Casca 12: The African Mercenary Page 4

  Clearing his throat, Beidemann changed the subject. "When do I meet the rest of your guests?"

  Casey pointed to a trail leading off from the main compound, indicating that was the way Beidemann was to go. "Right now. They're all waiting for you, and I think you're going to have to prove to them that you're all that I said you were. So, old friend, be prepared."

  At the phrase “old friend," Beidemann looked at his host and former tank commander. When Casey had gone by the name of Carl Langer from '43 to '45, he had looked to be the same age as Beidemann was then. The German would swear that he didn't look a year older now. Was it possible that he even looked a bit better? Maybe he'd had a face lift. They could do wonderful things with silicone these days.... One day he was going to sit down and have a straight talk with his old friend.

  Beidemann followed Casey down the trail between giant trees draped with flowering vines. The green of the Cameron Highlands was incredible. The sun reflected off the leaves and branches of a thousand species of plants, casting an emerald glow over everything that moved inside the forest. Set in a separate clearing with its own cook shack was what served as the barracks for Casey's other guests. A long, narrow structure made of native wood and raised several feet off the floor of the forest on thick piles, the barracks could house over fifty men. At the edge of the clearing they were greeted by two sentries in camouflage fatigues, each armed with Spanish made versions of the German G-3 rifle. Their salute to Casey was formal, if not rigid. They were not put on the job because they knew how to salute. They had been brought in because they knew how to fight and were dependable when it counted most.

  Casey went up the steps to the barracks, then opened the screen door. As he stepped inside, those waiting for him were called to attention by a former sergeant major in Her Majesty's South African Rifles.

  Jeremy Fitzhugh had been an eighteen year old private in World War II and had served with distinction in North Africa, Sicily, and France. He'd retired from the regular army after twenty years and since then had sold his considerable talents to those whom he felt merited them the most. He was a professional mercenary, but he was a bit picky about whom he worked for.

  "Ten hut!" Twenty men halted whatever they were doing and jumped to attention beside their bunks.

  "At ease," Casey said, walking with Beidemann between the rows of bunks, letting his friend get a good look at the men. The German knew several of them from other operations. Most were British, but there were a couple of Germans, South Africans, and Belgians tossed in for good measure. All had seen more than their share of action, and each had spent some time in Africa. Casey wanted men who knew the territory.

  When they reached Fitzhugh they stopped and Casey made a formal introduction. "Sergeant Major Fitzhugh, may I present Gustaf Beidemann. He will be my second in command."

  Beidemann stood nearly half a foot taller than Fitzhugh, but other than that, there was little difference in body design. Both were powerfully built men who knew their strength and would use it without reservation if called upon.

  Beidemann and Fitzhugh eyed one another, each sizing up the other. At one time they had been enemies. Each needed to see if they were still going to be that way. There was a moment of tension as their eyes locked. Then the spell was broken. Beidemann was accepted when Fitzhugh came to attention, stamping his right foot down in the British fashion and, as he did so, barking out, "Sir! Regimental Sergeant Major Fitzhugh at your service!" There would be no trouble from Fitzhugh now.

  Once he'd recognized Beidemann as being his superior officer, he would do his part in all that was required of him.

  Beidemann spoke to him easily. "I have heard of you, Sergeant. We have not always been on the same side, yet who can read the future? For now, let us keep the past where it belongs."

  Casey picked up on that and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. "That goes for everyone. We have a job to do, and I will not tolerate anything that could jeopardize our mission. If you have personal problems, leave them behind until you are finished with your contract. Understand this! Beginning at reveille tomorrow morning, anyone who does anything that threatens our security will be shot. There will be no other punishments, only death! There are too few of us to fight among ourselves, and in a very short time we will have all the trouble we need to keep ourselves entertained.

  "Fitzhugh, you shall continue as senior non-com. From now on, please see that the men use the chain of command if they have any problems."

  "Sir!" came Fitzhugh's response. He liked Casey's attitude.

  Turning to Beidemann, Casey said, "They're all yours. Get them ready. We may have to leave sooner than planned. You and Fitzhugh work out who is going to be in each team, then bring me the list for final approval."

  He left Beidemann to establish his authority in his own way. He had given the men until morning to get the shit out of their systems. He knew that his old friend would have to prove himself to the rest of the mercenaries before he would be completely in command.

  Before the day was out, Beidemann had secured his leadership by putting two dissidents out of action for a couple of days. He was careful not to break anything, but he hurt them just enough to let them know who was boss. It would be the last time anyone referred to his age in anything but a respectful tone.

  Casey invited those he considered his staff to dine at the big house. After an evening meal of roast young water buffalo, he, Van, Beidemann, and Fitzhugh went into his study to discuss the mission. Neither Yousef nor George was of much use for any deep thinking, and they preferred to fix their own meals anyway.

  The two of them had taken to each other, and Yousef had moved into the bungalow with George and Van.

  The others spent several hours going over maps supplied by van Janich. Using a magnifying glass, they went over aerial shots of Dzhombe's palace and grounds. Casey told them to take their time before making any comments. He wanted each to get a feel of where they were going.

  Beidemann studied the photos of the palace again and again. At last, setting the glass down, he and Fitzhugh looked at each other. Both knew what the other was thinking. "I think we may have a problem," the German said, pointing to the photos. "The drop zone is very narrow, and many of our men have not had any recent parachuting experience. If there are any crosswinds at all, some of them are going to land outside the garden walls, and if that happens, we will probably get our asses blown away." Fitzhugh and Van nodded their agreement to Beidemann's assessment of the situation. This was another change that come over Biedemann in the last ten years. In the past he had always been a good soldier but had preferred to leave the thinking to others. Casey was glad to see his friend using his brain as well as his brawn for a change.

  He looked at the photos again, nodding his own agreement. "You're right. If there's over a ten knot cross wind, we'll lose at least part of our men, and we don't have any to spare. Every man will be needed inside those walls if we're going to do the job. I don't know what the prevailing winds will be when we go in, but I'll find out. Let's plan for the worst; that way we won't be disappointed. How can we be certain of getting everyone in, especially the heavy weapons section? They're critical to the plan."

  There was a long silence as each tried to come up with some kind of solution to the problem. Fitzhugh spoke first.

  "Sir, I hate to give the bloody Huns any credit" he smiled at Beidemann "but they did do one thing that we might be able to copy. I was in Sicily when this happened, but didn't Otto Skorzeny, the SS commando, use gliders when he rescued Mussolini off that bloody great mountain? I don't remember the name of the place, but he didn't have much room to set down in."

  Beidemann supplied the name. "It was the Gran Sasso d'Italia, and you're right. The winds were too bad to make a jump, and he used gliders to get his men in. Does anyone know how much ground a glider needs to set down in?"

  Casey looked at the photos again. "I think they can put down in a couple of hundred feet. Look here." They gathered around
one photo. "This shows what appears to be a large pond about seventy five or a hundred feet long running toward the palace. At the end of the pond is another hundred feet of garden with trees on either side. If it's not too deep, a glider could probably touch down in it and slide up into the gardens without cracking up in the trees."

  Van bobbed his head up and down. "I like it. But where do we get a glider and a pilot?"

  Casey grinned, his gray blue eyes sparkling as he went to get a bottle of Jack Daniel's. "I don't know about the glider, but the pilot is going to be Harrison. Van, get on the radio. You'll probably find the limey" He looked at Fitzhugh. "No offense meant."

  "There is none, seeing as I am of Irish descent," Fitzhugh responded a bit testily.

  Casey bowed his head, accepting the minor rebuke. "As I was saying, you'll probably find him at Mama Chin's in Kuala Lumpur. Call the airfield and have someone there tell him to get his tail up here as soon as possible."

  Van left to make the call as Casey said to Beidemann, "Harrison told me once that he got started by flying gliders when he was a kid. Soaring, he called it. Hell, that bastard soars half the time even when he hasn't left the ground, but he's the best pilot in this neck of the woods and can fly anything with wings or rotors up to and including commercial jets. Gus, you don't really know him, but Fitzhugh and Van can vouch for him. He was with the SAS, the British Special Air Service, for five years. That's their equivalent of the American Green Berets, so you can believe he's good. Besides which, he'll do damn near anything for a profit. I don't know what he does with his money, but in five years I've never seen him buy a drink for anyone or spend a cent he didn't have to."

  Van came back at the end of Casey's description and said, "Oh, you're still talking about Harrison. Well, old warthog," Van said in a cockney accent he had picked up in London when his father had served with the South Vietnamese Foreign Service there, “our dashing young pilot will be here in the morn for kippers and scones. I told him you had something which could buy him an earldom when he returned to jolly old England."

  "Good! Now see that a cable is sent to Major Shan in Taipei. Tell him to get over here. We'll have him put his machinery to work and find us a glider large enough to carry the heavy weapons section and Gus's crew. We'll make the jump with only those who have the most parachuting experience. The rest will go on the glider, if we can find one."

  Van left to call in the cable to Major Shan, asking him to come and visit with his old friends, and maybe do a little hunting.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next day, Harrison, in a near coma, was delivered with his kit bag to the plantation by a Malay cab driver who demanded extra payment from Casey for the abuse his old Morris taxi had suffered getting up the mountain. Casey had seen Harrison on one of his occasional benders before. There was nothing to do but find a corner to put him in until he sobered up, and that could take a couple of days. He'd be awake tomorrow but in no condition to communicate. Harrison looked like an alcoholic version of a thirtyish David Niven, right down to the out of style, pencil line mustache. Lean, slightly paranoid after having dealt with Casey and his crew before, Harrison was almost a member of the family. His condition didn't bother Casey, who wouldn't need him for a while yet, not until he'd spoken with Major Shan, who'd confirmed that he would arrive on Tuesday, two days hence.

  Even though they had to wait, that was no reason not to start their mission training. Beidemann took charge, Fitzhugh enforcing his orders with proper British bellowing and cursing. Up and down the sides of the mountain they ran, loaded down with field packs filled with wet sand. Beidemann knew that legs were a soldier's lifeline. If the legs went, then so did everything else. He also dispelled any further illusions about his age being a handicap. He and Fitzhugh ran the other mercs' asses into the ground.

  Beidemann would often take the lead, ordering them to follow him. Breaking off the trails and heading cross country, not bothering to look for breaks in the brush and vines, he just charged through, dragging the others in his wake. In less than a day he had at least half the mercs believing he was some kind of jungle superman who would have been more at home in the trees than on the ground. Casey took his training with them and cursed his old pal for being in such disgustingly good shape. Only George seemed to have no problem keeping up with the monster, and he saw to it that Yousef didn't lag too far behind.

  In the two days that passed before Major Shan showed up, Beidemann had the mercs doing everything but goose stepping through the jungle, and he promised them they'd do that sometime the following week.

  Part of their day was spent building a mock-up of the palace and its grounds, using a clearing a couple of miles from the house. Until they left for the mission they would spend most of their time there, going over every step of their assignment, rehearsing until they knew the layout of the palace and grounds better than Dzhombe's staff did. If Beidemann could have had his way, they would have rehearsed the job blindfolded.

  Each of the men had his specialty: demolitions, commo, medic, light and heavy weapons. Besides their individual talents, they were all veterans of jungle warfare and raider style operations. They'd do!

  Their plan for getting out of Kimshaka didn't call for them to spend any time in the bush, but Casey insisted that they always plan for the worst. George gave them a couple of classes in jungle survival and a short demonstration of the use of the machete as a weapon. He could split a man from crown to navel in one swipe.

  Major Shan was delivered to the plantation by the same Malay cabby who had brought Harrison. He tried to get Casey to go for a monthly rate but had no luck.

  Shan was in mufti, impeccably attired in the best that Taipei's tailors had to offer: a light blue sharkskin suit, white patent leather Guccis, and a London Fog trench coat. A bit taller than the average Chinese, his hair had just enough gray in it to give him a distinguished look, which he cultivated.

  Yu Li greeted him in the old style as matron of the house. She bowed him inside and left him alone after setting out a tray of rice cookies. Casey had to come up from the training area. He was tired and sweaty, and in no mood to waste time. He started to send for Harrison but decided against it. He'd let him in on things later. Harrison hadn't even asked why he was there. He was content just to be breathing. Casey felt one more day of rest would do him good. There was no reason to upset him at this point.

  Wasting no time, Casey got to the heart of the matter. "Glider, Major I want a glider. One large enough to carry fifteen men and their gear, including two sixty millimeter mortars, a fifty seven millimeter recoilless rifle, and ammo for the works. If we can't get a glider, the timetable may have to be put off until we can figure out something else."

  Having already spent a large portion of his advance money for arranging the contract, Shan protested vigorously at any delay. "You must be on time," he demanded. "You have a contract. What is this thing about gliders? No one has used gliders since World War Two."

  Casey was adamant. "Find me a glider, you son of a bitch, or jump into the damned place yourself. I have Harrison up here, and as soon as he's finished drying out, I expect you to have found me one. While you're at it, you'd better get two or three in case he cracks up during practice."

  Shan raged in frustration. "Now you want three of them? What do you think I am?"

  Casey scowled at him. "I know what you are and so do you. So cut the crap and get me what I need, or the people in Africa are going to be very upset with you."

  They argued for some time before Shan relented. "I will do my best. That's all I can promise." That was good enough. Casey wasn't terribly fond of Shan, but the man could get things done when he wanted to. If there were gliders to be had, he would get them. He didn't tell Shan that he would go on the mission anyway, even if they all had to jump in.

  Major Shan again wondered why Casey Romain always seemed to get him off balance when he, a senior officer in Taiwan's Ministry of Security, was obviously a much more intelligent and culture
d person.

  He sighed deeply. The world is full of these long nosed cretins, he thought. Where had the graceful life gone? If it had not been for that incredibly bad run of luck at the gambling tables in Macao, I would not have to degrade myself by doing business with these degenerates. The honorable major grumbled to himself all the way back down the mountain, not stopping until the cab reached the airfield at Kuala Lumpur.

  Harrison came in shortly after Shan left, his David Niven looks more serene now that most of the whiskey was gone from his system. His hands had stopped trembling to the point where he could hold a cup of coffee. His voice was still a bit husky, sounding a shade like Sydney Greenstreet in the movie Casablanca. He was dressed in tailored khakis with a green and white polka dot ascot. He used his swagger stick of polished ebony to whisk away a bothersome fly from his face. Clearing his throat, he rasped, "Where's the bar?" Spying it in the corner of the living room, he started for it but was intercepted. Casey got between him and the object he wanted most: a bottle of Hennessy just out of reach behind the back of the square built master of the house.

  Before Casey would let him have even a smell of the cognac, he forced Harrison to listen to his proposal. There was a period of negative response from the pilot before Casey reached the right numbers. Harrison poured a tumbler to the brim and drained the amber fluid as if it were a glass of water in the middle of a desert.

  "I don't believe you've talked me into this thing, but I am too weak to argue. You know, old chap, that I desperately try to avoid anything that remotely resembles violence. Why do you constantly play on my sense of greed to get me to do these outrageous things for you?"