Barry Sadler - Casca 16 - Desert Mercenary.pdf - Barry Sadler - margozap

CASCA #016

Desert Mercenary

by Barry Sadler

__________________________________________

Charter edition/February 1986

ISBN: 0-441-09336-1

eBook scanned & proofed by Binwiped 12-9-02 [v1.0]

CHAPTER ONE

Tunis still bore the scars of World War II. In the harbor the hulks of dead ships were serving as

breakwaters. From the docks the last survivors of Rommel's Afrika Korps had tried to escape under the

guns of the Allied forces. Few made it back to Germany. Most of the shell holes pockmarking the streets

had been filled, but many buildings still stood as gutted ruins inhabited only by rats, scor-pions, and some

occasional human vermin.

Gustof Beidemann sat, contentedly enough on the surface, stuffing his mouth with dates and sweet

rice, using his fingers as a spoon. His com-panion was more silent. The last months had been exceedingly

boring. Their last job had been merely that of shotgun riders on convoys taking supplies out to where

some American and British companies had been putting up drilling rigs. Not much action, only a plenitude

of sun, flies, and bad water when you could get it.

Carl Langers rinsed his mouth with sips of wine grown from French cuttings in Algeria. It was good.

"Gus?"

The chewing stopped only long enough for the bear of a man to quickly respond, " Ja? "

"Where do we go from here? Central Africa?''

The bear belched, drawing an appreciative look from the other customers of the harbor-side bistro.

"I don't know. There are the Gulf Emirates. I would prefer them to working in Central Africa. There

are too many uncertainties there, and it is not always easy to get your money."

Langers leaned back in the chair of woven reeds. To the north he could see the Mediterra-nean, the

calm blue sea as clear as glass, but the sense of peacefulness that it inspired was only temporary. He had

long ago determined that con-flict, not peace, was the natural order of man, for peace and calm were

always transitory things for Carl Langers aka Casca Rufio Longinus. Since that fateful moment 2,000

years ago when he had sunk his spear into the crucified body of Christ, Casca had been denied the rest

of the weary, dying countless times only to wake once again in the world of the living. Eternal death

would have been sweet salvation for Casca alias Langers. But he was destined to live the hell of one

damned to immortality until the Second Coming would re-prieve him.

He and his giant friend would have preferred to be in Algiers, but the memory of that notorious time

in the Legion Etrangere there was still too fresh. Too many knew them by sight and old grudges die hard.

That had been a bad and bloody time when he and Gus had come back from In-dochina after the fall of

Dien Bien Phu, a very bad and bloody time. They had taken their discharges as soon as their time was

up, not wishing to participate any further in the seemingly random and insane slaughter that had taken

place between the French Colonials and the Algerian Nationalists. It was one of those cases where

everyone was the bad guy and there was no abso-lute right or wrong—only the fanatics.

Gus opened his throat to take in a handful of couscous, then farted with satisfaction. Several nearby

diners promptly left their tables, meals uneaten.

"Don't be impatient, Carl. Monpelier said he would meet us here and he will. He said only that he

would arrive by the fifteenth. It is as of yet only the thirteenth. Two days is not such a long time to wait.

Perhaps, as he said, he will have some work for us."

Claude Monpelier had been their boss when they were working the supply lines. He had had the job

of contracting and locating specialists for many companies in North Africa. Prior to that, the Belgian-born

Monpelier had served as sergent chef with the Troisieme Battalion Parachutiste des Etrangere. It was

from there he knew Langers and Beidemann.

"Well, I hope he comes soon. The way you eat up our money, it won't last much longer."

Gus gulped down half a liter of wine to top off his meal. "Carl, I am surprised at you. You never

have any faith in our luck. Something will hap-pen. It always does."

Sourly Langers grunted back, "I know, but when you're around it usually means trouble."

Gus finished his wine, blithely ignoring the slander. Suddenly he rose from his seat, beaming with

smugness. "See! I told you he would come. Trust me, I know that he brings our fortune with him. Claude

is not one to waste talent such as ours."

Looking over his shoulder in the direction Gus was facing, Carl did indeed see Monpelier coming

toward them: sunburned, hair and eyebrows bleached by years in the desert sun to an albino white. He

still had the look of the Legion to him, straight back, strong, spare body. His face might have once been

handsome, but too many fights had rearranged the bone structure. A once-proud Gallic nose now rested

between his cheekbones like a mutilated piece of sausage.

Gus swept him into a chair, gurgling happily, "Welcome, mon vieux. What is it you have for us?"

Claude merely gave Gus one of the looks he normally reserved for jackals, vultures, and other vile

things that crawled upon the face of the earth. Carl ignored both of them. It was an old and time-honored

ritual between them.

"Well first, you great hulking beast, can you not see that I am faint from lack of wine?"

"Good idea !'' Gus roared out loud enough that the snakes living in the ruins of nearby Carthage

could hear. "Wine, do you hear? Wine for the troops. We've been raping and ravaging all day and we

thirst.'' He collared a terrified waiter with a fez on his curly head and barked, "Bring wine, and while

you're at it water my mule.'' The waiter started to ask the effendi, or master, where his mule was, but a

playful slap on his shoulder sent him reeling toward the kitchen.

Claude sighed wearily and cast a doleful look at Langers. "Can't you put a leash or at least a muzzle

on this foul creature?"

Langers smiled for the first time. "No, but I give you permission to do so if you want to try."

Claude knew he was being outmaneuvered and as any wise, old soldier would do, he ignored the

remarks completely and got straight to business once he was certain that the other tables were not

listening in.

"If you can lower your voices to a normal level, we will get on with what I wish to speak to you

about, my friends," he said.

The timid approach of the waiter bearing a liter of the Algerian wine gave them a moment's pause

before Claude continued, leaving Gus to pour for them. Gus had no real interest in the details of the job

at this point. If Langers liked it, then they would do it, so why bother himself with superflu-ous dialogue?

He was, after all, a most practical man.

Sipping his wine after first testing the bouquet, Claude began.

"Am I not correct in saying that before I had the dubious honor of serving with you, you and your

animal here were stationed for a time out of Fort Lapperrine in the Ahaggar Mountains, and from there

went on several raids into the territory of the Azbine Tuaregs, the Berber Moslems who inhabit the land

between the Talak Air Plains and the Tenere Desert?"

Carl nodded. "Yes, we spent some time there. Bad country, hard people. Why?"

"Well, my friends," he touched his forefinger to the side of his nose to indicate a matter of great

confidence, "I have an acquaintance in need of men who know the area and are not afraid to take a small

risk." That worried Carl a bit. When Claude referred to anything as a "small risk,'' he meant the

equivalent of trying to mount a bayonet attack across quicksand with sixty-pound packs on your back.

"Just what is this small risk, Sergent Chef?" Carl automatically went back into addressing Monpelier

by his old rank.

"You know that since we were 'invited' to leave Algeria, there have been many troubles. One of

them has to do with a chieftain of the Azbini. He is trying to form an alliance with the other Tuareg tribes,

the Allimideni, Ifora, Azjeri, and Ahaggerni, and even those of the Bedouin. He wishes to form an

autonomous state of their own. You and I know this will not happen, but it takes only a few fanatics to

cause great trouble. And the trouble is this." He paused to refresh his palate. "One of the Azbine

chieftains who calls himself Sunni Ali has captives. The son of a rich man and the son's wife, an American

girl. They are being held for ransom."

Langers took a drink of his own wine. This was beginning to get interesting. "What do they want,

money?''

Claude shook his head. "No, my old one. The son's father is an arms manufacturer. They want

weapons, many weapons: machine guns, mortars, anti-aircraft guns. But the father cannot supply them.

His government has found out about the ransom and will not permit the exchange for as you know, it

does not take much to start a guerrilla war and keep it going for some years with a few thousand modern

rifles and machine guns.

"So, as he cannot give them what they ask for, he has come to me to find men who will attempt a

rescue. That is all. You just go in, get the boy and his wife, and bring them out. Tres simple, n' est-ce

pas?"

"That's all! You know that country. It's hell out there. How do we get in and how do we get out?

There's nothing but thousands of miles of nothing out there!"

Claude affected a wounded look. "Ah, but that is why the father will pay so well. However, if you

feel it is beyond your talents and do not have the need for twenty-five thousand American dollars, I will

go elsewhere, eh?" he said, shrugging his shoulders matter-of-factly.

Carl pushed him back down in his chair. "Knock the crap off, Claude. We're interested, but we

need to know more before making a deci-sion."

Monpelier knew he had them or he would not have been stopped from leaving. "Very well. This is

what I can tell you now. Our weaponsmaker is a very rich man, and while he cannot get guns to trade for

his son, he can supply you with whatever else you may require in terms of equipment. Airplanes, vehicles,

communica-tions equipment. His government knows what we wish to try and they have no objection to

it. As long as the Tuaregs receive no weapons, we can do as we wish in the matter.''

"You did say we, didn't you, Claude? Are you going in with us?"

Claude hid behind his wine glass. "Alas, no, my friends, I am afraid that I have other duties which

will prevent me from accompanying you on this minor excursion. I do wish that I could attend the

festivities. I know you and your creature. I am confident the desert will never be the same after you two

leave."

Gus ordered two more bottles of wine, making certain the waiter knew to put them on Claude's bill.

Langers went back to the subject. "Okay! The price is all right for me and Gus but there'll be other

expenses, and we may have to hire a few more men. In fact, I know we will."

"I have anticipated your needs, my friends. And if we have, as the Americans say, 'a deal,' I will

leave you with advance funds now so that you may begin to plan the operation. But know that it must be

done quickly. The Tuaregs can be stalled in the matter for only a short time. Then they will do horrible

things to the boy and worse to the girl. Remember Medea?''

Langers remembered. There had been great evil done there, torture and slaughter on both sides that

would have left the Nazi Gestapo in awe. "All right, how much time do we have?"

"Two, perhaps three weeks. No more."

Sitting silently Langers tried to recall all he could of the terrain between the Talak and the Tenere.

None of it was good. "I need more in-formation," he said. "Do you have any idea of just where they are

being held and by how many tribesmen?"

Claude gave Gus another dirty look as the sec-ond order for two more liters of wine was given to

the waiter, before replying, "Yes, of course we have some information and I hope to acquire more in a

few days. For now concern yourself with transport and finding the other men you will require—I may be

able to help you there. Also, the chieftain who has the prisoners has at best three hundred men, but

probably less than half will be with him as the others will be needed to tend their flocks. So you will have

to deal with perhaps only one to two hundred Tuaregs."

Carl groaned. One to two hundred of some of the meanest and toughest men the desert had ever

spawned. Speculating more to himself than to anyone else, he mumbled, "I'll give odds that they're holed

up on Mt. Baguezane northeast of Agadez."

Claude nodded in agreement. "You are proba-bly correct. But it is not such a great mountain; it only

rises to about six thousand feet. As I said, I have some more information coming. It should give us the

exact location where they are being held. There cannot be too many places up there with enough water

to sustain them. So we will find them.

"Have confidence in me. I will contact you again in two days, three at the most. By this time you will

have considered the worst possible condi-tions and will be able to give me your require-ments in men

and material."

This was going to be a bit rough. But if it went down right the money was good for a few days'

work. What was the name Claude had called the Azbine chief? Sunni Ali? To Claude he asked, "Sunni

Ali? Wasn't that the name of the king of the old Songhai Empire in the fifteenth century?''

Claude rose, leaving a stuffed envelope on the table. "But of course it was. I am so glad to see that

you, unlike your pet ape, are not a complete illiterate. It makes me feel so much more reas-sured that I

have been correct, as I always am, in my decisions. I will see you here at the same time in two or three

days, no more. If I do not appear, then the money in the envelope is yours. Au revoir, mes amis."

"Yeah. Good-bye, Claude.''

Monpelier was headed for the door when Gus yelled to the waiter, "Be sure to collect for the wine

from the little shit before he gets away."

Claude Monpelier shrugged his shoulders as only the French can do and paid the waiter. He left the

cafe murmuring the word merde over and over.

CHAPTER TWO

Leaving the cafe they wandered back into the streets. They were laid with cobblestones hun-dreds of

years old, many taken from buildings that had seen the coming and the passing of Crusaders. The faces

that watched the backs of the two feringi, as the foreigners were disdainfully re-ferred to, could have

belonged to that distant time.

In the envelope was enough money, a mixture of enough dinars and American dollars, to last them

for a week or two, or to buy passage to another place if the deal with Monpelier didn't work out. Either

way they were better off than they were before. But there was one thing about Monpelier: he didn't pass

out money unless he wanted you committed. As far as Carl was con-cerned, this job was a go.

A change of residence to a hotel which had telephone service and showers was their first move.

Tunis was baking beneath the hammer of the North African sun. It was near the midday hour and, as in

all hot climes, activity slowed down. Those that could found shade to take naps or ate slow lunches and

sipped sweet mint tea served from brass pots. Carl and Gus took the opportunity to avail themselves of

the hotel's shower. There was no hot water but it didn't matter. The water temperature was warmer than

blood, anyway, yet it still cooled the skin.

Gus settled on his single bed by the window where he could catch what little breeze existed. Carl lay

back on his bed, naked save for shorts, his eyes closed as he felt the moisture left on his skin from his

shower evaporate. Soon it would be gone, then his own body fluids would replace the water from the

shower.

A horrible rasping, gurgling noise broke through the hum of flies swarming outside the screened

window. Gus was snoring. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, Langers thought for a mo-ment about

strangling the sleeping giant, but the desire passed quickly. It was much too warm to keep such hostile

thoughts for very long. It simply required too much effort. Besides which, Gus did have some good

qualities. One day, Langers promised himself when he had time he would take a few hours and try to

think of one.

Outside he heard the plaintive cry of an Arab water vendor wandering the narrow streets, filling the

cups of the thirsty with water he promised was as pure as the tears of a virgin, but smelled like the

bladder of a dead camel. He rolled over to get on a dry spot. Beneath him the thin cover was already

soaked with his sweat.

Gods! It had been a long time since he and Gus had frozen on the steppes of Russia. There had

been the ice and the snow winds that peeled frostbitten skin from the face and froze the deli-cate tissue in

the lungs. He almost wished they were back. No! That was a lie. There was no way he could ever wish

for that time to return. The Twenty-sixth Panzer Regiment. He and Gustaf Beidemann were the last

survivors of their tank crew. All the others were long dead, left on the frozen fields of Mother Russia

along with hun-dreds of thousands of others who had fought and died—for what? An ideology of some

sort.

Memories overcame the present. Once more Langers smelled diesel fumes and cordite, heard the

rasping rumble of tank treads as they crashed into each other during the Battle of Kursk. There the

smoke of battle was so thick, tanks couldn't see each other at a distance of thirty meters and a hundred

thousand men a day were killed or wounded. Kursk! The Dnieper River Line! Red Guards, SS,

Kalmuks, and partisans. Trains filled with munitions and living cargo that was to be taken to extermination

centers. German soldiers with shell casings hammered into the backs of their necks or left crucified on

battlefields. On both sides such an incredible madness.

Mind half-awake, half-numb he dreamed. Faces passed before and around him, hundreds of dead

men. Storms of lightning, caused by thousands of heavy guns, crashed, ripping open the earth to receive

the dead. Faces, faces …

His eyes jerked open. He couldn't take any-more. Through his nightmare Gus had slept the sleep of

a child. He was the only true innocent Carl had ever known. Nothing bothered him. His memories of pain

were short, therefore he could sleep when others cried out in the night.

Carl slept no more, afraid of what might come. It was easier to just put his mind at a distance and

wait for the sun to begin its decline. When the shadows at last grew longer, he rose and showered again,

changed into his cleanest dirty shirt, and shook Gus back into the real world.

"C'mon, let's go out for a while, maybe get something to drink or eat."

"Eat! Drink! Be right with you, comrade."

By the time they hit the streets the temperature had dropped into the nineties, almost comforta-ble.

There were people everywhere: Arabs, ven-dors, women with the veil and without, children running in

packs among stalls, wilted Europeans with red, sweaty eyes. One and all seemed to be on the streets

now that the worst heat of the day had passed. Near the bazaar they stopped for Gus to refuel. Spiced

meats and wine once more dis-appeared down his maw.

"Let's go over to the Club Chat Rose. I want to see if there's anyone around we might be able to

use," Carl said.

Gus took the lead, cutting through the throngs; he was a human battering ram that ignored all in its

path. Dirty looks and curses describing his parentage for ten generations slipped off of him. But no one

stood in his path. Leaving a wake behind him of frustrated, angry people, they pass-ed the street of

coppersmiths, cut over near the old mosque where muezzins still called the faithful to prayer, made a

sharp left by the dyers' streets, walked three more blocks, and they were there.

It was the good time, too. The sun was near setting and the streets were growing darker with the

creeping shadows, which at dusk took over the city. Vendors were taking down their stalls, clos-ing till

the rise of the new sun, but other shops were just preparing to open. It was shift change in Tunis.

The Chat Rose, or Pink Pussy, as Gus liked to call it, was one of the watering holes for the leftovers

Barry Sadler - Casca 16 - Desert Mercenary.pdf

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