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. In front of them was the Tassili N'Ajjers, 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 Ahaggar 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 probably 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 short, dark, barrel-chested, taciturn man of Irish descent who had little use for any conversation that wasn't absolutely necessary.
After taking one last look at the gauges and instruments, Parrish shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the cushions of his seat. Rigsby didn't say much, but he was a hell of pilot. As good as he was. Well, almost.
Those in the rear had their own thoughts, all except Gus, who had as near to a complete vacuum as the human mind could produce. The rest half-slept as the Dakota sailed through the wine-colored skies of the African night. Nowhere on earth were the nights so clear and the stars so bright.
Carl leaned his head against the side of the plane, letting the vibrations seep into his flesh. It was steady, almost comforting in its trembling rhythm. He knew this land, too. In his mind he could hear the trampling of the Roman Legions as they formed the battle square, the war cries of Crusaders who fought for the glory of Jesus and plunder. And the nomads: Moors, Berbers, Tuaregs, and Arabs who had swept out of the deserts crying out for all to hear: " La ilah illa' Allah: Muhammad rasul Allah. There is no god but Allah: Mohammed is his prophet."
The only way the sand below could have ever bloomed would have been if blood were as nourishing as water. Rivers of blood had flowed from those who had tried to claim the desert, floods that had claimed millions of lives instead. So what difference would a few more drops spilled onto the sands in the next few days make? Carl answered the question before sleep hit him: None. Malesh.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Dakota C-47 lurched a bit when Parrish banked it to the port. The head winds had reached them, slowing the plane's ground speed down to a little over a hundred miles per hour. For the next hour the plane bucked and rocked, swayed and dipped. Those lying on the floor woke up and sat back in their seats where they had the comfort of safety belts.
Parrish would have liked to go higher but his plane wasn't pressurized. Still he took it up to 12,000 feet. That was it. He had oxygen for himself and Rigsby but if he went any higher some of the guys in the back would start to pass out.
Gaining 1,000 feet helped a bit. At least he'd gotten above the sandstorm. Below him it was as though the floor of the desert had come up to meet him. It was a solid sheet of darkness sweeping past him. If he had stayed down lower it would have sandblasted his plane down to the frame.
He told Rigsby to tune in Radio Niamey for the weather report.
"Looks like the storm should be over in another hour or two, boss."
Parrish was glad. The plane was kept in good repair, but one never knew. The remote possibility of having to go down in winds of over fifty miles per hour with zero visibility was less than appealing.
"Glad to hear that. We'll just ride it out till it passes, then go in. By then we should have first light. I don't want to go down till then, anyway.''
Rigsby jerked his head to the rear. "What do you think about those guys back there?''
Parrish shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows. I'm just glad we're not going with them. It's bad enough hauling this crate around for a living."
Rigsby grunted in agreement. "Yeah, but it still seems a bit strange. You know, taking these guys in and knowing that not all of them will be coming back. Strange, kinda like we're a hearse rented in advance."
Parrish leaned back to get more comfortable. "Knock it off, Rigsby. They got their job to do and we got ours. Don't think too much about them. They're expendable. That's why they're here, and they know it. But I would like to think that we're not, so just keep this bucket's nose in the wind and off the deck till then. I 'm going to try and catch a few winks."
"You got it, boss. I'll wake you at first light. That should be in about two more hours." Rigsby took over the yoke.
Carl watched the faces of his men as they tried to sleep through the buffeting of the air currents. Gus was the only one who slept peacefully, his head bobbing and jerking from side to side as the plane rode the bumps. Sharif Mamud looked a bit green, maybe had a touch of airsickness. Carl checked his watch. Dawn would be coming soon. His eyes closed.
The winds below began to slacken until they didn't have enough force to keep the grains of sand flying. The storm was dying with the new day. The earth was still dark but to the west Rigsby saw the sun edging up over the rim of the world.
"Wake up, boss." He nudged Parrish. "Time to put this crate down."
Parrish stretched in his seat, trying to work out the kinks in his back. He extended his long arms, nearly hitting his copilot in the Face. "Sorry about that. Okay, I got her. Now let's take her in." They were 100 miles off course, which was no big deal. The Ahaggar Mountains could easily be seen off to the starboard.
Parrish banked to the port and lined up on the southern end of the range. "One hour till touchdown. Hope they got some coffee at the strip."
Carl's eyes came open when he heard the landing gear being lowered. The plane shuddered a bit, then steadied.
The sky was crystal clear, visibility unlimited. Parrish made one pass over the runway to check the wind sock. It was calm, though sudden gusts could blow up at any time. The strip had been cut by bulldozers leveling off a small mountaintop during the time when Fort Laperrine had been one of colonial France's southernmost outposts. Nothing had changed since the last time Parrish had been there: a few huts with metal roofs, a couple of frame hangars, some fuel tanks, and a building that had once housed a poor-man's control center. Now it was abandoned.
Lining the nose up he lowered his flaps to full and cut back on the throttle. One good thing about the C-47 was that it had a hell of a good glide factor with the cool morning air. He set it down easy, smoothly cut the power, and taxied straight to one of the hangars. Off to the side of the runway were a few goats under the care of shepherd boys, their eyes large with wonder as the plane coasted in.
As they taxied Rigsby hit the intercom mike, announcing to his passengers in the rear: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to lovely Fort Laperrine, onetime romantic outpost of the Foreign Legion, now host to an unknown number of ghosts and goatherds. While our captain taxies us in, please remain in your seats and observe the no smoking sign until we have come to a complete stop, at which time stay where you are, pending further instructions. Thank you for flying with us, and we hope we have made your trip as much a pleasure for you as it has been for us to serve you." Parrish looked at Rigsby with raised eyebrows. He hadn't said that much at one time since Parrish had known him. Rigsby just shrugged.