“That’s what worries me,” Homer growled. He raked his right hand back through his short hair. “If they think we’re in Southern Algeria, what are these planes doing around here? We’re hundreds of miles from Bidon Cinq.”
Bey shot him an oblique glance. “That’s easy. That plane that tried to clobber us, and these others that have been trying to search us out, aren’t really Reunited Nations craft. They’re someone else.”
They all looked at him. “Who?” Isobel said.
“How should I know? It could be almost anybody with an iron in the North African fire. The Soviet Complex? Very likely. The British Commonwealth or the French Community? Why not? There’re elements in both that haven’t really accepted giving up the old colonies and would like to regain them in one way or the other. The Arab Union? Why comment? Common Europe? Oh, Common Europe would love to have a free hand exploiting North Africa.”
“You haven’t mentioned the United States of the Americas,” Elmer said dryly. “I hope you haven’t any prejudices in favor of the land of your adoption, Mr. Minister of War.”
Bey shrugged. “I just hadn’t got around to her. Admittedly, with the continued growth of the Soviet Complex and Common Europe, the States have slipped from the supreme position they occupied immediately following the Second War. The more power-happy elements are conscious of the ultimate value of control of Africa and doubly conscious of the danger of it falling into the hands of someone else. Oh, never fear, those planes that have been pestering us might belong to anybody at all.”
Cliff Jackson hurried back from his radio, his face anxious. “Listen,” he said. “That was a high priority flash, to all Reunited Nations teams. The Arab Union has just taken Tamanrasset. They pushed two columns out of Libya, evidently one from Ghat and one from further north near Ghadames.”
Homer Crawford was on his feet, alert. “Well … why?”
Cliff had what amounted to accusation on his face. “Evidently, the El Hassan rumors are spreading like wildfire. There’ve been more riots in Mopti, and the Reunited Nations buildings in Adrar have been stormed by mobs demonstrating for him. The Arab Union is moving in on the excuse of protecting the country against El Hassan.”
Kenny Ballalou groaned, “They’ll have half their Arab Legion in here before the week’s out.”
Cliff finished with, “The Reunited Nations is throwing a wingding. Everybody running around accusing and threatening, and, as per usual, getting nowhere.”
Homer Crawford’s face was working in thought. He shook his head at Kenny. “I think you’re wrong. They won’t send the whole Arab Legion in. They’ll be afraid to. They’ll want to see first what everybody else does. They know they can’t stand up to a slugging match with any of the really big powers. They’ll stick it out for a while and watch developments. We have, perhaps, two weeks in which to operate.”
“Operate?” Cliff demanded. “What do you mean, operate?”
Homer’s eyes snapped to him. “I mean to recapture Tamanrasset from the Arab Union, seize the radio and television station there, and proclaim El Hassan’s regime.”
The big Californian’s eyes bugged at him. “You mean the six of us? There’ll be ten thousand of them.”
“No,” Homer said decisively. “Nothing like that number. Possibly a thousand, if that many. Logistics simply doesn’t allow a greater number, not on such short notice. They’ve put a thousand or so of their crack troops into the town. No more.”
Cliff wailed, “What’s the difference between a thousand and twenty thousand, so far as five men and a girl are concerned?”
The rest were saying nothing; they were following the debate.
Crawford explained, not to just Cliff, but to all of them. “Actually, the Arab Union is doing part of our job for us. They’ve openly declared that El Hassan is attempting to take over North Africa, that he’s raising the tribes. Well, good. We didn’t have the facilities to make the announcement ourselves. But now the whole world knows it.”
“That’s right,” Elmer said, his face characteristically sullen. “Every news agency in the world is playing up the El Hassan story. In a matter of days, the most remote nomad encampment in the Sahara will know of it, one way or the other.”
Homer Crawford was pacing, socking his right fist into the palm of the left. “They’ve given us a rallying raison d’etre. These people might be largely Moslem, especially in the north, but they have no love for the Arab Union. For too long the slave raiders came down from the northeast. Given time, Islam might have moved in on the whole of North Africa. But not this way, not in military columns.”
He swung to Bey. “You worked over in the Teda country, before joining my team, and speak the Sudanic dialects. Head for there, Bey. Proclaim El Hassan. Organize a column. We’ll rendezvous at Tamanrasset in exactly two weeks.”
Bey growled, “How am I supposed to get to Faya?”
“You’ll have to work that out yourself. Tonight we’ll drop you near In Guezzam; they have one of the big solar-pump, afforestation developments there. You should be able to, ah, requisition a truck, or possibly even a ‘copter or aircraft. You’re on your own, Bey.”
“Right.”
Homer spun to Kenny Ballalou. “You’re the only one of us who gets along in the dialect of Hassania. Get over to Nemadi country and raise a column. There are no better scouts in the world. Two weeks from today at Tamanrasset.”
“Got it. Drop me off tonight with Bey. We’ll work together until we liberate some transport.”
Bey said, “It might be worth while scouting in In Guezzam for a day or two. We might pick up a couple of El Hassan followers to help us along the way.”
“Use your judgment. Elmer!”
Elmer groaned sourly, “I knew my time’d come.”
“Up into Chaambra country for you. Take the second lorry. You’ve got a distance to go. Try to recruit former members of the French Camel Corps. Promise just about anything, but only remember that one day we’ll have to keep the promises. El Hassan can’t get the label of phony hung on him.”
“Chaambra country,” Elmer said. “Oh great. Arabs. I can just see what luck I’m going to have rousing up Arabs to fight other Arabs, and me with a complexion black as …”
Homer snapped at him, “They won’t be following you, they’ll be following El Hassan—or at least the El Hassan dream. Play up the fact that the Arab Union is largely not of Africa but of the Middle East. That they’re invading the country to swipe the goats and violate the women. Dig up all the old North African prejudices against the Syrians and Egyptians, and the Saudi-Arabian slave traders. You’ll make out.”
Cliff said, nervously, “How about me, Homer?”
Homer looked at him. Cliff Jackson, in spite of his fabulous build, hadn’t a fighting man’s background.
Homer grinned and said, “You’ll work with me. We’re going into Tuareg country. Whenever occasion calls for it, whip off that shirt and go strolling around with that overgrown chest of yours stuck out. The Tuareg consider themselves the best physical specimens in the Sahara, which they are. They admire masculine physique. You’ll wow them.”
Cliff grumbled, “Sounds like vaudeville.”
Isobel said softly, “And me, El Hassan? What do I do?”
Homer turned to her. “You’re also part of headquarters staff. The Tuareg women aren’t dominated by their men. They still have a strong element of descent in the matrilinear line and women aren’t second-class citizens. You’ll work on pressuring them. Do you speak Tamaheq?”
“Of course.”
Homer Crawford looked up into the sky and swept it. The day was rapidly coming to an end and nowhere does day become night so quickly as in the ergs of the Sahara.