Sahara

by Clive Cussler

  Pitt nodded. "It stands to reason that once Kazim wises up to our end run, and his search patrols spot our wheel tracks traveling south to the railroad, he'll realize our objective was to hijack a train."

  "The Malians are smarter than I gave them credit for," Levant admitted. "Now we're trapped with no means of communicating our situation to General Bock."

  Pembroke-Smythe cleared his throat. "If I may suggest, sir. I would like to volunteer to make a dash toward the border to meet up with the American Special Forces team and lead them back."

  Levant looked at him sternly for a moment. "A suicide mission at best."

  "It may well be our only chance at getting anyone out of here. By taking the fast attack vehicle, I can be over the border inside of six hours."

  "You're optimistic, Captain," Pitt corrected him. "I've driven over this part of the desert. Just when you're traveling at speed across what looks like a flat dry plain, you drop 50 feet off a slope into a ravine. And there is no traveling through sand dunes if you expect to make time. I'd say you'll be lucky to hit Mauritania by late tomorrow morning."

  "I intend to travel as the crow flies by driving on the railroad."

  "A dead giveaway. Kazim's patrols will be all over you before you've covered 50 kilometers, if they haven't already set up blockades across the tracks."

  "Aren't you forgetting our lack of fuel?" added Levant. "There isn't enough gas to carry you a third of the way."

  "We can drain what's left from the tanks of the personnel carriers," Pembroke-Smythe said without a sign of retreat.

  "You'll be cutting it a mite thin," said Pitt.

  Pembroke-Smythe shrugged. "A dull ride without some risk.

  "You can't go it alone," said Levant:

  "A night crossing of the desert at high speed can be a risky business," cautioned Pitt. "You'll need a co-driver and a navigator."`

  "I have no intention of attempting it alone," Pembroke-Smythe informed them,

  "Who have you selected?" asked Levant.

  Smythe looked and smiled at the tall man from NUMA, "Either Mr. Pitt or his friend Giordino, since they've already had a crash course in desert survival."

  "A civilian won't be of much help in a running fight with Kazim's patrols," warned Levant.

  "I plan to lighten the assault vehicle by removing all armor and weapons. We'll carry a spare tire and tools, enough water for the next twenty-four hours, and handguns only.

  Levant thought out Pembroke-Smythe's mad plan carefully in his methodical way. Then he nodded. "All right, Captain. Get to work on the vehicle."

  "Yes sir."

  "There is, however, one other thing."

  "Sir?"

  "Sorry to put a crimp in your escapade, but as second in command, I require your services here. You'll have to send someone in your place. I suggest Lieutenant Steinholm. If I remember correctly, he once drove in the Monte Carlo Rally"

  Pembroke-Smythe did not attempt to conceal the expression of disappointment on his face. He began to say something, but saluted and hurried down the ladder to the parade field without a word of protest.

  Levant looked at Pitt. "You'll have to volunteer, Mr. Pitt. I do not have the authority to order you to go:"

  "Colonel," Pitt said with the barest of grins, "I've been chased all over the Sahara in the past week, came within a. millimeter of dying of thirst, been shot at, steamed like a, lobster, and cuffed in the face by every unsavory scum I met: This is the last stop for Mrs. Pitt's boy. I'm getting off the train and staying put. Al Giordino will go out with Lieutenant Steinholm."

  Levant smiled. "You're a fraud, Mr. Pitt, a sterling, gilt-edged fraud. You know as well as I it's sure death to remain here. Giving your friend a chance to escape in your place is a noble gesture. You have my deepest respect."

  "Noble gestures are not part of my act. I have a thing about leaving jobs unfinished." Levant looked down at the strange machine taking shape under the protection of one wall. "You mean your catapult."

  "Actually, it's sort of a spring bow."

  "Do you actually think it will work against armored vehicles?"

  "Oh, she'll do the job," said Pitt in a tone of utter, confidence "The only unknown is how well."

  Shortly after sunset, the hurriedly filled sandbags ante makeshift obstructions were removed from the main gate and the massive doors opened. Lieutenant Steinholm, a big, blond, handsome Austrian, strapped himself behind the wheel and received his final instructions from Pembroke-Smythe.

  Giordino stood beside the stripped down dune buggy and quietly made his farewells to Pitt and Eva. "So long, old buddy," he said to Pitt, forcing a tight smile. "Not fair me going instead of you."

  Pitt gave Giordino a quick bear hug. "Mind the pot holes."

  "Steinholm and I'll be back with beer and pizza by lunchtime."

  The words were empty of meaning. Neither man doubted for a second that by noon the following day the fort and everybody in it would be only a memory.

  "I'll keep a light in the window," said Pitt.

  Eva gave Giordino a light kiss on the cheek and handed him a small package wrapped in plastic. "A little something to eat on the road."

  "Thank you." Giordino turned away so they couldn't see his watering eyes and climbed in the attack vehicle, his smile suddenly gone, his face taut with sadness. "Put your foot on it," he said to Steinholm.

  The Lieutenant nodded, shifted gears, and jammed his foot on the accelerator. The dune buggy leaped forward and shot through the open gate, roaring into the fading orange of the western sky as its rear wheels kicked up twin rooster tails of dust.

  Giordino twisted in his seat and looked back. Pitt stood just outside the gate, one arm around Eva's waist. He lifted a hand in a gesture of farewell. Giordino could still see the flash of Pitt's devilish smile before the trailing dust closed off all view.

  For a long minute the entire combat team watched the dune buggy speed across the desert. Their reactions ranged all the way from a weary kind of sorrow to resigned acceptance as the vehicle became a faint speck in the gloom of dusk. Every hope they had of surviving went with Giordino and Steinholm. Then Levant gave a quiet command and the commandos pushed the doors closed and barricaded the gate for the final time.

  Major Gowan received the report he was expecting from a helicopter patrol that followed the tire tracks of Levant's convoy to the railroad where they disappeared. Further reconnaissance was called off because of darkness. The few aircraft of the Malian air force equipped with night vision equipment were grounded for mechanical repairs. But Gowyan did not require additional search and recon missions. He knew where his quarry was hiding. He contacted Kazim and confirmed his assessment of the situation. His delighted superior promoted him to Colonel on the spot and promised decoration for meritorious service.

  Gowan's part in the operation was over. He lit a cigar, propped his feet on his desk, and poured a glass of expensive Remy Martin cognac he kept in his desk for special occasions, and this was indeed a special occasion.

  Unfortunately for his Commander-in-Chief, General Kazim, Gowan's canny perception and powers of deduction were turned off for the remainder of the operation. Just when Kazim needed his intelligence chief most, the newly, promoted Colonel had gone home to his villa beside the Niger for a holiday with his French mistress, oblivious to the storm brewing across the desert to the west.

  Massarde was on the phone listening to an up-to-date report by Yerli on the progress of the search. "What's the latest word?" he asked anxiously.

  "We have them," Yerli announced triumphantly, taking credit for Major Gowan's farsighted intuition. "They thought they could outfox us by reversing their escape route and heading into the Malian interior, but I was not to be fooled. They are trapped in the abandoned Legion fort not far from you."

  "I'm very glad to hear it," sighed Massarde, letting out a deep sigh. "What are Kazim's plans?"

  "Demand their surrender for openers."

  "And if they comply?" />
  "Put the commandos and their officers on trial for invading his country. After conviction, they'll be held as hostages in exchange for economic demands from the United Nations. The Tebezza prisoners will be taken to his interrogation chambers, where they will be properly dealt with."

  "No," Massarde said. "Not the solution I want. The only solution is to destroy them all, and quickly. None must be left alive to talk. We cannot afford any more complications. I must insist you talk Kazim into ending this matter immediately."

  His demand came so forcibly, so abruptly, that Yerli was stunned into temporary silence. "All right. . ." Yerli finally said slowly. "I'll do my best to persuade Kazim to launch the attack at first light with his fighter jets followed by helicopter assault units. Fortunately, he has four heavy tanks and three infantry companies in the vicinity on military maneuvers."

  "Can he attack the fort tonight?"

  "He will need time to assemble his forces and coordinate an attack. This can't be done before early morning."

  "Just see that Kazim does whatever is necessary to prevent Pitt and Giordino from escaping again."

  "The very reason I took the precaution of halting all trains in and out of Mauritania," Yerli lied.

  "Where are you now?"

  "In Gao, about to board the command aircraft that you so generously provided Kazim as a gift. He plans to personally oversee the assault."

  "Remember, Yerli," said Massarde as patiently as he could, "no prisoners."

  <<53>>

  They came just after six o'clock in the morning. The UN tactical team members were bone-tired after digging deep entrenchments beneath the base of the walls, but they were all alert and primed to resist. Most were now holed up like moles in their dugouts for the expected air attack. Deep in the underground arsenal the team medics set up a field hospital while the French engineers and their families huddled on the floor under old wooden tables and furniture to ward off rock and debris that might fall from the ceiling. Only Levant and Pembroke-Smythe, along with the crew panning the Vulcan that had been removed from the assault vehicle, remained on the fort's wall, protected only by the parapets and hastily piled sandbags.

  The incoming jet aircraft were heard before they were seen and the alarm was given.

  Pitt did not seek cover, but fussed over his spring bow, making frantic last-minute adjustments. The truck springs, mounted vertically within a maze of wooden beams, were bent almost double by the hydraulic lifting gear on the old forklift found stored with the railroad supplies. Attached to the stressed springs, a half-filled drum of diesel oil with perforated holes on the upper side lay on a grooved board that angled sharply toward the sky. After helping Pitt assemble the Rube Goldberg contraption, Levant's men moved away, doubtful the drum of fuel oil could be tossed over the top of the wall without bursting inside the fort and burning everyone on the parade ground.

  Levant knelt behind the parapet, his back protected by a pile of sandbags, and peered into a cloudless sky. He spotted the aircraft and studied them through his binoculars as they began circling at no more than 500 meters above the desert only 3 kilometers south of the fort. He noted their apparent unconcern toward surface-to-air missiles. They seemed confident the fort had nothing to offer in the way of air defense.

  As with many third world military leaders who preferred glitz over practicality, Kazim had purchased fast Mirage fighters from the French more for show than actual combat. With little to fear from the weaker military forces of his neighboring countries, Kazim's air and ground security forces were created to inspire respect for his ego and instill fear in the minds of any revolutionaries.

  The Malian attack force was backed up by a small fleet of lightly armed helicopters whose sole mission was to conduct search patrols and transport assault troops. Only the fighters were capable of unleashing missiles that could knock out armored tanks or fortifications. But unlike the newer laserguided bombs, the Malian pilots had to manually sight and guide their old-type tactical missiles to the target.

  Levant spoke into the microphone on his helmet. "Captain Pembroke-Smythe, stand by the Vulcan crew."

  "Standing by Madeleine and ready to fire," Pembroke-Smythe acknowledged from the gun emplacement on the opposite rampart:

  "Madeleine?"

  "The crew have formed an endearing attachment to the gun, sir, and named it after a girl whose favors they enjoyed in Algeria."

  "Just see that Madeleine doesn't get fickle and jam."

  "Yes sir."

  "Let the first plane make its firing run," Levant instructed. "Then blast it from the rear as it banks away. If your timing is right, you should be able to swing back and strike the second plane in line before it can launch its missiles."

  "Jolly good, sir."

  Almost as Pembroke-Smythe replied, the lead Mirage broke from formation and dropped down to 75 meters, boring in without any attempt at jinking back and forth to avoid ground fire. The pilot was hardly a top jet driver. He came slow and fired his two missiles a trifle late.

  Powered by a single-stage solid-propellant rocket motor, the first missile soared over the fort, its high explosive warhead bursting harmlessly in the sand beyond. The second struck against the north parapet and exploded, tearing a 2-meter gouge in the top of the wall and hurling shattered stone in a shower across the parade ground.

  The Vulcan's crew tracked the low-flying jet, and the instant it passed over the fort they opened fire. The revolving six-barrel Gatling gun, set to fire a thousand rounds a minute instead of its two thousand maximum to conserve supply, spat a hail of 20-millimeter shells at the fleeing aircraft as it banked into a vulnerable position. One wing broke away as cleanly as if it had been cut by a surgeon's scalpel, and the Mirage violently twisted over on its back and crashed into the ground.

  Almost before the impact, Madeleine was swung 180 degrees and cut loose again, her stream of shells walking into the path of the second jet and smashing it head on. There was a black puff and the fighter exploded in a fiery ball and disintegrated, pieces of it splattering into the fort's outer wall.

  The next fighter in line launched its missiles far too soon in panic and banked away. Levant watched with a bemused expression as twin explosions dug craters a good 200 meters in front of the fort. Now leaderless, the squadron broke off the attack and began circling aimlessly far out of range.

  "Nice shooting," Levant complimented the Vulcan crew. "Now they know we can bite, they'll launch their missiles at a greater distance with less accuracy."

  "Only about six hundred rounds left," reported Pembroke-Smythe.

  "Conserve it for now and have the men take cover. We'll let them pound us for a while. Sooner or later one will get careless and come in close again."

  Kazim had listened to his pilots excitedly calling to one another over their radios, and he watched the opening debacle from the video telephoto system through the command center monitors. Their confidence badly shaken during their first actual combat with an enemy who shot back at them, the pilots were babbling over the airwaves like frightened children and begging for instructions.

  His face flushed with anger, Kazim stepped into the communications cabin and began shouting over the radio. "Cowards! This is General Kazim. You airmen are my right arm, my executioners. Attack, attack. Any man who does not show courage will be shot when he lands and his family sent to prison."

  Undertrained, overconfident until now, the Malian air force pilots were more adept at swaggering through their streets and pursuing pretty girls than fighting an opponent out to kill them. The French had made a diligent attempt at modernizing and schooling the desert nomads in airfighting tactics, but traditional ways and cultural thinking were too firmly entrenched in their minds to make them an efficient fighting force.

  Stung by Kazim's words and more fearful of his wrath than the shot and shell that had blasted their flight leader and his wingman from the sky, they very reluctantly resumed the attack and dove in single file at the still stalwart walls
of the old Foreign Legion fort.

  As if he thought himself "unkillable," Levant stood and observed the attack from between the ramparts with the calmness of a spectator at a tennis match. The first two fighters fired their missiles and banked sharply away before coming anywhere near the fort. All their rockets went high and burst on the other side of the railroad.

  They came from all sides in wild, unpredictable maneuvers. Their assaults should have been basic and organized, concentrating on leveling one wall instead of haphazardly attacking the fort from whatever direction suited them. Experiencing no more return fire, they became more accurate. The fort began to take devastating hits now. Gaping holes appeared in the old masonry as the walls began to crumble.