by Barry Sadler
Leaving the camp behind, Carl climbed to the edge of a granite outcrop. From there he could look out over the endless wasteland stretching to forever. Forever... How long was that? For some it was minutes, for others, eternity. But all things must end. He believed that, though at times he had difficulty believing that about himself.
Cold winds washed over him, causing ripples over and through the myriad scars on his body. Closing his eyes he stood and swayed back and forth on the lip of the ridge. He almost let himself fall forward, but it would have done no good. Death was denied him now as it had been for two thousand years.
Two thousand years... From the time of Golgotha to now he, Casca Rufio Longinus, had marched and fought under the banners of innumerable armies and kings. Time and again he had been slave and soldier, and more often a slave to his own weaknesses. He was trapped in the pattern of his past and there was no escape. He was on the endless wheel which the ancient sage Shiu Lao had spoken of on the galley heading for Rome, the great wheel of eternity which turned upon itself, always repeating never ending cycles.
The worst were the dreams. For weeks at a time he would fear sleep and the dreams that came with it. The lost faces, the lost loves. Futile to question, useless to fight against, he would go on as he always had, even though for him there was no purpose in doing so.
From the south the winds howled through the clefts and cracks of the massif. His mind asked, as it had a thousand times past, "When can I rest?" And the winds replied as always, "When we meet again..."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Before dawn Langer roused his crew. "Let's do it. Time to move out." There were the expected groans of frustration from the men, whose tired bodies were not yet ready to rise. Eyes were sticky, legs and arms stiff.
In a couple of hours it would be time to try and contact Sims and his group. He hadn't been able to raise them at the last call. That didn't bother him a great deal; one call missed was no problem. If they missed the next one, however, he would start to be concerned.
Carl had Abdul take the point with Mamud behind him, then he was next and the rest trailed single file with Gus bringing up drag.
It was a little after 0700 hours when Mamud called a halt. "We are almost at the pass. From there it will be downhill."
Welcome words. "All right, Dominic. Send out sentries, then take a break and eat if you want to." Rations were broken out.
As they ate, Mamud spread his jacket on the earth to serve as a prayer rug and faced toward Mecca. The rest stopped their chewing and talking. The relationship between an old man and his god were to be respected, even by those who didn't believe or understand.
Their passing was observed mainly by mottled gekko lizards crawling on the rocks to sun themselves before the heat of the day forced them back into the shade. They made one stop at midday by a spring with cool water bubbling out from the mountain depths. There they waited for an hour, luxuriating in the incredible sensation of a cold wet rag on the face.
Langer kept an eye out for any signs of weakness. When you laid off for a while it normally took a few days to get your legs back. His group seemed to be doing well enough. The loads were evenly distributed, so no one could bitch much about that.
Mamud came to Langer after his prayers. He had scouted the countryside. "I have found a place similar to the camp of Sunni Ali. If you wish to do a rehearsal it will have to be now for soon we will be too close to the camp to do so."
He led Carl over a hill to where they looked down into a shallow gorge. Mamud was right; it was a good spot, with the exception of the missing caves. But there was no way to rehearse that part anyway.
"Good, my friend. Go and get the others. This will do just fine," Carl said.
It took about fifteen minutes before Mamud returned. Carl had gone down into the gorge to look at the layout, comparing its features with those from the photos. When the men arrived he walked them around, pointing out what didn't belong and what did. Step by step he walked them through their jobs. Using a large boulder as the entrance of the caves, he guessed what the placement of sentries would be.
Then the first rehearsal commenced, dry fire naturally. They went through the escape using a fire team's maneuver for cover, then leapfrogged back. They went through it at a quarter of the actual speed at first, then finally at full speed. Three more times they ran through the exercise until at last Carl was satisfied. It was less than perfect. There would have to be some modifications made once they were on site and got a look at the real thing. But it was important to get the men to move together, to let them get the feel of each other and what was going to be required of them.
Everyone was sweat soaked and pale faced by the time the exercise was over. But they felt good, more comfortable. At least now they had a rough idea of what was to go down.
Gus wiped sweat from his brow with a bear sized paw. "God, what I wouldn't give for a liter or two of good Russian vodka. You know, just a taste to cut the dust from my sensitive palate!"
"All right, gentlemen," Carl announced, "you can take a break now. But remember, when we hit we have to move fast and sure. There won't be time for us to screw around any. As soon as we have the hostages, we bug out. Give each other as much cover as you can and maybe we'll come out of this clean. If not, you know the score. Anyone that goes down and can't move under his own power is shit out of luck. So be careful, but not too careful."
Egon asked Gus dryly, "Is he always so cheerful?"
Gus grunted an affirmative reply. "Yes, but I'll tell you this. He will not leave anyone behind if there is any way at all to get him out."
Egon sighed as he rubbed his aching feet. "Well, that's something anyway."
An hour before sunfall Sharif Mamud told them to hole up in a cleft in the rocks. He wanted to go on ahead to the camp. Sunni Ali was not far now and there would be sentries set.
"Do you want anyone to go with you?" Carl asked him.
"No. I would prefer to go alone. I do not wish to sound officious, but I do make less noise moving than you and your men do with all of your equipment."
Carl thought they had been pretty quiet, but he conceded. "All right, Mamud, as you wish. We'll wait here."
Gus sat in the shade, leaned back, eyes half closed. At fast Carl thought he was mumbling to himself, till he caught the words. Gus was singing, "Vor die kaserne, vor die grossen tur," the old soldier's song of Lilli Marlene. That meant Gustaf was content, though it did seem to upset the lizards, who scuttled for cover at the first off note. Gus just dismissed them as unappreciative critics.
It was fully dark before Sharif Mamud returned to squat beside Langer. "I have seen the camp. Sunni Ali has it well guarded with several men at the entrance to the caves and more spread out around it in the rocks. They do not seem to be overly alert. Here, let me show you." On the hard packed earth, with his fingernail, Mamud drew a map of the layout of the camp and where he had seen sentries placed.
"It is as Monpelier said. I would estimate forty to fifty men in the immediate vicinity, but most of those are camped by a spring half a kilometer away. If we can remove the sentries without alerting the others, then we will have a chance of getting in and out. I heard some of the Tuaregs speaking. The hostages are there."
Carl thought about what Mamud had said. The layout wasn't very good. It meant he had to break his men up in order to have any cover fire at all. It wouldn't leave him much to hit the tunnels with and there was no telling what they'd run into inside them. He gave the men around him the layout, described his plan of action, then said, "If anyone has any suggestions I'm ready to listen."
They looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and shook their head in the negative.
"All right then, that's the way we'll play it. I know it looks tough but I can't think of any other way to do it. I'll give each of you your assignment and we'll move into position an hour before dawn. Till then get what rest you can. Tomorrow promises to be a bit rough.
"Gus, keep an eye on things
. I'm going with Mamud for a while. I want to take a look see at a trail he told me about that we may want to use when we make our break."
Gus grunted agreeably as he opened a can of spaghetti.
Sharif Mamud led the way, taking Langer down to where a trail branched, one fork going back the way they had come and another leading north and south.
"Have you been on the northern path before, Mamud?"
"Yes, it will take us north for about ten kilometers, then we can cut back to the west and leave the mountain. It will bring us out near to where you want the Land Rovers to meet us."
Sims wiped the dust off his face and hands with a damp rag. God! This was what he bloody well hated the most. It was so dirty. Unsanitary. However, in spite of the best that nature could do to deter the team of Land Rovers snakes, sandstorms, gullies, and fields of boulders they were where they were supposed to be. He hoped that the others hadn't had any difficulties in making the crossing.
He almost wished he'd gone with them. He'd had about enough of the Land Rover jerking his backside out of kilter at every hole and rock it came into contact with. The shocks were about gone. Also, it had been a bit lonely. He was always known as the sociable type. The long ride by himself was a bit depressing. But it had to be done and he was a good sort who would not bother the other chaps with his unhappiness.
The moon was out bright and clear. It was time for his check in call. Turning on the radio Sims waited. At precisely midnight it came in, clear as a bell. He was using Dominic's former call sign, Gold.
"Right Silver. I read you quite clear. Yes, we are on site and in position." Pause. "Very good, sir. We will be ready. Best of luck and do take care, hear?"
Calling Graves and Felix over to him, he told them, "It's going down in the morning, chappies, so better fag out for a couple of hours. We will have a bit of a way to go but I don't want to move out till there's more light. We can't take a chance on losing one of the Land Rovers now, can we?"
Langer's eyes came open. His mental clock was working. Stiff, he rose and stretched out. Gus was watching him. "About that time, Herr Feldwebel?"
"Yes, get 'em up."
Gus roused the rest of the team. They gathered around Carl.
"Let's do this right, men. I don't want anything on you that makes noise. Tape everything down. Don't dump any water from your canteens though. We'll leave them, our packs, and the radio where we'll pick them up on the way out. Once we're ready to make the hit, I don't want you to have anything on you but your weapons. Kitchner, I want you on the mortar. You'll have plenty of time to gauge your distance so I don't want many misses. We're going to need you for cover when we make our getaway. Once that is done you'll destroy the tube, so use all the rounds you can. When we take out the sentries I'll use myself, Dominic, and Egon."
Sharif Mamud interrupted. "It would be best if I were also included in case we are spotted. My being able to speak the language might buy us a few seconds."
Langer would have preferred to leave him out of it, but he did need all the help he could get. "All right, Mamud. You work with Dominic. At this time I want the silencers put on. If we run into any unexpected visitors going down the trail, let them do the shooting. No noise, that is vital!"
Kitchner asked, "What about the Land Rovers, sir? Will they be on time?"
"Yes. I spoke with Sims at midnight. They'll be ready and where we want them. Don't worry about them. Just do your job and everything will work out. Once more I'm going to tell you: Be careful and don't take chances. A bad hit and you're out of the game forever. Unless you'd prefer that we leave that to the Tuaregs." From the expressions on their faces he knew there wasn't anyone who preferred that fate to a quick clean death. "All right. You have ten minutes to get ready, then we go."
They were silent enough now to please even Sharif Mamud. Keeping to the shadows, they moved down the trail. At the junction where the trail branched off Langer had them stow their excess gear. He gave them one last break. From here it was only one more kilometer to the caves. He wanted them rested.
Mamud went ahead a hundred meters. His eyes and ears might have been old but they were still the sharpest there. Carl came next. The men spread out with ten meters between each of them. In case of ambush they wouldn't be bunched up.
They reached a ring of boulders from where they could look down on Sunni Ali's camp. It was almost time. Mamud pointed out the guards, dark shadows in desert robes. Carl called Egon, Dominic, and Mamud to him and gave them their targets, then indicated to Kitchner where he was to set up the mortar. The men stacked the mortar shells they'd been carrying beside the tube. Kitchner took a long look at the target area, making mental calculations on the angle and the number of charges to use for propellant.
He gave Langer a thumbs up sign. "Piece of cake, sir."
Weapons were given one last check over. The time to move was now. They began their descent to the caves.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sunni Ali was taking his ease in his tent; the caves were too confining. He sat cross legged on cushions of woven camel hair, sipping coffee with seeds of cardomon added for spice. Pungent, aromatic, the thick brew soothed his thoughts.
Things were going well. He had received a communication from his agent: St. Johns was ready to comply with his demands. He asked only for time to work out the details of transport, a difficulty which he understood. Shipping large quantities of weaponry from one continent to another would require some planning. He had no doubt that St. Johns could accomplish the task.
The old bandit had been doing exactly that since the end of World War I.
Allah had been good to Sunni Ali, giving into his hands the one thing which St. Johns valued more than his wealth – his son. For one such as he, this son was the continuation of his name, his only link to immortality, a powerful inducement to make a recalcitrant personality see reason. If there were no unforeseen difficulties, Sunni Ali estimated that he should receive the first shipment of arms in no more than five weeks.
He was glad that he did not have to live up to his threat to dismember the boy and his wife one piece at a time. He had no use for senseless cruelty and gained no pleasure from it. Sadism was a weakness of the spirit, something he would not tolerate in himself. He sipped his brew, smacking his lips over it. That he would have done so if it had been required, there was no doubt. But he took satisfaction in the thought that he would not have enjoyed it.
Once he had his weapons he would live up to his end of the bargain and release the hostages unharmed. He would have no further use for them. He also wanted the world to know that Sunni Ali was a man of his word. A man of honor. That was important. All must know that he would do exactly as he said. There was nothing like the truth; it was the sharpest of swords. A sword which could set his people free or slice the throats of those who tried to keep him from fulfilling his destiny.
Outside he could hear the whinny of horses and the movement of his men around their campfires. Good, familiar sounds. Natural sounds. In the shadow of the massif the winds were softened, giving them shelter from the whirling sand devils of the open desert.
Five weeks. Then he would send out his messengers to all the tribes, calling them to rally with him in his jihad, his holy war against those who would take their heritage from them. In time they would come to him. They would have to or they would die. In a war such as he planned there was no place for sentiment. Only the true, the righteous, deserved to survive. Those who opposed him must fall. There was no other way. Allah akhbar! God is great!
It was with a deep feeling of satisfaction that Sunni Ali lay down upon the pallet which served as his bed. He would sleep well this night. For the stars were in their proper course and each coming dawn brought him closer to fulfillment. All was well.
Dominic felt his temples begin to pound, his palms to sweat, his heart to race. Anticipation. God, it felt good. For the first time in months he felt alive. Holding his knife close to his side, he crawled closer and closer, taki
ng his time. There was no need to rush things now. The pace had settled into a pattern. Like sex, it should not be rushed or it would be spoiled. He knew the rest of the team was with him though they couldn't be seen. His total concentration was on what he was to do in the next few moments.
Turning his head at a whisper of the night wind, the sentry's eyes ran over the dark. Then he turned back to watch the campfire where his brothers sat about the burning coals. Soon it would be his turn to sit by the fires and listen to the rhythmic pulse of the allun as each of the warriors took their tum at telling stories.
Dominic slid closer, letting his mind project itself forward. He knew beforehand every move the Tuareg would make.
Above him Roman waited with Abdul, the Sudanese. He placed the light machine gun in the best position for covering fire. They had the hard part, the waiting. Not being able to do anything but wait for the others to move.
Gus kept close to Carl's heels. They had to wait also. This was Dominic's work. They knew, from the months during the siege of Dien Bien Phu when time and again they had gone out into the Viet Minh positions, that Dominic was the best, the most dependable. The sentry had to be taken out silently if they were to get inside the caves before the Tuaregs knew of their presence, and such a job required their best man.
The sentry adjusted the Mauser rifle on his shoulder. He did not like this business of standing watch but Sunni Ali ordered it, so it would be done. He knew that no harm would come to them at this place, far from the power of the feringi. If anyone had approached, their outlying scouts would have let them know hours before they could get to the caves. But in sha' Allah, God's will. He reconciled himself to the lonely, boring hours of standing watch.
His boredom came to a sudden halt. Dominic moved. Gathering his legs under him, he came to within ten feet of his quarry. He took a deep breath and held it in, compressing the air down deep inside his abdomen. He moved again, left hand leading. The Tuareg's back was inches away. Dominic's hand slid around, going for the sentry's throat. It missed and hit the mouth. Instantly the Tuareg bit down hard. Dominic forced his hand more solidly against the man's mouth to stifle any outcry as his knife came down at the junction of neck and collarbone, heading for the carotid artery. The Tuareg tried to scream as he felt the steel turn and twist in his neck as it searched for the major artery that sent blood to the brain. It found it. The knife punctured, then severed the thick vessel, probing deeper as the blade cut a three inch opening in the upper lobe of the right lung. The Tuareg began to bleed, blood pouring out in gouts and spurts as Dominic held him close. He desperately wanted to cry out a warning. Then he wanted to plead for mercy but knew it was too late. He was dying and there was nothing on this earth that could save him. His last thoughts were La ilah ilia' Allah: Muhammad rasul Allah. There is no god but Allah: Mohammed is His prophet.