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Captain Raul Bazaine had supervized equipping the trucks and jeep. There were to be jerricans of petrol sufficient to take them half again as far as was necessary to get to the next point where fuel was available. There were jerricans of water sufficient for at least four gallons per person, each jerrican to be refilled every time water was available along the route. There were some ten shovels. There were tools and spare parts for each of the vehicles, from spare springs to spare carburetors. There were sufficient spare tires, mounted on wheels and attached to the sides of each vehicle, to have put an entire new set on each truck. On the roofs of the trucks were carried three types of sand mats to be put under the wheels, if a vehicle became stuck. One type was that most commonly used by desert trucks and were old sections of steel landing-strips, left over from the days of Rommel, Montgomery and Patton. There were also wire mats about twenty inches wide and fifteen or twenty feet long, and these could be rolled up and put on the luggage carriers. Finally, they had steel ladders, just long enough to fit between the front and rear wheels. When the back wheels climbed up on these, the driver was usually out of trouble. They also, of course, had a considerable supply of canned and dehydrated food, rations for at least a month.

The three vehicles, when underway, looked like a gypsy caravan, with pots, pans, jerricans, tires, tents and a multitude of other necessities bound everywhere there was an empty space. The jeep was monopolized by the officers and Meg, and ten of the mercenaries occupied each of the trucks. There was ample room; the vehicles were large as desert trucks went.

Sean, Bryan and Raul Bazaine had immediately contacted the two pilots awaiting them as soon as the group had gotten in from Algiers. They were French and Raul knew them both. Sean and Bryan instantly accepted them for what they were, pilot mercenaries. In fact, later, over wine in one of the canteens, they found that they knew a good many colleagues in common. It was a time for reminiscences and a time for the last drinks that Sean’s expedition would probably enjoy for quite a while. South of Adrar, there were precious few Europeans or other whites, and the Moslem doesn’t drink alcohol.

The hoverjet, carefully placed under canvas in an improvised hangar on the edge of the airfield, had proven satisfactory. It would most surely carry the full twenty-five of them if too much equipment wasn’t taken along. And they didn’t figure on carrying much equipment, save weapons, once the job was done. All else would be abandoned.

They headed southeast toward In Salah. The pilots reassured them about one thing they’d had in mind. It would hardly do for a convoy such as their own, twenty-five persons, all armed to the teeth, save Megan, all looking the tough customers they were, to be intercepted by the local military. But there evidently was no local military. The whole area was in a state of chaos. The Algerian government, in at least temporary confusion, was pulling its small outposts back further north. Too many had already defected to El Hassan. And although there were bands of El Hassan adherents here and there and the other place, they had not as yet coalesced to the point of taking over the few centers. No, twenty-four well-armed veterans had little to fear. Nevertheless, they kept on the alert.

Sergeant Lonzo Charles, now wearing a well-worn green beret, to the amusement of the others, drove. Megan McDaid, attired in a chic denim desert travel outfit from an Algiers shop, sat beside him. Sean Ryan and Bryan O’Casey were in the rear, their automatic rifles with their thirty round clips, handy. Raul Bazaine, who had taken on plenty of cognac the night before, was in the second truck, stretched out on several blankets and groaning his regrets. A hangover, Sean and Bryan had inwardly decided, must be something in this broiling sun. They felt virtuous, having stuck to the excellent Algerian wine the night before.

Lon Charles said over his shoulder, “Dust up ahead. Not much. Must be a single vehicle.”

It was the first traffic that they had thus far run into, though they had been some hours on the road.

Both Sean and Bryan quietly took up their weapons, checked them, threw cartridges into the firing chambers, and set the safeties, then put the guns down again.

Bryan said to the driver, “Remember what Captain Bazaine said. When you meet another vehicle in the desert, you always stop and exchange greetings, ask if they’re having any difficulties, and swap information on the road ahead.”

“Yes, sir,” Lon said.

The approaching vehicle turned out to be a moderate sized desert hoverlorry, containing four blacks, all dressed in khaki desert uniform rather than in native attire.

The small convoy dragged to a halt when it came abreast of the other vehicle and so did the hover-lorry.

A door in the lorry opened and a smiling head protruded from the driver’s side. It was a handsome negro, by the looks of him, somewhere in his early thirties. He said something in a language none of those in the jeep understood.

Lon Charles shook his head but grinned back in friendly fashion.

All four of the blacks in the lorry were in the wide front seat. One of them leaned over the driver a little and called out in French.

The three whites had that language, but Sean whispered, “Hold it. I’d like to know if they speak English.”

So Lon Charles called out, “Man, don’t you talk no English?”

All four of the hoverlorry occupants got out, stretching, and approached the jeep, smiling.

One of them said, “I speak English. How’s it going with yawl? Everything okay?”

“Sure,” Lon said. “We just come through Adrar this morning. Everything’s fine. You got lots of gas and water?”

“Yeah, thanks,” the other told him. “We’re having no trouble at all. And you folks’ll find the road fine between here and In Salah.”

Sean said, in a whisper, “Ask him the whereabouts of El Hassan.”

So Lon said, “Man, you wouldn’t know the whereabouts of El Hassan, would you?”

The other’s face went blank and he said, “Why would you enquire about El Hassan? May his life be as long and flowing as the tail of the horse of the prophet.”

“Oh, oh,” Bryan murmured. “El Hassan men.”

Lon said cheerfully, “We’re looking for to join up with him.”

The faces of the four blacks were empty, though not unfriendly. The speaker said, “But three of you, including the Sitt are white. And the others, back in the trucks?”

Lon said, “They’re white too. But we figure, before it’s all over, El Hassan is going to need all sorts.”

The other shook his head in disbelief but said, “The last we heard about El Hassan, he was in Tamanrasset, his new capital. It’s about a thousand kilometers and a spell from here but you can pick up any supplies you need in In Salah.”

The four returned to the hoverlorry and got back in and, after a friendly wave from the driver, the desert vehicle took off.

Before they started up again themselves, Sean said thoughtfully, “None of those four were Africans.”

Meg looked around at him. “How do you mean? They were all as black as Lon, here.”

Sean grunted acceptance of that but said, “Lon isn’t an African either. He’s an American. That chap who was speaking English had an American Southern accent you could hang your hat on.”

Bryan said, his head cocked questioningly, “And how about the others?”

Sean shook his head. “They all projected an—how would you put it?—an educated, sophisticated air.” He hesitated before adding, “And I’m after wondering if we just ran into El Hassan and some of his intimates.”