Read Online Casca 16: Desert Mercenary by Barry Sadler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barry Sadler
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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 dunes.
The flight was long and monotonous. Parrish turned on the heaters. At 11,000 feet it was near the freezing point when the sun fell. The night was clear; the winds were yet in front of them. Below Carl could see the dunes, dark waves of sand that moved with the winds. Some were hundreds of feet high. There was nothing but the mountains to resist the movement of the sands and even those would in time be worn away by the hard polished grains that came every day, century after century, to chip away at the stones.
Parrish knew the area well, at least from the sky, anyway. He'd been flying the African circuit for the last ten years, from Pretoria to Benghazi. Checking the time, he knew exactly where they were, the southern edge of the Great Eastern Erg. The sand waves were less dominant here and he couldn't see them anymore. The earth below was scarred by pale brown ridges and gorges, sandstone and granite ranges that expanded and contracted under the alternating heat and cold of the Sahara. If front of them was the Tassili N'Ajjers, a low range of mountains where thousands of wall paintings had been found. Another hour and half from there and they would come to the Ahaggar range with Mount Tahat rising up over 9,000 feet.
He would swing around the range. If his timing was right, they would hit the head winds before then. He didn't want to get caught in the upper air currents, which raged at times over the high peaks. Parrish would play it safe. He'd swing a bit to the left and come from the south into Fort Lapperine, or as the nomads called the city by the fort, Tamanrasset. From the south two roads led into the city, one from Niger and the other from Mali. He had used them as guides more than once and was glad that he never had to make the trip by land.
The inside of the plane was lit by a red light. Parrish looked back at the men sitting or lying asleep on the deck and wondered how many of them he would be taking back out. He had been on jobs like this before and knew that when he returned his plane would be lighter than when he had come. Some of them back there were probably dead men.
"Rigsby, take her for a while. I'm going to get some shut eye. Wake me when we get near the Ahaggar Mountains."
Rigsby grunted an affirmative reply, which was about all he ever did. He was a short, dark, barrel chested, taciturn man of Irish descent who had little use for any conversation that wasn't absolutely necessary.
After taking one last look at the gauges and instruments, Parrish shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the cushions of his seat. Rigsby didn't say much, but he was a hell of pilot. As good as he was. Well, almost.
Those in the rear had their own thoughts, all except Gus, who had as near to a complete vacuum as the human mind could produce. The rest half slept as the Dakota sailed through the wine colored skies of the African night. Nowhere on earth were the nights so clear and the stars so bright.
Carl leaned his head against the side of the plane, letting the vibrations seep into his flesh. It was steady, almost comforting in its trembling rhythm. He knew this land, too. In his mind he could hear the trampling of the Roman Legions as they formed the battle square, the war cries of Crusaders who fought for the glory of Jesus and plunder. And the nomads: Moors, Berbers,
Tuaregs, and Arabs who had swept out of the deserts crying out for all to hear. 'La ilah ilia' Allah: Muhammad rasul Allah. There is no god but Allah: Mohammed is His prophet."
The only way the sand below could have ever bloomed would have been if blood were as nourishing as water. Rivers of blood had flowed from those who had tried to claim the desert, floods that had
The flight was long and monotonous. Parrish turned on the heaters. At 11,000 feet it was near the freezing point when the sun fell. The night was clear; the winds were yet in front of them. Below Carl could see the dunes, dark waves of sand that moved with the winds. Some were hundreds of feet high. There was nothing but the mountains to resist the movement of the sands and even those would in time be worn away by the hard polished grains that came every day, century after century, to chip away at the stones.
Parrish knew the area well, at least from the sky, anyway. He'd been flying the African circuit for the last ten years, from Pretoria to Benghazi. Checking the time, he knew exactly where they were, the southern edge of the Great Eastern Erg. The sand waves were less dominant here and he couldn't see them anymore. The earth below was scarred by pale brown ridges and gorges, sandstone and granite ranges that expanded and contracted under the alternating heat and cold of the Sahara. If front of them was the Tassili N'Ajjers, a low range of mountains where thousands of wall paintings had been found. Another hour and half from there and they would come to the Ahaggar range with Mount Tahat rising up over 9,000 feet.
He would swing around the range. If his timing was right, they would hit the head winds before then. He didn't want to get caught in the upper air currents, which raged at times over the high peaks. Parrish would play it safe. He'd swing a bit to the left and come from the south into Fort Lapperine, or as the nomads called the city by the fort, Tamanrasset. From the south two roads led into the city, one from Niger and the other from Mali. He had used them as guides more than once and was glad that he never had to make the trip by land.
The inside of the plane was lit by a red light. Parrish looked back at the men sitting or lying asleep on the deck and wondered how many of them he would be taking back out. He had been on jobs like this before and knew that when he returned his plane would be lighter than when he had come. Some of them back there were probably dead men.
"Rigsby, take her for a while. I'm going to get some shut eye. Wake me when we get near the Ahaggar Mountains."
Rigsby grunted an affirmative reply, which was about all he ever did. He was a short, dark, barrel chested, taciturn man of Irish descent who had little use for any conversation that wasn't absolutely necessary.
After taking one last look at the gauges and instruments, Parrish shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the cushions of his seat. Rigsby didn't say much, but he was a hell of pilot. As good as he was. Well, almost.
Those in the rear had their own thoughts, all except Gus, who had as near to a complete vacuum as the human mind could produce. The rest half slept as the Dakota sailed through the wine colored skies of the African night. Nowhere on earth were the nights so clear and the stars so bright.
Carl leaned his head against the side of the plane, letting the vibrations seep into his flesh. It was steady, almost comforting in its trembling rhythm. He knew this land, too. In his mind he could hear the trampling of the Roman Legions as they formed the battle square, the war cries of Crusaders who fought for the glory of Jesus and plunder. And the nomads: Moors, Berbers,
Tuaregs, and Arabs who had swept out of the deserts crying out for all to hear. 'La ilah ilia' Allah: Muhammad rasul Allah. There is no god but Allah: Mohammed is His prophet."
The only way the sand below could have ever bloomed would have been if blood were as nourishing as water. Rivers of blood had flowed from those who had tried to claim the desert, floods that had
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