Casca 12: The African Mercenary (8 page)

"Make your offerings to the earth!"

The fifteen men threw themselves at the girls, raping each one, spilling their seed into their bellies. Not until each girl had been ravished by each man did Dzhombe speak again, this time to the wizards.

"Complete the offering."

One by one the wizards took the bleeding girls to a place that had been prepared the week before. Into a trench dug in the earth they lay each girl down and prayed over her, begging the gods to accept their offering.

When all three were in the ditch, the men gathered above them and began to shove the moist, claylike earth on top of them. Numb from the
ganga smoke and pain of their marriage rites, they tried to scream, but it was too late. Their thin legs were too weak to fight the weight of the earth being pushed on top of them.

The rites were complete. The earth would be reborn again by the seed of the men in the bodies of the brides.

Dzhombe's guards were on the alert at their posts when he returned. Saying nothing, Dzhombe went to a nearby stream and washed his body clean of its now streaked coat of ashes. Putting his uniform back on, he sat in the front seat of the weapons carrier and waited to be taken back to his capital. All was well, and the gods were pleased. It was time to return to the outside world, but he took with him, as always, a part of the old.

"Mr. Romain, I presume," said the Oxbridge accented voice, his tone clearly meaning I am a regular army officer and you are not. Those exact words were unsaid, but the message was unmistakable. Casey and his men were distasteful to this graduate of Sandhurst, the British West Point that produced even stuffier officers than did its American counterpart. As with West Point alumni, once the new officers got the bullshit out of their brains, they were among the best military minds the world could produce, and if one didn't like their style, one couldn't argue with their sense of honor and personal courage. The British did do some things right, and training soldiers to be tough was one of them.

Casey stood in front of the officer with the full, bristling
mustache and starched khaki drills, and said, once he got a look at the pips on the man's shoulders, "Major, I can tell right now that we may have some problems in communicating, so let's get it out in the open. I don't give a damn if you approve of me or my men, but we are here to do a job, and we're going to do it, even if it is the death of us," he paused for a moment, "and you."

"Very good, Mr.
Romain. You have made your position quite clear, and perhaps you're right. Incidentally, my name is Montfort. Your original contact assigned me to this job with orders to give you all the assistance you require, and in spite of any differences between us, that is exactly what I shall do. Now, if you will follow me, I will take you and your men to your quarters." He pointed across the landing strip to a cluster of Quonset huts. Casey told Beidemann to have Fitzhugh get the men and their gear, and follow him when they were ready.

As they crossed the strip, Montfort gave Casey the tourist guide treatment. The field was set on a plain surrounded by low brush reaching out as far as the eye could see and spotted in places by giant baobab trees. Casey knew that in the trees and brush lived thousands of animals. Birds, lemurs, and leopards shared the baobabs. Lions and warthogs staked out their territories in the brush. A pair of vultures rode the hot air currents, rising from the flat runway to soar and glide in search of something dead or too weak to fight. Montfort pointed to them and said, "Not a bad omen, I hope." And he smiled.

"This, by the way, was an emergency field built by the South Africans during World War Two and used by them as a refueling depot on their way to the front in North Africa. At the far end of the runway there's one still usable hangar. That is where your advance cargo is stored. It has already been assembled. The field itself has been abandoned for the past twenty or so years, and now it's only used occasionally by hunters, ecologists, and the like. But with all the recent troubles, there are none of those types around now. I have ten of my own people here. They will act as a buffer between your people and anyone who might happen to stray this way. If that occurs, get your men out of sight and leave the talking to me. The reasons, I believe, are obvious."

Casey agreed.

"One more thing," said Montfort. "Meals will be served at 0600 hours, 1100, and at 1700."

"Just a moment,
Major." Casey stopped, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead to get rid of the thin layer of red dust already collecting on it.

Montfort waited, watching his guest. "Yes? What is it?"

Lighting a cigarette between cupped hands, Casey took a drag and exhaled before speaking in flat tones. "We brought our own food, and we'll prepare it ourselves. Also, there will be no communication between your men and mine other than what is absolutely necessary."

"What is it, Mr.
Romain?" Montfort responded a bit testily. "Do you think my men and our poor rations are not good enough for you and your overpaid prima donnas?"

Casey took a deep breath and got a grip on his temper.

"No, Major, but if you have served anyplace other than your own country and with anyone other than your own troops, you know that a change in diet can bring on dysentery and a number of other problems that could temporarily disable some of my men, and I have none to spare. This way they are used to the food and the way it is prepared." He ground out the cigarette butt under his heel.

"And I don't want any contact between your men and mine, because it could lead to short tempers and fights, which if our own exchange is any example will probably happen before supper."

By the time the conversation had reached this point, they had arrived at the old Quonset huts that would be their homes for the next week. Major Montfort chewed the ends of his sandy mustache as he thought over Casey's comments. "You're right, Mr. Romain," he admitted a bit reluctantly, "and I apologize. I am letting my personal prejudices against mercenaries color my thinking. You are right about the food and the troubles between our men. But remember this, sir. I am a professional soldier in the service of my country and will do anything to assure her survival. I fight for my home; you fight for money. That is what I find distasteful. For enough money you would fight against us."

Casey shook his head. "Montfort, if we had the time, I would tell you some things about us that might change your thinking, but it wouldn't make any difference to the mission, so let's just maintain a polite and friendly attitude and set an example for our men. And, incidentally, these 'prima donnas' of mine would bust your men open like watermelons just for the practice if they got pissed off. Like you said, you and your boys are patriots. Mine do this for a living. They have to be good or they wouldn't be here."

Casey turned his back on Montfort and entered the nearest hut, glad to be out of the sun, which was already gaining in strength. After meeting Montfort he wasn't surprised to see that the floors were clean. The GI style bunks were made up with clean linen with blankets at the foot of each. Beidemann came in cursing, followed by George and the others. Fitzhugh was assigning bunks as Van set up their own security posts and duty roster.

As the men settled in, Casey,
Beidemann, and George went for a look see around the area just to get the feel of it and to work up a contingency plan in case anything went wrong while they were there.

Taking their time, they made a wide circle about a mile out so they could get a look at the field from the outside. Dust licked at the heels of their boots as lizards blinked out of their path to seek the small comfort of the shade of a bush. George didn't like what he saw. To him this was dead land, not having the rich soil of Southeast Asia, but he changed his mind when a warthog burst out of a clump of brush twenty feet ahead, hotly pursued by a young male lion
who was just getting his mane. He didn't know who won the race. They disappeared down a dry wash to the south, the pig running with its tail stuck straight in the air and the young lion coming after him with long, space eating leaps.

Casey let the others return to the Quonset huts, wanting to spend a few minutes by himself. Squatting down on his heels, he rested his chin on his forearms. Breathing deeply, he sucked into his lungs the hot, dry air of Africa. It would not always be dry. Soon the rains would come, and the veldt would come alive in a manner nearly beyond comprehension. The earth would erupt with vital green growth, and animals would pick this time to give birth to their young so they could grow strong before the next dry season set in.

To the north of them, in the deep jungle, there was not the dramatic change of season, just a time that was not quite so wet. And to the south and west lay the Kalahari, a place so dry it made the Mojave Desert look like a swamp.

A scorpion crept out of the roots of a bush, its pincers opening and closing as it scrambled within inches of Casey's feet. He ignored the tiny killer. He had seen them before, as he had a place such as this. In his mind's eye he could see the regiments of the Zulu tribes of the
Matabele, the
impis
forming their battle lines in the shape of Cape buffalo horns. He saw the thousands of tall warriors of the Zulu wearing lion, civet, or black and white monkey fur, the fur strategically placed on their sweating ebony bodies or formed into fantastic headdresses. All chanted as they held their short spears,
iKwlas
, high over their heads.

Sweat collected in the small of his back and ran down his spine as the memory of the "horns of the buffalo," the tribal battle formation, advanced, singing and chanting. Hide shields of rhino or buffalo, painted with the totems of their clans, were held above their heads. The main force formed the base of the skull from which the horns tapered to a point, and the Zulus advanced upon the Boers. They had run forty miles for this fight, eager to wash their blades in blood. They advanced across the plain to the waiting Dutchmen in their circle of wagons and oxen. As they came closer, the points of the horns spread out in an arc as men flowed from the base, filling up the horns until they encircled their quarry. Ten thousand tall, proud warriors beat their shields and sang of their courage.

The Boers, tough, taciturn men with beards down to their chests, believing themselves to be the chosen of God and the servants of His Word, waited behind their wagons, rifles to their shoulders, hunting knives at their belts. Their wives stood with them, and as their children hid under or in the wagons ready to reload the rifles, they waited for the onslaught of the thousands of natives surrounding them...

A shadow fell across him, jerking his mind back from that other, older Africa. Without turning to see, he asked softly, "What do you want,
Major?"

Montfort paused as he watched the broad, muscled back below him. The sweat on the man's body had plastered his shirt to him like a second skin. Even under the cloth Montfort could see the great strength in that back; he watched the muscles ripple unconsciously, much as a horse's does as it shakes bothersome flies from its flank.

"Sorry to bother you, old boy. You looked like you were in deep thought, but your man Harrison wants to take a look at the Waco. My orders are that no one is to go near it until you say it is all right."

Grunting as he rose, the memory of that other time quickly faded into the past where it belonged.

"All right, let's go. By the way, what about the natives in this area?"

Montfort shrugged as he led the way through the brush back to the strip. "All the locals have been cleared out, and they won't be back for a while. We poisoned a number of their cattle and goats,
then told them there was some kind of sickness for their animals in the area, and it would have to be quarantined for a time. They have all been moved to `safe' areas until you are finished with your work. Then they'll be permitted to return."

Harrison met them on the runway, pointing toward the old hangar. "I say, Casey, will you tell those louts over there
," he indicated two of the major's men who were standing guard at the hangar "to let me into that bleedin' building? I can't fly the damned thing if I can't see it!"

Casey smiled at Harrison's normal annoyance at everything in the world. "Major Montfort, you may relieve your men. From this point on, my people will take responsibility for the security of the glider and our own equipment, which I am
sure will suit you just fine."

Montfort grunted and called out to the two sentries, "You are relieved and will return to your quarters." Stamping their feet, the sentries saluted with rifles and trotted off.

Brushing a gnat away from the corner of his eye, Montfort started back across the field to where his own quarters were. He called back as he left, "I do hope you chaps will enjoy your stay here. Cheerie-o."

"Go bugger a camel, you overstuffed arsehole!" Harrison muttered under his breath.

Casey grabbed Harrison by the arm and directed him to the hangar door. "Don't give me any trouble. I don't want to have a harder time dealing with Montfort than I'm having already. Just keep your wisecracks to yourself for the time being and do your job. Report to me after dinner if you have any problems."

As usual, Harrison felt that he was being unfairly chastised and just put Casey's misunderstanding of him down to an obviously common education. Opening the door to the hangar, he had second thoughts and made excuses in his mind for Casey's treatment of him. Feeling better, he went in.