Casca 12: The African Mercenary (13 page)

By the time Casey got back, the half-track had been disabled by Harrison's skillful hands. Its tanks were drained of the few gallons of gasoline remaining in them, and the men who had been in it were assigned to their new positions. It would be a bit crowded in the two remaining vehicles, but it couldn't be helped. The Saladin was designed for a crew of four. Now it carried twelve, most of them hanging onto the outside. The remaining men and all their heavy weapons were in the truck. The mortars, recoilless rifle, and ammo took up nearly all the floor space. If anyone was going to sleep, he'd have to do it sitting up on the wood benches or on top of the weapons.

Calling his men together, Casey briefed them on their situation.

"Men, we were sold out. Not by the contractors, but as you've probably guessed by the N.F.L.K. The situation is this: To the south and east is Rhodesia, but I think that option is too risky for us to try right now. The roads are probably being watched, and the border patrols will have been alerted. So we are going to keep heading south a bit longer to Barotseland. After we get across the border, I have been told there may be an airstrip run by some Dutchmen not too far from there. If we're lucky, we might be able to liberate a plane and get out of here by tomorrow. If not, then we try a straight run east for Rhodesia. If for any reason we get separated from each other, don't waste time looking. Just head for the Victoria Falls crossing on the Zambezi River and turn yourself over to the Rhodesians. If anyone tries to stop you, do what you have to. Once in Rhodesia, they'll help you get out of the country. I'm putting Gus in command of the truck. I'll keep the Chinese with me but he is to be turned over to the first white troops we meet. If anything happens to me, he can help pay back the N.F.L.K. for us. Now load up and keep your eyes open. Let's go!"

Mtuba was in a lather. His last radio communication with headquarters had made it crystal clear that his head was on the line. They were not able to send him any additional support. All N.F.L.K. manpower was committed to the fighting now taking place with Dzhombe's followers, who were offering fierce resistance at several barracks and strong points. The revolution had no men or equipment to spare. The problem had to be solved by him and the men he had with him. If he did not recover Major Xaun, there'd be hell to pay and he'd be the one doing the paying.

He'd lost even more time when one of his trucks hit a patch of soft sand and had to be dug out. It was entirely possible that the mercenaries would reach the border of Barotseland before he caught up. Then what would he do? Thanks to the gods, the old half
-track had kept the mercenaries' speed down to a minimum or they would already be out of his range. From the people of the villages he'd passed, he'd learned he was closing the gap. Though most of the ignorant beasts couldn't tell time, they still made it clear he was gaining. But was he doing it fast enough? When he found the abandoned and ruined half-track, he was able to get a count on their strength. He still had the right numbers on his side, and the mercenaries were down to two vehicles. And not much fuel was to be had on the route they were taking. It was also possible that the guards at the Barotseland border might turn them back, or they might just go around the checkpoint. That's what he would do in their case.

With the Saladin in the lead, the mercs rolled south all that day and through the night, passing sleeping villages whose only signs of life were the glow of campfires and the yapping of dogs. On the Saladin, the men hanging onto the outside traded places with those confined to the cramped interior. There they could at least close their eyes and not have to worry about falling off. In the jolting two and a half ton truck, men sat with weapons between their legs or across their laps on the hard wooden benches. Others tried to find places on top of the heavy weapons and ammo. Twisting their bodies around, leaning against each other for support, they tried to sleep, eyes snapping open at every bump in the road or the distant, chuckling hysteria of a hyena who had found the carcass of some animal to feed on.

In the blue haze of the night moon, termite hills stood as lonely outposts in the distance. Some were over fifty years old, older than most of the independent black African nations on the continent. Headlights searched out the road in front. Behind, clouds of dust were twisted and swirled by the warm evening breezes until the dry soil settled back onto the land. When the rains came, the sun baked road would become a cloying, sucking mass that no vehicle without deep treads could ever hope to traverse. It was an empty place for modern man, yet there were things under the thin soil that nations would go to war over. Fantastic wealth waited for those lucky or stubborn enough to beat the land and force out of it the dreams most of them died for without ever seeing.

Casey wearily watched the beams of light in front of him as the miles rolled past. His eyes ached from the grit of the road and from lack of sleep. They stopped briefly when they met a
n aged Volkswagen and had left its owner screaming at them in impotent fury as they drained his tiny car of the few gallons of gas in its tanks. They stopped twice more so that the drivers could be changed. Casey would have no accidents because of exhausted men. Whenever they reached a rise, he'd twist around in the turret and look behind him, hoping he'd see no lights.

To him the land seemed especially empty. He had been there long ago, when the great herds of elephant, gazelle, wildebeest, and zebra had moved in huge waves that took days from the time the first one crossed a mark until the last straggler went by. There were still animals out there, but like the land, they had been overused: poached, harvested, or driven out by the herds of cattle and goats the natives needed to feed their own growing populations. And with the domesticated herds came overgrazing, until each year the desert claimed a few more miles of land, turning it into a haven for snakes and scorpions, leaving less ground fit for the use of either man or animal.

An hour before dawn he called another halt. From a rise in the road he saw the flicker of distant light: the frontier and Barotseland. A few shacks and a single plank hut were the only structures to show that they were entering a different country. He ordered the lights turned off on the truck and the Saladin. By the light of the stars, they turned to the east to bypass the outpost. They'd cross the border farther down, then swing back. There was little likelihood they would have any trouble from anyone they met. Even his few men were more than a match for any of the scarce, ill equipped, poorly trained local troops they might run into. And if they were spotted, it was more than likely they would simply be ignored. The Africans often looked at things that way. Sometimes not seeing something made life that much easier.

Mtuba
lowered the binoculars from his eyes. He was pleased that he had ordered his men to turn off their lights a half hour earlier. With the aid of the glasses he had seen the two and a half ton truck's taillights go out as it turned off the road. He would have them by dawn.

The lone sentry on duty at the border station thought he heard the sound of motors for a moment, but he shrugged his shoulders as the sound faded into the distance.

They were across the border. Not until they had driven another three or four slow, torturous miles in the darkness did they turn their lights back on. Breaking trail through the brush, the Saladin nearly ran over a tent in a dry wash. Both vehicles came to a thumping, bone jarring halt. From inside the tent came a volley of curses that would have done even Beidemann proud.

"What the bloody, fucking hell do you goddamned idiots think you're doing driving around the
bleedin' bush like some ignorant, fucking Kaffirs out on a lark?"

His protests ceased abruptly when the muzzle of Casey's automatic looked down at him from the tu
rret of the armored car. Clearing his throat, he changed his tone and introduced himself as John Grimes, an itinerant and luckless prospector. "Well, then, I guess you do have the right to drive wherever you want to."

Casey climbed down from the turret, jumping off the fender to stand in front of the grizzled, scruffy man in faded khakis and bush hat. "Take it easy, old timer," he said. "We're not going to hurt you unless you do something foolish."

Grimes, or Grimy as he claimed his friends called him, scratched at a week old gray stubble with a dirty fingernail as he sized up what he saw. Armed white men in a black country. "Well, now, I don't believe I'm that far around the bend to argue with a bloody bunch of mercenaries with machine guns in their hands just because they nearly ran me over in the privacy of my own home." He indicated the worn, patched, one time British Eighth Army field medical tent. He bobbed his head up and down as if agreeing with himself. "I know who you blokes are. I caught it on my battery radio yesterday. You've got to be the ones who put the quits to that bloody maniac, Dzhombe." He didn't wait for the scar faced man to agree with his deduction. "Well, then," he continued in more pleasant tones, "that puts a different light on things. Welcome, and if there's anything I can do, just ask old John Grimes, and if he's got it, it's yours."

Beidemann
and Van joined Casey, who told them, "Let the men get out and stretch their legs for a moment. Our new friend and I are going to have a few words. But keep an eye on Xaun. I don't want to lose him just yet." Beidemann grunted an acknowledgment, then told the others to off load and do whatever they had to do.

Grimy watched the men in their camouflage fatigues with amusement and interest. "It looks like you boys are a bit the worse for wear. But what are you doing this far south? I know enough about your line of work to know you should have been long gone to wherever you came from by now.
Someone fucked things up, eh?" Whatever else old Grimy might have been, he wasn't slow in the thinking department.

Taking Grimy with him back to the truck, Casey unfolded his map. By the dim light of the dash, he pointed to what he figured was their approximate position. "Is this where we are now?"

Grimy took a pair of bifocals from a metal case he kept in his shirt pocket and put them on. Peering down at the spot indicated, he nodded his head up and down. “That’s close enough, but where are you going? Rhodesia? If you are, then you're heading in the wrong direction. There's nothing to the south but hard country. And if you get across the Zambezi into Botswana and keep going south, all you'll find is the bleedin' Okovanggo swamps. Beyond that, there's nothing but that godforsaken wasteland, the Kalahari. And I don't think you're going to get much help from the locals getting there. They didn't like Dzhombe, but they hate white mercenaries even more."

Casey didn't argue with him or offer any explanation. "What I want to know is this: Is there a Dutch mining company around here with an airstrip?" he asked.

Grimy grinned, showing long, tobacco stained teeth. "So that's it. You're going to try and fly out of here. Well, now, that's a good idea. I don't like those damned Dutchies much anyway. Several times they've run me off of what they say is their digs."

Casey was beginning to get a bit impatient with the old man's rambling. "Just answer the question. We don't have forever."

Grimy grunted, a bit offended. "All right, all right! Yes; there is a field, and they have an old Dakota there most of the time. You might be lucky and find it on the ground, but the Dutchies aren't going to like it, and they can be a bunch of mean bastards." He took a closer look at Casey's face. "I guess you people will be able to handle it all right. Here's where the strip is located." He put a black fingernail on a spot on the map near Kasempa. "It should take you about an hour to get there from here if you cut straight west for about five kilometers, then follow the road they built to their claim due south for another ten. The road's not on the map, but it's there all right. When you see a flat topped kopje with termite hills on top of it, you'll know when to turn south. You'll run right into the road. You can't miss it."

Casey sighed with relief. The old prospector had finally gotten to the point. Turning off the dash light, he called for
Beidemann.

"Tell Harrison we might have a plane for him. Get everyone back on board, and let's get out of here." Before leaving, he asked
Grimy, "Is there anything we can do for you?"

Grimy shook his head. "No, I got all I need right here. I'm just glad you put the shaft to old
Dzhombe. It was long overdue."

Lights back on to make better time, they followed John Grimes's directions. The prospector was right on the money. Exactly where he said it was, they saw the flat topped mound with the termite hills on it and turned south. To the east, the false dawn added enough light so they were able to turn off theirs. For all of them, the next minutes were filled with tension, anxiety, and a dread that there would be no plane at the Dutch strip. But if they were lucky, they would soon be safe.

Mtuba had no trouble following the tracks of the armored car and truck as he pressed hard to catch up. He nearly repeated what Casey had done, almost running over Grimy's tent. The old man responded even more testily than he had the first time. Mtuba could tell from the tracks on the ground and sand that the mercenaries had stopped here for some time. If so, there could only be one reason why; they had wanted to know something. Now he would find out what the filthy prospector had told them. It took him thirty precious minutes to learn where the mercenaries were heading and why. He hated to lose the time questioning the old man, but now he knew where to go.

They left John Grimes's body where it lay. The old man's f
ingers were ground under the tires of Mtuba's Land Rover. The rest of him was several feet away. Before they left the gully, the scent of fresh blood had drifted on the dawn breeze, drawing jackals and hyenas toward their breakfast.

The Dutch mining road was in better shape than the state ones. It ran straight and smooth with a minimum of the spine jerking potholes that waited for the unwary driver like snipers. With the sun, they came across signs posted along the road, warning in English, Dutch, French, and the local dialects that this was private property and trespassers would be punished.

The men were covered with dust. It coated the insides of their mouths, noses, and ears. Small clouds erupted from their uniforms when they hit a bump. Dust was what most of them would remember about their scenic tour of rural Kimshaka and Barotseland.

A glint of light from the tin roofs of several buildings in the distance brought them to one last stop. Standing on top of the turret of his
armored car, Casey strained his eyes, slowly scanning from right to left. There it was! A brighter gleam on the right side of the buildings beckoned them like the No Vacancy sign on a cheap motel. The plane was there! They had a way out!

"Let's go, men! There's our bus!" From the truck came a half
-hearted cheer from the tired men. Slowly the Saladin started off; it had less than two miles to go. Casey hoped he'd have no serious trouble with the owners of the plane. But at this point, there was more at stake with their reluctant passenger, Major Xaun, than with the Dutch mining concern. Looking back the way they'd come, Casey felt his stomach turn over. Coming over a long, low rise was the lead truck of the pursuing N.F.L.K. convoy. Behind it came Mtuba's Land Rover. They were not out of the thick of it yet. If the plane wasn't fueled and ready to go, it was still very possible they'd all end up either dead or in a Kimshakan prison. They'd probably be better off dead.