TW06 The Khyber Connection NEW (9 page)

"Perhaps you'll be famous someday," Finn said, smiling inwardly at the earnestness of this serious young man. "Maybe this experience will turn into a book for you."

“I've already been giving that some thought," said Churchill. "Give the people back home some idea of what's happening here, more than merely dispatch writing—a detailed analysis of the Forward Policy and its effects, as well as of the military applications in carrying it out. Then perhaps the gentlemen MP's will know whereof they speak when they rise to address the Frontier Question on the floor of Parliament."

"Sounds like a worthy ambition," Finn said, thinking that if the book were ever written, this youngster would probably find a way to make even the Malakand campaign seem deadly dull. To be so serious at so young an age! lithe army didn't knock it out of him, he'd wind up a professor at a tiny college, or one of those ivory-tower historians forever buried in the stacks of some musty library. It seemed a shame. He was a nice young fellow. Here he was, in the midst of what would probably be the one great adventure of his lifetime, and all he could think of was the overall question, the grand perspective.

"You find the idea dull, don't you?" said Churchill, watching him intently.

"Well, no, I didn't say that—"

"You didn't have to," Churchill said. "It was clearly written in your face. I am an excellent judge of character. And I judge that diplomacy is not quite your forte. You're the sort of man who usually says exactly what he thinks."

"Well, now that you mention it, the way you put it did seem rather ... well, rather dry," said Finn lamely.

"Dry," echoed Churchill. "Well then, I shall endeavor not to make it dry. I will see how my dispatches are received. If the reaction to what I write for the Daily Telegraph is not favorable, then I will not attempt to write the book. Rest assured, sir, I have too high a regard for the English people to subject them to inferiority. Good night to you."

In the fort's infirmary, Lucas and Andre had been working non-stop since the relief column arrived. The marksmanship of the Pathans had taken its toll in gaping holes and shattered bones from the lead balls fired by the jezails. The different calibers of the weapons produced a wide variety of wounds. The jezail rifles of the Ghazis were all handmade, some .45 caliber, some .50, some even larger, such as the .75 and .80 caliber "wall guns" which were either fired from bipods or from a rest position on a
sangar
wall.

Many of the wounds had been inflicted by captured British weapons, such as Martini-Henry and Lee-Metford rifles. The latter, which fired the new dumdum bullet, were particularly troublesome in the hands of the enemy. When one of these rounds hit a bone, it would expand, mushrooming out and tearing through everything in its path. If the victim wasn't killed, if the bullet struck an arm or leg, the result was usually the loss of that limb. Under the direction of Lieutenant Hugo, Lucas and Andre had performed a number of such amputations, and the infirmary was running dangerously low on morphia and chloroform. By nightfall both Lucas and Andre were exhausted. They could only imagine what it must have been like for Hugo.

"I think the two of you could do with some rest," the doctor said. "The most serious cases have been tended to, and the others will keep for a time. Besides, my arm's not quite so numb anymore and I can move it about some. I should be fit as a fiddle in another hour or so." He took a flask from his pocket. "There'll be more of the same tomorrow, I can guarantee you. Here, for medicinal purposes."

He handed them the flask and they each took a pull at it. "Thanks," said Lucas, sitting down in a wooden chair. He sighed. "I don't know how you've managed up till now."

"One does what one must," said Hugo, smiling tightly. "Perhaps now, after seeing all this, you can better appreciate your position, Father. There'll be no going out into the hills to preach the word until these hostilities are done with."

"That could take months," said Lucas.

“It could,” said Hugo. "Meanwhile you're needed by your own. There shall be work aplenty for you two at Chakdarra, when we reach them. Speaking of which, Father, I think you should have this."

He handed Lucas a revolver.

"I can't take that," said Lucas, wanting to badly but knowing that staying in character meant he had to refuse.

"I'm not asking you to shoot anyone with it," said Hugo. "That will be a matter for your own conscience.

But I've seen what happens when Pathans get hold of a man. They cut him to pieces or else take him back to camp and have sport with him there."

"I appreciate the gesture, Doctor," Lucas said, "but I couldn't possibly carry a gun."

"I can," Andre said. She took the revolver.

"Do you know how—" Hugo began, then stopped when he saw her quickly break the weapon open and check it. "Yes, I can see that you do. Useful skill for a woman to possess, especially in these parts. Well, go on now, you two. Get something to eat. You'll need all your strength tomorrow."

Sharif Khan received the emissaries in the main room of his house. Flanked by his chief bodyguards and lieutenants, TIA agents masquerading as Afridi tribesmen, Phoenix waited for the two emissaries to bow to him before he returned their greeting.

He noted that they carried ornate
khanjars
, tapering eight-inch daggers with carved and inlaid hilts, as well as Khyber knives—the deadly
charras
—the long knives of the Pathans. The
charras
had heavy, single-edged, wide blades over twenty inches long which tapered gradually from the hilt to a sharp point at the end. The hilt, like those of the smaller knives, was without a guard, and had a slight projection on one side, by the pommel. The knives were encased in leather scabbards and worn thrust through the sashes, similar to the way Japanese samurai carried their swords. The men also carried the ubiquitous jezails, the curved-stock matchlock rifles which were frequently converted with captured English flintlocks. The barrels were long and slender, the stocks inlaid with silver plate. The weapons were as much a show of finery as force—the single most prized possession of an Afridi, when thus handsomely crafted, was evidence of wealth and status.

"The Most Holy, Mullah Sayyid Akbar sends greetings to the warlord Sharif Khan," said one of the emissaries. "He wishes to know why Sharif Khan has not responded to the call of the Prophet to rid our land of the infidel
firinghi
."

"Convey my most respectful greetings to His Holiness, Sayyid Akbar," said Phoenix, "and inform him that I have received no call to which I could respond."

The emissary looked at him with puzzlement. "Is the khan not aware of the flame that sweeps the land?" he said. "All the tribes are gathering for the Night of the Long Knives. The time is ripe to slay the invader. They are weak and powerless before the strength of the jehad.

How can the khan be ignorant of this?"

"I have heard that the tribes were gathering," said Phoenix, "but there has been talk of the Great Jehad before. It is action that speaks loudest, and not words. Sharif Khan does not blindly leave his holdings at the mere mention of a gathering of tribes. If there are spoils to be won, lives to be taken, that is another matter. But I have heard such talk before and little has come of it."

"Know this then, Sharif Khan," said the emissary, "that even as we speak, the infidel is being slaughtered in the Malakand by the forces of Sadullah, who speaks with the Voice of the Prophet. The Light of Islam, Sayyid Akbar, is now preparing to move against the British fortifications in the Khyber Pass. We strike everywhere and we strike as one. When comes the Night of the Long Knives, a great host shall come from the heavens to rid our land of the invader, and all who join in the jehad shall win their way to Paradise. Thus speaks Sadullah; thus speaks Sayyid Akbar. Where will Sharif Khan stand when comes the judgment? How shall Sharif Khan speak when it is asked who joined in the jehad and who stood by?"

"Does Sayyid Akbar question my faith?" said Phoenix.

"If the faith of Sharif Khan is beyond question," countered the emissary, "why does Sharif Khan refrain from joining in the holy war? We have heard much of Sharif Khan, of how he has quickly risen to the status of a warlord and of how his tribe, though smaller than some, has grown strong and prospered. Clearly Sharif Khan is among the chosen. It is only fitting for Sayyid Akbar to search out such a man and seek his aid in the great cause. It is the time for the chosen of Islam to join together and lead the tribes in the fight to force the invader from our land. This is the message Sayyid Akbar has sent. What reply shall we take back to him?"

"None," said Phoenix. "I will choose from among my tribe men to stay and watch over my holdings. Then I shall gather my warriors and return with you to deliver my reply to Sayyid Akbar myself. Sharif Khan has spoken. You will await my preparations and we shall depart together In the meantime, let my humble home serve as your shelter. My retainers will see to it that you are made comfortable and that your hunger is appeased. You have been many days upon your journey. Rest and refresh yourselves, and then we shall begin our return."

The emissaries bowed. "Sharif Khan is most kind and gracious. We shall humbly await your pleasure."

Respectfully, they backed out of the room.

"This is what we've been waiting for," said Phoenix to his fellow agents when the emissaries had left. "If we're going to learn anything, we must be at the center of events. Three of you will remain here—Python, Zebra, and Mustang, keep the patrols going and report to me at once if you discover anything. If we need to send for reinforcements I'll communicate with you, and one of you will clock to Plus Time and report our findings. Agents Fox and Sable, you'll accompany me to Sayyid Akbar's camp. We'll leave a force of thirty men behind to conduct patrols and maintain security. The rest of the tribe, with the exception of the older men and women and the children, will travel with us. Any questions?"

"Just one," said agent Python. "There's supposed to be an adjustment team from the First Division back here somewhere, infiltrated into one of the British army regiments. We're assuming a cover with the other side. How do we keep from killing them if we all wind up in the same battle?"

"Unless there's some way you can recognize them, you don't," said Phoenix. "There's nothing to be done about that. There's a massive disruption going on back here, and we've got to get a fix on it somehow.

Everything else comes secondary. Don't forget that if we can't keep from shooting at them, they can't keep from shooting at us as well. That's what happens when you've got teams on opposing sides. It comes with the territory. They knew the risks when they enlisted. So, for that matter, did we. Let's just try to survive this one, okay? It's liable to get pretty hairy. Any more questions?"

There were none.

"Right. Let's get the show on the road. We've got us a holy war to fight."

Sayyid Akbar did not look like a holy man. Instead of white robes, he wore loose-fitting black trousers, high boots, a black shirt with flowing sleeves, and a black vest ornately embroidered in gold. His black turban was fastened with a ruby clasp. He towered over the white-garbed Sadullah as they stood in the Mad Mullah's tent high in the cliffs above the Malakand fort.

"I have done everything you asked of me, 0 Holy One," Sadullah said, his voice sounding very different from the way it did when he addressed his followers. It held a tone of abject supplication. "Even now, we have the British troops who have arrived trapped with the others in the fort. At dawn we shall strike and wipe them out to the last man! Then we will move to finish off the soldiers at Chakdarra."

"And what of the force assembling below, upon the green?" said Sayyid Akbar.

Sadullah smiled. "So much the better. My sentries have reported this to me. They think to attack the Buddhist Road. It is a foolhardy plan. They will be completely vulnerable to our fire from the high ground."

"Have you bothered to gauge the size of this force?" Sayyid Akbar said.

"It is insignificant," Sadullah said. "Our own numbers are far greater."

"You're a fool, Sadullah," Sayyid Akbar said. "You have already lost this battle once before, and now you shall lose it again. I have given you another chance, and you are wasting it."

"But how have I failed, Holy One?" Sadullah said, chagrined. "I hold the British in the palm of my hand!"

"And they shall slip right through your fingers," Sayyid Akbar said. "It is pointless. You will never understand strategy. Never mind. It matters little to me if you do not destroy the British here, so long as you engage them. It will distract their attention from the Khyber Pass long enough to buy me the time to do what I must do there."

Sadullah's eyes were bright with the light of fanaticism. "The Night of the Long Knives? You will call forth the host of heaven?"

"They will come when it is time," Sayyid Akbar said.

"When you have done all that you can do here, join me at my camp above the Khyber Pass."

"And then we shall strike?" Sadullah said.

"Then we shall strike," said Sayyid Akbar.

He vanished. The Mad Mullah prostrated himself upon the ground, weeping with joy. Surely he was blessed, he thought, anointed by the Prophet. The Holy One had been sent to deliver Islam, and he had been chosen as His instrument. Once before, he had launched the great jehad, and he had failed, not having anticipated the great strength and numbers of the British.

The Holy One had turned back time and given him the chance to try again. He would not fail. At dawn his forces would descend upon the infidels and cut them to pieces. Then he would take his followers to the Khyber Pass to witness the coming of the host of heaven, before whom the infidel firinghi would not stand a chance.

They would drive the invader from the land once and for all, and for centuries to come the mullahs would speak of how Sadullah the Anointed had prevailed and won his way to Paradise. He pressed his forehead to the ground and prayed with all the fervor of his soul.