Casca 12: The African Mercenary (12 page)

Several rapid bursts of fire and the bodies lay still on the floor of the river with arms extended, hands clenched, legs drawn up under them, lips seared away to reveal grinning white teeth in charred faces. As they lay smoldering, the thick, sweet odor of human flesh cooking overrode that of cordite.

Mtuba
screamed at his men to return fire. Several of Van's recoilless rifle rounds had landed too close. Firing a burst across the river from an AK 47, Mtuba smiled at the targets across the blown bridge. This time he was ready for them. They had no surprises left. He knew they had a 57mm, but he had something better and experts who knew how to use it for maximum effectiveness. The last truck backed up out of range and sight of the 57mm. From its rear, a long, lethal tube was withdrawn by its crew, taken to a small hill, and set up on its tripod. A round was loaded. The gunner sighted, and a 106mm shell flew across the riverbed.

Fitzhugh was just getting to his feet when the shell from
Mtuba's recoilless rifle hit the ground between his legs. Fitzhugh's body was ripped to pieces. Lumps of flesh and bits of camouflage uniform were scattered for twenty yards in all directions. His head landed down in the river bottom by the corpse of one of the N.F.L.K. troops who had been burned. His white face and open eyes stared into the empty sockets of the African.

Five more of Casey's men were downed by
Mtuba's gunners, their bodies shredded by shrapnel. On both flanks of the river, Mtuba's infantry were starting to lay down heavy fire. A platoon of rebels ran down river to find a crossing that wasn't under the sights of the mercs.

Calling out as loudly as he could, Casey gave the word to bug out.
"Run, you sons of bitches! Don't worry about covering fire! Just get out and to the trucks before we get our tails blown off!"

Another 106 screamed overhead. The heavy crump of its explosion was followed by the screams of wounded and dying men. Casey stopped to see what could be done. Only one out of the three was alive, his abdomen ripped open from sternum to groin, torn intestines strung out behind him like bloody ribbons. There was nothing to do for him but end his pain. One quick burst from his rifle put an end to the man's agony.

"Go! Go! Go!" he screamed at a group of stragglers who were trying to lay down covering fire. "I told you not to waste time with that! Get your asses on the trucks or be left behind!" They obeyed. With the enemy having the range on them with the 106 and outnumbering them in manpower, it was only a matter of time before they were flanked or totally blown to bits by the 106.

Once they loaded up, they gunned the motors and headed south. When the mercs had run for their vehicles, Colonel
Mtuba ordered his gunners to raise their sights and go for maximum range, aiming in the general direction he knew the road would take. The convoy was nearly at the limit of the 106's range, when a round landed on the back of the rear half-track. Only the driver survived. The men in the rear of the half-track weren't recognizable as anything remotely human, yet the driver didn't have a mark on him. The Saladin whipped around to pick him up and was on the road again in less than fifteen seconds. George and Yousef had been riding in the destroyed half-track...

Contact was broken, at least for the time being. Casey was furious with himself for taking the time to finish off the burning N.F.L.K. troops. Those few seconds gave the enemy time to get their recoilless rifle into position to fire. He should have broken contact immediately once the bridge was blown. Now he had lost good men because he wanted to spare the enemy pain. Not a good trade at all, even though he knew that most of his men would have given the same order. There was something horribly sickening about being burned alive that went beyond mere combat and the killing of one's foes.

The smoke of the stricken half-track rose over the hill separating the mercs from Mtuba's view, but he knew he had drawn blood again. Soon he would have the rest of them. Now he had to take his remaining vehicles six miles to the south where there was a crossing. He had no doubt that he would catch up to them. It was only a matter of time before he had them and the stupid Chinese in his hands.

Van
Janich asked Major Montfort, "Do we have any more word as to the disposition of Mr. Romain's unit?"

Montfort had a worried expression on his face as he answered the question.
"No, sir. And I'll tell you this: I don't like it. We know that Dzhombe is dead. That much we have managed to confirm through our own sources: And that is about all we can get. The N.F.L.K. have only said that Mr. Romain and his men did not make it to any of the rendezvous points. Since that time, they have not responded to our attempts to communicate with them"

Van
Janich rubbed at his chin and its two day stubble. He had been at his headquarters since the day before the mercenaries took off and had Major Montfort report back to him in person as soon as they'd departed.

"You are right, Major. Something is most definitely wrong. I would not put it past our friends' in
Kimshaka to pull a double cross if they thought they could get away with it. But why? They need us to keep them in supplies and support until they secure power. The only way it would make sense for them to renege on our bargain is if they had a more powerful sponsor on their side. I do believe we should start looking more closely into the matter. There have been rumors of Oriental gentlemen being seen in the area."

Montfort nodded his head in agreement and dismissed himself to start things rolling. He had to know where the mercenaries were and why the N.F.L.K. were not responding to his calls.

Casey had to keep the pressure on, pushing the remaining half track, the Saladin
armored car, and the truck as fast as they could go. He had wanted to stop for the wounded but knew that if he did, Mtuba would be on them fast. He had to keep going in spite of the pain he knew it was causing some of the men. He had no choice. If they halted, they'd die. It was as simple as that. The only stops they made were to refuel from their nearly depleted stock of reserve gas carried in jerry cans. They had found a few gallons of gasoline in one of the villages and requisitioned it despite the protests of the Bombay born Indian who'd said it was all the gas he had for his pride and joy, a 1949 Chevy station wagon without doors or fenders. They would have taken that, too, but Harrison had said that the way they were going, the old heap wouldn't last more than a few hours. Even with the Indian's reluctant contribution, there would be just enough fuel for one more refueling for the three vehicles, and that would be it unless they got lucky.

Traffic was nearly non
-existent. Word of Dzhombe's death and the fighting in the capital had somehow reached the area, most likely by radios at the trading posts.

It was almost sundown before they came to another halt. The land had given way to even sparser vegetation. Twice they had seen prides of lions sunning themselves lazily, unconcerned with the passage of the two war machines and the truck. Game was becoming more prevalent. Giraffes nibbled on tree branches as eland and gazelle grazed on knee high yellow grass among small herds of wildebeest who stuck their tails in the air and trotted off, putting a healthy distance between themselves and the intruders.

They rattled through several small villages where natives, sitting with thin blankets wrapped around them in the shade of wattle and daub huts roofed with cone shaped thatch or the rare, tin roofed trading post run by an industrious Indian, watched them impassively. It was tempting to stop for a moment at one of the meat stands where goat meat and chickens hung from hooks, aging rapidly in the dry heat as clouds of iridescent blue and green flies swarmed over them.

The natives, who were not members of
Dzhombe's ruling tribe, knew when to mind their own business. They just sat where they were, ignoring the clouds of dust thrown up by the mercs. This was none of their concern, and white men with weapons meant nothing good. It was best to leave them alone, unless one was either stupid or had a death wish. Besides that, it was too hot.

At a water hole on the south side of one of those dry, dusty kraals, the mercs stopped to rest and treat their wounded. They'd been lucky. None of the hit had received gut or head wounds, and the medic was able to treat them with penicillin and
sulfa drugs to prevent infection.

The surviving mercs didn't blame Casey. He'd done the right thing. And there were at least forty to fifty rebels who wouldn't be on their trail anymore. Their own losses, including those killed at the bridge, stood at a total of eleven killed and five wounded, but the wounded were still able to fight.

Rinsing his face, with water from a leather bucket, Casey stood by a well dug five years before by eager, young do-gooders from some American agency with a social conscience.

Beidemann
walked slowly, toward him, hands dangling at his sides as if he didn't know what to do with them. Casey felt a knot form in his stomach.

"What is it, Gus?"

"My old friend, I don't know just how to say this ..." He let the words trail off awkwardly.

Casey knew
Beidemann was bringing bad news, and it could only be one thing: one of his friends had been killed. Nothing else could have caused such a look of deep grief on the face of one such as the old German. The only question was ... who?

"Go ahead, Gus. It's okay. Tell me who it is."
Beidemann was about to answer when Van called out from the turret of the Saladin.

"Casey, where's George?"

Casey felt both relieved and guilty at the same time. He was glad it wasn't Van and wishing it wasn't George. There was no way he could have chosen between the two of them. They were totally different men, but he loved them equally for many of the same reasons.

"He was in the rear half
-track. Only the driver got out alive," Beidemann blurted out.

Van's smooth face began to crack as tears started to run down his cheeks.

"I was the one who picked up the driver. There wasn't enough left of those in the back to tell who they were." Beidemann paused. "Yousef was with them too," the big man said softly, as if by adding his own loss to the tally he could ease all of their pain a bit.

Casey blinked back his own tears. He had seen more men die than he cared to think about, but this hurt was as fresh as if he had lost the brother he'd never had. It took a great effort to bring his feelings under control. There was no time for mourning. He still had others in his charge
who depended on him to see that they got out of this mess alive. He'd let his sorrow out later, when he was alone. And his surviving friends would deal with the losses in their own ways.

Beidemann
was a realist about death. He, like Casey, had seen it come to many, and they had shared losses before, during the monstrous battles on the Eastern Front in Russia. Next to Casey, Ali ben Yousef was the closest thing he had to a friend, and like Casey, he felt both guilt and relief. He didn't know what god or gods George had believed in and wished the wiry Montagnard well in whatever future life he might encounter. As for Yousef, he had died in battle against those that the Moslems called infidels, which encompassed everyone who wasn't a Moslem. That should gain him some merit in the eyes of Allah.

Casey called the roll. With the five walking wounded who could still fight, it gave him a total complement of thirty four men, counting himself. The fight at the bridge had been very costly.

As near as he could tell, they were about thirty miles from Barotseland. If they got that far, then perhaps Mtuba would call a halt to the chase once he reached the border. But Casey wouldn't want to give odds on it. He had something the African wanted: the Chinese major.

He told the men to take a break and sent out a rear guard. The remaining men were to refill the canteens, making sure they used their purification tablets. Then they were to check over their
personal equipment, including ammo, weapons, and survival rations. While this was being done he sent for the Chinese.

Major
Xaun, advisor to the insurgent forces of the National Front for the Liberation of Kimshaka, knew he was in a lot of trouble. He had fought against the Americans in Korea when he was a young man and knew their code for the treatment of prisoners. But from the look of these hard faced professionals, he knew that claiming the same kind of treatment prisoners of war were normally entitled to by the Geneva Convention would be an exercise in futility.

His heart froze in his chest when he was put in front of the commander of the mercenaries.
Gray blue eyes locked as solidly as crystals of ice onto his own. The muscles in the scar faced man's jaws worked like pistons to control the anger inside. Xaun knew the man with the scarred face and thick neck was only a hair's breadth away from killing him to release the anger and pain he felt because of the loss of his men. With this one, there could be no stalling or claims of ignorance, no tricks, and no attempt at any kind of negotiations. If he didn't give the mercenary what he wanted, then he would die.

"Name?"

Xaun spat it out as if it had a bad taste. "Major Han Pao Xaun."

"What is your purpose here?" Casey wasted no words on the man. He had neither the patience nor the time.

"We have been sent here as representatives of the People's Republic of China to lend assistance to the valiant freedom fighters of the N.F.L.K as an act of solidarity."

Casey wiped a hand across red, tired eyes. "Cut the party line bullshit and tell me what is going on in as few words as possible, or I'll turn you over to my men to play with."

Xaun saw the big German looking at him as if he were a piece of steak and suddenly found it very difficult to swallow. The story he related was brief and to the point. China was looking to expand her sphere of influence to offset that of Russia. In addition, she had a great need for certain strategic raw materials that Africa could supply: industrial diamonds, chromium, manganese, bauxite, copper, and uranium. All of these and many others were in short supply in Communist China. When he answered Casey's questions about why the mercs had been ambushed, Xaun explained that it would look good to the outside world if the N.F.L.K. eliminated them to prove there had been no collusion between the rebels and any other parties. It would be a firm demonstration of the new African regime's firm dedication to the principles of non-interference by outside forces. In other words, the mercenaries had been pawns in a power play that ruled out the contractors and eliminated them. It had happened before.

Casey turned
Xaun back over to a guard, telling him to let the major eat and drink before tying him up again. He had other things to attend to now. Calling Van to him, he had the Vietnamese take three men and go to the nearby village to scrounge up what they could in the way of food and gasoline, then he went to check on his wounded.

Spotting Beidemann by the half-track, he pulled him over to the side. "Gus, we're running low on fuel, and the half-track is slowing us down. I want you to drain whatever remains in its tanks and fill up the jerry cans. Then destroy the damned thing; I don't want Mtuba to be able to make use of it. Redistribute the cans between the truck and the Saladin. If you have to, have some of the men take turns riding on the outside of the armored car."

Next, he found Harrison trying to sleep, his head against the front tire of the Saladin. His normally dapper appearance was a disaster; sweat stains ran down his shirt, front and back, dust clogged every pore of his exposed flesh, and he needed a shave. Casey gave him a gentle nudge with the toe of his boot. "Get up, Harrison. There's work to do. And you can't do it if you're on your butt snoring."

Harrison turned a wounded expression on his leader. "My God, man, don't you have any consideration for me at all? I know the rest of you are savages and used to this kind of thing, but I'm a gentleman and a pilot, accustomed to a slightly higher, more refined standard of living. Can't you see I'm a bloody wreck? I need a bath, a shave, a drink of decent whiskey, and a good lay, not necessarily in that order, mind you."

In spite of himself, Casey grinned. It was good to see that some things never changed. When Harrison lost his
ascerbic wit, he knew they were all in deep trouble.

"Get up we've got things to do. I want you to take an ammo count and have it redistributed evenly among the men. Don't take any crap from them. Just see that they do it,
then check over the Saladin and the truck. If anything needs fixing, you have half an hour to do it. Don't bother with the half-track; we're leaving it behind." Not waiting for any response, Casey headed for the village, taking one of the South African mercs with him to serve as an interpreter. He passed Van and his party returning with three roasted goats and a dozen chickens. The birds were being gnawed at on the way, a trail of bones marking the men's path. He waved them on toward the others, shouting to Beidemann, "Make sure everyone gets some, or I may have to have your well larded ass barbecued as well." That brought a gale of laughter from the waiting mercs who quickly lapsed into an awkward silence as Beidemann glowered at them.

As Casey and his interpreter neared the line of mud huts, mothers hustled their children inside to keep them away from the eyes of the pale strangers. They had seen whites before, those who came to dig wells and plant crops that couldn't grow. The first were harmless if ignorant, but the others were like these hard faced ones who carried weapons and had the look of death about them. One old man did not move. He sat in the shade of his hut, brushing away the more persistent of the swarming flies with a short whisk made from the tail hairs of a wildebeest. His thin shoulders and knees were covered by a homespun, faded, red cotton mantle nearly as old as he was.

Casey told the South African what he wanted to know and stood behind him as the merc hunkered down on his haunches to be on eye level with the ancient black African. It took a couple of minutes before the two found a common tongue. Then, after a series of clucking sounds, eye movements, and many hand and arm gestures from the old man, the merc finally stood up, politely thanked the old one, and turned back to Casey.

"The old guy says there is nothing ahead of us for at least a three day walk. There are a few guards at the border of Barotseland, but he says they do nothing but drink thin beer and sleep. He does know
that not too far across the border there is an airstrip used by a Dutch mining franchise to bring in supplies and men. One, of his sons works for them."

At that, Casey perked up. A private field across the border in Barotseland would probably not be well guarded, and it was also quite possible the Dutchmen knew nothing of their approach. If that were the case, then he might be able to get Harrison his plane after all. From his pocket he tossed the old man a pack of cigarettes in thanks for his help. After their backs were turned, the old one threw the pack across the dirt street and spat at the tracks of the whites.