Casca 12: The African Mercenary (5 page)

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.

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 cultured 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?"

Harrison affected his most indignant posture from his repertoire of wounded looks and attitudes while he poured himself another cognac. "Really, Casey, it is damned unfair of you to take advantage of my weaknesses. One of these days you're going to get me hurt."

Casey smiled as he took the bottle away from the man. The image of Harrison speaking as if he were a delicate flower was amusing. One did not survive years with the SAS if one was less than the best, and the swagger stick Harrison carried was for more than just appearance. Harrison had long ago mastered kendo and Philippine stick fighting. He was always full of indignant protests, but in his own mind he was the last of England's great gentlemen adventurers and knights errant, looking for his own Holy Grail to pursue.

No,
thought Casey,
it would not do to underestimate this Englishman
. Harrison was usually referred to as "the limey," but only by his friends. Anyone else who took such a liberty did so at his own risk. Harrison tried to persuade Casey to give him one more touch of the precious liquid, but now that a deal had been made he accepted, as graciously as he could, Casey's refusal on the grounds that from now on Harrison was under orders and in training. The pilot would have probably made a stronger protest, but Casey reminded him that once the glider was on the palace grounds, so was he. He'd have to take his chances with the rest of them.

Due to his special status as a pilot, he was quartered at the big house. It also made it easier to see that he didn't fall victim to temptation and hit the bottle during a moment of soul searching.

Geidemann and Fitzhugh kept the pressure on. Between the two of them, they ran everyone's ass, including Casey's, ragged. While Shan searched for gliders, they trained nonstop. Run to the firing range! Run to the barracks! Run to where the running and exercise area was located! Some of the men grumbled at what they considered an excessively demanding training regimen, but the complaints soon disappeared when Fitzhugh reminded them that they were going to be the only pale faces in a black crowd, and if anything went wrong, they'd need their legs to get the hell out, and God help the slow ones. The next day they set a record for their daily five mile run. Fear is a great motivator, and the smart man will use it to spur himself and others to greater efforts.

Run and fire. Down, up, hit the ground. Dig in, up, run, roll. Fire team exercises, one covering the other while they leapfrogged forward. Fighting withdrawal exercises usually ended the day's activities, since that was how they would have to get out of the palace and the city.

Each man was ordered to memorize the complete layout of the palace at Kimshaka and its grounds. The routes into and out of the city had to be known by everyone. Constant rehearsal at their mock up, where the palace buildings were represented by logs, made certain that every man would know where he was at any given moment. Alternate planning also came into play. It was always necessary to plan for the worst, to know what to do if the job went down bad.

It was ten days before Shan reached Casey, who was in Kuala Lumpur with Harrison picking up supplies. Shan ran him down at Ma
ma Chin's, where he usually ate when in town. Mama, a huge Tonkinese woman with a single long braid, a full set of gold teeth, and an endless smile, called Casey to the phone in the kitchen.

"Mr.
Romain, I have found your gliders. It was most difficult, but I have them in Taiwan. One is still in its crate awaiting assembly, but the other is ready for use." Casey had to get Mama to quiet the kitchen help, then had Shan repeat the information.

Covering the mouthpiece of the phone, he told Harrison, "He's found your birds."

Harrison nudged him. "Ask what kind they are."

Removing his hand from the mouthpiece, he said, "Major Shan, Harrison wants to know what kind they are."

Shan chuckled over the phone. "I believe they are what was known as American Wacos when they were used by the Chindits during the Burma campaign." Harrison was close enough to the phone to hear Shan's reply.

"Did he say
Chindits? Wacos? Burma?" he cried. "You mean those bloody things are leftovers from World War Two? My God, they must be nearly as old as Gus!" Casey decided not to tell Beidemann what Harrison had said. His tall friend was getting a bit touchier lately. He pushed Harrison away from the phone and told him to shut up.

"Major Shan, where are you calling from?"

"Not a mile away from you. I am at the Kuala Lumpur Imperial by the park. Now listen to me! The glider in the crate is already on its way to your staging area; the other is in Taiwan. I heard your Englishman's response. As long as he is with you, you might as well send him over to me, and we will return to Taiwan on my private plane. It would be best if he practiced where I could have some control over the security."

Casey grunted in agreement. "All right, Shan, but why the hell do you sound so pleased today?"

Shan chuckled again. "Two reasons, my homely associate. First, a nice profit was made on the gliders. Second, I may be able to watch one of your degenerate friends commit hara kiri in the antique I have for him to practice on. Really, it is the kind of thing I have long dreamed of. I only wish that you were the pilot instead of Harrison. Now send him over to me today, and we will get on with what has to be done. You still have a time schedule to meet. Good bye, Mr. Romain."

Harrison continued to moan as he got into the cab to go over to the Kuala Lumpur Imperial.

"Casey, old boy, my dear friend, I really do think we should reconsider my participation in this venture."

Casey promised to send the rest of his kit to Taiwan in a couple of days.