El Hassan's Tuaregs were on the move. After half a century and more of
relative peace the Apaches of the Sahara, the Sons of Shaitan and the
Forgotten of Allah were again disappearing into the ergs to emerge
here, there, and ghostlike to disappear again. They faded in and faded
away again, and even in their absence dominated all.
El Hassan was on the move, as all men by now knew, and he, who was not
for the amalgamation of all North Africa, was judged against him. And
who, in the Sahara, could afford to be against El Hassan when his
Tuaregs were everywhere?
Refugees poured into Tamanrasset for the security of Arab Legion arms,
or into In Salah and Reggan to the north, or Agades and Zinder to the
south. Refugees who had already taken their stand with the Arab Union
and Pan-Islam. Refugees who were men of property and would know more
of this El Hassan before risking their wealth. Refugees who took no
stand, but dreaded those who drank the milk of war, no matter the
cause for which they fought. Refugees who fled simply because others
fled, for terror is a most contagious disease.
Colonel Midan Ibrahim of the crack motorized units of the Arab Legion
which occupied Tamanrasset, was fuming. His task was a double one.
First, to hold Tamanrasset and its former French stronghold Fort
Laperrine; second, to keep open his lines of communication with
Ghademes and Ghat, in Arab Union dominated Libya. To hold them until
further steps were decided upon by his superiors in Cairo and the
Near East--whatever these steps might be. Colonel Midan Ibrahim was
too low in the Arab Union hierarchy to be in on such privy matters.
His original efforts, in pushing across the Sahara from Ghademes and
Ghat, had been no more than desert maneuvers. There had been no force
other than nature's to say him nay. The Reunited Nations was an
organization composed possibly of great powers, but in supposedly
acting in unison they became a shrieking set of hair-tearing women;
the whole being less than any of its individual parts. And El Hassan?
No more than a rumor. In fact, an asset because this supposed mystery
man of the desert, bent on uniting all North Africa under his
domination, gave the Arab Union, its alibi for stepping in with
Colonel Ibrahim's men.
Yes, the original efforts had been but a drill. But now his Arab
Legion troopers were beginning to face reality. The supply trucks,
coming down under convoy from Ghademes, reported the water source at
Ohanet destroyed. The major well would take a week or more to repair.
Who had committed the sabotage? Some said the Tuareg, some said local
followers of El Hassan, others, desert tribesmen resentful of _both_
the Arab Union and El Hassan.
One of his routine patrols, feeling out toward Meniet to the north,
had suddenly dropped radio communication, almost in mid-sentence. A
relieving patrol had thus far found nothing, the armored car's tracks
covered over by the sands.
[Illustration]
And rumors, rumors, rumors, Colonel Midan Ibrahim, born of
aristocratic Alexandrian blood, though trained to a sharp edge in Near
Eastern warfare, was basically city bred. The gloss of desert training
might take on him, but the bedouin life itself was not in his
experience, and it was hard for him to trace the dividing line between
possibility and fantasy.
Rumors, rumors, rumors. They seemed capable of sweeping from one end
of the Sahara to the other in a matter of hours. Faster, it would seem
than the information could be dispensed by radio. El Hassan was here.
El Hassan was there. El Hassan was marching on Rabat, in Morocco; El
Hassan had just signed a treaty with the Soviet Complex; El Hassan had
been assassinated by a disgruntled follower. Or El Hassan was a
renegade Christian; El Hassan was a Moslem of Sheriffian blood, a
direct descendant of the Prophet; El Hassan was a pagan come up from
Dahomey and practiced ritual cannibalism; El Hassan was a Jew, a
veteran of the Israel debacle.
But this Colonel Ibrahim knew--the Tuareg had gone over to the new
movement en masse. Something there was in El Hassan and his dream that
had appealed to the Forgotten of Allah. The Tuareg, for the first time
since the French Camel Corps had broken their strength, were
united--united and on the move.
The Tuareg were everywhere. In most sinister fashion--everywhere. And
all were El Hassan's men.
Colonel Ibrahim fumed and wondered what kept his superiors from
sending in additional columns, additional armored elements. And, above
all, adequate air cover. Ha! Give the colonel sufficient aircraft and
he'd begin snuffing out bedouin life like candles--and bring the Peace
of Allah to the Ahaggar.
So Colonel Ibrahim fumed, demanded further orders from mum superiors,
and put his legionnaires to work on bigger and better gun
emplacements, trenches and pillboxes surrounding Fort Laperinne and
Tamanrasset.
* * * * *
El Hassan's personal entourage numbered exactly twenty persons. Of
these, five were his immediate English-speaking, Western-educated
supporters, Cliff, Isobel and the new Jack and Jimmy Peters and Dave
Moroka. Rex Donaldson had been sent south again to operate in Senegal
and Mali, to take over direction of the rapidly spreading movement in
such centers as Bamako and Mopti and later, if possible, in Dakar.
The other fifteen were carefully selected Tuareg, picked from among
Guemama's tribesmen taking care to show no preference to any tribe or
clan, and taking particular care to choose men who fought coolly,
unexcitedly, and didn't froth at the mouth when in action; men who
were slow to charge wildly into the enemy's guns--but slower still to
retreat when the going was hot. El Hassan was prone to neither hero
nor coward in his personal bodyguard.
They kept under movement. In Abelessa one day, almost in range of the
mobile artillery of the Arab Legion; in Timassao the next, checking
the wells that meant everything to a desert force; the following day
as far south as the Tamesna region to rally the less warlike
Irreguenaten, a half-breed Tuareg people largely held in scorn by
those of the Ahaggar.
Homer Crawford was killing time whilst stirring up as much noise and
dust as his handful of followers could manage. Killing time until
Elmer Allen from the Chaambra country, Bey-ag-Akhamouk from the Teda,
and Kenny Ballalou from the west could show up with their columns. He
had no illusions of how things now stood. At best, he could hold
together a thousand Tuareg fighting men. No more. The economics of
desert life prevented him a larger force, unless he had the resources
of the modern world at hand, and he didn't. Besides that, the Tuareg
confederation could provide no larger number of fighting men and at
the same time continue their desert economy.
He stood now with Isobel, Cliff and Dave Moroka in one of the western
type tents which the Peters brothers had brought with them in their
hover-lorries, and poured over the half-adequate maps which covered
the area.
Dave Moroka traced with a finger. "If we could dominate these wells
running to Djanet, our Arab Union friends would have only their one
line of supply going through Temassinine to Ghademes. That's a long
haul, Homer."
Homer Crawford scowled thoughtfully. "That involves only four wells.
If Ibrahim's legionnaires staked out only three armored vehicles at
each water hole, they could hold them. Our camelmen could never take
armor."
Moroka frowned, too. "We've got to start _some_ sort of action, or the
men will start dribbling away."
Cliff Jackson said, "Bey and Kenny and Elmer should be coming soon. I
heard a radio item this morning about a big pro-El Hassan movement
starting in the Sudan among the Teda."
Moroka said, "We need some sort of quick, spectacular victory. The
bedouin can lose interest as quickly as they can get steamed up, and
thus far we haven't given them anything but words--promises."
"You're right," Homer growled, "but there's nothing we can do right
now but mark time. Irritate the Arabs a bit. Keep them from spreading
out."
Isobel brought coffee, handing around the small Moroccan cups. She
said, "Well, one thing is certain. We get supplies soon or start
eating jerked goat and camel milk curds."