Mboya drew a breath, long and deep as that of a power lifter. The civilian, tight as a house-jack, strangled his own words as he waited for the captain to conclude. “You will say that after they have done as I have said, all of them will be loaded on ore carriers with sun-screens. You will explain that there will be food and water brought from the village to support them. And you will tell them that if some of them are wounded or are infirm, they may ride within an ambulance which will be air-conditioned.
“Do you understand?”
For a moment, ben Khedda struggled with an inability to phrase his thoughts in neutral terms. He was unwilling to meet the captain’s eyes, even with the darkness as a cushion. Finally he said, “Captain—I, I trust your word as I would trust that of no man since the Prophet, on whom be peace. When you say the lives of the traitors will be spared, there can be no doubt, may it please God.”
“Trust has nothing to do with it,” said Captain Mboya without expression. “I have told you what you will say, and you will say it.”
“Captain, Captain,” whimpered the civilian, “I understand. The trip is a long one and surely some of the most troublesome will die of heat stroke. They will know that themselves. But there will be no . . . general tragedy? I must live here in Ain Chelia with the friends of the, the traitors. You see my position?”
“Your position,” Mboya repeated with scorn that drew a chuckle from Scratchard across the dugout. “Your position is that unless you talk your friends there out of the Bordj—” he gestured. Automatic weapons began to rave and chatter as if on cue. “Unless you go down there and come back with them, I’ll have you shot on your doorstep for a traitor, and your body left to the dogs. That’s your position.”
“Cheer up, citizen,” Sergeant Scratchard said. “You’re getting a great chance to pick one side and stick with it. The change’ll do you good.”
Ben Khedda gave a despairing cry and stood, his dun jellaba flapping as a lesser shadow. He stared over the rim of the dugout into a night now brightened only by stars and a random powergun bolt, harassment like that of the mortars. He turned and shouted at the motionless captain, “It’s easy for you—you go where your colonel sends you, you kill who he tells you to kill. And then you come all high and moral over the rest of us, who have to make our own decisions! You despise me? At least I’m a man and not somebody’s dog!”
Mboya laughed harshly. “You think Colonel Hammer told us how to clear the back country? Don’t be a fool. My official orders are to co-operate with the District Governor and to send all prisoners back to al-Madinah for internment. The colonel can honestly deny ordering anything else—and letting him do that is as much a part of my job as co-operating with a governor who knows that anybody really sent to a Re-education Camp will be back in his hair in a year.”
There was a silence in the dugout. At last the sergeant said, “He can’t go out now, sir.” The moan of a ricochet underscored the words.
“No, no, we’ll have to wait till dawn,” the captain agreed tiredly. As if ben Khedda were an unpleasant machine, he added, “Get him the hell out of my sight, though. Stick him in the bunker with the Headquarters Squad and tell them to hold him till called for. Via! but I wish this operation was over.”
The guns spat at one another all through the night. It was not the fire that kept Esa Mboya awake, however, but rather the dreams that plagued him with gentle words whenever he did manage to nod off.
“Well,” said Juma, scowling judiciously at the gun-jeep on the rack before him, “I’d say we pull the wiring harness first. Half the time that’s the whole problem—grit gets into the conduits and when the fans vibrate, it saws through the insulation. Even if we’re wrong, we haven’t done anything that another few months of running on Dar al-B’heed wouldn’t have required anyway.”