“Or should we call it their Air Force and their Army? Besides, navies never determine the outcome of revolutions.
They only influence the outcome.”
Yosef turned to Aineuf.
“Mr. President, we have little choice. We must try for Tunisia.”
Bashir interrupted.
“Tunisia is impossible. Colonel. We fool them? No?” Without waiting for an answer he continued.
“Let me take you to a small village I know west of Algiers where I have many relatives and — you will be pleased to be thanking me — they are all loyal to you. President Aineuf. They will be pleased to receive you, for your government has been nice for our enterprises and, without doubt, the new government will not be as understanding of the rights and freedoms of those who scratch out a life in the soil.” The truck hit a series of small potholes, throwing everyone around the cab and tossing those in back off their haunches. A renewed vigor of baaing came from the sheep.
Bashir glanced in his rearview mirror to see if anyone had fallen off.
“Of course, I know you are President Aineuf, but I wonder who the rebels think they have …” Bashir drummed the heavy fingers of his right hand on his chin while steering with the left. He glanced sideways at Yosef and Alneuf and laughed. Suddenly, he grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and jerked it to the left in an attempt to avoid a large pothole. The back right wheel hit it, bouncing Yosef into the roof.
“What do you mean?” Aineuf asked.
“While you were fighting with the warplane the radio reported that President Aineuf had surrendered the country to the new ‘people’s government of Algeria’ and had ordered all government forces still resisting to put down their weapons and return to their garrisons.”
“But I haven’t said that.”
“Of course you haven’t, Mr. President. Only the radio has said that.” Bashir let out an audible sigh.
“Pity those troops who do return to their garrisons. My first nephew by my second sister, who is riding in back, watched from a hidden spot above the small garrison in Bukra Al Buriha.
The rebels relieved the soldiers of their weapons as they returned to the garrison in response to the radio. This morning they called them out to stand in the morning sun. My nephew by my second sister is a fine lad with impressive hearing”—Bashir flicked his right ear—“but he was unable to hear what they said. But we discussed it and decided that the rebels offered the soldiers a chance to fight for the new government. Many came forward. Some more quickly than others, I hesitate to add. Officers were crowded off to another side and it appeared they were not invited to join the new Army, I think, for none came forward. When they finished, those who volunteered, which were most, crawled into trucks that quickly departed the garrison and turned east to join the border troops.”
Bashir downshifted as the truck reached a slight hill.
The front left wheel crashed into another pothole, throwing the speeding truck to the left and Yosef into the roof again. Bashir pulled the truck back onto the right side of the road.
“What happened to the others?” Yosef asked, nib bing his head.
“They were lined up and shot,” Bashir replied in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Let’s face it. Colonel, in the new Algeria only the quiet, docile members of our society will live peacefully in their ignorance and then only if their neighbor lacks envy.”
At the crest of a hill they passed two cars, traveling in convoy. Personal effects were tied loosely to the roofs. With the exception of the two men driving, crouched protectively over the steering wheels, all the three in the cab saw were women and children crammed inside both vehicles.
Fearful glances came from the people inside the vehicles, but no acknowledgment; no casual wave came as they passed.
“They won’t go much farther,” Bashir commented.
“Why is that?”
“The rebel roadblock will stop them and turn them back.
This is the new Algeria, Mr. President. That is, until you return to power.”
“And you think I’ll return?”
“No, I don’t, Mr. President,” replied Bashir after a few seconds.
“Please accept my most humble apologies. But, you will be the catalyst; the figurehead to those who will slip into the underworld of Algeria to fight. Now the colonel, he is young. He could return to free Algeria from these new tyrants, who will jerk freedom away in the name of religion or in the name of social equality. They will find reasons to stop those freedoms we had begun to enjoy; just as communists did during the days of the Soviet Union in the name of socialism or as the Americans do in the name of political correctness. Hold on!”
The bright sun blinded the three as they swerved around a bend in the road. The truck bounced through another series of potholes before straightening out. Bashir pulled the sun visor down, reached above it, and extracted a pair of gold aviator sunglasses. He put them on. They looked out of place; too small for his broad face, large jowls, and multiple chins.
“Do you have sunglasses, Mr. President, Colonel?”
“I am afraid. Said Bashir, that when we left the palace last night we hardly had time to pack. What you see is what we have,” Aineuf answered, holding his coat open slightly.
“Open the dashboard. Colonel. I think I have some spare sunglasses in there.”
Yosef opened the dashboard. Dozens of aviator sunglasses tumbled out, with several pairs landing on the floor.
Some were in carrying cases, most were not, and all had the manufacturer’s tag still on them.
“A lot of sunglasses for a simple truck farmer, Mr. Bashir,” said Yosef.
Bashir’s laughter rocked the cab.
“Even a truck farmer must supplement the meager earnings made from the sale of vegetables and sheep.”
“You’re a smuggler?” Aineuf asked, amazed.
Bashir’s laughter rocked the cab.
“No, Mr. President. Let’s say that until this new change of government I was active in tax-free marketing.”
“Okay, hold on, here is where we turn.” Without slowing, Bashir whipped the truck to the left, bouncing off the road. The wheels dropped six inches from pavement to sand, tossing everyone in the back into the air. Bashir continued down a rough incline before, with brakes squealing, abruptly sloping amidst a cloud of dust.
Bashir shoved the door open and leaned out of the cab.
“Shove those sheep out!” he shouted. He reached back inside and put the gears in neutral and pulled the emergency brakes. Moving fast for a large, overweight man, he jumped out, leaving the driver’s door open.
“Wait here, Mr. President,” Yosef said cautiously.
Yosef opened his door and hurried back to where his men and Bashir’s cousins were pulling and pushing the sheep off the truck.
“What is this for?” he asked.
“The sheep will tear up the dirt and erase our tracks,” Bashir said. Then seeing the men herding more sheep to the edge of the truck bed, he shouted, “No, not all of them.
Keep ten. We may need them for food and drink.”
“Drink?” Corporal Ghatan asked.
“Yes, drink. You see. Corporal,” said Bashir, reaching down and grabbing one of the sheep by its scuff, “if you make a small cut here, you can drain some of the blood.
Warm blood satisfies both hunger and thirst.” He released the sheep.
Ghatan’s lips curled in disgust.
“Well, you’ve just satisfied mine.”
Bashir turned to a nephew and whispered something to him. The man ran to the road. Bashir’s nephew ripped a bush from the ground and began erasing signs of where the truck had turned off the road. Yosef motioned to a nearby Guardsman to go help Bashir’s nephew. He was still deciding whether to trust Bashir, but knew they had little choice at this time. They outnumbered the smuggler cum farmer if he decided the man was untrustworthy. They could always take the truck and abandon Bashir and his nephews. He turned to discover Bashir staring at him. The smuggler smiled, winked, and broke eye contact. Yosef would have been correct if he had surmised that Bashir knew what he was thinking.