“We’ve won,” the captain said as he watched the figure through the foreshortened lenses. “That’s the Kaid, ben Cheriff. If he comes, they all do.”
Up from the hidden tunnel clambered an old woman wearing the stark black of a matron. The Kaid paused and stretched back his hand, but the woman straightened without help. Together the old couple began to walk toward the waiting guns.
The flagstaff flapped erect again. Gripping it like a talisman, Youssef ben Khedda stepped from the tunnel mouth where the Kaid had shouldered aside his hesitation. He picked his way across the ground at increasing speed. When ben Khedda passed the Kaid and his wife, he skirted them widely as if he were afraid of being struck. More rebels were leaving the Bordj in single file. None of them carried visible weapons. Most, men and women alike, had their eyes cast down; but a red-haired girl leading a child barely old enough to walk glared around with the haughty rage of a lioness.
“Well, no rest for the wicked,” grunted Sergeant Scratchard. Settling his sub-machinegun on its sling, he climbed out of the dugout. “Headquarters Squad to me,” he ordered. Bent over against the possible shock of a fanatic’s bullets, experienced enough to know the reality of his fear and brave enough to face it nonetheless, Scratchard began to walk to the open area between pit and siege lines where the prisoners would be immobilized. The seven men of HQ Squad followed; their corporal drove the jeep loaded with leg irons.
One of the troopers raised his powergun to bar ben Khedda. Scratchard waved and called an order; the trooper shrugged and let the Kabyle pass. The sergeant gazed after him for a moment, then spat in the dust and went on about the business of searching and securing the prisoners.
Youssef ben Khedda was panting with tension and effort as he approached the dugout, but there was a hard glint of triumph in his eyes as well. He knew he was despised, by those he led no less than by those who had driven him; but he had dug the rebels from their fortress when all the men and guns of the Slammers might have been unable to do so without him. Now he saw a way to ride the bloody crest to permanent power in Ain Chelia. He tried to set his flag in the ground. It scratched into the rocky soil, then fell with a clatter. “I have brought them to you,” ben Khedda said in a haughty voice.
“Some of them, at least,” said Mboya, his face neutral. Rebels continued to straggle from the Bordj, their faces sallow from more than the day they had spent in their tunnels. The Kaid had submitted to the shackles with a stony indifference. His wife was weeping beside him, not for herself but for her husband. Two of the nervous troopers were fanning the prisoners with detector wands set for steel and iridium. Anything the size of a razor blade would register. A lead bludgeon or a brass-barreled pistol would be ignored, but there were some chances you took in the service of practicality.
“As God wills, they are all coming, you know that,” ben Khedda said, assertive with dreamed-of lordship. “If they were each in his separate den, many of them would fight till you blew them out or buried them. All are willing to die, but most would not willingly kill their fellows, their families.” His face worked. “A fine joke, is it not?” If what had crossed ben Khedda’s lips had been a smile, then it transmuted to a sneer. “They would have been glad to kill me first, I think, but they were afraid that you would have been angry.”
“More fools them,” said the captain.
“Yes . . . ,” said the civilian, drawing back his face like a rat confronting a terrier, “more fools them. And now you will pay me.”
“Captain,” said the helmet speaker in the first sergeant’s voice, “this one says he’s the last.”
Mboya climbed the four steps to surface level. Scratchard waved and pointed to the Kabyle who was just joining the scores of his fellows. The number of those being shackled in a continuous chain at least approximated the one hundred and forty who were believed to have holed up in the Bordj. Through the clear air rang hammer strokes as a pair of troopers stapled the chain to the ground at intervals, locking the prisoners even more securely into the killing ground. The captain nodded. “We’ll give it a minute to let anybody still inside have second thoughts,” he said over the radio. “Then the search teams go in.” He looked at ben Khedda. “All right,” he said, “you’ve got your life and whatever you think you can do with it. Now, get out of here before I change my mind.”