Casca 12: The African Mercenary (18 page)

Casey sighted him with the AK 47. There was no way he could miss.
Mtuba worked a round into the chamber from a fresh magazine and started wading across the river. Blood dripped from his nose, mouth, and ears. Casey knew the man was on the ragged edge of madness.

Wildly,
Mtuba fired a ten round burst from the hip, missing his target by yards.

"Go back! It's over! There's no need for any more killing!" Casey called out to him.

"It's not done with! Not yet!" Mtuba screamed and fired again. This time the rounds hit much closer.

Casey knew he had little choice in the matter. Lowering his aim to
Mtuba's belly, he started to take in the slack on the trigger.

Casey's sheltering tree trunk nearly exploded as heavy machine gun bullets tried to tear it apart. From across the river, a motorized patrol with a fifty
caliber mounted on their jeep blasted away at him.

"Aw, shit!" Casey scrambled backward, dropping over a small rise where his body was hidden from the gunner. Crawling quickly to put some more distance between himself and the long reach of the heavy machine gun, he knew he should have blown
Mtuba away. Now he'd still have that crazy son of a bitch on his ass.

The patrol had come upon the scene prepared to fight. They'd heard the grenade explosions from a mile away. When they saw
Mtuba going after the white man in camouflage, they picked their side in a hurry. They had heard reports of white mercenaries in the area and were eager to add one to their tally. It would mean instant promotion to bring one in dead or alive.

Montfort met Van and Harrison near the military airfield. It was a clear, warm day with just enough heat to cast a thin sheen of moisture on foreheads and upper lips.

Montfort whisked away a bothersome fly with a wave of his hand. "I have some news for you."

Harrison and Van stopped. A C-119 taxied down the runway to their left. Harrison spoke for both of them. "Casey? Have you found him?"

Montfort shook his head. "No. We haven't found him, but we have just had a report come in that early this morning there was a firefight of some kind near the Zambezi crossing. From what we've been told, there were several casualties, all dead, and all wearing the uniform and insignia of the N.F.L.K. We are waiting for more information now. It should be coming in within the next hour. I brought you out here to be near the airfield. I presume that if we spot him, you'll want to be in on the pickup."

Van began to get excited, and wanted them to get a plane and go up immediately. Montfort tried to calm him down a little.

"We can't just take off and fly around in circles. It would be senseless. We have to wait. I don't even know for certain that he was responsible for the casualties on the Zambezi."

Harrison scratched a sore place under his armpit. "I don't think there's much doubt about that. Too many pieces fit, and you don't know Casey like we do. But you're right about just flying around. So, if you don't mind, we have a funeral to attend. Then we'll come back and wait at the tower until you find out more."

Montfort shifted his feet, feeling a bit uneasy and guilty. "Yes, I know. M
y driver will take you in the Bentley. I would go with you, but I think I should stay here, just in case."

Harrison and Van nodded their understanding, and left. They said nothing on the way to Victoria Military Cemetery, and the driver left them to their thoughts. Van
Janich had arranged it so Beidemann could be buried with other fallen soldiers. It was an act of compassion, considering the dead man had once been on the opposite side, but somehow, from what van Janich had learned of Beidemann from Harrison and Van, the big German had never been an enemy.

They were greeted by van
Janich, who had canceled several appointments to be there.

"Welcome, my friends. We are ready to begin." There was no chaplain at the grave site to say fine things over the dead. The eulogy would be spoken by a man who'd never met him. Perhaps that was the best way.

Van and Harrison stood silently by the grave. Behind them, an honor guard of Border Scouts stood ready with FN rifles to fire the, last salute.

Van
Janich removed his garrison cap, cleared his throat, and searched for the right words.

"I know that there is another who would say the right things about this man. Since he is not here, I will do the best I can for one I did not know personally but feel I have known. For
Gustaf Beidemann was a soldier. In that, we here are all the same. From different countries and cultures, religions and beliefs, yes. But we are all soldiers, and it is fitting that we send this man to whatever afterlife he may or may not have believed in, with the honor we would wish shown to ourselves. For in honoring him, we honor ourselves."

Overhead a flight of pink herons flew to the west to search for nesting and feeding grounds in the
Okovanggo swampland.

Van
Janich felt a growing lump in his chest as he continued.

"I believe that I would have liked this man if I had the chance to know him. From his comrades I have learned something of him and know that he was a hard man without being cruel, a fighter who did not kill for
pleasure, yet loved the fight. In his homeland, the legends tell of Valhalla, where the heroes who fell in battle would be taken by the Valkyries to the Great Hall of Odin where they would feast and battle throughout eternity. I think that is the heaven we should wish for him.... For all of us, I end these proceedings with words from his homeland:
Ich hat eine Kameraden; bessern findst du nicht
. Once I had a comrade; a better one you could not find."

At the command of a lieutenant, the
honor guard raised their weapons and fired a volley into the clear sky of Africa, and Gus Beidemann was lowered into his grave.

Van and Harrison held back their tears. They knew
Beidemann would not have wanted them to feel sorrow for his death, for he had died the way he had chosen. What greater decision can a man make than to choose the manner of his own death?

Their driver waited to return them to the airfield. Another flight of herons made a half circle and headed after the first.

Casey's mouth was dry and foul tasting. He'd covered about six miles from the river crossing and wondered where Mtuba was. He didn't think the man had given up on him. For the first hour he'd made every effort to cover his tracks and conceal his movements. Then he had decided that if Mtuba could still trail him after all his evasive actions, then the best thing he could do was to keep moving.

Placing the AK 47 across his back, he settled into an easy, distance eating jog. He ran across a wide plain where lions hunted in waist high yellow grass, and let his mind drift away. Separating his body from its actions, it seemed as if he were not the one running; he was only an observer on a high place looking down at the lone figure crossing the yellow plain. He didn't change his stride or pay any attention to the snake he nearly stepped on. It just wasn't there, nor
were the lions or the herd of zebra they hunted.

He had no idea how far he'd run when at last he stumbled and fell face
down on the ground. His mouth was pressed against the earth, his breath blowing up small clouds of dust where he breathed against the dry soil.

Slowly he let his body regain control of
itself. His breathing slowed; his heart eased its pounding. A flickering shadow flew quickly over his body, momentarily blocking out the burning rays of the sun. A flight of herons ignored the prone, sweat soaked figure beneath them. They were above the cares of the common world. Up high, they soared where they were the masters.

Staggering back onto his feet, he shaded his eyes and looked ahead of him. Wavering in the distance, riding the heat waves, a forest beckoned him to the coolness of its cover. Coolness that Casey knew was only a mirage. As he turned around to the west, the breeze shifted slightly. A chill rippled over the exposed skin of his face and chest. His jacket stuck to his back. The salt from his pores was already drying to a white powder.

At the Zambezi crossing, the border patrol had wished Mtuba luck in his hunt. And it was a hunt. As he ran, he began to strip away his clothes to let his body breath free and clean without coverings, as nature had intended.

Climbing to the top of a termite hill, he looked across the veldt. His naked body felt
good stripped of the trappings of Western culture. His nakedness had set him free. It no longer mattered that all he had worked for since he was a young man was gone. He had come full circle. Once he had picked up the spoor of Casey's trail, he let his mind and soul slide back to his beginnings. Only his weapons were of this century. His body was dark and lean, attracting the rays of the sun into his pores as if he fed on them. He had let himself become the primal hunter who would not stop until he had killed. He let his instincts guide him. He smelled the air and earth. Tasting the wind, he knew he was on the right trail.

Several times he had passed others on the plain, herdsmen moving their goats and cattle to water. They avoided his glazed eyes. He in turn asked nothing of them; he knew where to go.

Lifting his gaze to the heavens, his mind was a blank. A flight of herons began to descend to a distant green spot on the horizon where the waters of the Okovanggo marshland offered them refuge. His quarry was not to be found there. Slowly, ever so slowly, he looked across the yellow plain. There! The man was only a tiny speck in the distance, but Mtuba knew it was him.

Leaping from the ten foot high termite hill, he ran, light and swift, wishing he had an assegai rather than this unclean weapon made in distant China. It didn't belong here. But he had no choice, and he would use it, although it would not be the same as if he could let good, honest steel drink the blood of
he whom he hunted. Then would he cry "
Ngadla!
" saying to the gods, "I have eaten!"

Casey removed his shirt, tying it around his waist. It felt good to let his hot body cool down. Sucking in several deep breaths of air and letting them out slowly, he regained control of his breathing, and the trembling in his legs and stomach eased. Starting off, he tried to figure out how far he could have come and how far it would be to the Rhodesian border. On a map, distance is one thing, but when you have to walk it, it's something altogether different. Overhead, the sun had passed the mid-day mark and was slowly settling into its afternoon descent. He knew that even with his best time, it would take two, maybe three days to reach the frontier. He was coming to a region of heavy trees and some jungle. He'd have to stop soon after nightfall. In the dark he knew he would lose his way and waste precious time going around in circles.

Checking himself, he changed his pattern of movement to one of walking for two minutes and running for two minutes, an easy pace that didn't drain him of his strength. Just before entering the trees, he came upon the day old carcass of a grown zebra left to ripen a bit in the sun. The animal had been killed by a half grown leopard who didn't have the strength to haul the heavy animal's body up into the trees to feed on, as an adult would have done.

Claiming his right to the food, he beat off a pack of vultures and marabou storks who squawked angrily at his intrusion. The birds moved away to wait. They understood the pecking order. Cutting off a large chunk from the rear leg, Casey took his meat and left the scavengers to clean up.

An hour later the tableau was repeated. Mtuba took his share of meat, checked the signs on the earth, and moved out. He was getting close again. That night he would hunt while his prey slept or made camp. There was no doubt in his mind that he would be able to find that which he sought, even in the total darkness of the jungle.

Van and Harrison stayed at the airfield tower all that day. Planes came and went as the controllers directed them on their approaches and take
-offs. Montfort was with them, and van Janich stopped by twice. The only report to come in was a confirmation that indeed it had been a white man in a camouflage uniform at the crossing. That was more than enough for all of them. The only thing that bothered van Janich was that his agents had said that the border patrol had let a member of the N.F.L.K. go across into Botswana after the mercenary. To Van and Harrison, this was not a great thing to worry about; Casey could take care of himself. If he'd made it that far, then he would go all the way to Rhodesia. As for the man chasing him, if he was even half smart, he'd quit and go back home. Van made the comment to Montfort that whoever was chasing Casey had to be insane. When Montfort asked Van why he thought that, he got a flat, dry, "You have to be crazy to go after Casey."

Montfort thought that the Vietnamese might be right.

An hour after sunset, the major was called to the phone. Van watched him closely, trying to read his face for clues. Replacing the receiver, Montfort turned, and for the first time since Harrison and Van had made it back, he smiled.

"I think we have a fix on him."

Harrison and Van rushed at him, each asking a dozen questions until he finally had to shout, "Shut up a minute and I'll be able to tell you!" When the two had settled down, he filled them in. "I was just informed that Casey was seen today by some tribesmen. He was heading east. I imagine he'll hole up some place tonight, but if he keeps up his pace, he'll be out of the forest and at the Rhodesian border by tomorrow, possibly before nightfall."

Harrison and Van began to whoop it up again but were silenced by Montfort's upraised hand. "There's one more thing. According to the natives, there's an African on his trail with a rifle of some kind."

Van grinned "Then that's the African's bad luck Now what do we do?"

Montfort indicated the door. "Why, we go after him of course! Van
Janich has arranged for us to take an army helicopter and move near the frontier. We'll refuel at a Rhodesian station and be sitting on the border waiting for him in the morning."

The floor of the forest was not a good spot. There were too many things that
creeped and crawled. Even if they didn't bite, they'd still keep him awake all night.

"Well, I suppose it's time to make like Tarzan again," Casey muttered as he climbed up the nearest tree that had branches strong enough to hold his weight. Once he made his nest of leaves and branches, he dined on raw zebra and wished heartily that he had a cold bottle of beer with which to wash down the rank, tough flesh. He'd eaten worse in his time, however, and that was his only complaint as he tore at the meat with strong teeth.

After eating he pulled his knees up to his chest and placed one arm over a supporting branch to keep from falling out if he turned over in his sleep. Before closing his eyes, he thought about Beidemann, wondering if he'd made it. They had lost too many men on this mission that he liked: Jeremy Fitzhugh, Ali ben Yousef, George. The only good thing that happened was that Van and Harrison had gotten the rest of the men out safely. At least it wasn't a total wipeout. Before sleep took him, his last thoughts were of Yu Li. He felt somehow guilty that she hadn't been in his thoughts more, but the last few days had to be reserved solely for his men. If she knew, she'd understand. It would be good to get back home....

A tree snake slid by his face, flicked out its tongue to taste the aura of the sleeping man, and moved on to seek more familiar prey
.

Mtuba
moved easily through the brush, just letting his body pick out its own path that would lead him to the mercenary. His skin prickled with anticipation, an aboriginal awareness. He knew that Casey was near. Very near.

Squatting down on his haunches, he waited. This was a time for patience. Somewhere near him was that which he sought. It would make itself known.

His back against a tree, he rocked back and forth on his heels, trying to make his spirit one with the darkness, trying to see and feel the forest with his senses. He listened to the croaking of tree frogs and the cry of night birds who hunted and mated in the foliage above him. Beneath his feet, war was being waged endlessly. Huge horned beetles fought with evil looking scorpions. Lizards poked into rotten tree stumps to eat the larvae of wasps. Beneath the rich humus a hundred species of insect and animal life fought for survival, eating each other and breeding to perpetuate the cycle of life and death. Few of nature's creatures died of old age.

Without warning, the night erupted in screeches and howls. Branches shook and leaves rained down to the floor of the forest. A hunting cat had killed in the trees above and was dragging its meal home to feed its cubs. The hundreds of monkeys who had been quietly feeding in the trees were protesting its actions.

The sudden howling caused Casey to sit up with a jerk. His arm slipped off his retaining limb, and his rifle fell to the earth below.

Mtuba
came to his feet. He'd heard clearly the sound of metal striking wood. Unerringly he moved toward the place where the sound had originated. In the darkness his body was no more than another of the thousands of shadows that flickered for a heartbeat, then were gone.

Swearing between clenched teeth, Casey began to climb down his tree to retrieve the AK 47. Sliding down the last ten feet, arms and legs holding him close to the trunk, he let out an involuntary grunt when the nub of a broken branch caught him squarely in the crotch.

Mtuba grinned. The sound he had just heard did not come from any beast of the forest. Dropping into a low crouch, he threaded his way between and under broad leaves and through a tangle of vines.

Casey was bending over to pick up the AK 47 when he felt a chill run down his neck and back. It was a feeling that only one who has lived years with death can know. It was a feeling that someone or something was watching, and it wasn't friendly. He had learned long before to trust his instincts in
these matters. As he bent over, he kept on going into a roll that took him behind a tree for cover. Suddenly the ear jarring rattle of automatic rifle fire drove everything else in the forest into silence.

Mtuba
ran forward. He knew he'd missed. How the white bastard had known he was behind him didn't matter. He'd still take him.

Casey came up from behind his tree as
Mtuba rushed at him. The dark skin of the African made him nearly invisible, but the flashes of fire from the bore of his AK 47 gave him away. Casey tried to cock his own rifle, but the bolt had become jammed when it fell.

In his eagerness to kill,
Mtuba lunged forward, believing his target would run from him. Instead, an object flew at him. Teeth broke off at the gums as the butt of the AK 47 came into contact with his mouth. The force of the thrown rifle knocked him flat on his back. Before his mind had fully registered what had happened, his own rifle was jerked from his hands and an incredibly strong set of fingers were around his neck lifting him into the air and slamming his back against the trunk of a tree.

Casey pinned his antagonist there, resisting the urge to simply snap the man's neck. Giving
Mtuba a backhand, he knocked him out and let him fall. Using the straps from their rifles, he tied his captive's wrists and ankles. He didn't know why he didn't kill him; maybe he'd seen enough death lately. At least he didn't have to keep looking behind him anymore. Maybe Mtuba might be of interest to Montfort and van Janich. The reason didn't really matter. All he knew was that now he wouldn't get any more sleep.

It was dawn when Casey finally shook
Mtuba into awareness; he must have hit him harder than he thought he had. Stiff and tired, he jerked his prisoner to his feet.

"Come on. We have some traveling to do."
Mtuba ran a thick tongue over the broken stumps of his teeth and spat out some bloody splinters. He said nothing as Casey broke his jammed rifle against a rock and took Mtuba's good one. Then he untied his legs and used the strap that had been on them for a choke leash around his neck.

"All right, let's go." Casey gave the leash a jerk and led the way.
Mtuba suffered his indignities in silence. He would give the white man no satisfaction by pleading.

At noon Casey called a halt by a spring. He let
Mtuba rinse out his mouth and drink, then did the same himself. The day was already another scorcher. They'd left the cover of the strip of forest more than an hour before, and were back in open country. He wondered how much further they'd have to go.

Mtuba
read his thoughts and spoke for the first time.

"It doesn't matter where we are or what is done to me. You might as well go ahead and kill me. I am ready."

Casey took another mouthful of the tepid water, swirled it through his teeth, and spat it out on the earth. "So you can talk after all. Just to make things clear, understand me. I don't really know why I'm taking you alive. Maybe I'm just getting a bit soft, or it might be that you can tell my contractors about your Chinese friends and why they're here."

Mtuba
shook his head, his tongue not working properly around his broken teeth. "I will tell them nothing."

Casey picked up his leash and said, "Suit yourself. I really don't give a damn. But tell me one thing: Why did you come after me once the Chinese was out of your reach?"

Mtuba grinned through smashed lips. "You understand nothing! Once the Chinese was gone, it meant I had failed. No matter what the conditions, the responsibility was mine and mine alone. I don't like losing at anything and you have caused me to lose the most important thing in my life: my reason for living. I was to be of service to the new revolution, not just to the cause, but to be a leader of it. That would have brought glory and honor to my name. Now that is gone, and all I had left for a goal in life was you. I really would not have minded being killed if I could have killed you in the process. So, you see, I have been ready to die since we were at the Dutch airstrip. You can do nothing to frighten me or make me cooperate. I am still ready to die!"

Casey gave his leash a jerk to accent his response. "Don't say it too often, or I might help you out."

After marching another hour, a feeling, not quite a sound, vibrated on the hot air. He wasn't sure for a minute, but then there it was. An HU 1b was making straight for them. On its nose Casey could make out the roundels with the national colors of the contractors on it. Waving his rifle, he pulled Mtuba out into a large clearing where they could easily be seen.

The chopper banked and circled the two men. It was making a scan of the area around the clearing to make sure there were no enemy troops in the
neighborhood. Seeing none, the pilot changed the chopper's attitude and came straight in, resting its skids on the dusty soil, the spinning rotors creating small whirlwinds. Harrison, Van, and Montfort leapt from the open doors, weapons ready to give cover if needed. Casey pushed Mtuba inside the helicopter, then quickly followed, keeping his hand on the leash. He sat right across from his prisoner. Harrison and Van clambered back on board right behind Montfort, who sat down beside Mtuba. The pilot gave it some more throttle, and the helicopter cleared the ground in an eye stinging, man-made cyclone of dust, grit, and sand. Casey leaned over, putting his mouth close to Montfort's ear. "I have a present for you if you want him, but he says he'll tell you nothing about the Chinese or anything else."

Montfort gave
Mtuba a dirty look that had bullets in it before saying, "That's all right with me. The Chinese you sent us has spilled his guts all over the place. I don't really have any use for this thing." He indicated Mtuba.

Rising up to three thousand feet, the chopper tilted its nose slightly downward and headed north. The beating of the rotors made it difficult to hear.
Mtuba sat sullenly between Casey and Van. Yelling above the noise, Casey asked, "How is Gus?" No one said anything. Their expressions were more eloquent than any words could have been. Casey felt his heart drop to his stomach.

Another one gone, the one who had been such a special friend to him.

Mtuba also understood what had taken place, and he began to laugh. Bobbing his head up and down, he mocked Casey: "I still think I won. I have hurt you. I have killed your friends and taken them away from you. Nothing you can ever do will bring them back. I have won!" Montfort reached over to slap him across the mouth to shut him up. But before his hand could reach Mtuba's face, Casey's own scarred hand grabbed Mtuba by his neck. Jerking him bodily out of his seat, he hurled him out the open door. Casey looked down at the wildly flailing arms and legs as Mtuba fell three thousand feet to land headfirst on the hard, sun baked veldt.

"Why did you do that?" Montfort yelled at Casey.

Casey looked Montfort straight in the eye, giving the major the distinct feeling that someone had just walked over his grave.

"Let's just call it a love offering, Major. That's all, just an offering." Van and Harrison had to lean next to his mouth to hear his next words, they were spoken so softly.

"Let's go home now. I'm very tired."