The three mercenaries stood, their faces empty and Major Ryan began to say something.
Homer shook his head. “That will be all.”
Guémama, though he couldn’t understand the language, now came even more to the ready, his weapon half raised, his eyes alert.
Just as the three reached the door, Megan McDaid came through it.
She looked at Bryan and said crisply, “I’m remaining. I’ve discussed it with Isobel and Doctor Smythe. They need me. They need any doctor who’s really sincere about helping North Africa.”
All three of the white mercenaries were staring at her, Bryan obviously completely flabbergasted. “But… but…”
She said definitely, “El Hassan was hesitant, but both Isobel and Dr. Smythe put in their support. I’m staying.”
Her lover put out one hand, as though in supplication, “But Meg… why?”
She looked at him and then the other two, making no effort to keep contempt from her eye. “Possibly because I have met El Hassan and his colleagues and was impressed by them. Possibly because of a bit Kipling once wrote.”
Bryon O’Casey’s stare was blank.
She recited:
“Take up the white man’s burden, Send forth the best ye breed.”
They didn’t know what she was talking about.
Meg said bitterly, “Are you three an example of the best my race can breed to send to help North Africa?”
She turned her back to them and marched over to the conference table and stood behind Isobel’s chair, her eyes closed.
Homer gestured with his head, and Guémama gestured with the muzzle of his gun.
The three mercenaries went out, Bryan weaving, each of his companions taking him by the arm.
Outside the administration building, Bryan said to Sean desperately, “What can we do?”
But it was Raul Bazaine who answered curtly, “Nothing.”
“We can’t leave her here,” he pled. “With those niggers.”
Their twenty men were standing about the tents, waiting.
Bazaine snapped in command, “On the double. Break camp. We’re moving out!”
The twenty moved at disciplined speed, no immediate need to have the urgency explained to them.
While Bryan stood there, breathing deeply, completely disorganized, Sean said to one of the hurrying men, “Where in the name of the Holy Mother is the sergeant?”
“He’s not around,” the man said back, and hurried on.
Sean groaned and turned to Raul Bazaine. “Hustle them up. I’ll go to our quarters and get our gear.” He left at a trot for the non-com billets.
Bryan grabbed the Frenchman by the arm. “We can’t leave Meg!”
Bazaine smiled reassuringly and said, “Come along. I’ve got something to show you.” He led the way to the back of one of the desert lorries. “In there,” he said, reassuringly again.
Scowling puzzlement, Bryan O’Casey pulled the canvas curtain back and peered into the interior. The Frenchman clipped him neatly on the back of the neck in a practiced karate blow and Bryan crumbled.
Bazaine said in French to two of the men who came up lugging a section of tent, “Put him in the back and tie him securely. Too much sun, without doubt. A touch of cafard.”
They looked at him questioningly, but obeyed. He went back to supervise the loading of the trucks.
Guémama, accompanied by a double dozen of his men, and looking unhappy at the orders he was fulfilling, came up and turned over the weapons that had been confiscated from the white men when they had first made their appearance. The equipment included the breeches of four machine guns.
Sean returned from the billets, carrying three duffle bags. “Where in the hell’s that damned sergeant?”
“Probably in town, drunk,” Bazaine said. “We can’t take the chance of sending looking for him. This bunch of wogs would love the opportunity to start shooting.”
The men were working with brisk military efficiency.
Sean looked around. “And where’s Bryan?”
“All shook up. He’s in the back of the second lorry.”
“Poor bastard,” Sean groaned. Then, “All right, let’s get the hell out of here before that son-of-a-bitch El Hassan changes his mind. He’s obviously as suspicious as a leprechaun.”
The two officers climbed into the jeep, Sean behind the wheel. The men, their camp breaking completed, their guns now in hand, were swarming into the lorries.
The jeep led the way, over the parade ground, out through the large gate. Guémama and his men watched after them, their faces unhappy.
As soon as they were clear of the fort, Sean snapped, “Get on that tight-beam, Raul. Notify those pilots in Adrar to get on down here as quickly as possible. Tell them we’ll be approximately two or three kilometers north of Tamanrasset. When we see them, we’ll send up a flare.”
The Frenchman leaned over the seat to reach into the back. He said, surprise in his voice, “There’s four bottles of cognac here. That damned nigger sergeant must have located some more.”
Sean rasped, “I’ll be having some, wherever it came from. Hand me a bottle and get on that damned tight-beam.”
The Frenchman shrugged and handed over one of the bottles and took up the tight-beam radio phone. He spoke into it in French.
Back in the fort, Homer Crawford looked at Bey and said musingly, “I suppose that was the best thing to do.”
His field marshal nodded. “Yes, So far this revolt has been all but bloodless, save for our confrontation with the Arab Union. It wouldn’t do for some garbled accounts of a massacre of whites—mercenaries or not—to filter back to the media in Europe and America. Sorry you returned their weapons, though.”
Cliff said, “What in the hell did they really want?”
Meg, invitation obviously not necessary, had slumped into one of the chairs vacated by Sean Ryan and his two captains. She said flatly, “They wanted to assassinate the lot of you.”
Homer nodded. “That seems to fit in. Though they would have had their work cut out.” He looked at Megan McDaid. “You made a noble gesture. I understand that Captain O’Casey was your fiancé. Isobel and Doctor Smythe are correct. Advanced medicine today is in the hands of the developed countries. I suggest that, as a white, you be attached to the doctor’s staff as a laison officer in our negotiations with medical bodies of other nations.”
A knock came at the door.
Homer frowned and made a motion to the returned Guémama who opened up.
It was Lon Charles, bearing a military gray cannister, and, of all things, looking on the sheepish side.
Bey scowled and said, “Why in the devil aren’t you with the others? They must be ready to take off.”
“Man, they’re gone,” Lon told him. “This cat’s defected. I like the looks of things around here and thought I’d enlist with El Hassan. Miss Isobel, maybe she wasn’t trying to, but she kind of talked me into it.”
“Welcome to the club,” Cliff said. “You must have holes in your head—like the rest of us.”
Homer said, “Sit down, Sergeant. I understand that was your rank with the mercenaries. Tell me, how did they expect to get away with it, this far into El Hassan’s territory? If they tried to gun us down, they would have had to run all the way to the Mediterranean. And some of the El Hassan followers are on the fanatical side.”
Lon put his cannister down on the table gingerly and sat himself. He said, “We had a helio-jet coming in to pick us up.”
Kenny said, “That makes sense. But it doesn’t make sense to think that they’d get a crack at us at all. Isobel even had their guns taken away from them, as obviously she would.”
Lon said gently, “They wasn’t gonna use guns.”