They began moving off, to follow orders, muttering among themselves about the mysterious secret weapon. Sean Ryan returned to the jeep to get a fresh bottle. His instincts told him that this wasn’t going right.
Captain Raul Bazaine came up, his handsome face white. “That goddamned nigger,” he said. “That goddamned nigger.”
The mercenaries stopped and turned back to listen. Sean Ryan stopped twisting the top off his new bottle.
“What’s the matter?” he rasped.
“The cannister of mini-fission grenades—it’s gone. He’s the only one, besides us, who knew where they were, and what they were.”
The major closed his eyes in resigned pain. He finished opening the bottle and tilted it up. When he took it away from his mouth, he said, his voice on the slightly blurred side, “Where in the hell’s Captain O’Casey?”
“Tied up in the back of that lorry,” Bazaine gestured with his hand. “He wouldn’t have stood for using the grenades with his damned female pig there in the fort.”
“Turn him loose,” Ryan said wearily. “We can use every gun.”
His eyes went about the men and he said emptily, “The sergeant took the secret weapon. We’ve come a cropper. It’s our lives now. We’ve got to hold out until the aircraft gets here.”
The aggressive German said, “We can surrender.”
Bazaine laughed bitterly. “To Tuaghi?” he said. “You don’t know these Forgotten of Allah.” He turned and headed for the lorry to release Bryan O’Casey.
El Hassan lowered his binoculars and said to Lon Charles sourly, “You certainly know your terrain, sergeant. It looks as though that rectangle was bulldozed out especially for the purpose.”
“Sorry,” Lon said. “At the time I dint know I was going to be in on the party going up against it.”
Homer Crawford turned to the collected photographers. He said, “This should be the best covered action since the Normandy invasion. I hope the hell you’re well equipped with long range tele-photo lenses.”
They were, with binoculars as well. One American TV man lowered his and said, “There’ve probably been some photographic advances since you took your last snapshot, Professor Crawford.”
Kenny Ballalou, who had one of the heavy flac rifles over his shoulder and a Tuareg behind him carrying two cannisters of ammo for the deadly weapon said, “His Excellency is addressed as El Hassan,” and was ignored.
Homer said, “At least I hope you’re knowledgeable enough not to get in the line of fire. I wouldn’t want to see any of you take a hit.”
A French still-photographer, two Nikkon-Leicas around his neck, said laconically, “Some of our best have taken hits before, Professor. How are you going in?” He looked back over Guémama’s camelmen, all now on foot.
Homer said, “The Field Marshal will give you a rundown. He’s the tactician.”
Bey took over, pointing. “Our big job is to get the flac rifles close enough. We’ll work in toward that northern point of the rectangle. That’ll mean only one of their machine gun emplacements will have a clear line of fire. That other one on the west will be able to be brought to bear somewhat, but not as efficiently.”
“Suppose that they bring up one or more of their other guns?” a Britisher from BBC said, not taking his glasses away from his eyes.
“They won’t,” Bey told him, still staring out at the field where they were shortly to commit themselves. “It’ll never occur to them that we haven’t brought more men to bear than their own number. Major Ryan is an old hand. He’ll even suspect our attack is a feint. He’s got to keep the whole perimeter covered. Right now, they’re sweating blood; afraid of tanks, afraid of artillery, afraid of mortars. Guémama’s men will act as skirmishers, fanned out and advancing a few yards at a time, from cover to cover. They’ll try and keep the mercenaries pinned down so we can advance the flac rifles the same way. A flac rifle doesn’t have the range of those heavy machine guns but once it gets in, it’s more destructive. In spite of my protests, El Hassan will participate with one of the flac rifles. Vizier of Security Ballalou will carry the other. You men had better figure out your locations for your cameras. We’re moving in immediately.”
One of the newsmen said, “Why particularly the northern machine gun emplacement? That southern one looks weaker.”
Bey said, “Because their aircraft will probably come in from the north. We want to get at least one of the flac rifles in place to greet it.”
Meg came up to Homer Crawford. She and Doctor Smythe had improvised a field hospital including ten cots and an operating table. She said, an element of pathos in her voice, “My… fiancé is the tall one.”
Homer looked at her and said, “Yes, we know, Meg. And assume that he would have taken measures to attempt to prevent them from using the fission weapons.”
She turned and went back to Doctor Smythe who stood there at the cots, scowling at the prospect of more bloodshed. He had three teams of stretcher bearers on hand.
Guémama and his Tuaghi started over the rugged reg at a trot, spreading out as they went. Bey followed, half way between the two groups. He was armed solely with a holstered pistol. In his hands he carried a bull-horn.
One of the photographers, gathering up his equipment, said to Homer, “What’s that thing for?”
“He’ll be able to keep in touch with the riflemen as they advance.”
“Anything he says into that will be heard by the other side too.”
Homer smiled grimly, “I doubt if any of them speak Tamaheq.”
He slung the heavy flac rifle over a shoulder and motioned with his head to his ammunition carrier. Cliff, armed with a sniper’s rifle, complete with telescopic sight, took his place about ten meters to one side. He was Homer’s immediate cover, as Lon Charles was Kenny’s.
A movie photographer with a hand-held camera started after Homer and his two assistants. He was very nattily dressed in sports clothes, a sun helmet on his head.
Homer stopped and said, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“With you.”
“It’s going to be a little hot where I’m going.”
The photographer looked him in the face and said, “It’s my job, Doctor Crawford. I’m from CBS.” He couldn’t have been more than in his mid-twenties.
Homer shrugged it off wearily and started ahead. “I hope you’re more experienced than you look,” he said. “Keep as near to the ground as you can get—whether you’re on your feet, running, or on your belly, crawling.”
Isobel came running up. She grabbed him quickly, missed his mouth and ran her kiss along his cheek. “Come back, Homer.”
He grinned a tense grin at her. “I’ll have to,” he told her. “I’ve got some unfinished business. You.”
He turned and headed after Bey’s men, bent low. Cliff flanked him to the right, running the same way. The posture of combat men running toward fire.
In the distance ahead, a machine gun stuttered. The Tuaghi skirmishers melted into the landscape, behind rock or desert bush, or into gullies.
“They’re just finding the range,” Homer called over to Cliff.
Fifteen minutes later, the three of them, including Homer’s ammunition carrier, were in a small wadi, peering over its rim. The desert seemed empty before them. They could hear Bey’s voice boom through the bull-horn. To the far left, a tribesman suddenly broke from his cover, scurried forward a few meters, and flopped behind a large boulder.
They were inching forward, crawling, wriggling on their bellies, making quick dashes. So far, so far as they knew, no casualties had been sustained.
Homer muttered, “That Major Ryan isn’t as sharp as the sergeant seemed to think. He shouldn’t move any of his heavy guns, but he could bring more of his riflemen over to this end of his entrenchments. At this stage, they’d probably be more effective than the machine guns.”