Barry Sadler Casca 16 Desert Mercenary

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sighed deeply. "Ah, but life takes its own hand in the game and who knows? I
am content enough. That's about it, sir."
Carl lit up a smoke, offered one to Sims but was politely refused.
"You ever work with any of the others here?'' Carl asked.
Sims nodded his head. "Only with Egon. Herr Stachel is not a bad sort. He
looks like a bloody
Prussian, but he's all right. Does his job and is selective about who he works
for. Won't just take anything for money. We were in the south to-gether for a
few months. He's steady and will be where you need him. I don't really think
he cares much about whether he lives or dies. Some men, you know, are always
ready for the last game, even anticipating it. He is one of those, but he
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won't do anything that jeopardizes the rest of the team."
Carl was glad to hear that. The last thing he needed was a hard-headed former
Nazi with something to prove.
"The Spaniard?"
Sims shook his head in the negative. "Don't know a thing about him, love. But
he seems a good sort.
I only hope he's not one of those hot-blooded Latins who always settles minor
quarrels with knives." He shuddered at the thought.
Carl got up. "Good enough. We'll all get a chance to know each other a bit
better before this job is over."
Back in the hangar Gus and Stachel were speak-ing in German, finding that they
had only one thing in common and that was the Russian front. Calling Gus over
to him Carl said, "Take it easy on these boys, Gus. I don't want any broken
bones. Like Monpelier said, it's too late to get any replacements."
Gus laughed. "Uncle Gus wouldn't harm the hair on a fly's head. You know that.
Besides which, I
like Herr Stachel, even if he was once a member of the officer class. May all
their children have terminal hemorrhoids."
Carl just shook his head. There simply wasn't much that could be done with
Gus. Going over to
Sharif Mamud, he took his bag and removed the photos that Monpelier had given
him from it.
"Want to take a look at these?"
Sharif Mamud took the pictures and examined them closely. When he came to the
one Monpelier had said he thought was the area where Sunni Ali had the
captives held, Carl pointed it out to Mamud.
"Know this place?"
Squinting his eyes, Mamud moved closer to the hangar door for a better look.
"Yes. I have been there. It is a good place with water inside the caves and
many tunnels to hide in. It is very old. Inside are pictures of many animals
who have long since left the desert. They were drawn when the Sahara was
covered with grass. Very, very old indeed."
Carl took the photo from him. It was one taken before the war. That didn't
bother him. It wasn't likely that things had changed. He took his map out and
he handed it over to Mamud. "Show me exactly where this cave is located."
Mamud spread the map on the floor of the hangar. Taking a moment to orient
himself, he touched the map with a forefinger. "There, near the southern end.
It is a place well suited for defense. If I were you I would consider the
possi-bility of coming in from some place on the other side, as I told you
earlier.
It will take longer but you will have a better chance. Sunni Ali and the
Tuaregs think there is no one but them who can survive in the desert or cross
the mountains. It is a vanity of theirs which has, in the past, proved fatal
more than once."
Carl nodded. "Let's hope this is one more time."
Parrish was talking to Monpelier, who nodded agreement and announced, "All
right, gentle-men, let's get aboard. It's time to move out. Our captain said
that the weather report indicates there is a strong head wind approaching
which may slow us up a bit. If he's right, then we'll have to leave now in
order to
make it to the strip outside of Fort Laperrine by dawn."
As they climbed on board, Parrish told them to secure their personal effects
in the rear of the plane and then sit down. There were only canvas seats of
the military type, not very comfortable for a long haul. But after they were
airborne, they'd be able to move about or even lie down in the aisle to sleep
if they chose to.
The copilot opened the hangar doors all the way and climbed back in to take
his place in the copilot's seat. The twin engine started smoothly with no
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hesitation. That always made one feel a bit better about flying. Parrish
taxied out to the runway, checked the wind sock, faced into it, and took off
without further ceremony. There was no tower control. You just came in and
left when you thought you could make it. Carl took a seat in front of the wing
on the port side. The plane gained altitude easily heading its nose south,
deep into the heartland of the sea of dunes.
The flight was long and monotonous. Parrish turned on the heaters. At 11,000
feet it was near the freezing point when the sun fell. The night was clear;
the winds were yet in front of them. Below Carl could see the dunes, dark
waves of sand that moved with the winds. Some were hundreds of feet high.
There was nothing but the mountains to resist the movement of the sands and
even those would in time be worn away by the hard, polished grains that came
every day, century after century, to chip away at the stones.
Parrish knew the area well, at least from the sky, anyway. He'd been flying
the African circuit for the last ten years, from Pretoria to Benghazi.
Checking the time, he knew exactly where they were, the southern edge of the
Great Eastern Erg. The sand waves were less dominant here and he couldn't see
them anymore. The earth below was scarred by pale brown ridges and gorges,
sandstone and granite ranges that expanded and contracted under the
alternating heat and cold of the Sahara. If front of them was the Tassili
N'Aj-jers, a low range of mountains where thousands of wall paintings had been
found.
Another hour and half from there and they would come to the Ahag-gar range
with Mount Tahat rising up over 9,000 feet.
He would swing around the range. If his timing was right, they would hit the
head winds before then.
He didn't want to get caught in the upper air currents, which raged at times
over the high peaks. Parrish would play it safe. He'd swing a bit to the left
and come from the south into Fort Lapperine, or as the nomads called the city
by the fort, Tamanrasset. From the south two roads led into the city, one from
Niger and the other from Mali. He had used them as guides more than once and
was glad that he never had to make the trip by land.
The inside of the plane was lit by a red light. Parrish looked back at the men
sitting or lying asleep on the deck and wondered how many of them he would be
taking back out. He had been on jobs like this before and knew that when he
returned his plane would be lighter than when he had come. Some of them back
there were proba-bly dead men.
"Rigsby, take her for a while. I'm going to get some shut-eye. Wake me when we
get near the
Ahaggar Mountains."
Rigsby grunted an affirmative reply, which was about all he ever did. He was a [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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