Sims had taken out two of the flankers when he opened fire. The driver of the trailing jeep went instantly into reverse, racing his small machine back behind the cover of the curve in the road. The other was rendered useless by a burst of machine gun rounds to the radiator. It would go no farther.
The Tuaregs had reacted quickly by hitting the deck, seeking cover, and immediately returning fire. Sunni Ali ran from his exposed position by the burning half-track and joined them, taking a rifle from one of his men and giving him his pistol. 'Stay with me,' he ordered. To the rest he cried, 'Spread out and keep firing. Leapfrog forward.' To the man with him he asked, 'Where is the tube?'
'In the rear jeep, master.'
'Go for it. Bring it to me. Run and we will cover you.
'Listen to me,' he commanded his men. 'They are in the rocks to the left of the half-track, about twenty meters up. When I say to fire, aim there even if you can't see anyone. I want you to keep them down. There can't be too many of them.'' He waited to make certain his words were understood by all.
'Ready. Open fire!'
The Tuaregs cut loose with all they had. Sunni Ali slapped the man on his shoulder. 'Go! Now!'' The Tuareg obeyed. He hunched over as he raced back to where the rear jeep was sheltered.
Sparks bounced off granite, ricocheting as they sought softer things to touch. One of them buried itself in Sims's good leg, fracturing the femur.
Sims cursed, 'Now that tears it! My last good trouser leg shot to hell.' He raised up and returned fire, hitting another Tuareg lying in a prone position behind a clump of dried brush. He was right on target. The stream of bullets walked down the man's back, beginning at his neck and ending at his pelvis.
Sunni Ali picked his targets carefully, trying to bounce rounds off the rocks where they would have a chance of hitting the ambushers. A scuffling by his side let him know that his man had returned from the jeep, carrying with him what he had been sent for, an American bazooka and a bag of rockets for it.
From where he was positioned, it would take sheer luck to fire a round that would do much damage, and he didn't have any ammo to waste. He had to get to where he could get a clear shot at them.
'Cover me. Draw their fire. When I move, I want all of you to attack. Move forward to the ditch twenty meters ahead and take cover. When you do, keep firing. I am going to try and get above them.'
The Tuaregs moved out, firing as fast as fingers could pull triggers and change magazines. Hundreds of bullets bounced off the rocks, forcing the trio to keep their heads down. Sunni Ali jumped, rolled, crawled, and dodged from one shelter to the next, always heading up, clambering over rocks like a North African mountain goat. He scratched, clawed, and pulled his way over the burning stones till his fingers bled where fingernails had been torn loose.
Three more of his men died in their advance. He was being bled dry. He had to get them now. If he could get back to the jeep with the other radio in it, he could still catch the raiders by calling ahead to have them intercepted.
At last he was above them, resting in a ring of boulders. Peering between two rocks he could see who was holding him up and costing him so many men. There were three of them. It looked like two of them were wounded. He tried to judge the distance and glide factor. He was firing downhill so there wasn't too much to compensate for.
Shoving a round into the tube, he pulled the arming cord on the rocket and set it to his shoulder, making sure the back blast had a free path. He sighted on the target, his eye firmly against the rubber housing of the sight, and pulled the trigger. The rocket left the tube, traveling nearly in a straight line. Dominic saw it coming.
'Take cover!'' he cried. He and Sharif Mamud were able to find partial protection but Sims couldn't move. Undaunted, Sims turned his back on the missile heading for him, and calmly shot another Tuareg in the head. At the very same moment the missile struck three feet away from him, tearing his body nearly in half. Splinters hit Sharif Mamud and Dominic.
Another round from Sunni Ali blasted a chunk of meat the size of a pear from Dominic's thigh. He didn't move. Neither did Sharif Mamud. Sunni Ali rose. He couldn't see but he signaled his men to advance. Perhaps one of them was still alive and could be questioned.
Two of his men scrambled up the rocks, leaping over the boulders where the ambushers lay. When the first man came over, Sharif Mamud rose with his knife in his hand crying ' Allahu akbar ' and sunk it to the hilt in the man's chest. Reaching the heart, he tore it in half. The other Tuareg shot the old man in the throat, then crawled over him in time to meet Dominic coming up from behind his rock on one knee, pistol in his hand. He and the Tuareg fired at the same time. Sunni Ali could see the bullets strike as puffs of dust rose from their bodies. Both went down.
Leaving the bazooka, Sunni Ali climbed down to examine them. He had an urge to look at them up close. Once he was on the same level with them he strode over to examine them, his robes flowing loose in the dry breeze. One at a time he turned each of the bodies over to look at the faces. First was the old Arab. He didn't know him, but vaguely wondered why one so old would go on such a hard mission. Next was the small man with the soft face and delicate hands. He had fought well. His body seemed even smaller close up. There was something about death that lessens one. There was also the dark one which his man had shot, putting at least four rounds in the chest and stomach. It had slammed him up against a boulder. Sliding off it, he had gone to his knees, face to the earth like a good Moslem at his prayers.
Stepping over the body of Sims, he saw that his rocket shell had torn a hole the size of man's fist in the other man's body. There were also several holes where bullets had exited. The blood was already turning dark brown as it dried. Flies had begun to gather in swarms on the dead men's wounds, forming black moving clots.
Sunni Ali bent over to grab the dark man by his tunic. He wanted to see this one's face, also. It was important to him to see each of them in order to understand why they had chosen to stand and die, for surely they had known that death would be their fate.
Shoving the body to where it would roll over on its side, Sunni Ali tried to jerk back his hand instinctively but it was caught. Held.
Dominic pulled Sunni Ali to the earth with him. His face was covered with a fine layer of dust. Blood mottled and dried on cracked lips, he was a picture of hell. He had the face of a djinn or a madman. Only his eyes were sane. He held Sunni Ali close to his face, holding him down under him. Sunni Ali yelled for help as he struck at his captor's face with his fist. The creature holding him laughed, hacking out blood clots from his ruptured lungs.
Sunni Ali had one quick look before he felt a strange, hard weight on his chest. The creature had stuffed a hand grenade in his jellaba. Frantic, he tried to gouge out the devil's eyes. But it would not let go. He had only seconds before the grenade would explode. His hand slid his curved dagger from its ornate sheath held in the waistband of his robes. Once! Twice! A third time he sank the knife full to its hilt in the maniac's side, back, and neck, but still it would not let go.
Their time was up. Dominic's hands loosened a split second before the blast. He smiled at Sunni Ali, who had begun his prayer. 'Allah is God, the only God, and Mohammed is His proph-' He never finished. The grenade ended his pleas.
The muffled sounds of fighting followed them through the pass. The survivors avoided each other's eyes. Gus drove on, stone-faced. They would not stop till they reached Fort Laperrine in the Ahaggar Mountains. There wasn't anything back there to wait for.
Langers felt numb. It was always this way. Others died but he went on. Dominic, Sharif Mamud, Monpelier, the others…
Opening a crusted eyelid, he watched Gus's face for a moment. One day Gus, too, would die. And still he, Casca alias Langers alias… would continue. When that day came it would hurt a great deal, for he would truly be alone again.
Outside the Land Rover desert winds whistled, shifting grains of sand. The Sahara waited also, timeless, patient.
Bitterly Langers shook his head to clear it. Men spoke of killing time. That was wrong. It was time that killed. And no one knew that better than Casca Rufio Longinus, or, as he was known to some, al-Kattel — the killer.
