Casca 12: The African Mercenary (16 page)

Mtuba
turned the wheel of the Land Rover over to his sergeant. He would need his rest. He had seen the jeep and knew that he was right in his earlier judgments. After he passed the Lusaka road, he'd have his man swing wide to the east and take another road not on the map that would cut around until he was able to get in front of the mercenary. After Mankoya, there was only one way the foreigner could go to cross the river between Sesheke and Livingstone, and he, Mtuba, would be waiting for him at the Zambezi crossing.

Montfort called van
Janich at home, trying to control the excitement in his voice. "Sir, I have good news. Our friends in Rhodesia have just notified me that they have received a radio message from Romain's pilot, the crazy Englishman, Harrison. They say they have wounded on board and have brought me a special guest to speak to. Maybe this is our lucky day, and we'll get some straight answers for a change."

He listened to van
Janich's excited response on the other end of the line, nodded his head, and continued. "I have asked our friends to send those of Mr. Romain's unit who are not seriously wounded on to us. They should be arriving by jet in less than two hours."

Montfort and van Janich were not at all pleased with what Van and Harrison told them, nor were they satisfied with the answers given by Major Xaun, who now claimed to have no knowledge at all of any plans for North Korean volunteers to be given to the N.F.L.K. to offset the Cuban presence in Angola. Now that Xaun was in what he felt were more civilized hands, he put on a passive expression and calmly denied everything, saying only that he had been sent to the N.F.L.K. as no more than an observer and just happened to be with the unit that met Casey's men outside of Kimshaka City. In fact, he claimed it was the mercenaries who'd started the firefight, though for what reasons he couldn't say. He suggested they might be in the pay of the Russians.

Harrison and Van didn't give a damn what the Chinese said or what van
Janich did with him. They wanted to know what was going to be done for Casey. It had been three hours since they'd been brought from a landing field outside of Zawi, northwest of Salisbury.

They'd set down on the first strip that was near a town that looked large enough to have a hospital. That was where
Beidemann and the other wounded mercs were now. They were under close guard by members of the Selous Scouts in order to make certain that their presence was kept secret from the outside world. When they were able to be moved, they would be returned to Malaya by a plane with diplomatic status. All the others were already on their way out of Africa after their debriefing by van Janich. Only Van and Harrison stayed behind. They'd refused to go until they knew about Casey and Beidemann, who was still under the surgeon's knife in the community hospital at Zawi.

Van
Janich didn't push the issue. It was possible the mercs might still have some information to give him. Van Janich had to believe Harrison and Van; there were too many things going on in Kimshaka that made their statements make sense. It was now clear why relations with the N.F.L.K. had suddenly turned from their normal chilly state to one of near freezing. As far as Major Xaun was concerned, van Janich knew how to handle him. The Front said they knew nothing of any Chinese in their country. Therefore, Major Xaun did not officially exist. Once Xaun realized that he had no protection of any kind, he'd either talk or truly disappear forever from the face of the earth.

Harrison returned van
Janich's attention to his and Van's concern. "What about Casey? Are you just going to write him off after he's done your dirty work for you?"

"We are going to do no such thing," Montfort answered with quiet sincerity. "We always live up to our end of a bargain. And we do believe what you've told us about the N.F.L.K. and the Chinese is true." Moving over to a large wall map of Africa, he asked Harrison to come and point out where they were when they took the Dutch plane. That was another problem to be taken care of, but money could buy many kinds of cooperation, and this particular mining company had been negotiating with them for some mineral rights. Now it looked as if they might have a very good chance of getting them.

Harrison pointed out where the field was located. It was just outside Kasempa. "Here. When we last saw him, he was in a jeep heading south."

Montfort looked at van
Janich, who nodded, making an unspoken agreement.

"Mr. Harrison, we cannot go into another country with armed men to search for your leader. The situation is too politically explosive right now. Besides which, there is a lot of country out there and a dozen ways he could go. What we can do, however, is have everyone on duty at the Rhodesian border be on the alert for him. If he crosses into Rhodesia, they'll get him back to us as they did you and your comrades. If he goes south to Botswana and tries to cross the Zambezi, we'll have native agents on the lookout. Sooner or later he'll have to come to one place or another where we'll be able to help him. The moment we have a fix on him, we'll have a pickup arranged either by land or air. If he can just keep out of official hands until then, we'll be able to help. If he is arrested and jailed in Barotseland, then we'll have to pull a lot of strings. The most important leverage we have is the information you've given us about the Chinese and the North Koreans. While some of our black African neighbors hate us, we all have one thing in common: none of us wants any more foreigners in our countries trying to take over." Montfort knew the feelings Van and Harrison had for their leader. In the short time he had known Casey Romain, he had recognized qualities in him that drew one to the man. Whether one agreed with him or not, one had the feeling that he was basically a good man, although a bit strange.

Trying to reassure them was not easy. "Look here, chaps, there's nothing more you can do for now. Go and get some rest. As soon as we get any word at all, I promise I'll send for you. We are not going to leave your man in the lurch."

Van and Harrison knew Montfort was right. They were very tired, and there might come a time soon when they'd need to have clear heads and eyes. They would sleep, then they'd be back.

The night was clear, the stars brilliant. Warm winds came from the south off the Kalahari. There was no humidity, just a dry movement of air that had no taste in it of the rains yet to come. Between Casey and the Kalahari were two bodies of water, both of them now low: the Zambezi River and the
Okovanggo swamps. Casey didn't want to go as far as the swamps and didn't think he had enough fuel to make it there anyway. More than likely, if he got as far as the Zambezi, he'd have to strike out on foot until he found another mode of transportation. The jeep had started to give him some trouble. It was running hot and missing. If it stalled out at the wrong time, it could mean big trouble if Mtuba or the local authorities got too close to him. Thinking of Mtuba, he realized he hadn't seen him since he'd refueled near Mankoya. But somehow he didn't think he'd lost him. He had a very strong premonition that he and Mtuba would meet again, and it would be very soon. He just hoped it wouldn't be beyond the Okovanggo, in the desert where the bones of thousands lay and where only the Bushmen were truly at home.

From
Mulobezi, a two hour drive could take him either to Livingstone and the crossing over the Victoria Falls into Rhodesia or over the Mulobezi Bridge where he could go on to Sesheke and ferry it over the Zambezi. Neither option was particularly appealing to Casey, for he was growing increasingly weary. His eyes felt as though tiny, gritty, red hot coals were nestling under the lids. He would have to sleep soon, and that would be dangerous. But if he didn't, he'd probably end up wrecking the jeep. Sleeping wasn't something he wanted to do on this side of the border, but he had to. Pulling the jeep over to the side of the trail he'd been following, he tried to cover it with brush to keep it from being seen by casual eyes. If Mtuba or someone were really looking for him, there was no way he could conceal the miles of tracks the jeep's tires had laid behind him. It was just a chance he'd have to take.

When he had the jeep covered, he took his pack and weapons and moved a couple of hundred yards away from it to the south, where he'd be able to run for it if the jeep were found. This way he'd still be heading in the right direction.

Smoke drifted over the trees, and Casey could smell meat cooking. His mouth watered at the windborne menu. The savory smell came from a village that was one of the Tonga kraals. Cattle, distantly related to the Brahman, were being roasted for some celebration or other.

Climbing up into the branches of a tree, he made a nest where he could at last close his eyes. Twisting his body to fit the angle of the tree and its branches, he placed his G
-3 over his chest with the strap around his neck, then slung the pack high on his left arm. He was taking no chances on dropping anything if he moved while asleep. Looking at the night sky through the branches, he tried to set his mental clock for no more than three or four hours of sleep, one for each day he'd been awake. When he awoke it would still be dark, and he'd be able to make the Zambezi crossing between Livingstone and Sesheke by dawn. He was still thinking about the Zambezi when he blinked and was out.

Mtuba
pushed the Land Rover hard. It had a larger motor and more power than the smaller and older American jeep. After he'd left Mankoya, he cut over and drove alongside the Kafue River until he came to the asphalt road between Lusaka and Livingstone. Being an African, he attracted little attention even in his uniform, which was not an uncommon sight to the villagers and travelers on the road.

Six miles north Livingstone he left the paved road and turned due west, which was how he believed Casey had gone.
It was the only decent track a wheeled vehicle could traverse going south from Mulobezi. If he was right, and they'd picked up the extra time by using the paved road, then he would be well in front of his prey. Now he just had to wait for the pale, fish bellied hired killer to appear.

They reached the Zambezi crossing two hours before dawn. At that time of year during the dry season the water level of that section was so low that the river could be crossed on foot. Anywhere else on the river, however, one would still require a bridge or ferry to get to the Botswana side. This has to be the place, he thought. Sending his sergeant and two men out to check the ground around the riverbank,
Mtuba leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.

He awoke at the sound of booted feet on dry leaves. The sergeant reported, "Sir, we went up and down the river for three
kilometers in each direction. There is no sign that the jeep or any other vehicle has crossed. The riverbed shows only the tracks of bare feet. The one you want has not come this way."

Mtuba
stretched his arms out expansively. "Not come this way yet, you mean. But he will, he will. Now get the Land Rover out of sight and place yourselves along the track so that I can have some warning if he comes while I'm sleeping. I wouldn't wish to be late for our meeting. It has been too long delayed."

Saluting, the sergeant left to carry out his orders. He sent two men down the track with flashlights. One was to go half a mile, and the other was to go a mile; each would use his flashlight to signal the approach of the mercenary. This way, they would be in front of and behind him when he came to
the river. The sergeant didn't understand what was so important about this one man, but if Mtuba wanted him, then that was the way it would have to be. Mtuba had a reputation for getting exactly what he wanted, no matter at whose expense.

The cry came once more,
then the frogs took over with their interminable whistling, clucking, and croaking. Africa had hundreds of different species of tree dwelling frogs and toads, and Casey thought that most of them had to be no more than twenty feet away. He peered up at the sky, then checked his watch. It was 0400 hours; the leopard had awakened him right on time. Grunting from a cramp in his leg, he shinnied down the trunk of the tree to the ground. He listened and looked, then unzipped his trousers to ease the pressure on his bladder. After he finished, he gave a satisfied sigh and rubbed his eyes, glad the worst of the soreness in them was gone. He made his way back to where his jeep waited for him. He watched it for a few minutes, then circled around behind it to make certain no one was waiting in ambush for him. All clear. Removing the brush, he hit the starter once, twice, three times, working the gas pedal up and down each time before he could get it to start. The motor sounded rougher than ever. Jolting it into gear, he got it back out onto the track. Just a few more hours and he'd be at the crossing. Once on the other side, he didn't think he'd have any trouble getting to one of the Rhodesian border posts. It was hard not to think about the others, especially Beidemann, but he had to keep his concentration on the thin trail.

As he neared the river, the foliage grew thicker. Overhead the trees came together, often forming a living tunnel that blocked out the starlight from the night sky; even if there'd been a full moon, he doubted its glow could have penetrated the leaves. The rattling of his motor was accompanied by the increasing chatter of animals in the branches. Several times he heard howls that made the hackles rise on the back of his neck. At an occasional break in the trees, he could sometimes see hundreds of small shapes leaping from branch to branch. Monkeys, frightened of something hunting them, chattered angrily at him from high above.

Four miles from the Zambezi crossing, the motor of the jeep coughed and died. Cursing, Casey raised the hood and tried to adjust the carburetor, then tried to clear out the fuel line. Nothing worked. He tried to start it until the battery finally gave up the ghost. There was nothing to do now but hoof it. At least he didn't have much further to go. Pushing the jeep off the trail into a clump of brush, he shouldered his rifle and pack, and got a move on. He tried to maintain the distance eating stride of the professional soldier, but the potholes and vines crossing the road kept tripping him, so he gave it up. He just moved along at an easy gait, still having to favor his leg a bit. The wound had closed, but it did give him a twinge now and then.

The rebel soldier at the one mile mark from the river was listening for a vehicle. He knew he'd hear it before he saw it. That was what killed him. He got careless and lit a cigarette. That small red glow caught the eye of the one he'd been waiting for.

Casey had been deep in thought. The night was a heavy cover that paced each step. He wasn't afraid of it. He had been in darkness too many times before. It was more like a companion that had shared many troubles. He thought he could smell the water of the Zambezi coming toward him on a light breeze that rustled the leaves overhead and evaporated the sweat on his face. Periodically he would stop and listen, turning in all directions, then he'd continue on his way once more. It was during one of these stops that he saw a reddish glow wink at him, fade, then wink again and disappear. He knew immediately what it was; someone in the brush in front of him was smoking. Casey knew he wasn't through with Mtuba yet. Moving to the sides of the track, his camouflage uniform blended in with the thin light breaking through gaps in the leafy canopy overhead. Taking his time, he silently worked his way toward where he had seen the glow. Patience was needed. Very carefully, each foot was placed one in front of the other as he searched the ground for any dried twigs or leaves that could give him away to whoever was waiting. He kept to the shadows or to the cover of trees and brush where his camouflage uniform granted him a degree of invisibility in the early dawn. He crept closer until he could smell the scent of burning tobacco.