan in the Sahara will either surrender or die of thirst, eh?" He didn't seem sufficiently impressed by the threatening disaster. He looked at Dave questioningly. "Why do you bother to tell us, Dave, if you're on the other side?"
Dave grunted sour amusement. "Because I've just become a full member of the team. I resigned from the Party tonight."
"Brother," Bey said, "you sure pick a helluva time to join up." He obviously was expressing the opinions of the majority.
Homer Crawford came to his feet and looked around at them. "All right," he said. "A new complication. Let's face up to it. There's always an answer. We're in the clutch, let's fight our way out."
Largely, they stared at him, but he ignored their dismay. He looked from one to the other. "We need some ideas. Let's kick it around. Isobel, Cliff, Jack, Kenny--?" His eyes went from one to the other. Obviously his own mind was churning.
They shook their heads dumbly.
Kenny said, "Ideas! We've had it, Homer!"
Homer Crawford spun on him and now the force they all knew was emanating from him. He laughed his scorn. "A month ago we were half a dozen fugitives. Now we're an army besieging a city. And you say we've had it? Listen, Kenny, if we have to we'll go back to being half a dozen fugitives again--those of us that are left. But the dream goes on! However, we're not going to have to. We're too near victory in this stage of the operation to sit down on the job because of a threatened reverse. Now then, let's kick it around. Jimmy! Dave! Kenny! Ostrander!"
Fredric Ostrander raised his eyebrows only slightly at being included in their number.
* * * * *
Bey, for once, was seemingly too exhausted to be brought to new enthusiasm. He tossed a detail map of Tamanrasset to the table. "And I'd just worked out a bang-up scheme for infiltrating into town, joining up with our adherents there, and seizing it while most of Ibrahim's men were out in the desert, trying to capture our nearer water holes."
Homer snapped, "It sounds like it still might have possibilities."
Ostrander looked down at the map, his face very tight. "How long would it take?"
Bey scowled at him, defeat dulling his mind. "What?"
"How long do you figure it would take to infiltrate Tamanrasset and capture it? Behind Ibrahim's back, so to speak."
Bey grunted. "A couple of hours in the early morning. I had a beautiful picture of the colonel's armor out in the desert, cut off from its petroleum supplies and ammunition dump while we held the town. Some of our men, the former veterans of the French West African forces, could have even operated the antitank guns he has mounted at Fort Laperrine."
The C.I.A. man's mouth worked.
Homer Crawford's eyes pierced him.
Ostrander walked over to the radio before which Kenny Ballalou sat. "See if you can raise Colonel Ibrahim for me."
Kenny scowled at him. "Why?"
"Do it."
Kenny looked at Homer Crawford.
Homer said, "O.K. Do it."
Kenny shrugged and turned to the set. While the others watched, Crawford's face alert, his eyes narrowed, the rest of them dull in apathy, the face of Colonel Ibrahim finally faded in on the screen.
Fredric Ostrander took his place at the instrument. He nodded, formally. "Greetings, Colonel, it seems a long time since last we met in Amman."
The Arab Legion officer smiled politely. "I had heard that you represented the State Department in this area, Mr. Ostrander, and have been somewhat surprised that you failed to make Tamanrasset your headquarters. It would have been pleasant to have renewed old friendship."
Ostrander cleared his throat. "I am afraid that would have been difficult, Colonel, particularly in view of the stand of my government at this time."
On the screen, the other's eyebrows went up.
Ostrander said evenly, "Colonel, we have just been informed that a regiment of paratroopers has been put at your disposal and that they plan to land at various points in the Sahara in the morning."
The colonel said stiffly, "This is military information which I am not free to discuss, Mr. Ostrander."
Frederic 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."
Epilogue
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.