"Yes. But the situation has been such that it was not easy to report."
"And now?"
"Briefly, I am at El Hassan's headquarters. You were correct. He is in
actuality Homer Crawford. The others you mentioned are also with him,
including the traitor Isobel Cunningham."
The Soviet Complex's agent allowed his eyebrows to rise.
Anton said flatly, "The dame has evidently renounced the party and now
holds high rank in Crawford's inner circle."
"And you?"
"I am rapidly becoming his right-hand man. I am his press secretary
and in charge of communications. Early in our acquaintanceship I was
able to engineer an attempted assassination. I was able to, ah, save
the life of El Hassan."
The Russian's eyes narrowed. "The assassins? Is there any chance that
they might reveal your little trick?"
Anton grimaced. "I am not a fool, Kirill. Both of them were killed in
the assassination attempt. El Hassan was most grateful."
"I see. And how would you sum up the present situation?"
"This area is swinging rapidly to El Hassan, but any sort of defeat
and undoubtedly his followers would melt away. The bedouin are too
volatile. Before he ever makes any real headway he will have to take
the major commercial and industrial cities such as Dakar, Kano,
Lagos, Accra, Freetown, Khartoum, and eventually, of course, Cairo,
Casablanca, Algiers and so forth."
"And our friend El Hassan leans not at all in our direction?"
The man the Party called Anton shook his head. "He leans in no
direction, except that which will unite and modernize North Africa.
Neither do his immediate followers. They're a well-knit group and it
seems unlikely that I could pry any of them away from him in case it
became desirable."
"I see," Kirill Menzhinsky muttered. "I understand that a delegation
from Moscow has arrived in El Hassan's camp. Have you contacted them?"
"Certainly not. My orders were to rise in the El Hassan hierarchy and
await further orders. None of my current, ah, colleagues have any
suggestion that I am identified with the Party. Which reminds me, an
American C.I.A. man, Fredric Ostrander, has shown up. The fool seems
to be under the impression that El Hassan is a Party tool."
"I know this Ostrander. Don't underestimate him, Anton. He's an
extremely competent operative in the clutch, as the Americans call
it."
"Perhaps. But nevertheless, there is no indication that the El Hassan
movement leans either to East or West, nor do I see any signs that it
is apt to in the future."
The Russian was scowling. "I see. Then perhaps it will be necessary
for us to do something to topple our El Hassan before he becomes much
stronger, and to find another to unite North Africa."
Anton frowned in his turn. "I don't know. This man Crawford--and his
followers, for that matter--are motivated by high ideals. As you have
said, North Africa is not ready for our socio-economic system. Men of
the caliber of Homer Crawford could bring it into the modern age
perhaps more quickly than another."
Menzhinsky chuckled. "Don't worry about it, Anton. Such matters of
policy will be decided by others than you, or even me. Keep in touch
with me more often, in the future, Anton."
"Yes, Comrade." His face faded from the screen.
* * * * *
Tamanrasset lies at an altitude of approximately 4,600 feet, about
average for the Ahaggar plateau. Around it, such peaks as the Tahat
reach 9,600 feet above sea level. The country is rugged, jagged, bleak
beyond belief. With the possible exception of Southern Afghanistan in
the Khyber area, there is no place in the world more suited for
guerrilla warfare, less suited for the proper utilization of modern
armor, particularly when the latter is forced to work without air
cover.
Homer Crawford, equipped with an old-style telescope, was
spread-eagled on top a rock outcropping, his only companion Isobel
Cunningham. Directly before him, possibly two miles in distance, was
the desert city of Tamanrasset, to the right, a kilometer or so, Amsel
where palatable water was to be found at eighteen meters depth.
"Our friend, the colonel, is up to something," he grumbled.
She had a pair of binoculars, of considerably less power than his
glass.
"It looks as though Guemama's boys are on the run," she said.
"As per orders. The primary theory of partisan warfare is not to get
killed. The guerrilla never stands and fights. If the regular forces
he opposes can bring him to bay, they've got him." He interrupted
himself to clip out, "Look at that tank, darling! There on the left!"
Isobel tightened, looked at him quickly from the side of her eyes. No.
He'd said it inadvertently, his mind concentrated on the fighting men
below. She had often wondered where she stood with Homer Crawford the
man, as opposed to El Hassan the idealist. The tip of her tongue
licked the side of her mouth, as she surreptitiously took him in. But
Crawford the man would have to wait, there was no time, no time.
Isobel swung her glasses. "The one starting to go in a circle? There,
it stopped."
"One of the snipers got its commander," Homer said. "You can't fight a
tank without the commander's head being up through the hatch. That's a
popular fallacy. You can't see well enough to fight your tank unless
you've got your head up. And that's suicide when you're against
guerrillas. The colonel ought to send his infantry out first."
Isobel said, "What did you mean when you said that he's up to
something?"
Homer's eye was still glued to the eyepiece of his glass. "He's leaving
his entrenchments and sending his vehicles out to capture our ... our
strong points."
"You mean our water, don't you?"
Bey came snaking up to them on his belly. He came abreast of Homer and
brought forth his own binoculars. He watched for a moment and then
muttered a curse under his breath.
"Guemama better start pulling back those men more quickly," he said.
"He will. He's a good man," Homer told him. "What's up?"
"Evidently, Colonel Ibrahim has decided to come out of retirement.
He's sent small motorized elements to Effok, In Fedjeg, Otoul and even
to Tahifet."
"And--?"
"And has taken them all, of course. Our men fall back, fighting a
stubborn rear-guard action, taking as few casualties as possible."
"I don't get it," Homer bit out. "He's using up his fuel and
ammunition and losing more men than we are. Certainly he can't figure,
with the thousand odd troops he has, to be able to take and hold
enough of the oases and water holes in this vicinity to push us out
completely."
Bey said, "What worries me is the possibility that he knows something
we don't. That he's figuring on being relieved or has a new source of
fuel, ammunition and men on tap."
"The roads are cut. Our men hold every source of water from here to
Libya and the Reunited Nations has put thumbs down on aircraft which
eliminates an air lift."
"Yeah," Bey said, unhappily.
* * * * *
That evening, following the day's last meal, Cliff came into the
headquarters tent grinning, broadly. "Hey, guess what we've
liberated."
"A bottle of Scotch?" Kenny said hopefully.
"A king-size portable radio transmitter. Ralph Sandell knew about it.
The Sahara Afforestation Project people were going to use it to
propagandize the tribesmen into coming in and taking jobs in the new
oases."
Dave Moroka, who'd been censoring press releases, shook his head.
"That's why we need an El Hassan in this country," he complained.
"They put a couple of million dollars into a radio transmitter, never
asking themselves how many of the bedouin own radios."
Jack Peters said, "Wait a moment, you chaps. Didn't Bey capture a
couple of Arab Legion radio technicians today?"
"They defected to us," Homer Crawford said, looking up from an
improvised desk where he was poring over some supply papers with
Isobel. "What did you have in mind, Jack?"
"There are radios in Tamanrasset. In fact, there's probably a radio in
every one of those military vehicles of Ibrahim's. Why can't we
blanket these Arab Union chaps with El Hassan propaganda? Quite a few
of them are from Libya, Tunisia and Egypt. In short, they're Africans
and susceptible to El Hassan's dream."
"Good man. Take over the details, Jack," Homer said. He went back to
his work with Isobel.
Jimmy Peters entered with some papers in hand. He said, seriously,
"The temperature is rising in the Reunited Nations--and everywhere
else, for that matter. Damascus and Cairo have been getting
increasingly belligerent. Homer, it looks as though the Arab Union is
getting ready to go out on a limb. Weeks have passed since Colonel
Ibrahim first took Tamanrasset and the Reunited Nations, the United
States, the Soviet Complex and all others interested in North Africa,
have failed to do anything. Everybody, evidently, afraid of
precipitating something that couldn't be ended."
All eyes went to Homer Crawford who ran a black hand back over his
hair in weariness. "I know," he said. "Something is about to blow.
Dave has sent some of his best men into Tamanrasset to pick up gossip
in the souks. Morale was dragging bottom among the legionnaires just a
couple of days ago. Now they seem to have a new lease."
"In spite of the sabotage our people have been committing?" Isobel
said.
"That's falling off somewhat," Cliff said. "At first our more
enthusiastic followers were able to pull everything from heaving
Molotov Cocktails into tanks, to pouring sugar in hover-jeep gas
tanks, but the legionnaires have both smartened up and gotten very
tough."
"Good," Dave Moroka said now.
They looked at him.
"Atrocities," he said. "In order to guard against sabotage, the
legionnaires will be taking measures that will antagonize the people
in Tamanrasset. They'll shoot a couple of teenage kids, or something,
then they'll have a city-wide mess on their hands."