Sahara (62 page)

“I do not lie. See for yourself.”

The Moor stepped down from the motor cart and walked up to the front of the fort. He returned a few minutes later and spoke to the white man in French.

“The boy is right. The doors to the main gate are locked from within.”

The face of the French track surveyor turned serious. “We must continue into the waste project and report this.”

The Moor nodded and climbed back on the motor cart. He threw Ali a wave. “Do not stand too close to the tracks when the train comes, and keep a tight grip on your camel.”

The engine’s exhaust popped and the motor cart rolled down the rails in the direction of the hazardous waste project, leaving Ali staring after it while his camel gazed stoically at the horizon and spit on the track.

Colonel Marcel Levant realized he could not prevent the nomad boy and the railroad section hand from inspecting the exterior of the fort. Silently, menacingly, a dozen unseen machine guns had been trained on the curious intruders. They could have easily been shot and dragged into the fort, but Levant did not have the stomach for killing innocent civilians so they were spared.

“What do you think?” Pembroke-Smythe asked as the motor cart sped down the track toward the waste site’s security station.

Levant studied the boy and his camel, his eyes squinting like those of a sniper. They were still resting beside the tracks waiting for the next passing train. “If those two on the cart tell Massarde’s security guards the fort is sealed up, we can expect an armed patrol to investigate.”

Pembroke-Smythe checked the time. “A good seven hours before dark. Let’s hope they’re slow in responding.”

“Any late word from General Bock?” asked Levant.

“We’ve lost contact. The radio was knocked about during the journey from Tebezza and the circuitry became damaged. We can no longer transmit and reception is quite weak. The General’s last message came through too garbled to decode properly. The best the operator could make of it was something about an American special operation force team that was going to hook up with us in Mauritania.”

Levant stared incredulously at Pembroke-Smythe. “The Americans are coming, but only as far as Mauritania? Good God, that’s over 300 kilometers from here. What in hell good will they do us in Mauritania if we’re attacked before we can escape over the border?”

“The message was unclear, sir,” Pembroke-Smythe shrugged helplessly. “Our radio operator did his best. Perhaps he misunderstood.”

“Can he somehow rig the radio to our combat communications gear?”

Pembroke-Smythe shook his head. “He already thought of that angle. The systems are not compatible.”

“We don’t even know if Admiral Sandecker deciphered Pitt’s code correctly,” Levant said wearily. “For all Bock knows we may be wandering around the desert in circles or fleeing for Algeria.”

“I like to think positive, sir.”

Levant sank down heavily and leaned against a rampart. “No chance of making a run for it. Not nearly enough fuel. Getting caught in the open by the Malians is almost a certainty. No contact with the outside world. I’m afraid many of us are going to die in this rat hole, Pembroke-Smythe.”

“Look on the bright side, Colonel. Perhaps the Americans will come charging in here like General Custer’s seventh cavalry.”

“Oh God!” Levant moaned despairingly. “Why did you have to go and mention
him?”

Giordino lay stretched out on his back under a personnel carrier removing a chassis spring when he saw Pitt’s boots and legs step into his limited view. “Where’ve you been?” he grunted while twisting a nut from a shackle bolt.

“Tending to the weak and infirm,” answered Pitt cheerfully.

“Then tend to the framework of your oddball whatchacallit. You can use the beams from the ceilings in the officers’ quarters. They’re dry but sound.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“A pity you can’t say the same,” Giordino said complainingly. “You’d better start figuring out how you’re going to attach it all together.”

Pitt lowered a small wooden keg to the ground in Giordino’s line of sight. “Problem solved. I found half a keg of spikes in the mess hall.”

“The mess hall?”

“Exposed in a storeroom in the mess hall,” Pitt corrected himself.

Giordino pushed himself from under the vehicle and examined Pitt, his eyes traveling from the unlaced boots to the half-opened combat suit to the disheveled hair. When he finally spoke, it was in a voice heavy with sarcasm.

“I bet that keg wasn’t the only thing you exposed in the storeroom.”

52

When the report from the railroad section hands came into Kazim’s security headquarters from Fort Foureau, it was given a quick read and set aside by Major Sid Ahmed Gowan, Kazim’s personal intelligence officer. He saw nothing of value in it, and certainly no reason to pass it on to that Turkish interloper, Ismail Yerli.

Gowan failed to spot a connection between an abandoned fort and an elusive prey 400 kilometers to the north. The railroad workers who insisted the fort was locked from the inside were haughtily brushed off as a pair of dubious informants attempting to ingratiate themselves with their superiors.

But as the hours dragged by without any sighting of the UN force, Major Gowan took another look at the account and his suspicions began to grow. He was a thoughtful man, young and highly intelligent, the only officer in General Kazim’s security forces who was educated in France and had graduated from Saint Cyr, France’s foremost military college. He began to see a possibility of pulling off a coup to please his leader and make Yerli appear an amateur intelligence specialist.

He picked up the phone and called the commander of the Malian air forces, requesting an aerial reconnaissance of the desert south of Tebezza with special emphasis on vehicle tracks in the sand. As a backup precaution he also advised Fort Foureau to stop all trains from leaving or entering the project. If the UN force had indeed crossed the desert southward without being observed, Gowan speculated, perhaps they had holed up in the old Foreign Legion fort during daylight hours. With their vehicles certain to be low on fuel, they would probably await darkness before attempting to capture an outbound train headed for the Mauritanian border.

All Gowan needed to confirm his hunch was an aerial sighting of fresh vehicle tracks traveling from Tebezza to the railroad. Positive that he was now on the right trail, he rang Kazim and explained his new analysis of the search operation.

Inside the fort the hardest ingredient of suffering was time. Everyone counted the minutes until darkness. Each hour that passed without sign of an attack was considered a gift. But by four o’clock in the afternoon, Levant knew something was terribly wrong.

He was standing on a rampart studying the hazardous waste project through binoculars when Pembroke-Smythe approached with Pitt in tow.

“You sent for me, Colonel?” asked Pitt.

Levant replied without dropping the glasses. “When you and Mr. Giordino penetrated the grounds of the waste project, did you by chance time the passing trains?”

“Yes, the inbound and outbound trains alternated, one entering three hours after one exited.”

Levant put down the glasses and stared at Pitt. “Then what do you make of the fact that no train has appeared for four and a half hours?”

“A problem with the track, a derailment, breakdown of equipment. There could be any number of reasons for a slowdown in the schedule.”

“Is that what you believe?”

“Not for an instant.”

“What is your best guess?” Levant persisted.

Pitt stared at the empty rails running in front of the old fort. “If I was betting a year’s wages, I’d have to say they’re on to us.”

“You think the trains were halted to prevent us from escaping?”

Pitt nodded. “It stands to reason that once Kazim wises up to our end run, and his search patrols spot our wheel tracks traveling south to the railroad, he’ll realize our objective was to hijack a train.”

“The Malians are smarter than I gave them credit for,” Levant admitted. “Now we’re trapped with no means of communicating our situation to General Bock.”

Pembroke-Smythe cleared his throat. “If I may suggest, sir. I would like to volunteer to make a dash toward the border to meet up with the American Special Forces team and lead them back.”

Levant looked at him sternly for a moment. “A suicide mission at best.”

“It may well be our only chance at getting anyone out of here. By taking the fast attack vehicle, I can be over the border inside of six hours.”

“You’re optimistic, Captain,” Pitt corrected him. “I’ve driven over this part of the desert. Just when you’re traveling at speed across what looks like a flat dry plain, you drop 50 feet off a slope into a ravine. And there is no traveling through sand dunes if you expect to make time. I’d say you’ll be lucky to hit Mauritania by late tomorrow morning.”

“I intend to travel as the crow flies by driving on the railroad.”

“A dead giveaway. Kazim’s patrols will be all over you before you’ve covered 50 kilometers, if they haven’t already set up blockades across the tracks.”

“Aren’t you forgetting our lack of fuel?” added Levant. “There isn’t enough gas to carry you a third of the way.”

“We can drain what’s left from the tanks of the personnel carriers,” Pembroke-Smythe said without a sign of retreat.

“You’ll be cutting it a mite thin,” said Pitt.

Pembroke-Smythe shrugged. “A dull ride without some risk.”

“You can’t go it alone,” said Levant.

“A night crossing of the desert at high speed can be a risky business,” cautioned Pitt. “You’ll need a co-driver and a navigator.”

“I have no intention of attempting it alone,” Pembroke-Smythe informed them.

“Who have you selected?” asked Levant.

Smythe looked and smiled at the tall man from NUMA. “Either Mr. Pitt or his friend Giordino, since they’ve already had a crash course in desert survival.”

“A civilian won’t be of much help in a running fight with Kazim’s patrols,” warned Levant.

“I plan to lighten the assault vehicle by removing all armor and weapons. We’ll carry a spare tire and tools, enough water for the next twenty-four hours, and handguns only.”

Levant thought out Pembroke-Smythe’s mad plan carefully in his methodical way. Then he nodded. “All right, Captain. Get to work on the vehicle.”

“Yes sir.”

“There is, however, one other thing.”

“Sir?”

“Sorry to put a crimp in your escapade, but as second in command, I require your services here. You’ll have to send someone in your place. I suggest Lieutenant Steinholm. If I remember correctly, he once drove in the Monte Carlo Rally.”

Pembroke-Smythe did not attempt to conceal the expression of disappointment on his face. He began to say something, but saluted and hurried down the ladder to the parade field without a word of protest.

Levant looked at Pitt. “You’ll have to volunteer, Mr. Pitt. I do not have the authority to order you to go.”

“Colonel,” Pitt said with the barest of grins, “I’ve been chased all over the Sahara in the past week, came within a millimeter of dying of thirst, been shot at, steamed like a lobster, and cuffed in the face by every unsavory scum I met. This is the last stop for Mrs. Pitt’s boy. I’m getting off the train and staying put. Al Giordino will go out with Lieutenant Steinholm.”

Levant smiled. “You’re a fraud, Mr. Pitt, a sterling, gilt-edged fraud. You know as well as I it’s sure death to remain here. Giving your friend a chance to escape in your place is a noble gesture. You have my deepest respect.”

“Noble gestures are not part of my act. I have a thing about leaving jobs unfinished.”

Levant looked down at the strange machine taking shape under the protection of one wall. “You mean your catapult.”

“Actually, it’s sort of a spring bow.”

“Do you actually think it will work against armored vehicles?”

“Oh, she’ll do the job,” said Pitt in a tone of utter confidence. “The only unknown is how well.”

Shortly after sunset, the hurriedly filled sandbags and makeshift obstructions were removed from the main gate and the massive doors opened. Lieutenant Steinholm, a big, blond, handsome Austrian, strapped himself behind the wheel and received his final instructions from Pembroke-Smythe.

Giordino stood beside the stripped-down dune buggy and quietly made his farewells to Pitt and Eva. “So long, old buddy,” he said to Pitt, forcing a tight smile. “Not fair me going instead of you.”

Pitt gave Giordino a quick bear hug. “Mind the pot holes.”

“Steinholm and I’ll be back with beer and pizza by lunchtime.”

The words were empty of meaning. Neither man doubted for a second that by noon the following day the fort and everybody in it would be only a memory.

“I’ll keep a light in the window,” said Pitt.

Eva gave Giordino a light kiss on the cheek and handed him a small package wrapped in plastic. “A little something to eat on the road.”

“Thank you.” Giordino turned away so they couldn’t see his watering eyes and climbed in the attack vehicle, his smile suddenly gone, his face taut with sadness. “Put your foot on it,” he said to Steinholm.

The Lieutenant nodded, shifted gears, and jammed his foot on the accelerator. The dune buggy leaped forward and shot through the open gate, roaring into the fading orange of the western sky as its rear wheels kicked up twin rooster tails of dust.

Giordino twisted in his seat and looked back. Pitt stood just outside the gate, one arm around Eva’s waist. He lifted a hand in a gesture of farewell. Giordino could still see the flash of Pitt’s devilish smile before the trailing dust closed off all view.

For a long minute the entire combat team watched the dune buggy speed across the desert. Their reactions ranged all the way from a weary kind of sorrow to resigned acceptance as the vehicle became a faint speck in the gloom of dusk. Every hope they had of surviving went with Giordino and Steinholm. Then Levant gave a quiet command and the commandos pushed the doors closed and barricaded the gate for the final time.

Major Gowan received the report he was expecting from a helicopter patrol that followed the tire tracks of Levant’s convoy to the railroad where they disappeared. Further reconnaissance was called off because of darkness. The few aircraft of the Malian air force equipped with night vision equipment were grounded for mechanical repairs. But Gowan did not require additional search and recon missions. He knew where his quarry was hiding. He contacted Kazim and confirmed his assessment of the situation. His delighted superior promoted him to Colonel on the spot and promised a decoration for meritorious service.