Casca 12: The African Mercenary Read online

  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.

  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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  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. My 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 perso
nally 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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  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.
r />   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....