Major M'Bonu was just about to give the order to attack when a small flash of light from the cab of the Arab's truck caught his eye. "Monsieur Glasser," he blurted with a sigh of relief, "take a look…I think our friends are leaving!" He handed Doug the field glasses.
Doug, too, caught a glimpse of the light. It was the truck's overhead light blinking on as the larger of the two Arab's who had arrived earlier got in behind the wheel. There were two other figures as well, outlined in the light of the quarter moon on the far side of the truck. One, Doug assumed, was the shorter Arab; the other a woman, obviously Arab herself, judging from the kaftan and veil she was wearing. "I think you're right, Major." He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to eight. He, too, breathed, a sign of relief.
"We'll give them three more minutes," the Major explained. "They'll be able to hear the shooting, but I doubt that they will be anxious to come back and help once they are safely out of range…Given the choice, monsieur Glasser, these Arabs will always take the coward's way out."
"Yeah, Major? Some of my best friends are like that!"
They watched the Arab truck turn around and drive down the same jungle road they came in on. God only knows where they were headed, and frankly Doug couldn't have cared less.
A minute passed.
Two…
The night-blacked jungle foliage flashed with stabs of orange flame. Agonized cries of the hurt and dying filled the Djambulu village. Stilettos of fire sought out the warm flesh of men as small arms. fire rattled through the thick underbrush. At the entrance to one burning hut a body lay writhing in the dust, its cruel face, even twisted in agony, Doug recognized immediately as belonging to Sargento Agostinho Da Silva of the P.A.I.G.C. He soon felt pain no more; his neck was broken in four places, three of his ribs protruded from his chest like toothpicks jutting out of a piece of raw meat, and there was a raw hole in his breast plate that oozed black now that his blood was thickening. He hadn't even had time to insert the clip in his machine gun.
Beyond Da Silva's hut, two P.A.I.G.C. privates fought a hopeless battle with small caliber carbines. The raid was shaping up as a complete rout. Another of their number lay a half-dozen yards away, the shirt of his fatigues smoking where a 30-caliber slug had ripped into him.
Then, running from the side door of the big hut, just before it, too, burst into flame, came the treacherous Mgoro houseboy, Ojike.
Doug, manning the 30-caliber sub-machine gun the Major had given him, squeezed off a short burst from the hip that cut the man in half.
He watched Ojike fall, then ran. He didn't have time to look back, to check and see if his shot had done the job. But he was sure that it had. Now, sweet Jesus, he had to get to the King's hut before Penny was cremated along with the Africans.
He scurried back to the main party in a zig-zag pattern, crouching to stay low. The firing was thick, but he knew the odds were still in his favor. He came upon the Major and saw that he was smiling.
"Did you see Penny?" he queried breathlessly.
"We've got her!" laughed the Major. He turned and nodded toward the hill behind him.
Doug turned and cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Half-way up the hill, a Senegalese Militiaman was running with the white girl cradled in his arms like a load of watermelon. "Major," he suggested, "let's get the hell out of here!"
They had to move fast. The Djambulu were finally getting organized, and the return fire was beginning to get hairy. Exchanging bullets as they retreated uphill, an added edge with the jungle for cover, they at last reached their vehicles parked out of sight on the other side of the crest. Doug jumped into the passenger side of the Major's Land Rover just as it dropped into gear and sped off down the jungle trail, in the direction of the Mgoro compound.
Quickly, he turned in his seat and smiled broadly at the girlish white face beaming happily back at him. "Penny," he said, "are you okay?"
"Obrigado! Obrigado!"
Doug's handsome face was pinched in confusion as he looked over at the Major. "Has she been drugged or something?" he asked. "What's this Obrigado bullshit?"
"I'm afraid I don't know, monsieur Glasser, I don't speak Portuguese."
"Neither does Penny!"
EPILOGUE
The Islamic Republic of Mauritania, a former French Overseas Territory, is bounded by the Atlantic Ocean, Spanish Sahara, Algeria, Mali and Senegal. Somewhere in the middle of this vast desert enclave-four-fifths the size of the state of Alaska-stands a tall and handsome young American atop a bald Sahara hill.
As he scans the surrounding waste with his field glasses, he sees a small oasis with its complement of goats and camels and a rocky desert road that turns to dust a few kilometers further on. What he does not see is his wife.
Penny. Somewhere out in that God-forsaken nothingness is Penny. She had to be. He's already checked all the brothels in Nouakchott and Port Etienne…