Giordino's eyes widened. "Eighty men to take on half the Malian security force?"
"Yes," Hargrove grinned as he removed the cigar butt and spit. "But we have enough firepower to level half of western Africa."
"Suppose you could cross the desert to Fort Foureau without detection?"
"I'm always open to a good plan."
"The inbound trains for the Fort Foureau hazardous waste project, have any been allowed through?"
Hargrove shook his head. "I sent a team leader to check out the situation. He reported that the train crews were instructed by radio to halt at the Mauritania/Mali border. The engineer for the first train said he was told to sit idle until ordered to proceed by the superintendent of the project's rail yard."
"How strong is the Malian check point on the border?"
"Ten guards, maybe twelve."
"Could you take them out before they gave an alarm?"
Mechanically, Hargrove's eyes traveled over the train's cargo cars, lingered on the five flatbed cars and the canvas covers that protected new freight vehicles bound for Fort Foureau, and then moved briefly to the Malian border guard, house sitting beside the track before returning to Giordino. "Could John Wayne ride a horse?"
"We can be there in two and a half hours," said Giordino. "Three on the outside."
Hargrove removed the cigar from his mouth and seemed to be contemplating it. "I think I've got your slant now. General Kazim would never expect my force to come charging into his playground on a train."
"Load the men inside the cargo container cars. Your choppers can ride on the flatbed cars undercover. Get to the objective before Kazim sees through the facade, and we have a good chance at evacuating Colonel Levant's people and the civilians and beating it back to Mauritania before the Malians know what hit them."
Giordino's plan appealed to Hargrove, but he had doubts.
"Suppose one of Kazim's hotshot pilots sees a train ignoring instructions and decides to blow it off the tracks?"
"Kazim, himself, wouldn't dare destroy one of Yves Massarde's hazardous waste trains without absolute proof it had been hijacked."
Hargrove paced up and down. The daring of the scheme sounded outlandish to him. Speed was essential. He decided to lay his career on the line and go for it.
"All right," he said briefly. "Let's get the Wabash Cannonball rolling."
Zateb Kazim raved like a madman in frustration at failing to bludgeon Levant and his small team from the old Foreign Legion fort. He cursed and ranted at his officers almost in hysteria, like a child who had his toys taken away from him. He dementedly slapped two of them in the face and ordered them all shot on two different occasions before his Chief of Staff, Colonel Cheik, soothingly talked him out of it. Barely under control, Kazim stared at his retreating troops scathingly and demanded they reform immediately for a second assault.
Despairing of Kazim's wrath, Colonel Mansa drove through his retreating force, shouting and berating his officers, accusing them of shame that sixteen hundred attackers could not overrun a pitiful handful of defenders. He harangued them into regrouping their companies for another try. To drive home the message there would be no more failure, Mansa had ten men who were caught trying to desert the battlefield shot on the spot.
Instead of attacking the fort with encircling waves, Kazim massed his forces into one massive column. The reinforcements were formed in the rear and ordered to shoot any man in front of them who broke and ran. The only command from Kazim that was passed down the lines from company to company was "fight or die."
By two o'clock in the afternoon, the Malian security forces were reformed and ready for the signal. One look a t his sullen and fearful troops and any good commander would have aborted the attack. Kazim was not a leader his men loved enough to die for. But as they looked out over the body-littered ground around the fort, anger slowly began to replace their fear of death.
This time, they silently vowed between them, the defenders of Fort Foureau were going to their graves.
With an incredible display of casual indifference to sniper bullets, Pembroke-Smythe sat under the torrid sun on a shooting stick, a spiked cane that opens into a seat, and observed the Malian formations as they lined up for the assault.
"I do believe the beggars are about to make another go," he informed Levant and Pitt.
A series of flares were shot in the air to signal the advance. There was no dodging with covering fire like the previous assault. The Malian force raced over the flat ground at a dead run. Shouts erupted and echoed over the desert from, nearly two thousand throats.
Pitt felt like an actor on a stage in a theater-in-the-round: surrounded by a hostile audience. "Not exactly what you'd call tactical imagination," he said, standing beside Levant and Pembroke-Smythe while staring at the massed column. "But it just may do the trick."
Pembroke-Smythe nodded. "Kazim is using his men like a steamroller."
"Good luck, gentlemen," said Levant with a grim smile. "Perhaps we'll all meet in hell."