Sahara (68 page)

“Good Gawd!” one of the American Rangers uttered at seeing the unbelievable amount of carnage. From the time they had burst from the train and charged across the desert separating the fort from the track, they had jumped over and dodged around a vast carpet of dead and wounded, often so many they could not step between them. Now inside the demolished fortress, the bodies were piled three and four deep in some areas of the rubble. None had ever seen so many dead in one place before.

Pitt painfully lifted himself up and hopped on one leg. He tore off a sleeve and wrapped it around the hole in his thigh to stem the flow of blood. Then he looked at Pembroke-Smythe who stood stiffly, gray-faced, and obviously in great pain from several wounds.

“You look even worse than the last time I saw you,” said Pitt.

The Captain stared Pitt up and down and casually brushed a thick layer of dust from his shoulder insignia. “They’ll never let you in the Savoy Hotel looking as shabby as you do either.”

As if resurrected from the grave, Colonel Levant rose from the incredible devastation and limped toward Pitt and Pembroke-Smythe, using a grenade launcher as a crutch. Levant’s helmet was gone and his left arm hung limply at his side. He was bleeding from a gash across his scalp and a badly wounded ankle.

Neither man had expected to find him alive. They both solemnly shook hands with him.

“I’m happy to see you, Colonel,” said Pembroke-Smythe cheerfully. “I thought you were buried under the wall.”

“I was for a time.” Levant nodded at Pitt and smiled. “I see you’re still with us, Mr. Pitt.”

“The proverbial bad penny.”

Levant’s face took on a saddened look as he saw the pitifully few men of his force that moved forward to surround and greet him. “They whittled us down somewhat.”

“We whittled them down too,” Pitt muttered grimly.

Levant saw Hargrove and his aides approaching, accompanied by Giordino and Steinholm. He stiffened and turned to Pembroke-Smythe. “Form up the men, Captain.”

Pembroke-Smythe found it difficult to keep a steady voice as he assembled the remnant of the UN Tactical Team. “All right, lads . . .” He hesitated, seeing there was one female corporal helping to hold up a big sergeant. “And ladies. Straighten up the line.”

Hargrove stopped in front of Levant and the two colonels exchanged salutes. The American was stunned at seeing the meager number that had fought so many. The international fighting team stood proud, none unscathed, everyone a walking wounded. They looked like statues, they were covered with so much dust. Their eyes were deep-sunk and red, and the faces haggard by their ordeal. The men all wore stubbled beards. Their combat suits were torn and filthy. Some wore crude bandages that were soaked through with blood. And yet they stood undefeated.

“Colonel Jason Hargrove,” he introduced himself. “United States Army Rangers.”

“Colonel Marcel Levant, United Nations Critical Response Team.”

“I deeply regret,” said Hargrove, “we couldn’t arrive sooner.”

Levant shrugged. “It is a miracle you are here at all.”

“A magnificent stand, Colonel.” Hargrove glanced around the destruction. Then he stared past Levant at the battle-weary fighters lined up behind, an incredulous look on his face. “Is this all of you?”

“Yes, all that’s left of my fighting force.”

“How many under your command?”

“About forty at the beginning.”

As if in a trance, Hargrove again saluted Levant. “My compliments on a glorious defense. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“We have wounded in the fort’s underground arsenal,” Levant informed Hargrove.

“I was told you also were originally convoying women and children.”

“They are below with my wounded.”

Hargrove abruptly turned and shouted to his officers “Get our medics up here and take care of these people Bring up those from below and evacuate them onto the transport choppers, double quick. The Malian air force can show up any second.”

Giordino walked up to Pitt who was standing off to one side and embraced him. “I thought this time, old friend, you weren’t going to make it.”

Pitt still tried a grin despite the waves of fatigue and the gnawing pain from the bullet hole in the fleshy part of his thigh. “The devil and I couldn’t agree on terms.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have put the show on the road two hours sooner,” Giordino lamented.

“No one expected you by train.”

“Hargrove couldn’t risk flying his choppers through Kazim’s fighter defense screen in daylight.”

Pitt looked up as an Apache warbird circled the fort, its sophisticated electronics probing over the horizons for intruders. “You made it through without detection,” he said. “That’s what counts.”

Giordino looked into Pitt’s eyes guardedly. “Eva?”

“Alive but badly injured. Thanks to you and your air horn, she missed dying by two seconds.”

“She came that close to being shot by Kazim’s mob?” Giordino asked curiously.

“No, shot by me.” Before Giordino could reply, Pitt gestured toward the entrance to the arsenal. “Come along. She’ll be happy to see your Quasimodo face.”

Giordino’s face grew sober at the sight of all the wounded with their bloody bandages and splints lying jammed on the floor of the cramped area. He was surprised by the damage caused by falling stones from the ceiling. But what stunned him most was the incredible silence. None of the wounded uttered a sound, no moan escaped their lips. No one in that crumbling arsenal cellar spoke. The children merely stared at him, totally subdued after hours of fright.

Then, as if on cue, they all broke into weak cheers and applause at recognizing Giordino as the one who brought reinforcements and saved their lives. Pitt was amused by it all. He had never seen Giordino display so much modesty and embarrassment as the men reached out to shake his hand and the women kissed him like a long-lost lover.

Then Giordino spotted Eva as she raised her head and flashed a wide smile. “Al . . . oh Al, I knew you’d come back.”

He crouched beside her, careful not to make contact with her injuries, and awkwardly patted her hand. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you and Dirk still breathing.”

“We had quite a party,” she said bravely. “Too bad you missed it.”

“They sent me out for ice.”

She glanced around at the others suffering around her. “Can’t something be done for them?”

“The medics from the Special Forces are on their way,” Pitt explained. “Everyone will be evacuated as soon as possible.”

Another few moments of small talk and the big, tough-looking Rangers appeared and began tenderly carrying the children and helping their mothers outside to a waiting transport helicopter that had set down on the parade | ground. The Ranger medics, assisted by the exhausted UN medical team, then directed the evacuation of the wounded.

Giordino obtained a stretcher, and with Pitt hobbling on one end, gently carried Eva into the bright afternoon sun.

“I never thought I’d hear myself say the desert heat feels good,” she murmured.

Two Rangers reached through the open cargo door of the helicopter. “We’ll take her from here,” said one.

“Put her in first class,” Pitt smiled at the men. “She’s a very special lady.”

“Eva!” a voice thundered from inside the helicopter. Dr. Hopper sat up on a stretcher, a bandage covering half his bare chest and another across one side of his face. “Let us hope this flight has a more enjoyable destination than the last one.”

“Congratulations, Doc,” said Pitt. “I’m glad to see you came through.”

“Got four of the beggars before one downed me with a hand grenade.”

“Fairweather?” asked Pitt, not seeing the Britisher.

Hopper shook his head sadly. “He didn’t make it.”

Pitt and Giordino helped the Rangers tie down Eva’s stretcher next to Hopper’s. Then Pitt brushed her hair back with his hands. “You’re in good company with the Doc.”

She looked up at Pitt, wishing with all her heart that he could sweep her into his arms. “You’re not coming?”

“Not this trip.”

“But you need medical care,” she protested.

“I have some unfinished business.”

“You can’t stay in Mali,” she implored him. “You mustn’t, not after all that’s happened.”

“Al and I came to West Africa to do a job. It isn’t finished yet.”

“Is this the end of us then?” she asked in a choking voice.

“No, nothing so final.”

“When will I see you again?”

“Soon, if all goes well,” he said sincerely.

She lifted her head, her eyes gleaming in the sunlight with unshed tears. Then she kissed him lightly on the mouth. “Please hurry.”

Pitt and Giordino stepped back as the helicopter’s pilot increased the rpms and the craft lifted off the ground, throwing up a maelstrom of dust inside the fort. They watched the chopper as it rose above the crumpled walls and swung toward the west.

Then Giordino turned to Pitt and nodded at his injuries. “We’d better get you patched up if you’re about to do what I think you want to do.”

Pitt insisted on waiting until all of the more seriously wounded were treated before he allowed a medic to remove the shrapnel from his left arm and shoulder, stitch them up along with the bullet hole in the flesh of his thigh, give him two shots for infection and one for pain, before padding him with bandages. Afterward, he and Giordino bid their goodbyes to Levant and Pembroke-Smythe before the UN officers were airlifted out with the surviving members of the UN team.

“You’re not joining us?” asked Levant.

“The one who lies behind all this senseless slaughter cannot be allowed to walk away,” Pitt answered cryptically.

“Yves Massarde?”

Pitt nodded silently.

“I wish you luck.” He shook their hands. “Gentlemen, I can think of little more to say except to thank you for your services.”

“A pleasure, Colonel,” said Giordino with a cocky smile. “Call on us anytime.”

“I hope they give you a medal,” said Pitt, “and promote you to General. No man deserves it more.”

Levant surveyed the devastation as if searching for something, perhaps envisioning the men of his command who were still buried under the rubble. “I hope the sacrifices endured by both sides were worth the terrible price in lives.”

Pitt shrugged heavily. “Death is paid for by grief and measured only by the depth of the grave.”

Pembroke-Smythe, head high, glorious disdain engraved on his handsome face, was the last to board. “Bloody good sport,” he said. “We must all get together and do it again some time.”

“We can hold a reunion,” muttered Giordino sarcastically.

“If we ever meet in London,” said Pembroke-Smythe, unperturbed, “the Dom Perignon is on me. In fact, I’ll introduce you to some marvelous girls who oddly find Americans appealing.”

“Will we get a ride in your Bentley?” asked Pitt.

“How did you know I drove a Bentley?” replied Pembroke-Smythe in mild surprise.

Pitt grinned. “Somehow it fit.”

They turned away without a backward look as the helicopter carrying the last of the UN Tactical Team soared across the desert toward Mauritania and safety. A young black lieutenant trotted across their path and waved them to a stop.

“Pardon me, Mr. Pitt, Mr. Giordino?”

Pitt nodded. “That’s us.”

“Colonel Hargrove wants you over at the Malian headquarters across the railroad track.”

Giordino knew better than to offer Pitt a shoulder as his friend limped across the sand, teeth gritted against the pain shooting from his thigh. The opaline eyes never ceased to gleam with determination from a gaunt face partly covered by a bandage.

The tents making up Kazim’s former field headquarters bore desert camouflage markings but were shaped more like stage settings from a production of
Kismet.
Colonel Hargrove was in the main tent leaning over a table, studying Kazim’s military communication codes when they walked inside. A stub of a cigar was pushed between his lips.

Without greeting, he asked, “Do either of you by chance know what Zateb Kazim looks like?”

“We’ve met him,” answered Pitt.

“Could you identify him?”

“Probably.”

Hargrove straightened and moved through the tent’s opening. “Out here.” He led them across a short stretch of level ground to a bullet-riddled car. He removed the cigar and spit in the sand. “Recognize any of these clowns?”

Pitt leaned into the interior of the car. Already hordes of flies were swarming on the blood-coated bodies. He glanced at Giordino who was peering in from the other side. Giordino simply nodded.

Pitt turned to Hargrove. “The one in the middle is the late General Zateb Kazim.”

“You’re sure,” Hargrove demanded.

“Positive,” Pitt said firmly.

“And the others must be high-ranking members of his staff,” added Giordino.

“Congratulations, Colonel. Now all you have to do is inform the Malian government that you have the General in your custody and are holding him as hostage to ensure the safe return of your force to Mauritania.”

Hargrove stared at Pitt. “But the man is a corpse.”

“So who’s to know? Certainly not his subordinates in the Malian security forces.”

Hargrove dropped his cigar and ground it into the sand. He looked at the several hundred survivors of Kazim’s assault force that were now massed in a large circle and guarded by his American Rangers. “I see no reason why it won’t work. Ill have my intelligence officer open communications while we wind up the evacuations.”

“Since you’re no longer in a big rush to dash out of here, there is one other thing.”

“That is?” asked Hargrove. “A favor.”

“What exactly is it I can do for you?” Pitt smiled down at Hargrove who was half a head shorter. “One of your helicopters, Colonel. I’d like to borrow it and several of your best men.”

58

After he communicated with high-level Malian officials and threw them the lie he was holding Kazim hostage, Hargrove was convinced no military action would be taken against his evacuating force. He was no longer filled with trepidation and was highly relieved now that the pressure was off the final stage of his rescue mission. He was also quite amused when the puppet president of Mali begged him to execute General Kazim.