Shadows over the Sahara (eBook)

Sand, Blood and Survival - A French Foreign Legion Series in the Sahara, Book 3

Sandbergh Beyers, Pieter Haasbroek (Autoren)

Pieter Haasbroek (Herausgeber)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
124 Seiten
Pieter Haasbroek (Verlag)
978-0-00-082158-4 (ISBN)

Infos

An entire village vanished overnight.

Not a body, not a trace.

Only a curse whispered on the desert wind.

For Legionnaires Jurg Kruger and Kasper Janse, the Sahara is a sun-scorched prison of sand and discipline. But when the entire population of Haloesa disappears, they are pulled into a conspiracy that begins with whispers of a curse and leads to a truth far deadlier than any phantom story.

Posing as deserters, they follow a shadowy trail into the remote Atlas Mountains, uncovering a brutal secret. A slave-labor uranium mine run by a ruthless syndicate. Trapped hundreds of miles from help, they are the only hope for the dying villagers and the only ones who know about the weapon-grade material being unearthed.

The stakes are absolute. Failure means a bullet from a firing squad or a shallow grave in the desert, while a rogue power rises armed with the ultimate weapon. Their only way out is a desperate escape with a race against time to warn a world that doesn't even know it's in danger.

A blistering military adventure packed with high-stakes espionage and pulse-pounding action. Perfect for fans of Alistair MacLean, Wilbur Smith, and classic edge-of-your-seat thrillers.

Start your unforgettable Sahara adventure now with the third ebook in the series!

Textauszug

Chapter 2

THE DESERTERS

This morning, the garrison in Dana Talani was paid. It is not much, yet it is money. In the Legion, a man does not earn much, but the small amount is at least enough to enable you to relax in the wine-houses, to chat, and to have a drink.

This freedom, too, lasts only a few hours, from sunset until midnight, when everyone must be back in the barracks. These are a few swift, insignificant hours that would pass almost unnoticed in the lives of normal people. But for these Legion soldiers, they are islands of escape, hours of refuge when they can forget their misery and loneliness here in the sandy wilderness.

Because this is so, they look deeply into the bottles and take large swigs of the rather sour, cheap wine. Slowly, their senses are dulled, and their memories are also eroded. It is a deliverance, for most of them do not wish to remember what is past. They are either afraid of it or ashamed.

In these circumstances, they can boast, fight, threaten, and shout, and no one can forbid them. In these few precious hours, they are their own masters. They become free men again, just like other men. They once more have their own desires, and they are no longer military slaves, not during these few hours.

Here, in one of the wine-houses, sits Jurg Kruger, and as is customary, he has Kasper Janse with him, a large, strong man who is not merely a lumbering brute, but robust and muscular because in earlier days on the diamond fields, he fought bare-knuckle and learned how a man must use his fists, but a quiet man, who thinks slowly, although he can strike quickly.

They are two of the few exceptions in the wine-house, El Toela, for neither of them is truly inebriated. Merry they are, indeed, but not intoxicated. To tell the truth, they have merely walked far enough through the vineyard to be convivial. They are in that state where one still has full control over one’s faculties, without anything troubling them. In other words, they feel very sure of themselves and vigorous enough to drag the entire world around by the beard.

They sit here in a secluded corner, or rather, a relatively quiet corner, for in a place like this, silence, of course, does not exist, especially not on the day when the soldiers are paid. At some tables, the soldiers are singing, and although they mostly have the words in order, they differ considerably regarding the tune. Each, as it were, sings his own course. On a small, rickety platform, a listless Arab girl is dancing. The accompaniment consists of strange sounds that two Arabs with headscarves are coaxing from peculiar flute-like instruments.

Both Jurg and Kasper have unbuttoned their military jackets, and they are leaning forward opposite each other on the small grass table.

Kasper rubs his immense hand over his hairy chest. Not so long ago, he was one of South Africa’s great boxing prospects, and although that prospect has somewhat receded into the background, he has not forgotten any of the skills, for he realises that they can stand him in very good stead in the company of the Legion soldiers.

Kasper says, a little wistfully. “This is not the same as old Johannesburg, but it is a change, at least.”

Jurg just smiles. His rather lean, sturdy physique is in sharp contrast to the massive frame of his friend.

In their partnership, which has existed for so many years, it is Jurg who provides the intellect and Kasper the physical strength. This does not mean, however, that Kasper is a baboon. And besides, Jurg is by no means a broken reed either!

“Any place on earth is better than that bake-oven of a barracks where a man has to lie and pant for weeks because he has no money to go anywhere,” Jurg complains. He reflects for a moment. Then he continues. “But if a man has been in the desert for one day, you long to be back in Dana Talani, even if it is such a bake-oven. Then a man desires just to be back in the barracks and to be shouted at on the parade ground during the day. And if a man has had a few days of that, then you wonder again if it is not better out there in the open desert. In this affair, it seems to me that no one can be satisfied for long, especially because there is so little about which a man can feel pleased.”

Kasper listens with a light smile to his friend and rolls a cigarette. He lights it, inhales the smoke deeply, and observes the seductive dance of the Arab girl. Then he takes a deep swig of the cheap wine, or the ‘vin ordinaire’ as the French call it.

Through the smoke, he asks. “What do you think of this story they are telling about Haloesa?”

Jurg speaks languidly. “Everyone has been talking about it since the pedlars first came here with the story. They would not suck a tale like that out of their thumbs, of that I am sure. It seems to me it is going to become one of the secrets of the desert. In this accursed place, strange things sometimes happen. Sometimes no one can explain them. It seems to me this is one of those secrets that will not be easily cleared up.”

Kasper wants to say something more, but he is interrupted by a burst of laughter at a table just near theirs. Seven soldiers are sitting around the table, and they are more tipsy than most of the other soldiers here in the wine-house. Each has a bottle of wine in front of him, and they look exceedingly prosperous. With them sits an Arab, impeccably dressed in a striking white robe and an equally striking headdress.

Jurg looks in their direction and says without excitement. “They look exceedingly prosperous.”

“Yes, and these days they are always together as if they were David and Jonathan. Besides, they go on a spree when the rest of us are all stone broke. Perhaps they won at cards.”

Jurg agrees, but he still wonders to himself where they could make so much money at cards to be able to sit and drink here almost every night. Although those seven are in his own company, Jurg does not know any of them well. He knows their names, and now and then he has spoken to them, but he does not know them intimately.

He is still pondering them when one of the seven soldiers suddenly stands up, a little unsteadily and a little boisterously. It is Goetler, the big Pole, who looks almost as powerful as Kasper. Once he was a miner in Silesia, and he sways a little as he moves towards the door. He sees Jurg and Kasper sitting, changes his mind, and comes to lean heavily on their rickety little table.

“You will have a drink with me,” says the Pole in broken English.

Jurg glances quickly at Kasper. They both hesitate a little. They have both learned that it is better not to accept favours and gifts from a drunken man. It seems Goetler senses that hesitation. He says. “You are afraid I cannot pay, hey? Do not worry your heads about it, comrades. Old Goetler has plenty of money, and this might be the last time he can buy you a bottle.”

At this, both South Africans look up quickly at the half-inebriated Pole. But Goetler has already forgotten what he said. He orders two bottles of wine from an Arab waiter.

Goetler’s companions have also stood up. They are clustered by the door, clearly eager for the babbling Pole to join them. Goetler notices them, waves casually to Jurg and Kasper, staggers to the door, and leads his party outside. The Arab who was with them had already made tracks.

Now El Toela is also considerably quieter.

Here comes the new wine. On the platform, the Arab beauty and the two musicians endlessly continue their performance. Jurg sits looking at his bottle of wine for a long time before he finally opens it. Eventually, he drinks, but he is still thinking about what he heard and what he witnessed. At last, he speaks. “I wonder what this Goetler meant when he said this might be the last time he buys us a drink.”

“He was drunk,” says Kasper with a finality as if that explains everything.

“I know,” says Jurg, “but no one would say something like that if he were not turning something over in his mind. But perhaps I am foolish to worry about Goetler and his cronies. Let us drink.”

Ten minutes before midnight, the two had polished off those two bottles of wine. The two think they have calculated everything nicely. They just have time to return to the barracks before the company roll call is read to ascertain if any of the fellows have gone astray.

This extra wine had made a difference to the two. They walk and sing as they stumble through the narrow streets of Dana Talani in the dark. They are even walking and singing as they pass through the main gate of the barracks, until the shrill voice of the sergeant suddenly cools their enthusiasm.

The dormitory of B-Company is exactly like all other barrack rooms. It accommodates 120 men. The hard military beds stand along the walls in two rows of sixty each. In the middle of the room stands a rough table where the soldiers can write letters if they feel inclined, but most have little inclination to write letters. In the windows, there are no panes, but bars like in the windows of a prison. The walls are of grey stone. Behind some beds, portraits hang on the walls, mostly portraits of women or of some almost forgotten family scene.

Sergeant Collat, as upright as a candle, walks into the room to read the names.

The most striking characteristic of Sergeant Collat is that he struts like a rooster who is master of the yard. He is a slight Frenchman with quick movements like those of a bird. His face also reminds one of a bird. It is thin, and his nose is like a beak. On the rare occasions when Collat has been seen without his kepi, it has been noted that his black head is very much like that of an eagle, narrow yet...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 9.9.2025
• Übersetzer: Pieter Haasbroek, Ai
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Fantasy / Science Fiction ► Fantasy
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-00-082158-6 / 0000821586
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-082158-4 / 9780000821584