Casca 12: The African Mercenary (17 page)

The ash glowed once more. Turning his head slightly to the side, Casey looked out from the corner of his eye, using his peripheral vision to pinpoint his target. There he was! A man was leaning casually against the bole of a vine wrapped tree, his weapon resting against his leg, one hand cupping the cigarette. Casey unslung the rifle from his shoulder, then took his bayonet from its sheath and moved in closer. Breathing shallowly through his mouth so he wouldn't tip off the careless watcher, he came to within arm's length of the tree. He waited a moment, then looked and listened to see if there was anyone else around.
Satisfied no one else was there, he grabbed the soldier and covered his mouth with his left hand as the bayonet slid across the man's throat. He pulled the soldier to him, holding him to his chest as he applied pressure to the blade. He forced the finely honed edge in so deeply it nearly severed the man's head, slicing through the carotid artery and jugular vein. The blood drained from the soldier's head so quickly that consciousness left him immediately, and death followed only a heartbeat later.

Casey let the body down easy. He wiped the blood from his hand on the man's tunic,
then rolled him over to get a look at, the face. From the uniform he knew he was right; this was one of Mtuba's men. The man's cigarette glowed and winked in the grass, and Casey ground it out under his heel. Then he dragged the body further back into the trees and placed it under some bushes.

He went back to the road and tried to figure out what
Mtuba's plan was. If this man was placed on the trail, then there were probably others. But how many? He was sure that all Mtuba had with him were the men he could carry in the Land Rover. That meant no more than three or four besides Mtuba. Three or four, less one. He guessed the flashlight the soldier had with him was probably used for signaling.

Casey went back to the body and took the flashlight. There might be a need for it later. Right now he needed to get down the track and avoid anyone waiting for him. It was going to take a bit longer, but he decided he had to stay off the track completely and work his way along the sides through the thick undergrowth and brush.

Checking the sky and his watch, he figured he had one more hour of semidarkness left, but he wasn't certain how much further he'd have to go before reaching the river. It took nearly half an hour for him to cover the next half mile. Once more he had the advantage of a warning, not from a cigarette this time, but from a cough. It was the rasping hack of someone with pneumonia or maybe a touch of TB. A throat tried to clear itself, then the man spat out a hunk of phlegm. Casey moved toward him and was nearly on him when the soldier heard the movement and spun around, his AK 47 at the ready.

"
Jambo," Casey whispered to the man, then turned on his flashlight. The combination of the familiar greeting and the light from the flashlight that his comrade was supposed to have slowed up the soldier's reactions. By the time he'd figured it out, it was too late. Casey's bayonet had taken another victim. He got him with a straight thrust into the esophagus. Casey's free hand twisted the man's rifle loose from fingers that were already going to his throat to try and remove the cold steel thing that had stopped his breath. Casey helped him along in his efforts. With the man's own rifle, he struck him on the side of the head, then quickly leaned over the unconscious body and finished the job. Withdrawing the knife from the man's throat, he moved it to where he could strike deep down into the hollow of the neck where the long blade of the bayonet could reach the upper part of the man's heart without the danger of being stuck in a rib or bouncing off bone. Wiping the blade clean, he resheathed it wishing he knew how many more men were nearby. There couldn't be more than one or two. From where he stood he could hear the lapping water. The Zambezi was just ahead, and he'd give odds that so was Colonel Mtuba...

Van Janich was not pleased with the turn of events. Too many things had gone wrong with what should have been a straightforward operation. Dzhombe was dead; but now they had a greater monster to contend with if the Communist Chinese were coming in. Africa was beginning to get very crowded. All that Harrison and the Vietnamese had said was true. Major Xaun had confirmed that, and more. He had not done so willingly, but Sodium Pentothal had taken care of that. Now it was up to the diplomats. Copies of Xaun's statements were already on their way to the capitals of the West and to the member nations of the Federation of African Unity, to which Kimshaka did not belong. But the Federation was certain to be very concerned about the presence of the Chinese and could be effective with the United Nations Security Council. He was sure measures would be taken to prevent any North Koreans from being sent to Kimshaka.

Major
Xaun had become more cooperative since his injections, knowing that he could never return home now that he had blown the cover of a very secret and a very expensive operation. He was scheduled for a video-taping the following morning. He would reveal on camera the extent of the Chinese plot. It would be quite difficult for the Communists to get anyone to believe their denials of foreign interference once the world saw the video tape.

Even now, van
Janich's agents were in Kimshaka gathering hard intelligence about the Chinese presence. Earlier that day van Janich had authorized a raid into Kimshaka to where he knew the N.F.L.K. had a major munitions and arms depot. If he was correct, his men would return with enough weapons and equipment to prove conclusively the degree of Chinese involvement. The United Nations would have to act.

As for the problem of the whereabouts of Casey
Romain, van Janich didn't give the man much of a chance. But he would do as he'd promised. He owed him that much. The mercenaries had paid a high price in blood, and now he had the unpleasant task of going over where Harrison and Van were staying in a safe house and informing them that their friend Gustaf Beidemann had died in the recovery room. It was not something he relished doing, but he felt it deserved to be handled in person. He hoped that he would not have to tell them something similar about their leader.

Casey lay on his belly. The early morning sun was already causing a mist to rise from the brown waters of the Zambezi. The dampness felt good to his dry mouth and lips. It had been a long night.

Someone had called out a name a few minutes earlier, probably the name of the second man he'd killed. Casey had hoped he would be able to sneak by Mtuba and cross over before the colonel found his men dead, but that chance was now too remote. When Mtuba's man didn't respond to his name being called, Casey distinctly heard the metallic clack of gun bolts being worked.

The flowing water of the river called him. Through the leaves of the bush he was lying behind, he could make out the opposite bank where Botswana
lay waiting for him if he could just get across.

Mtuba
had moved to where he had cover behind the stump of a giant tree. Fifty yards north, his sergeant was in a similar position behind a clump of smooth boulders. Mtuba was beginning to feel uneasy. Nothing had gone right for him. He knew the merc was close to him, and all he had left was one stupid sergeant. The others had to be dead, or they would have answered the sergeant's hail. He hated the scar faced man out there as he had never hated anyone or anything in his life. His world was ending because of him. All that he had worked for was but bitter ashes in his mouth. If he was going to die, he would take this one with him before he did. The mist cooled him as it did the man in the brush, but beads of moisture collected on his upper lip.

Now,
he thought.
Come to me now! Let us put an end to this thing we have. It has to be done; there is no other way for it to end. Come to me. I am tired of chasing you
. Snapping his fingers to get Sergeant Tobutam's attention, he pointed to the edge of the clearing. He was certain that was where the mercenary would have to come from. He would, if he were in the man's position. He knew his man was out there and hoped he understood what it was that had grown between them in the last few days. He would not be disappointed.

Casey's eyes clicked to the right, away from the road running alongside the river.

Don't be impatient.
Casey's thoughts were directed at his unseen adversary.
We've come this far. It won't take much longer. You're a stubborn bastard, Mtuba, I give you that. Why have you come so far to get me? Is it because you let us take the Chinese away from you and you can't go home without him? If so, that puts a different light on things. You're here to make one final gesture. Even if you won, it wouldn't change things for you. You're a dead man.... All right, let's see where you are!

Falling back a step to give himself some more cover, he flicked the selector switch to full auto. He raised the weapon to his shoulder and fired. The rifle bucked against his shoulder like a living thing as he sprayed the edge of the riverbank from left to right. He hit the ground on his side and rolled behind a tree trunk to his left to get away from where he had fired.

Sergeant Tobutam's edgy nerves took over. His finger had been on the trigger of his AK 47 for over thirty minutes, and the sour odor of his own fear wouldn't leave his nostrils. When Casey fired, it was a relief. At last there was something to which he could react! Only one of Casey's rounds hit the boulder Tobutam was behind, but it was enough to set the sergeant off. His finger pulled the trigger, and he returned fire at the place where cordite and flashes of light had appeared. Leaves and branches crashed down as Tobutam's bullets cut through trees and brush.

Mtuba
held his fire. He was furious at Tobutam. The stupid ass has given away his position! And now he'd have to pay for it. He had no doubt the mercenary would kill his man, but maybe that would work to his purpose. Tobutam could now be used as bait. Rolling back down to the edge of the water, Mtuba lowered his body into the river. There were enough boulders, trees, and logs to give him plenty of cover. He moved to where he could whisper and only Tobutam could hear him.

"Good work, Sergeant," he lied. "I think you may have wounded him. I'm sure I heard a grunt of pain after you fired. Just stay where you are. I'm going upstream a bit and will come in behind him. Just keep firing when you see or hear anything. Try to keep his attention to the front. This way we'll have him between us. We'll kill him, and then we can go home."

That sounded good to Tobutam. Especially the going home part. Mtuba did not move as far upstream as Tobutam thought he would, nor did he leave the clump of water soaked logs he was lying behind to try and get behind the mercenary...

Mtuba
waited for the mercenary to kill the sergeant.. If he waited long enough, the man would have to come down to the water and check things out. Then he would have him.

Casey kept low as leaves and twigs showered down on him. He saw only one flash of gunfire from a group of boulders to his right. That was all. Was it
Mtuba, or was there more than one man out there? He had the feeling that Mtuba was too experienced to fall for an old trick like the one Casey had just pulled. But it was also possible that he was nervous and tired. Lack of sleep does strange things to a man's mind and reactions. At least things were starting to happen. Now he had to keep the pressure on. He had to get across the river, and as soon as possible. There was always the chance that their rifle fire would be heard by someone else. And this section of the river, while not a major crossing point, was sure to be patrolled periodically now that the water level was down. He didn't think the Africans on this side of the river would have much sympathy for him. They'd probably side with Mtuba.

Reloading his rifle, Casey snaked his body along, keeping as low as he could. Most game was spotted by movement. He would take it easy. He crawled back to the edge of the trees where a strip of reddish clay ran to the bank of the river. There was a small clearing that he would have to cross. Gauging the distance from the edge of the trees to the boulders, he guessed it to be about forty yards. Not far, but if a man was good with his weapon, a guy could get his ass filled with slugs before he ever reached the shooter. Casey had to figure out how to get the man behind the boulder into the open where he could get a shot at him. There were several tree stumps along the side of the riverbank that he'd be able to reach if he could just make the man behind the boulders keep his head down for a few seconds. Waiting, Casey moved his gaze slowly, carefully taking in everything he saw, noting any
place that could be used for cover by his enemy.

Taking off his pack, he rummaged in it until he found what he was looking for. Putting the pack back on, he looked long at the boulders before pulling the pin on the grenade. Scooting over to where he'd have enough clearance for a full arm swing, he took a deep breath and extended his right arm back. Turning his body like a corkscrew, his right arm rising over his head, he hurled it with the full force of his back muscles and weight. He knew he wouldn't be able to throw the steel egg far enough to hit the boulders, but that wasn't his plan. While the grenade was still in the air, he rose to his feet, moved out of the trees toward the riverbank, and opened fire, spraying the boulders with bullets. Sergeant
Tobutam winced as granite splinters peppered his face. It being his turn to fire, Tobutarn stuck his head out from behind his boulder, rifle to his shoulder, eye to the sight, as the grenade landed twenty feet in front of him.

Casey hit the ground, rolling behind a half rotted tree trunk as the grenade went off. Before the noise of the explosion faded into silence completely, he was back, up and over the trunk, moving toward the boulders.

Sergeant Tobutam nearly lost an eye when the grenade went off. The blast had startled him so badly that he'd rammed the sight of his rifle into his eye when he jerked back for cover behind his granite shelter.

Mtuba
lowered himself further into the water when Casey fired, raising his head only after the grenade went off. Moving his rifle to where he could try a shot, he saw Casey going after Tobutam.

Tobutam
knew he was outclassed. The mercenary was going to kill him if he didn't do something. He did the only logical thing he could do under the circumstances. He threw down his AK 47 and raised his hands above his head as he stood away from the boulder.

Mtuba
swore at the ignorant, stupid beast.
The goddamned fool's in my line of fire!
He couldn't get a shot at Casey with the sergeant standing in the way. He too did the only logical thing he could do under the circumstances. He put five rounds into Tobutam's back, blasting out the man's chest where the rounds exited. One of the copper nosed slugs that passed through Sergeant Tobutam's body hit the stock of Casey's G 3, knocking it from his hands.

Casey's right hand was numbed from the impact of the bullet. Instinctively hitting the deck, he rolled behind the boulders that
Tobutam now had no use for. Reaching around the boulder, he dragged back Tobutam's automatic and nearly lost a hand in the attempt. Mtuba put the rest of his magazine into a long, hosing burst, hit the magazine release, and reloaded.

Casey checked his new weapon. A full clip! He would have liked to have taken the extra magazines for the AK 47 off
Tobutam's body, but that would have exposed him too much. What should he do? Only a few seconds away was the other side of the river and Botswana. Well, if it worked once, maybe it'll work again, he thought. Shrugging off his pack, he removed his last two grenades.

Hanging the Kalashnikov assault rifle around his neck, he checked the rounds in his pistol, jacked a round in the chamber, and put it back in its holster. Pulling the pins on the grenades, he held one in each hand. His back against the boulder, he leaned out just far enough to look upriver.
Mtuba fired a single shot that whizzed past his head. Casey leaned back out of sight and sucked air into his lungs. He had to time this just right. Turning to kneel, his head against the boulder, he heaved the first grenade over the top and slowly counted to five. Exploding in the water fifteen feet away from Mtuba, the majority of the grenade's force was absorbed by the river. But it was enough to cause Mtuba to submerge his head in the water, his ears ringing.

Casey was out and running, the other grenade flying free from his hand.
Mtuba rose up, shaking his head to free his eyes of water. He saw Casey moving toward the river. Before he could get his weapon ready to fire at the target, he saw another small, round object hurtling through the air at him. Frantically he sank down behind his logs, covering his face and eyes with a forearm. This time the explosion was much closer. Blood ran from his nose, his upper lip ripped to the cheekbone by a steel splinter. But another seven or eight seconds had passed. A man could cover a lot of ground in that amount of time. Casey was nearly to the Botswana side of the river. Standing, Mtuba shook himself like a dog and fired from the hip, his soaked AK 47 smoking with steam. Mtuba cried out in rage as his bullets walked through the river toward the back of his target. Then nothing! The magazine was empty! Panicking at the thought of losing his quarry, he reloaded with angry, awkward fingers that wouldn't do what he wished.

Casey rolled behind a fallen tree trunk on the Botswana side of the river, whipping back around to face the way he had come. Peeking over the top of the log, he hoped he would see that
Mtuba had turned around and quit the chase. It was senseless for him to continue it. The game was over, and all the players should go home. No such luck. The maniac was still coming.