Casca 16: Desert Mercenary Read online

  Memories overcame the present. Once more Langer smelled diesel fumes and cordite, heard the rasping rumble of tank treads as they crashed into each other during the Battle of Kursk. There the smoke of battle was so thick, tanks couldn't see each other at a distance of thirty meters and a hundred thousand men a day were killed or wounded. Kursk! The Dnieper River Line! Red Guards, SS, Kalmuks, and partisans. Trains filled with munitions and living cargo that was to be taken to extermination centers. German soldiers with shell casings hammered into the backs of their necks or left crucified on battlefields. On both sides such an incredible madness.

  Mind half awake, half numb he dreamed. Faces passed before and around him, hundreds of dead men. Storms of lightning, caused by thousands of heavy guns, crashed, ripping open the earth to receive the dead. Faces, faces...

  His eyes jerked open. He couldn't take anymore. Through his nightmare Gus had slept the sleep of a child. He was the only true innocent Carl had ever known. Nothing bothered him. His memories of pain were short, therefore he could sleep when others cried out in the night.

  Carl slept no more, afraid of what might come. It was easier to just put his mind at a distance and wait for the sun to begin its decline. When the shadows at last grew longer, he rose and showered again, changed into his cleanest dirty shirt, and shook Gus back into the real world.

  "C'mon, let's go out for a while, maybe get something to drink or eat."

  "Eat! Drink! Be right with you, comrade."

  By the time they hit the streets the temperature had dropped into the nineties, almost comfortable. There were people everywhere: Arabs, vendors, women with the veil and without, children running in packs among stalls, wilted Europeans with red, sweaty eyes. One and all seemed to be on the streets now that the worst heat of the day had passed. Near the bazaar they stopped for Gus to refuel. Spiced meats and wine once more disappeared down his maw.

  "Let's go over to the Club Chat Rose. I want to see if there's anyone around we might be able to use," Carl said.

  Gus took the lead, cutting through the throngs; he was a human battering ram that ignored all in its path. Dirty looks and curses describing his parentage for ten generations slipped off of him. But no one stood in his path. Leaving a wake behind him of frustrated, angry people, they passed the street of coppersmiths, cut over near the old mosque where muezzins still called the faithful to prayer, made a sharp left by the dyers' streets, walked three more blocks, and they were there.

  It was the good time, too. The sun was near setting and the streets were growing darker with the creeping shadows, which at dusk took over the city. Vendors were taking down their stalls, closing till the rise of the new sun, but other shops were just preparing to open. It was shift change in Tunis.

  The Chat Rose, or Pink Pussy, as Gus liked to call it, was one of the watering holes for the leftovers of a dozen nations. The smell of alcohol drove Gus through the door first. Carl let him go. It was never wise to get in front of Gus when he was after food, booze, or pussy. One might get trampled, unintentionally of course, but the painful end result would be the same.

  Gus cast his eyes over the motley crew which the Chat Rose catered to. A few limeys, several Germans, a couple of Polish sailors without good sense to stay closer to the harbor. And in the corner sipping Pernod quietly, his hands holding the small glass between them, was the one they sought.

  "Dominic!"

  At Gus's greeting several of the customers started to dive under their tables looking for cover, mistaking the explosion of sorts for a mortar attack.

  Dominic showed no response; it was a salutation he was long used to. Slowly raising his eyes from the table he looked up to see the dark hulk of Gus coming toward him, followed by a shorter but not much less squarer form. "Ciao, Gus, Carl. What brings you to the asshole of the world?"

  Gus took Dominic Ciardello's glass from him, tossed the remains down neatly, made a face, and ordered a bottle of scotch to be brought to the table. Carl sat on his left, Gus on his right, letting their chairs face the door and inner room.

  Carl worried about Dominic. His face, though still handsome, was drawn. Thick, black, curly hair cut short framed his old young face. His body was slight, almost boyish, but very strong and quick. Carl knew his ailment. He had fallen victim to the sickness called killing. Since Dien Bien Phu and then Algeria he had seen the sickness eat up the Italian. Dominic knew it, too. He was not stupid and the need to kill made him sick of himself. He knew what his problem was but had no way to resist it.

  The bottle was brought by a tavern wench of mixed ancestry. For centuries Tunis had been a stopping place for every ship that plied the Mediterranean. The girl was only the long term genetic result of such visits. Deftly she avoided Gus's paws as she placed the bottle on the table with three semi clean tumblers and a pitcher of water. She stood back out of range till Carl paid her and then quickly put distance between her and the beast man.

  Carl did the honors, pouring drinks all around, leaving the others to add water if they pleased. "How is it for you, Dominic?"

  The Italian sipped his whiskey slowly between fingers which held only a trace of tremble to them. "It goes the same, my friends, but it doesn't matter. Like you two, I wait. "

  Carl nodded in understanding. "Well, perhaps the waiting is about over. You remember Sergent Chef Monpelier?" Not waiting for Dominic to answer he already knew they had met he continued, "He says he has work for us. Do you wish to hear what the job is?"

  Dominic shook his head. "It makes no difference. If you have accepted then I do too." The response was not unusual. They had fought many times side by side. His eyes showed their first spark of life. He needed to get back into the field again. He could have taken many jobs as an assassin. There was much work of that kind to be had, but he hadn't taken any of it. He still had some of his pride left. He was not a murderer, only one who enjoyed the kill, if a bit excessively.

  For a few minutes they sat quietly. Even Gus seemed to slow down a bit as they worked their way through the bottle of whiskey. With the true dark of night on the streets, the Chat Rose began to slowly fill with ex-soldiers, mercenaries, dealers in opium, heroin, and slaves, and with smugglers and thieves.

  The lights were turned on to provide what feeble illumination forty watt bulbs could give. From a phonograph behind the bar the girls played records that somehow all sounded the same whether French, Italian, or American. Among the clientele were a few Arabs with their robes covering expensive suits made in Paris or Rome. Being good Moslems they did not drink the whiskey or wine, leaving that to the men they bargained with, men with hot, hungry looks in their eyes.

  Carl knew some of them and knew what they did. Sitting with a man wearing the striped robes of a Berber, though the mixed blood in his face showed he was not, was Alexis Sulman, a specialist in the selling of flesh, usually that of young girls, none older than fourteen, for the brothels in Marseille or Hamburg. He had once approached Carl about working for him. Now when he saw the scar faced man's eyes on him he felt his stomach nearly turn over. The ex-legionnaire's response to his proposition had been somewhat less than friendly; Sulman had not been able to enjoy sampling any of his stock for several weeks.

  Gus saw where Carl was looking and spat on the floor. "Now, there is one who needs to be removed from this vale of tears. I have no argument with honest whores who are old enough to make up their own minds, but that swine sells children. One of these days I think I'll kill him. "

  Neither Carl nor Dominic commented; it was unnecessary. Since it had been said, it was now only a matter of when Sulman would die. Gus used his chunky forefinger to point, straight at Sulman's face. Closing one eye, he sighted over it and whispered bang! loud enough for the girls in the back of the bar to hear. Sulman left the customer at his table hurriedly, saying they would meet on the morrow in a more civilized environment.

  The cafe girls plied their ancient trade among the clientele, approaching all but the table where the hard looking man sat
. The girls knew them and understood this was not a night to disturb them. The men were left alone. The bottle at their table grew empty.

  At last, bored with the Chat Rose, Langer left them, handing Dominic a hundred dinars from the roll Monpelier had given him. "You move over to where me and Gus are staying. I'll see you in the morning. Gus, no trouble for now. Behave yourself. I don't want you in jail. If Monpelier comes through, we could move out at any time. So be good and keep away from Sulman. We can always settle with him later."

  Gus affected a pout which didn't work. Mockingly he replied, "Ah! You are a hard master, effendi, but this lowly one hears you and will obey. I shall, in an attempt to gain merit, take this lost child," he nudged Dominic, "into my protection until the morrow."

  Langer just shook his head. Gus never changed. Paying the bill, he left them sitting, knowing they would be okay. After all the jokes and bullshit were done with, Gus was reliable where it counted. Langer wanted to get outside and be alone for a time. The city was too heavy, confining. Letting his feet pick their path, he wandered through the streets filled with the smells that can only be found in a city of the East. Smells of cinnamon and curry, sandlewood and musk mingled with that of industrial chemicals and DDT. Mounds of trash moved as though they had a life of their own from the maggots that bred in them. There was nothing new; he had seen and smelled the same ten thousand times before.

  His feet led him at last to the outskirts of the city. The night was clear as only the desert night can be. Moisture from the sea had been pushed back by winds from the desert. Resting his hip on a boulder, Carl looked back to see the way he had come.

  He was on a rise outside of the city. In front of him lay the main town and harbor where ship lights rose and fell with the slight movement of the Mediterranean waters. To his back were the rocky hills and mountains, passes and gorges. In those hills and beyond lived, by Western standards, barbarian tribes, Berbers, and some members of the Tuareg tribe if you went far enough. In those same passes lay the bones of Romans and Carthaginians, Vandals and Byzantines, Americans, English, Italians, and Germans. For a dry land it had been well watered over the centuries with blood.

  Watching the stars run their eternal course overhead, Carl thought of the land to the south. A harsh, unforgiving land. The job itself sounded simple enough, but few things were ever what they appeared to be. There would be unseen, unknown problems which would end up killing someone. Even that wasn't of any great import. The men they would take with them knew what the odds were.

  A breeze from the hills rolled over him. It was good. There would not be many cool breezes when they passed over the mountains. Until they came out, by day it would be an oven designed by a shaitan, an evil spirit, to bake the souls of men in their own shells and by night almost freezing.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was with dawn that Carl returned. He had needed the night in the desert to think and feel. Dominic had done as he'd asked and had gone with Gus to their hotel. He was sleeping in Carl's' bed, no great surprise. Gus had opened one red eye when he'd come in and been told to go back to sleep, an order promptly obeyed.

  After taking a quick shower, Carl went out to breakfast. Until it was time for him to go to the waterfront cafe he just walked. The sounds of the city washed over him: crying children, beggars, muezzins calling out from their minarets for the faithful to come to morning prayer. He moved aside to make room for a group of Coptic priests with tangled beards walking in orderly squads, swinging censers of incense on their way to some place or other.

  The appointed time found Langer at the same table as he'd been at the previous day with Gus. Monpelier was relieved to find him sitting alone. Gus always made things so difficult.

  "I am glad to see that you are on time, my friend. It is good. Fortunately, I have been most productive and have most of the information we require, but more will be coming shortly." Carl nodded for him to continue.

  "It's as we thought. Sunni Ali has made his camp at Mt. Baguezane. The last word is that the boy and girl are well. At his camp he has only perhaps forty armed men full time. The others are with the animals or their families, but they can be summoned within an hour or two. At the massif Ali uses some of the large caves for his stronghold. They control three or four spring fed ponds for their water. The springs usually flow all year. From here to the massif we can go one of two ways: we can drive the whole way or fly to the strip at Fort Laperrine in the Ahaggar Mountains, where I can have transport and supplies waiting. From there it is not far to the Talak Air Plains and stronghold of our friend Sunni Ali and his Azbine tribesmen. Getting out, well, that leaves us with the same problems. By ground or by air?"

  They spoke around the attentions of the waiter and passing customers. "What about the other men?" Carl asked. "If it's as you say, then we are going to need at least nine or ten more. I found Dominic yesterday and will be taking him. Do you have any others in mind that we can get?"

  Monpelier removed a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "I have already found ten more. Like you and your friends, they are all former legionnaires or combat experienced men. I think they win do quite well for our purposes." He handed Langer the list and leaned back while it was read.

  Refolding the paper, Langer handed it back to Monpelier. "I think you're right. I know a couple of the men on your list; they are good. And if the others are just as good then we should have no problems. Now what about equipment? We'll need a bit of everything just for contingencies."

  Monpelier ordered a coffee and cakes. His stomach was beginning to rumble a bit. "I can get almost anything you need. Just make up your list. But let us take things in order. What is your first requirement?"

  Langer leaned forward. "More information. I want pictures of the massif, more info on the background and history of Sunni Ali and the time frame we have to work in. As for what transport we need, this is the way I think we should approach it at this time. We'll fly into Fort Laperrine, but only to refuel. First we'll send a few of our men on ahead with the vehicles. They'll meet us in the desert as close to Baguezane as we can get without spooking anyone. If we pulled into any of the villages in a group, the Tuaregs would know of it immediately. We'll take all weapons and heavy gear with us on the plane. There are plenty of salt flats out there that can be used as a landing strip. We'll have the advance party select one and notify us by radio which one we are to use.

  "Once the advance party gets clear of the Ahaggar Mountains, they shouldn't have any problems getting out to... I would say somewhere...," he searched his memory, "to some place between Tarazit and the oasis at Bilma. Dead between them are several places suitable for our purposes. Also, that would put us in back of Mt. Baguezane. We may want to go after the boy and girl that way. Sunni Ali would most probably not expect a rescue to come at him from the Tenere Desert. Get me all the photos you can on the area and just what section of the mountain he is keeping his camp in. That might change a few things as far as equipment is concerned."

  Monpelier agreed. He gave the impression that he had just started putting things together in the last couple of days when, in truth, he had been on the job for the last three weeks. And most of that had been spent in gathering intelligence for just such an operation. "Very good, my friend. I will meet you at Ghudamis in three days. At that time I will bring the rest of your team with me. With your agreement I will go ahead and mange for air transport to be waiting to take us to Fort Laperrine.”

  Carl agreed, glad that they wouldn't have to make the 2,000 kilometer drive out there.

  Taking another envelope from his jacket pocket, Monpelier handed it across the table. "In here are what salient facts you may need about the hostages and a profile of Sunni Ali, or at least as much as I was able to find out. The Tuaregs, as you know, are a most secretive people. I wish that I had a photo for you but then, it wouldn't do much good since the Tuaregs nearly always keep their faces covered. But he does wear a distinctive jellaba, the traditional cloak, and has gray blue eye
s much like yours."

  Rising from the table Monpelier said, "Well, that is all I have for now. Three days, then, and I will see you in Ghudamis. Stay at the Hotel Saharienne. You might be able to pick up some more current information as to what conditions prevail among the Tuareg tribes. I know that you did have some contacts among some Berbers and Arabs in that area. Perhaps they will know something."

  Langer rose with him. There was no longer any need to sit there in the heat of the day. "All right. Three days. And bring more money. We'll need to have it for the unexpected expenses that always arise. And bring me at least ten thousand in gold. The contacts I used to have all had one thing in common, they like the sound of gold better than paper."

  Carl left with Monpelier. Outside the cafe Monpelier handed him a set of keys. "These are yours. There is a red and white Land Rover at the end of the block. It is fully equipped: extra gas cans, water, some rations, blankets, etc. Just what you need for the trip to Ghudamis. I didn't include any weapons. They come later. I don't want you caught with anything that could give the authorities any reason to detain you. I presume you still have some money left. So I'll leave you here."

  Langer had thought about taking one of the local buses to Ghudamis. It was with relief that he now had an alternate form of transport. Bus travel in North Africa was an experience most would much rather do without.

  At the hotel he rounded up Ciardello and Gus. "Get your things while I pay the bill. We're moving out. Monpelier got back to me in a hurry, so it looks like a go."

  Gus stuffed his few belongings into an oversized musette bag. Dominic had had his ready to go since the previous night. Neither asked where they were heading till they were settled in the Land Rover and on the way out of Tunis.

  Dominic looked around him and then at the mountains in the distance. "Where are we heading?"

  "Ghudamis for now. From there we'll just have to see. Monpelier will join us in three days with the rest of the team. "