Casca 12: The African Mercenary Read online

  He would attend to that white country in time, but at present they gave him no trouble. He had them landlocked, and the closest route to the sea was controlled by him. As long as they paid his price, he would continue to let vital materials get through to them by way of Kimshaka's one operating rail line. He had a stranglehold on them, and he had no fear that they would try to invade and take the rail line by force. The United States and its ambassador to the U.N., the black activist George Olderman, would see to that. All Dzhombe had to take care of was the N.F.L.K., and as long as they spent most of their time in Angola, he really didn't give a damn about them. And, he figured, they could always provide him with an excuse to remove anyone he considered to be bothersome by merely declaring them to be supporters of the traitors.

  Matthew Dzhombe felt he had done well. He had his army, the wealth of his country's resources, and a very healthy Swiss bank account at his disposal, eight sons – one didn't count girl children – and of course he had the gods on his side to counsel and protect him. Soon it would be time for him to make his annual pilgrimage to the village of his birth. For a short time he would return to the old ways. He would sit in the huts of those who belonged to his clan, and in secret places known only to them, sacrifices would be made to the primal forces of creation as they had been made since the heavens and earth had been formed from the skull of a hippopotamus.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In Singapore, Casey sat with his number one man, a Vietnamese named Van, in the cool interior of Raffles, one of the last vestiges of the British Empire's better days. Van had been of great value to him on more than one occasion because of the man's family connections on Taiwan. Members of his once very large family had been in nearly every branch of the overthrown South Vietnamese government, and through them Van had many contacts with friendly interests on Taiwan. Van had a sleepy look to him that was deceptive. His smooth good looks and fine olive skin made many who saw him from even a short distance mistake him for Spanish or Portuguese.

  Casey leaned back, listening to the drone of the overworked air conditioning system, sipping slowly at his stengah, enjoying the blend of whiskey and soda. Van was savoring both his San Miguel beer and the pretty Malay waitress, whose blue and white cheongsam showed a sleek length of golden leg where the dress was slit to the thigh.

  Waiting was not all that bad. Van Janich had lived up to the letter of their agreement and had deposited the money into Casey's accounts in Brussels and Zurich. His machinery had been put into operation, and everything was in order. For once, he wouldn't have to go to the trouble of acquiring weapons. Working through the diplomatic pouches of the Boer's legation in Singapore, he had a direct line by which to send and receive information with little likelihood of a leak being made either accidentally or on purpose. He'd sent van Janich a list of his needs through the pouch and had been assured that the contractors would have everything he'd requested ready for him and his men at the staging area.

  Casey signaled for a refill. "Not long now," he mumbled to Van, who just nodded his head and wondered if the girl was wearing panties under the liquid silk dress that slid over her hips like the skin of a snake when she walked. "Not long now," he repeated to himself.

  The rest of the team would be flying in from Bangkok on Garuda, the Indonesian airline. Gustaf Beidemann, the German, had requested a couple of days layover in Thailand to visit some friends before meeting with Casey. If it had been anyone else, Casey would have told him to get his ass in gear, but he knew Beidemann would have just told him to piss off, and then would go ahead and do what he wanted to anyway. There was no way to ever completely control Beidemann; he'd given up trying a long time ago. It had been several years since he'd last seen his old comrade. They had been through much together since the fall of the Third Reich: the Legion in Indochina, Dien Bien Phu, then back to Algeria for the troubles there. In those days Casey had gone by the name of Carl Langer, the same one he'd used as a panzer soldier. It had become a bit too well known since then, and when he'd received his discharge from the French Foreign Legion, he had taken the name Casey Romain. Beidemann still had a hard time remembering not to call him Langer. The other man with Beidemann was his sidekick, a swarthy Moroccan he'd tied up with in Algeria in '57. He was known as Ali ben Yousef, and had a propensity toward the use of the knife and garrote.

  They had all worked together before, and each knew the others' strong points and weaknesses. They were a good solid team. Casey forced his mind to leave the job alone. There wasn't anything else he could do right now. Too much thinking too early and he'd get edgy. There would be plenty of time to get worked up once they were on their way.

  Van was about to go and take a leak, but before he stood up, a shadow filled the room, a silhouette in the doorway against the bright sunlight as it cased the bar.

  Van nudged Casey's foot. Another, smaller silhouette joined the first. The figures were dimly lit, but the size of the first one left no doubt that it was Gustaf Beidemann, formerly of the French Foreign Legion, the Twenty Seventh Panzer Division, and a half dozen other outfits of one kind or another.

  Beidemann could get by in several languages that he'd learned solely for the purposes of buying women or ordering a drink. And he suffered from one great weakness: a passion for Russian vodka. When it was available, he would consume it by the liter, saying it was the only damned thing Russia had worth going to war over.

  The smaller figure beside him was Ali ben Yousef, a wiry little guy with the ability to open up a man faster than most could even think about it. His only loyalty was to Beidemann. The German had saved the little Moroccan's life once, and Yousef, being a devout Moslem, believed it was a sign from Allah. He'd vowed to serve the big man until the moment Allah in His infinite wisdom and mercy let him know the debt was paid off. And if and when that time came, Yousef hadn't quite made up his mind whether he would kill Beidemann or not. But such things were in the hands of Allah, blessed be His name. lnshallah!

  Beidemann pulled a chair over to Casey's table while Yousef watched the door. Ordering a beer from the now meek waitress, who seemed awed by the dimensions of her new customer, he smiled at Casey. Speaking in clipped but correct English, he spoke in that slightly superior tone that so many Germans and upper class Englishmen seem to acquire at about the same moment they reach puberty. In Beidemann's case, however, it had taken forty years longer. Casey was amused at his friend's attempt at sophistication.

  "Carl, old friend, what is it that you want from these tired old bones that you should bring me all the way from Munich? It must be something of importance. Don't you realize Oktoberfest will be starting soon?"

  Casey grinned back. "Gustaf, you old Hun, I brought you here because I have found that in spite of all my past experiences with you, I once more need you with me. I have a nice contract, one which will enable you to open your own restaurant where you can eat and drink to the end of your days, and never have to tip the waiter to get a good table. Now be still and listen. This is the situation ..."

  As Casey explained, Van moved over to the bar to talk with the waitress, keeping her out of earshot of the two men's conversation. Casey and Beidemann huddled together, heads nearly touching as Casey went over the basics of the operation and the problems concerning completion of the license.

  As Beidemann was reading the reports given to Casey by van Janich, Casey couldn't help thinking about the monster sitting across from him. Beidemann was the last survivor of their original crew in Russia. They'd fought together in Indochina and Algeria while with the Second Parachute Battalion of the French Foreign Legion. There had been a couple of other small contracts since then. Casey had contacted him, and Beidemann hadn't turned down any of them. Van was not particularly fond of Beidemann, thinking him to be some kind of throwback to a more primitive form of mankind, one that should have disappeared with Peking Man.

  The only member of Casey's crew to accept Beidemann totally was Ksor Tonn, better known as George, a Montagnard from the cent
ral highlands of Vietnam who was now back at Casey's plantation in Malaya. He'd be coming to Singapore tomorrow. George thought Beidemann was perfectly normal, except for his being six feet-six and weighing as much as a pregnant water buffalo. Other than that, George accepted Beidemann as an equal.

  Beidemann had picked up Yousef while in Algeria twelve years earlier, and the little Moroccan had been with him ever since. Over the years, Beidemann had come to hold a strange kind of affection and respect for his uninvited shadow.

  If it had been anyone other than Casey Romain who had called him at this time, he probably wouldn't have come. He and Yousef were nearly set up with a contract to train the troops of one of the Persian Gulf emirates. The emir was a reasonable man who appreciated the finer things in life and wanted those in his service to do the same. Consequently, there would have been an abundance of lovely maidens and a constant flow of the best beer and vodka. It was with some reluctance that Beidemann had asked for a delay before entering the emir's service.

  Once Beideman had finished reading Van Janich's reports, Casey gave him a quick rundown on how he thought they might be able to fulfill the contract. After listening to Casey's ideas, Beidemann stopped him with a raised hand. "You want to parachute into the palace grounds of Matthew Dzhombe?" He let loose a long, worried sigh. "That, my friend, may present more difficulties than you realize. It is one thing to get on the grounds; it is another thing entirely to be able to get out again at least under your own power. Most of the black soldiers in that part of Africa aren't worth the price of the bullets it takes to kill them, but these Simbas of Dzhombe's are a different matter. I served with men of their tribe during the Katanga mess. Those men will run twenty miles to get in a fight, then will eat the livers of the still living bodies of any prisoners they take. It is not going to be easy. How many men will we have to do the job with?"

  Casey took a long pull at his stengah, swallowing a piece of ice that gave him a temporary burst of pain tight between the eyes. He waited until the pain passed before answering.

  "Fifty. Two twenty man teams and a heavy weapons unit of ten men with two mortars and a recoilless rifle. When we hit the palace, the bulk of the Simbas there will hopefully be drawn off to counterattacks made by the N.F.L.K. at some small outposts outside the city.

  "There should be no more than a hundred soldiers left inside the palace grounds. We ought to be able to handle them with the surprise element working for us."

  Biedemann nodded slowly. "It may be possible, but how are we to extricate ourselves from the city and the country after the hit is made?"

  Casey smiled. "By armored car and half-tracks, jeeps, whatever is available at the palace – taxis if we have to. According to the input I've received, there are several fully serviced vehicles kept on the palace grounds at all times. We take some of these and run for the bush country. The N.F.L.K. will be waiting on each of the routes out of the city to intercept us and provide us with security until we can get to the pickup site where the contractors will have a plane ready to fly us out.

  "Each man will receive twenty five thousand dollars for one day's work. You will get an extra ten for being the leader of one of the twenty man squads. Is it agreed?"

  "Agreed," said the old warrior. "Who is going to be in charge of the heavy weapons section?"

  Casey inclined his head to where Van was obviously making an indecent proposal to the waitress in the tight cheongsam. "Van. Any objections?"

  "None," said the graying giant. "Van is a good man and will be where he is needed the most. I think the only reason I let you talk me into these things is that I don't believe you could survive without the help of old Uncle Gus to take care of you as I have always done. Now, where are the others?"

  Casey finished off the last of his stengah before answering. "At my plantation in Malaya. That's where we'll rehearse the operation and plan the final strike sequences."

  "Good, good," said Beidemann and smiled broadly. "The more rehearsal we have, the more men will survive. How long do we have to prepare for the mission?"

  Casey looked at his wristwatch calendar, though he already knew the answer. "We have four weeks. The only date we can be absolutely sure Dzhombe will be in the capital is on the anniversary of his taking power. In the last five years he has not missed making a Castro-style speech to the inhabitants. We hit him that night."

  Beidemann ordered another round with a snap of his sausagelike fingers. "Two more questions, my friend. How large is the drop zone? And how do we know when we are over it?"

  The questions were good ones and not unexpected. The German, like himself, had learned much with the Legion paratroopers. "The clearing we jump into is at the rear of the palace. It's about the size of a football or cricket field with some trees and brush, but it's not too bad. We'll know when to exit the aircraft by a radio signal preset by the N.F.L.K. If the weather is bad, they will have set up radio signals that will show up on the special direction finding equipment installed in the aircraft. The planes' DF will show a triangulation at the precise spot where we're supposed to jump. So we could jump blind if we had to. It won't make any difference if there's no moon or if there's ground fog; we jump on the radio signal." Casey waited to see if any of what he had just said needed any further explanation. It didn't, so he went on.

  "There will be two sticks of jumpers, one in each plane. We can drop all the men in each stick in less than fifteen seconds. Using steerables, we can be fairly sure of everyone hitting the DZ with a minimum of error."

  Beidemann nodded in satisfaction. "Good enough, old friend. If you say that's the way to do it, then I'm with you." He ended the question and answer session by raising his voice to a mild roar and calling Yousef and Van over to the table. He bellowed at the pretty waitress to get off her butt and bring drinks for all, and to make sure it went on Casey's bill. Trying to make up with Van, he gave the smaller Vietnamese a gentle, comradely slap on the shoulder, knocking Van off his chair to careen into a neighboring table. Beidemann's happy laughter startled a mule outside the door of the bar, causing the poor creature and its cart full of night soil meant for the rice paddies to bolt down the street. Its Chinese owner raced after the braying beast, hoping the animal's aged heart would not burst from the unexpected strain.

  Laughing, Casey asked his huge friend, "Gus, where the hell did you learn to whisper? In a steel mill?"

  "No," came the immediate response. "As you well know, it was in a Tiger tank on the Dnieper Line."

  Fresh drinks were brought for all, and Van was helped back to his chair, though he did move it a bit farther away from the long, friendly reach of Beidemann. The old German soldier smiled benevolently at all present. "This is good. Besides which, the son of a bitch Dzhombe needs killing. It's always good to take on a job that rewards the soul as well as the purse. Now, enough of this talk! Let us drink and party tonight. And I, Gustaf Beidemann, former corporal by the will of God and a part time house painter whose name escapes me at the moment, will teach you poor Untermensch sub-humans in English how to really, as the Americans say, `get down.'

  Another bottle of Stolichnaya vodka had him spending the rest of the evening trying to teach Van how to sing the marching songs of the Legion.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Morning found Van, Casey, and Yousef trying to decide whether it was worth it to continue living. Van was in the john, doing his best to survive a case of the dry heaves, the kind that feels as if your stomach is doing its best to turn inside out and finally crawl out of your open mouth. Casey's eyes held a remarkable resemblance to two olives floating in a glass of stale tomato juice. The three men's states were further aggravated by the fact that Beidemann was doing his daily routine of push-ups and sit ups. That, compounded by his singing something filthy about a girl named Lorelei, did nothing to make the day seem any more welcome.

  While the others were trying to pull themselves together, Beidemann went down to the Telok basin to find some steak and fresh raw oysters for breakfast.
Yousef was too ill to go with him and simply sat in a corner holding his head between his hands, repeating over and over that he now knew why Allah, in His infinite wisdom, prohibited the drinking of alcohol by the faithful, which he now swore to become. He promised to make a pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina if he lived through the rest of the day. Why had he been cursed with having to follow that monstrous barbarian around the world? What was his great sin that Allah should punish him so?

  By noon, contrary to all expectations, Casey and the others discovered with a certain amount of amazement that they would survive. A few gallons of coffee later, plus some home remedies, and the worst was over.

  Shortly after noon, Beidemann returned, belching contentedly and mumbling something to himself about how a few drinks at night aided the morning's digestive juices. Casey had to keep Van from throwing a butcher knife at the German's unsuspecting back.

  It was with a sense of relief that Casey told Beidemann that he and Yousef would be going to the plantation in Malaya to start getting things laid out. Giving them each some pocket money but not enough to party on he told them to find the limey pilot, Harrison, who had a full time girl-friend not too far from the old Buddhist temple. He'd fly them over to Kuala Lumpur, and from there Beidemann and Yousef would have to take Casey's Land Rover, which had been left at the airport, and drive on up to the cool beauty of the Cameron Highlands.

  Beidemann asked if Casey's woman would be there. He had never met Yu Li, but he knew of her and how she and his old friend had come to be together. A Major Shan had contracted Casey to take some men and go into Cambodia to bring out a family of Chinese merchants that had been left behind when the Khmer Rouge took over. The mission had not gone down as smoothly as it should have. From the very beginning the Communists had been on their asses, and it had been a running fight all the way to the sea, where Yu Li's father had died when he exploded a can of gas in the hold of the pursuing Cambodian gunboat that had caught them. They had been sold out and knew who had done it. Beidemann had not been on that job, but he knew that whoever it was that had informed on Casey and his men would not go without his just reward.