The camels, even the fleetest of them, were slow compared to the horses, and the entire caravan moved at a relatively slow pace. Even negotiating the ups and downs of the mountain roads I had no trouble staying with them.
But now nightfall was approaching, and I was beginning to worry. I’d seen no sign of help arriving. If darkness fell, they’d keep going and no doubt make it to the trail up Mount Dersa and El Ahmid’s Casbah. From there, it was probably not far to the entrance to the tunnel.
I still had the two tubes of paint in my pocket. If you ignited them in the tube, in concentrated form, they were as powerful as two sticks of dynamite each, but even that, out here in the wide-open spaces of the Taza Gap, would mean little.
Suddenly, as I rode over the crest of a narrow path, I saw the caravan and the small army of Rifs come to a halt. Up ahead, a cloud of dust rose once again and it grew quickly into what was at first a brilliant red patch. It soon separated itself into the uniforms of the crack horsemen of the Royal Guards, each on a gray Arabian stallion and each carrying a long lance along with the regular rifles and handguns.
I counted four battalions, a good number of men but not even half of those making up the Rif brigade and the camel caravan.
I said a silent thanks to Marina. She obviously had made it, but I wondered if she had forgotten to mention how many would be in the caravan.
I watched the Royal Guards draw closer and saw that they had spread their ranks across the entire Taza Gap, from side to side. They rode forward at a slow trot, each one a thin line of red.
I had halted at the top of a short path that would lead me down into the middle of the caravan. Either the approaching horsemen were supermen or they were damned confident.
They maintained their slow trot, and now I saw El Ahmid whipping his men into a frenzy, riding back and forth among them.
I saw rifles brandished aloft, along with the curved Moorish daggers and heavy double-edged swords. Then I heard a sharp, staccato sound, the chopping sound of rotary blades in the air.
I looked up, shielding my eyes against the sun, to see four, five, six huge helicopters coming down behind the caravan. I saw more of them approaching and I saw the markings on them. They were U.S. Navy cargo ’copters from one of the Mediterranean-based carriers. The first one had already landed and opened its bay, and I saw more red uniforms on more gray stallions racing out and down the ramp.
The ’copters were landing another four battalions at least behind the caravan, boxing El Ahmid and his “slave girls” in between them. The ’copters took to the air instantly, and the Royal Guards went into their slow trot at once, also forming the same straight lines across the width of the gap.
I heard a whistle, and the slow trot changed into a fast trot.
El Ahmid had frantically dispatched half his men to the rear of the caravan to meet the attack from that quarter.
At another whistle the Royal Guards broke into a full gallop. I watched them lower their lances to the “charge” position. They ploughed into El Ahmid’s men like the prongs of some huge pitchfork digging into a bale of hay, shifting their lines at the very last moment to tighten up their formation and hit with double the impact.
The battle was joined with a tremendous roar and the sound of rifle fire mingled with the coarse shouts of men and the galloping of hoofs. The Chinese posing as women were not equipped with arms, and they were bolting in terror, leaping from the camels and attempting to flee as the Royal Guards cut through El Ahmid’s men and attacked the caravan.
It was time to join the fun. I spurred my horse down the narrow path and landed smack in the middle of things, coming along just as a Royal Guardsmen impaled one of the rifle-carrying guards on a lance.
The man toppled from the camel and I reached down to scoop up his rifle. It was a Chinese version of the M-16.
I got off a good burst that caught two of the fleeing Chinese and one of El Ahmid’s men. I fought my way through the wheeling, milling confusion of camels, horses and men fleeing on foot. I managed to grab one of the curved Moorish daggers from the belt of a dead Rif as he dangled from his saddle and stuck it into my belt.
As usually happens, the efficient, trained tactics of the professionals were making themselves felt. The Royal Guardsmen roared in and out of the shouting, wild-eyed fighters of El Ahmid’s men with unspectacular but deadly effect.
The Rifs, natural warriors and fierce fighters, were unsurpassed at their kind of hit-and-run tactics, the roaring attack of unexpected fury. Against the trained cavalry tactics of the red-uniform Guardsmen they were more sound than fury, more energy than efficiency.
The “slave girls” were being mowed down as they tried to flee. Those managing to get away would be either rounded up later or fall prey to the harshness of the mountains on either side of them.
