All of which was probably the reason that he spent a sleepless night trying to find rhyme and reason where seemingly there was none.
At dawn, he stepped from the door of his Quonset hut quarters and looked for a moment into the gigantic red ball which was the Saharan sun. Neither dawn nor sunset at Bidon Cinq were spectacular, nor would they become so until the Sahara Reforestation Commission began to return moisture to desert skies. Johnny wondered if he would live to see it.
He made his way over to the huge steel shed which doubled as garage and aircraft hanger. As yet, none of the native mechanics were stirring, although he could hear sounds of activity in the community kitchen.
Derek Mason looked up from his inspection of Hélène Desage's air-cushion Land Rover.
Johnny McCord scowled at him. "What in the hell are you doing here?"
The lanky Canadian came erect and looked for a long moment at his superior. He said finally, soberly, "It occurs to me that I'm probably doing the same thing you came to do."
"What have you found?"
"That a small bomb has been attached to the starter."
Johnny didn't change expression. It fitted in. "What else?" he said.
Derek handed him a steel ring.