The African Mercenary

by Barry Sadler

  Cupping his hands to shield the flame of his lighter, he lit up. The deceptive quiet of the night didn't fool him. He knew that hundreds of thousands of creatures were out there in the dark, feeding on each other, breeding, dying. He wasn't alone. He had long since given up trying to make any sense out of his life. Life, he thought as he sucked the ash into a bright orange glow. What is life without death? How can anything have a meaning that doesn't have an ending?

  Grinding the butt out, he heard a hunting lionness announce that she and her pride would eat tonight. The proud roar of the victorious killer could easily be heard for miles over the veldt. What was it Van had once said to him? "What more can a man do than to pick his time and place to die?"

  That's what all the others with him were doing. But for him ... His time for that pleasure still lay somewhere in the unforeseeable future. He almost didn't believe in himself anymore. It had been so long that even his own reality was subject to his own disbelief. Several times he had thought he'd gone mad and that his existence was merely the nightmares of a diseased mind. No such luck. Madness would have been a kindness. As always, he had no choice but to continue on, hoping against hope that one day he would hear the words that would grant him peace.

  A figure concealed in the darkness waited for him by the hangar. "Hello, Major. What keeps you up this late?"

  Montfort cursed under his breath. How does he do that?

  "Oh, not much, old boy. Just came by to once again wish you the best. I know you'll probably be quite busy tomorrow." He coughed a bit self-consciously as he said what he didn't think he was capable of. "By the by, when you get back, what say we go out for a drink and dinner?"

  Casey grinned in the dark. "I was going to ask you the same thing, Major. Thanks, I think I'd like that very much."

  Montfort cleared his throat again. "Have you ever thought about emigrating to a country like ours? You know, this would be a place where you could be very comfortable. If you did decide on such a course, I would be that is if you wished I would be very glad to do what I could to see about getting you a commission in the regular army." Casey smiled at the man's attempt at creating a friendship.

  "Thanks for the offer, Major. Tell you what. Let's talk about it when I get back. Right now might be a bit premature."

  Montfort bobbed his head up and down. "Of course, of course. We shall do that by all means. Well, if you'll excuse me, I have a few things of my own to take care of before calling it a night. See you tomorrow, Mr. Romain." Before leaving, he gave Casey a number to call when he returned.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Two planes, one with its umbilical cord attached to the Waco, droned their way through the night, rising over whispy columns of clouds. Beneath, the plains of the veldt gave way to the darker growth of the tropical jungle.

  The transport aircraft carrying the jumpers was an American C-119 that should have been retired from service ten years earlier but somehow always held together so it could make one more flight. A C-47 of even more ancient vintage was assigned as the tow aircraft for the Waco. It would be two minutes behind the C-119.

  The men were silent as they boarded the transport.

  Fitzhugh and George were with Casey in the C-119. Van and Harrison were in the glider with the heavy weapons section, along with Beidemann and his unit. Their gear was secured with straps to keep it from breaking loose when they touched down.

  Beside Casey, George sat unconcerned, not really caring where he went as long as his friends were with him. That was enough. And these black Cong he was going to kill could not be too different from the others in Vietnam and Cambodia.

  For Casey, the remaining hours until they reached the drop zone were spent going over the final plans again and again, trying to anticipate everything that could possibly go wrong. Reviewing the plan, it seemed simple enough. Their aircraft would be coming in on the same flight path that a regularly scheduled flight from Pretoria used at this time every week, but the regular flight would be delayed for thirty minutes while the mercs' plane took its place. The troops in Kimshaka were used to the regular commercial flights and wouldn't be alarmed at the sound of the transport's engines. Nor would the air traffic controllers behind their radar scopes in the airfield tower think anything was out of the ordinary. They would be given the proper call signs and would think the plane was just a bit off course as it made its approach to the field. How the white Africans had arranged for the delay was none of his business.

  Harrison sat calmly at the controls of the glider, taking it easy. He kept a light hand on the stick, letting the tow aircraft do the work. So far, so good. The old Waco handled quite well and was riding steady.

  Beidemann came up front and sat in the co-pilot's seat. Below, the jungle was bathed in a bluish glow. Soon the moon would be down. They had another four hours until they would be cut loose. In the back, the men were preparing themselves again; for the tenth time they made last checks of themselves and their gear. They had changed into tiger striped camouflage uniforms, stuffing their civvies into a duffel bag.

  At the same time as the C-119 and C-47 carried their cargoes of death through the night skies of Africa, the liberation forces of Kimshaka were ambushing small government outposts around the capital, drawing off troops from the city until even the palace guard had to send out most of their off duty men to take care of these insect bites that threatened to spoil the gaiety of the Avenging Lion's celebration.

  News of these raids were kept from Field Marshal Dzhombe. They were not serious. No positions had been lost. They were only nuisance actions designed to interrupt the festivities and embarrass their leader. A wise man knew when not to bother Matthew Dzhombe with bad news. In the morning it would all be over with anyway, so why disturb the master?

  The men in the C-119 adjusted the straps on their parachutes; the damned things never seemed to fit exactly right. Most of the men felt as if they had to take a leak, a common phenomenon when a person's under stress. The body wants to eliminate fluid in the bladder when danger is near. That way, if the body is injured, the risk of severe infection from a urine filled, ruptured bladder is reduced.

  The pilot left his seat in the C-119 and went back to speak to Casey. "You have one hour to go to the DZ. If there's anything you, or your men need to do, you'd better do it now. Once we get near the drop zone, my co-pilot will come back and act as jumpmaster for you. Don't worry about him. He's had over a thousand free falls and knows his business. Nothing but the best for you guys." His voice was steady, with just a hint of the American Midwest in it.

  "You're an American," said Casey, surprised.

  "That's right: Dayton, Ohio. Don't ask what I'm doing up here and I won't ask you, okay?"

  "Okay," replied Casey with a broad grin, pulling himself up from the canvas bucket seat. The pilot returned to his controls, and Casey yelled out over the noise of the engines, "One hour to go. Check your weapons and your harness. Make sure there are no grenades hanging loose that can catch on something. Keep them off your webbing and in your bags until we exit the plane."

  The Midwestern voice turned on the interior red lights so the mercs could see what they were doing and to give their eyes time to adjust to the darkness outside. The red glow gave a strange, hellish aura to everyone and everything it touched. The interior of the plane could have been a scene out of Dante's Inferno. The night bird flew on....

  Field Marshal and Premier for Life, Matthew Dzhombe, sat on the hereditary throne of his tribe and held court. His speech of the day had been hailed by one and all as his best, and no one seemed to mind the four and a half hours it took to deliver. The thundering cheers of the people assured him of their devotion, especially since his best troops, his ufaSimbas, were covering them with automatic weapons. No one seemed to notice when some Simbas took away several spectators. Included in this group were a number of attractive young women. No one interfered. Their fate was well known, and not all of the young women were frightened. Some thought it could be a way
to a better life if they pleased Dzhombe.

  Cars waited to take them to the palace for the pleasure of Dzhombe and his guests. Once there, they would be bathed, dressed in gowns from Europe, and given instructions as to their duties. All obeyed. To refuse was unthinkable.

  The celebrations at the presidential palace had started soon after Dzhombe's speech had ended and the huge crowd was permitted to return to their homes. No stores or restaurants were open for business. Everyone was to be in his own house by nightfall. Anyone found on the streets without special permission would be shot on the spot.

  The party at the palace had degenerated into its normal drunken orgy. Dzhombe roared with laughter, his huge frame shaking with mirth, as his sycophants enjoyed his bounty. The pretty young women brought in for the celebration laughed too, most of them high. Cocaine, heroin, and hashish were to be had for the asking. Possession of narcotics was a crime only when Matthew Dzhombe said it was.

  The palace grounds were lit with lanterns, the walls adorned with strings of multi-colored bulbs. Many of the guests had already passed out or were clutching each other in the bushes and flower gardens. Dzhombe's few remaining off duty palace guards helped themselves to whatever they could get their hands on. Dzhombe, they knew, understood their needs, and as long as they didn't offend anyone of importance, they could do as they pleased.

  Dzhombe watched over them, resembling some gross idol observing his worshipers in their pagan rites. Nothing escaped him. He made a mental note of those he did not like. His criteria for this fatal judgment was often nothing more than that the subject of his displeasure did not seem to be enjoying himself enough. Sober men who avoided healthy whores at his parties were men to be watched. Before selecting for himself one of the women who had been taken from the streets, he made one last scan of the doorways and windows. The men there were not drinking. All were completely sober, trying to be unobtrusive as they watched over their master's guests. Each Simba's rifle was loaded and ready to fire.

  Clanggggg! The ten minute warning bell rang, startling in its suddenness. Casey stood and hooked up, giving the command to his men to do the same. As they lined up, he yelled out over the plane's roar, "Sound off!" Starting at the rear of the first stick came the responses:

  "Thirty okay."

  "Twenty nine okay."

  "Twenty eight okay..."

  Casey was number one. All of them would be out of the plane in less than twenty seconds from the time the jumpmaster gave the word. Both sticks would exit by the tail. They'd be jumping at about seven hundred feet. No reserves were carried. If anything went wrong, there'd be no time to use one anyway. From that jump height, they would be in the air for only about twenty three seconds before they touched down. That wouldn't give Dzhombe's guards much time to respond to the invasion.

  "One minute to the DZ," came the call from the co-pilot now turned jumpmaster, a tough looking man in his thirties wearing British and American jump wings on his olive drab coveralls. He pulled the switch that opened the tailgate, exposing the night to the men inside. Then he opened the side door and stuck his head out to check on their approach. When the tailgate opened, a rush of wind whirled through the red lit interior, a welcome bit of relief in the claustrophobic confines of the flying boxcar.

  Casey's men got ready, hands on their static lines. They'd tucked their soft caps into pockets where they wouldn't be lost during the jump and tightened the chin straps on the British made paratroop helmets, the kind that resembled motorcycle helmets more than anything else.

  The lights of Kimshaka City were clearly visible to the jumpmaster as he gauged their distance. The C-119 had finished making its descent and had leveled off at seven hundred feet.

  "Stand in the door," came the jumpmaster's command. Casey moved forward to the lip of the tailgate. Below him he could see the lights of individual houses and cooking fires. He wished that he'd been able to get a look at where they were heading, but he'd have to leave that to the jumpmaster's discretion and trust that the man was right.

  Behind him, all were tense. A mixture of anticipation and fear ran through their bodies like an electric current.

  "Go!" At the jumpmaster's order, Casey stepped out into the black night. Putting one foot over the edge of the tail, he was well aware that the next step was seven hundred feet down. Then he brought his other up to meet it and fell, his elbows tucked in, hands holding his kit bag close to his chest where his reserve chute would have been had he had one.

  He was out and falling, his body whipped back by the cyclone blast of the C-119's props. There was a deafening roar followed by the opening shock of the chute. At the same time, the world went silent as the plane flew on ahead. Quickly he checked his risers, then looked around the sky for his men. They were all there. Turning his chute, he saw that the jumpmaster had been exactly on target; the palace grounds were directly below. The strings of colored lights on the walls serving as their marker, the mercs guided their chutes down.

  Squinting his eyes, he saw several Simbas staring up at the chutes falling at them from the night sky. The ground came up almost faster than he could get ready for it. He hit hard, but nothing broke. Rolling over and hitting his quick release to break free of his chute harness, he unslung his Swedish M45 submachine gun and went down on one knee. The others were landing all around him.

  A drunken soldier ran up to him, grinning, a hand extended with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red in it, the black man offering Casey a drink. The grin was stopped by the smashing of the Simba's jawbone with the metal stock of the gun.

  Simbas started to yell out warnings, and several of the guests began to get a look of terror in their glazed eyes as they realized this was not some bizarre form of entertainment that their master had arranged for their amusement.

  George ran up to kneel beside Casey, his sawed off shotgun at the ready. A group of five guards broke from the bushes to their right. One struggled with the bolt of his rifle. The time had come.

  Not speaking, Casey took out the far two with a short, three round burst, twice repeated. The thundering sound of George's twelve gauge terminated the other three, blasting them back fifteen feet before they hit the ground. The fight was on.

  Casey's mercs got their act together and started knocking out the guard posts on the garden walls. Two men had run to the garden gate where any reinforcements for the Simbas would have to enter. They took up positions on each side and waited. Their job was to keep the garden secure. Three minutes had elapsed. The mercs held the courtyard, but the Simbas were beginning to organize and return fire. Several of the mercs were wounded. Only one was dead, a young Irishman.

  Casey gathered some men and assaulted the doorway, gaining the interior. They were brought to a halt by a blocking force of ten palace guards who had placed themselves to cover the entrance to the palace from the garden grounds. They were well protected behind columns and balustrades, and were beginning to lay down effective fire. Another mere went down, his face a shattered wreck from the burst of an AK-47 on full automatic.

  Turning to the south, Casey muttered, "Where the hell is that limey?"

  Then suddenly it was there. The number two aircraft had cut her loose and banked off to port. The glider was silently floating in and down ... four hundred, three hundred, two hundred ... and then, raising her nose, Harrison tail dragged the old bird into the shallow pond, scaring the shit out of two nude couples fooling around near the water who'd remained oblivious to the sounds of gunfire around them. The sight of the giant bird falling silently toward them was too much for the girls, who promptly screamed and dove under the water to get away.

  One man, Kimshaka's minister of culture, had his head taken off as he just stood there staring as if he couldn't believe what was happening. The Waco was down and splashing to a halt, the starboard wing torn off as she hit a clump of small trees. She slid out of the water and stopped about twenty yards behind Casey and about thirty from the palace.

  Inside, the men were tossed fro
m side to side, and one man's arm snapped at the elbow when he was thrown into the 57mm recoilless rifle. Swearing, he thrust his broken arm between his combat webbing straps and kicked the door open before the bird had come to a complete stop. Pulling his pistol, he shot a Simba in the face. The merc leaped to the ground and started looking for targets. He was followed by Van, who quickly had his team set up their mortars and had the recoilless rifle taken to where Casey and George were directing fire on the rear doors and porches of the palace.

  Seven minutes had passed since Casey had landed in the courtyard. Van smiled, showing even, white teeth in his handsome face. "Yes, master, this boy will get to work right now."

  Loading the 57mm rifle with a high explosive round, Van blew up the group of Simbas who had rushed to defend the palace entrance, ripping them into pieces that would take a master at jigsaw puzzles to put together again for their funerals.

  "Too long!" Casey cried. "It's taking too long! We've got to get inside!" Leaving three men outside to keep the Simbas occupied, he took George with him and ran into Beidemann coming at them with a rope and grappling hook slung over his shoulder. No dialogue was necessary.

  The old German whirled the hook around his head, tossing it up onto the balcony of a room on the second floor. Not waiting for orders, he was up the line like a bear up a tree trunk. He was followed by George, then Casey. Van had reloaded his rifle and was aiming it at the Simbas at the rear door. Casey called down for him to get on with it. While they were still on the second floor porch, they heard the whooshing blast of the recoilless rifle as Van cut loose with a canister round into the palace interior.

  Casey kicked open the porch door and tumbled inside. No one was there to stop them, just two frightened women who hid their faces behind their hands and begged him not to kill them. Beidemann and George were on his heels, and the German beat him to the door leading to the second floor hallway. Stepping out first, he cut down two Simbas who had their backs turned to him. They'd been watching the action downstairs.