Casca 12: The African Mercenary (15 page)

Mtuba dropped to his knees and turned around when he heard the firing behind him. He just had time to see the grenade land among the shells and scream "Down!" before it went off. The explosion threw the 106 fifty feet away, its tube twisted and warped. A fireball rose overhead, and smoking white flakes began to fall to earth, many of them landing on several of his men, who immediately quit whatever they were doing and went into spasms, slapping themselves. They clawed at their uniforms, screaming as they tried to put out the burning pieces of white phosphorus eating their way deep into their flesh.

Beidemann
gave the backs of the N. F. L. K. another full burst, then he dropped and rolled out of sight, going back the way he had come. He'd have to hurry; the Dakota was nearly at the end of the strip.

Harrison worked the throttles, giving the old bird just enough juice to keep her under control. He tried to navigate to where he saw the two mercs with Casey.
But where the hell is Gus?
he wondered. Suddenly he heard a heavy explosion, and then he noticed that there were no more 106 rounds coming at them. That gave him his answer. "So, Gus got the sons of bitches! Bloody good!"

A round from an SKS assault rifle poked a hole through
Beidemann's left leg, a neat, round puncture in the fleshy meat of his calf. But he didn't stop moving. The skirmish line of the N.F.L.K. was too near the end of the strip. They were advancing, firing from the hip. The two men with Casey were trying to hold them off, but there were too many. He needed to get back to them as fast as he could. He knew the wound was not too bad and figured the bullet that hit him had to be one of the military issue slugs with a copper jacket. Soft lead or a dumdum would have knocked him down and torn up the leg.

As Harrison taxied the plane nearer to the two mercs with Casey, the men in the aircraft had their weapons angled as far out the windows as they could to provide firepower aimed at the advancing line of rebels in the trees. There wasn't much chance they'd hit too many, but perhaps it might slow up
Mtuba's line a little.

Beidemann
stumbled and fell. Before he could get to his feet, he was knocked back down. His left shoulder was smashed at the socket by another round fired from point blank range. One of Mtuba's men, a member of the Luba tribe, was trying frantically to reduce the stoppage in his MK 47. The bolt was jammed with an expended cartridge casing that was half in and half out of the chamber, caught between the bolt and the chamber. Beidemann rose, and sweeping his good hand like a scythe, he knocked the legs out from under the Luba. Jerking the jammed rifle out of the man's hand, he swung it by the barrel, crushing the man's head.

Staggering back to his feet, he retrieved his own G3 and looked to see if there was anyone within sight he could kill. Seeing nobody, he took off again, ignoring the burning dead weight of his useless left arm.

Casey was back on his feet, his head clearing from a crack that would have given a normal man a migraine for the rest of his life. Shaking the cobwebs from his brain, he took stock of the situation. The Dakota was almost to them. There was a shout from the left as Beidemann staggered out of the trees, a trail of blood marking his path. Bullets whipped around him.

Casey dropped to one knee, firing short, three round bursts into the trees behind his wounded friend. A cry of pain gave him some satisfaction. Giving the two men with him cover, he sent them to get
Beidemann. Grunting under their load, they obeyed Casey's instructions and stumbled out onto the strip.

The Dakota was beginning to make its turn so that it would face back down the runway. Shots from the N.F.L.K. poked holes through its sides. They buzzed erratically inside the cargo bay like angry bees, ricocheting until they fell to the deck. As the plane made its turn, the return fire from its windows increased as more guns could be brought to bear. Van had left the co
-pilot's seat and had moved back inside. Setting up the 60mm mortar in the cargo door, he hand held it on the butt plate and began to lob rounds into the trees.

The N.F.L.K.
were almost on them. Casey concentrated on every shot, making most of them count as the enemy grew visible in the brush. Moving from one spot to another, hiding behind trees or even tall clumps of grass, he held them off. Looking over his shoulder as he changed magazines, he saw the two mercs heave Beidemann up into the cargo bay with the help of waiting hands. The plane completed its turn, showing the enemy its tail. Van cried out over the roar of the engines for Casey to run, which he did, waving for Harrison to go ahead. Harrison gave it a bit more gas, and the bird started to taxi. Casey was almost to the cargo door when a round hit his left thigh. He fell, and the distance between him and the plane increased to thirty feet. Mtuba was on the north end of the strip, his men laying down all the fire they could muster at the retreating plane. If the plane stopped now, even for a few seconds, all would die. Casey staggered back to his feet. Calling upon hidden reserves of strength, he ran after the plane. In one last, final burst of energy, he grabbed hold of the guy lines on the tail and pulled himself up on the flat blades. Van had to be stopped from jumping out of the cargo bay and going to him.

Harrison leaned out as far as he could from his window and looked back. A bullet nearly took his ear off as machine gun fire raked the side of the plane. He could see Casey hanging onto the ailerons. He gave the old bird some more gas, increasing its speed; he still had some runway left. Inside,
Heideman was being treated by the medic, who was frantically trying to stop the bleeding from his nearly ripped off arm. Harrison knew that he couldn't slow down too much or he'd never be able to get up the speed necessary to take off on what runway remained. And if he did take off, the first time he pulled back on the stick, he'd knock Casey off. He came up even with the hangar, and Casey made his decision for him and let go, rolling to the ground. He stood on his feet and waved for Harrison to go on, crying out, "There's nothing you can do! Get the hell out of here if you can!" Then he turned to fire back down the strip, hitting one more of Mtuba's men with a lucky shot.

Van was screaming in rage and fury at Casey's being left behind. It took three men to hold him back. One of them threw a G
-3 and a pack containing ammo, grenades, and rations out the open cargo door, figuring that the longer reach of the rifle would give Casey a better chance. But no one inside the plane really believed he had any chance at all. Tears in his eyes, Harrison laid it on, pushing the throttle until the old plane vibrated from stem to stern as it picked up speed. The cargo door was closed just as the wheels lifted off at the end of the strip, barely clearing the line of trees. They were airborne and safe. Banking the bird to port, Harrison could see Casey. He'd reached the G-3 and the pack, and was heading for the hangar, laying out fire as he went.

Mtuba
was in a rage.
They're getting away, but at least I'll have that scar faced bastard
. The Dakota was out of range in a matter of seconds. Angrily he ordered his men to quit wasting ammunition. Sending back for his Land Rover, he heard the sound of another engine. For a second he thought it was the plane, then he saw a jeep taking off and heading south.

Casey had gone through the other end of the hangar and had found the mechanic's jeep. Tumbling into it, he hit the starter and was relieved when the engine turned over. If
Mtuba wanted him, he'd have to go a bit farther.

Gaining altitude, Harrison made another pass over the field, reluctant to leave. He saw the plume of dust thrown up by the jeep as it sped south down the road, then took off cross country. Harrison let loose a yell that sent Van racing up to the cockpit, thinking they'd been hit. Pointing out the tiny speck of the jeep below, with its tail of dust, both men laughed and cried at once, bellowing out the smashed window, "Go! Go! Go!"

Van slapped Harrison on the back. "I knew they couldn't get him! That big nosed son of a bitch will live forever, I tell you. He'll live forever."

Mtuba
had no future. If he returned to Kimshaka, his fate was certain, and there was no place on the continent where he would be welcome now that the mercenaries had gotten away with his Chinese.

A cloud of reddish dust rose over a field behind a small hill. There went the source of his troubles, still heading south. Then that was the way he would go too. This game had to be played out to its conclusion, and if he was to die, then he would at least have had the satisfaction of winning part of the game. His trucks would be useless in following the jeep. He took with him a sergeant named
Tobutam, with whom he had worked before, and two of his best trained men. They took off in the Land Rover. He told the rest of his force to head back across the border to Kimshaka after concealing the bodies of their dead. The dead mercenaries would be left where they fell. Let the local authorities try to figure out what had happened. He had no further use for the rest of his men, they had failed him miserably. It was fortunate that none of them knew what his fate would be if he returned with them. To them, and to the men he was taking with him, he was still in command and would be obeyed.

Topping his tanks from the supplies at the hangar,
Mtuba made one last decision before leaving the Dutch strip. He had the three Africans in the tool cage shot. It would be best if there were no one left alive to tell what happened and who was involved. It might buy him a few more hours before word went out that he was to be killed. If nothing else Mtuba was a realist, and he was a fighter who would not quit until he was totally beaten.

Taking the wheel of the Land Rover himself, he left the strip behind, following the tracks of the jeep in the dust. If the mercenary kept heading the way he was going, and if he stayed off the few roads, it was unlikely they would run into anyone other than a few farmers.

The mercenary could, of course, head east and try to cross over to Rhodesia at Lake Victoria. But if he went that way, he would probably run into armed patrols who would be asking questions about the slaughter at the airstrip.

If Casey had extra cans of gas with him, and drove all night, and could find a way across the Zambezi River, he could be at the fringes of the
Okovanggo swamps by the next morning after crossing the Caprivi Strip into Botswana. If he made it that far, then he'd be able to pick up the road connecting Maun to Francistown on the Rhodesian border, or he could go cross country from Nata to Bulawayo in Rhodesia. There, the border was not heavily guarded, with hundreds of miles of mostly unsettled open land and very few men to patrol them.

It didn't matter to
Mtuba which choice Casey opted for. He would meet him at the end of their trail. He knew this land well, certainly much better than did the white hireling. There were shortcuts he could take to intercept his prey.

Casey pushed down the jeep's windshield and ignored the pain in his leg. The wound had already started to close up. He'd stopped just long enough to put a battle dressing on it,
then moved on. The pain would pass; right now he had to get some distance between himself and the N.F.L.K.

Weighing more heavily on his mind than his own escape were his men. He worried about them. Were they going to make it? And if he were taken, how long would it be before he would see Yu Li again? Nearly running over a warthog burrow, he pushed those thoughts aside. He couldn't afford to split his concentration.

The dry wind whipping at his face felt good as he hit a long flat stretch of open ground that permitted him the luxury of deliberate thought again.

Now, perhaps, some breaks would come his way. By now
Mtuba and his soldiers were probably across the border, back in Kimshaka. There would be no reason for them to continue the chase now that Major Xaun was out of their reach. Casey was worried about Beidemann's wounds, but their medic was a good man, and now that Harrison had his plane, they should be safe in Rhodesia in just a couple of hours. There Beidemann could get to a hospital, and Major Xaun could be turned over to the proper officials. Casey knew that all he had to do was avoid getting captured by the local authorities. They would undoubtedly ask some very difficult questions about what had happened at the airstrip, questions that he would prefer not to answer from the confines of some stinking cell where he would probably end up having to spend many years. He had come to the same conclusions about his own course of action as had Mtuba. He would have to avoid any towns on his route, at least until he was across the Zambezi.

He drove for three hours until, from a hill overlooking a valley, he saw a city. Checking his map, he knew it had to be
Mankoya. He was making good time. Getting out of the jeep to refuel, he was glad that the Dutch mechanic had kept his vehicle fully serviced and ready for the field, as did many in these lands where gas stations were often a hundred or more miles apart. Lifting one of the jerry cans of gas from its rack, he looked back the way he had come.

"Aw, shit!" he said, nearly dropping the precious can. From the hill he stood on, he could see a glint of light about three and a half miles to the north. The afternoon sun was reflecting off the glass of a vehicle. He didn't have to see the men in it to know who was following him.
Mtuba! He didn't understand why the man was still after him. It didn't make any sense. Maybe the bastard just went nuts, he thought. Whatever the reason, Casey couldn't take the time to figure it out until after he crossed the Zambezi. For now, he'd just have to run.

Resigned to what had to be, he filled his tanks and put the empty cans back into their racks; he might have a need for them later. Taking a candy bar out of the pack thrown him from the plane, he ate it slowly, letting the chocolate dissolve in his mouth. He chased it down with a single swallow of tepid, tasteless water. He was tired, and there was no one to help him with the driving. As it was, he had not been fully asleep since the night before they'd boarded the planes for the jump into
Dzhombe's palace. How long had that been? It was getting hard to keep track of time. Three days or four? Climbing back into the seat, he turned the flat nose of the old four cylinder jeep to the east, where he'd avoid Mankoya and cross the road leading from it to Lusaka. From there he'd turn south again.