saved problems in the future. Yes, Langers would probably do quite well. He wondered if they'd served on the same front in Russia.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sharif Mamud was picked up by Gus and Dominic early in the morning. True to his word, the old man was ready to go, waiting in front of his tent with his single sack of personal effects. They promptly headed back to Ghudamis. It was nearly three in the afternoon when they returned to the Saharienne.
Monpelier had requisitioned the town's only taxi to take Egon, Roman, and Sims over to the airstrip. The other four followed in the Land Rover. Monpelier's Dakota was inside one of the strip's two hangars. The pilot and copilot, Browning 9 mm automatics on their hips, were guarding the cargo inside the plane, which was worth a fortune. They stayed with the aircraft while Monpelier paid the taxi and assembled his team.
'I know it's a bit early in the game but I would rather have you all here,' he explained. 'That way, if anything goes down wrong we'll all be together and not spread out. Inside the plane is the equipment: weapons, uniforms, medical supplies, as well as radios, rations, and water.'
'From this time on, guard this plane with your life. That's all from me. Your pilots, Captain Parrish and Cocaptain Rigsby, have been briefed. They know what they are to do. In the air your captain is the boss. Other than that you will, of course, do as I said earlier and take your orders from Mr. Langers.'
Parrish looked over his passengers with a jaded eye. They were a rough-looking crew, especially the gorilla beside the one called Langers. Parrish was not unimpressive himself. With wavy, premature pure silver hair, he stood six feet six at 227 pounds. He could carry his own weight in most circumstances, but Gus bothered him. The beast fit no category he had ever seen before. When he watched the big German move he had a sudden urge to offer him a banana, but he wisely resisted the temptation when Gus casually picked up a fifty-five gallon oil drum and moved it over to where he could sit on it in the shade. The drum was full.
Carl called Monpelier over to him. 'I want to take a look at the gear. Do you have an inventory list with you?'
'Go right ahead. There is a list in the box marked medical. I'll just wait out here with the others. It's too hot inside the plane.'
Before climbing inside the Dakota, Carl told Dominic, 'Take Stachel with you and keep an eye posted outside. Let me know if anything looks suspicious or if we're going to have any company.'
Boxes lined the center of the plane, tied down with retaining straps. Looking them over he found the one marked medical. Releasing it from its strap, he opened the box up. On top was the list. He read it over. Monpelier had done good. Cracking the lids on the boxes containing the weapons, he examined every piece. All were brand new. A voice behind him coughed politely.
'I say, would you mind terribly if I had a quick look at my kit? I want to make certain that nothing we might need later has been left out.'
Carl nodded at Sims and pointed out the medic box. Sims fluttered over it, humming as he unpacked it, carefully laying everything out in order: antibiotics, battle dressings, salt tablets, a minor surgery kit, and even several IV setups. When he was done he carefully placed everything back in proper order.
'Well now, it seems as if it's all here. I do hope that I don't have to put any of it to use but then, it is better to be prepared, what?'
Carl sat down on a box of ammo and said, 'Tell me a bit about yourself, Mr. Sims.'
The medic cocked an eye and sat down by the open cargo door. 'Not much to say really. I've kicked about a bit. Africa with Monty, then a turn or two in the south, Rhodesia and the Congo. You know that wherever you types go, there always has to be someone like me to try and patch you up a bit. I did have two years of medical school, but circumstances dictated that I depart from those hallowed halls. Though I would one day like to go back.' He sighed deeply. 'Ah, but life takes its own hand in the game and who knows? I am content enough. That's about it, sir.'
Carl lit up a smoke, offered one to Sims but was politely refused.
'You ever work with any of the others here?'' Carl asked.
Sims nodded his head. 'Only with Egon. Herr Stachel is not a bad sort. He looks like a bloody Prussian, but he's all right. Does his job and is selective about who he works for. Won't just take anything for money. We were in the south together for a few months. He's steady and will be where you need him. I don't really think he cares much about whether he lives or dies. Some men, you know, are always ready for the last game, even anticipating it. He is one of those, but he won't do anything that jeopardizes the rest of the team.'
Carl was glad to hear that. The last thing he needed was a hard-headed former Nazi with something to prove.
'The Spaniard?'
Sims shook his head in the negative. 'Don't know a thing about him, love. But he seems a good sort. I only hope he's not one of those hot-blooded Latins who always settles minor quarrels with knives.' He shuddered at the thought.
Carl got up. 'Good enough. We'll all get a chance to know each other a bit better before this job is over.'
Back in the hangar Gus and Stachel were speaking in German, finding that they had only one thing in common and that was the Russian front. Calling Gus over to him Carl said, 'Take it easy on these boys, Gus. I don't want any broken bones. Like Monpelier said, it's too late to get any replacements.'
Gus laughed. 'Uncle Gus wouldn't harm the hair on a fly's head. You know that. Besides which, I like Herr Stachel, even if he was once a member of the officer class. May all their children have terminal hemorrhoids.'
Carl just shook his head. There simply wasn't much that could be done with Gus. Going over to Sharif Mamud, he took his bag and removed the photos that Monpelier had given him from it.
'Want to take a look at these?'
Sharif Mamud took the pictures and examined them closely. When he came to the one Monpelier had said he thought was the area where Sunni Ali had the captives held, Carl pointed it out to Mamud. 'Know this place?'
Squinting his eyes, Mamud moved closer to the hangar door for a better look. 'Yes. I have been there. It is a good place with water inside the caves and many tunnels to hide in. It is very old. Inside are pictures of many animals who have long since left the desert. They were drawn when the Sahara was covered with grass. Very, very old indeed.'
Carl took the photo from him. It was one taken before the war. That didn't bother him. It wasn't likely that things had changed. He took his map out and he handed it over to Mamud. 'Show me exactly where this cave is located.'
Mamud spread the map on the floor of the hangar. Taking a moment to orient himself, he touched the map with a forefinger. 'There, near the southern end. It is a place well suited for defense. If I were you I would consider the possibility of coming in from some place on the other side, as I told you earlier. It will take longer but you will have a better chance. Sunni Ali and the Tuaregs think there is no one but them who can survive in the desert or cross the mountains. It is a vanity of theirs which has, in the past, proved fatal more than once.'
Carl nodded. 'Let's hope this is one more time.'
Parrish was talking to Monpelier, who nodded agreement and announced, 'All right, gentlemen, let's get aboard. It's time to move out. Our captain said that the weather report indicates there is a strong head wind approaching which may slow us up a bit. If he's right, then we'll have to leave now in order to make it to the strip outside of Fort Laperrine by dawn.'
As they climbed on board, Parrish told them to secure their personal effects in the rear of the plane and then sit down. There were only canvas seats of the military type, not very comfortable for a long haul. But after they were airborne, they'd be able to move about or even lie down in the aisle to sleep if they chose to.
The copilot opened the hangar doors all the way and climbed back in to take his place in the copilot's seat. The twin engine started smoothly with no hesitation. That always made one feel a bit better about flying. Parrish taxied out to the runway, checked the wind sock, faced into it, and took off without further ceremony. There was no tower control. You just came in and left when you thought you could make it. Carl took a seat in front of the wing on the port side. The plane gained altitude easily heading its nose south, deep into the heartland of the sea of
