by Barry Sadler
Beidemann and George began laying down some fire support to their men below. Between them they reduced the return fire of the enemy by fifty percent in less than twenty seconds. Screams came from every corner of the palace as the panicked guests sought shelter. Several of them, including a few women, were cut down when they ran into crossfire between the mercs and the Simbas.
Yelling downstairs, Casey ordered Fitzhugh to hold the ground floor and see that the escape group got over to the motor pool to commandeer any vehicles they could get their hands on. Fitzhugh gave a regulation salute and began barking out orders to that effect.
Knowing Fitzhugh would see things done properly, Casey and his crew raced up the next flight of stairs to the third floor. Beidemann shot someone who stuck his head out of a bedroom door. At a time like that, he couldn't wait to see if the person was going to be sociable or not. At the head of the third floor staircase, three of Dzhombe's elite guard were waiting, stone cold sober and ready. They were the ones who had been privileged to accompany their master back to his home kraal. They were the faithful hounds guarding their master's door.
As the mercenaries hit the top, the guards began to fire. Beidemann was creased along the inside of his thigh. Cursing in three languages, he sprayed the hallway along with the others. The three sentries absorbed over eighty bullets and several shotgun slugs.
Casey's gun was empty. Not taking time to change magazines, he pulled his pistol from its holster and blew out the lock on the right side of the large double doors behind which they hoped to find Matthew Dzhombe. Giving the door a kick with his foot, it swung open. Jumping back against the side of the hallway, he expected some kind of response from the man inside.
There was nothing for a few seconds. Then a heavy voice boomed out, "Who disturbs me?" The question was repeated, this time the volume approaching that of an angry bull elephant.
Cautiously glancing around the edge of the doorway, the mercenaries peeked in. Dzhombe was rising from his bed, a giant gargoyle. Stark naked, his blue black skin glistened with oil and sweat. The shooting outside had penetrated his consciousness. The bhang he had eaten had separated his mind from reality, taking him to another plateau of awareness that blocked out the everyday world. The woman lying under him had been screaming as he'd taken her, using her as an object of sacrifice to his gods and himself. The screams had been to him only her acceptance of the state of grace she was entering. The fact that his sex organs were in direct proportion to his size and had torn her apart meant nothing to him. The screams and blood from the woman were normal for him, expected, indeed almost needed
The mercs were stunned for a moment by this nightmarish apparition. The photos they'd seen of the man didn't prepare them for his true size and his aura of primitive, brutal power.
Casey had no time to waste. Stepping inside the door, he fired twice with his pistol, hitting Dzhombe in the stomach with both rounds. The slugs knocked him back, and Dzhombe laughed through a bhang induced anesthesia. Moving beside Casey, Beidemann fired a three round burst from his G-3, knocking Dzhombe to the floor. At such close range they could clearly hear the bullets slapping into the man's body. Dzhombe, favored of the gods and inheritor of the Kingdom of Shaka, rolled back up from the floor to his feet. He quivered for a moment, then shook his body, whipping a spray of sweat and blood all over the room.
Staggering to regain his balance, he laughed, bloody foam bubbling from his lips. "Fools," he gurgled. The gaping holes in his chest and back seemed not to give him any pain at all. "Fools, you cannot kill me. Only the gods have that right. I am their child, Shaka, born again into the body of Matthew Dzhombe."
The mercs stopped firing. Even Casey was stunned by what he was witnessing. Dzhombe should have been dead, but there he stood, laughing at them, his hide glistening with sweat and blood, not only from the gunshot wounds but also from the woman who still lay on the bed sobbing in pain
Dzhombe threw back his head and screamed. It wasn't a scream of fear or pain, but one of rage. For a moment the sound even halted the gunfire outside. "I am a child of the gods! They protect me," he bellowed.
George had seen just about enough. He pushed his way between Beidemann and Casey, leveled the bore of the twelve gauge shotgun, and fired two rounds. Both hit their target, lifting Dzhombe from his feet and throwing him against the bedroom wall. Dzhombe didn't fall even though the shotgun had torn off his left elbow and ripped open the madman's rib cage to where the internal organs were exposed between the bloody, torn flap of skin and bone hanging down to his hips.
The men in the doorway held their fire, amazed that their target wasn't down. Each had killed many times before, but never had they seen anything like this. What was the force that could keep this giant of a man on his feet? They knew they were witnessing a sight they would never see again.
Dzhombe was a dead man; he just didn't know it. His mind could not accept being killed by ordinary mortals. The voices of his childhood were speaking to him again, calling to him. Dzhombe's eyes grew wide as he stared at the doorway leading to the outside balcony.
Joruba, the feathered messenger of the gods, stood there. It was Joruba who had brought fire to man and took the spirits of the scar faced back to the gods who lived in the mountains to the north. Joruba beckoned to Dzhombe, his right hand holding a flaming torch, the symbol of the gods' great gift to man.
"Come," said the hollow voice of the messenger, his face hidden behind a mask of carved ebony. "Come, son of Shaka. You have been accepted. Come and join us. It is time for you to become one with us. Come and be a god."
Dzhombe roared with laughter. Reaching out, he took a short ikwla, a stabbing spear, from the wall where it hung beside a ceremonial shield of buffalo hide. The mercs backed up, still not firing, almost hypnotized by what was occurring.
Dzhombe held the spear above his head, blood pouring freely from his wounds, startlingly white bone mixed with red muscle and black skin. Crimson pools of his life formed around his feet.
"Did you hear?" He spoke the words as if the men trying to kill him were dear friends and not his executioners. "Did you hear?" he repeated, coughing up big gouts of blood from his lungs. "They want me, Dzhombe, the soul of Shaka, to be one of them. I am a god. I am going to join my brothers who wait for me in the great mountains."
For the first time since they had arrived, Dzhombe seemed to take real notice of the men at his door and their weapons. Stepping forward a pace, he wavered, caught himself, and pointed the ikwla at them. "Do you fools think a mortal can kill a god? No, you cannot. Your guns cannot take what belongs to the heavens or set my spirit free to join my brothers. It takes a god to kill a god." Matthew Dzhombe laughed hysterically and repeated, "It takes a god to kill a god!"
Dzhombe waved the ragged stump of his left arm in the air, showering the room with a rain of blood. Still laughing, he shifted his grip to the head of the spear. Whirling around in a circle, he drove the three foot blade into his chest. Grasping the handle with his good hand, he tried to force the blade all the way in, but he couldn't.
The steel was stuck in the heavy bones and thick muscles of his chest. The blood he had lost took away the strength needed to finish the job. He stopped his spinning and looked at the faces of the men watching him. Red rimmed and mad, his eyes searched the face of each man. There was one there who might understand. Pointing with his stump, he commanded the scar faced, gray eyed mercenary, "You! You are the one to assist me. Hurry!"
Casey stuffed his pistol into his belt. He knew what Dzhombe wanted. When he started forward, the others didn't stop him. They were no longer part of this ritual. Casey stood beside the bloody giant. He could smell the thick odor of blood and sex mixed with that of coming death. Dzhombe held out his good hand and took Casey's, placing it on the haft of the spear.
Conversationally, between lung ripping coughs, Dzhombe said, "You are the one. You know what has to be done." Casey said nothing. Gripping the haft with both hands, he waited until Dzhombe repl
aced his own hand near the head of the spear, then began to push, twisting the blade until it broke free of the bone holding it. Dzhombe grinned at him. "Good, now the rest..." Three hands grasped the weapon, and as one they pushed and pulled, forcing the iKwla a foot out of Dzhombe's back.
Casey released his grip and stepped back. The rest of what was to happen was for Dzhombe alone to finish. Dzhombe turned to the open doorway.
Joruba waited for him. The mask of the spirit smiled at him. Taking his hand, Joruba intoned, "You have done well. Now, come with me." Holding Joruba's hand, Matthew Dzhombe flew to the mountains. Matthew Dzhombe, born again soul of Shaka, Avenging Lion of Kimshatra, had become one with his brothers.
The mercenaries rushed to the balcony and looked down at Dzhombe's body, which had crashed over the railing and fell to the courtyard three floors below. They were still in a state of shock from what they had seen take place in the premier's room. A tinge of fear ran through them all, even Casey.
A Simba wearing the stripes of a sergeant on his camouflage jacket saw Dzhombe's body fall. He sent up a cry. "The Lion is dead! The Lion is dead!"
The remaining Simbas broke and ran. They had no heart to fight anymore. Dzhombe was gone. They were lost without him, and they knew that others would be coming soon to take their revenge on those who had supported him. They ran out of the palace through the darkened streets to their barracks, where they might find safety in numbers. They knew the killing had not ended with the death of their master. Now they would have to fight for their lives against those they had ruled over in the name of Matthew Dzhombe, and there were many, many scores that would be settled in the next few days...
CHAPTER TWELVE
In the palace courtyard, the mercs wiped up what feeble, demoralized resistance remained. They took a number of prisoners, disarmed them, and locked them up in one of the palace storerooms. As Casey and the others came down from Dzhombe's rooms, they had to step over the bodies of Simbas and the distinguished guests who'd died in their master's house. A fire had started somewhere in the rear of the palace, but they had neither the time nor the interest to put it out.
Harrison called to them from the seat of a half-track. He'd gone with Fitzhugh to the palace's motor pool. His new acquisition was American made, and behind it came Fitzhugh, driving a British Saladin armored car on which was mounted a 20mm gun. One more half-track pulled up with Yousef standing behind a captured Russian RPD light machine gun. Casey wondered where he'd been and figured that the Moroccan had attached himself to Harrison during the melee. One other vehicle, a two and a half ton open bed truck, made up the vehicles for their escape.
Waving them aboard, Casey yelled to all not to leave any of the gear behind, which included his MG-34 still in its drop bag. The light machine gun hadn't been needed during the fight, but they weren't out of danger yet. There was still the escape from the city to be made, and they could run into enemy patrols. Fitzhugh and Harrison gunned the engines of the vehicles. The operation had now been on the ground for forty three minutes; they should be gone. As they loaded, Casey put the casualties into the truck and positioned it between the Saladin and the last half track. They had gotten off fairly easy: four dead and six wounded, only one critically. The medic was already working on the badly injured man.
Guns pointing to the outside, the mercenaries loaded up and headed out into the streets of Kimshaka City, turning down the main thoroughfare and aiming for the lines of the N.F.L.K. about ten miles south, near the Soruba River.
Word of Dzhombe's death had preceded them. From some houses came the sounds of panic and sorrow; in others there was rejoicing that the monster was gone. Already, Dzhombe's officers were drawing the lines to see who would inherit his power. The mercs drove as fast as they could while keeping all the vehicles close enough to each other to give mutual support in case it was needed. A number of Simbas, still in shock at the news, wandered the streets, randomly shooting out windows of whitewashed, flat roofed buildings and shanties made of tin sheeting. A couple of them took a few shots at the vehicles, but they were quickly cut down by the mercs' automatic weapons. Leaving the lights of the capital behind, in less than ten minutes they entered the first thin line of trees and brush. The time on site was now exactly one hour and three minutes.
The men felt good. Things had gone pretty much as planned, although the manner of Dzhombe's death had caused some excitement and speculation as to what it sometimes took to kill a man. But he was dead, and that was what mattered. Now all they had to do was get to the lines of the N.F.L.K., and they were home free.
As they rode, magazines were refilled from boxes of loose ammo, and weapons were checked to make certain that everything was in good working order. The men had all been around too long not to know that as long as they were on the ground in enemy country, anything could happen. The survivors of these kinds of operations were the ones who didn't take unnecessary chances or get careless at the last moment when all appeared to be safe and secure.
Sitting with Harrison in the shotgun seat of the lead half-track, Casey looked over his map by the glow of a flashlight and told the Englishman to bear to the right at the next fork in the road. So far they had been riding on blacktop, which would end at the fork. The half-track had seen better days probably right after World War II but the engine still seemed sound and ran well enough to please Harrison. At the split in the road, Casey had Harrison pull over and stop. The other vehicles came to a halt in a line behind them, their passengers wary, guns pointing out on all sides. Those in the armored vehicles kept their bodies shielded behind the steel sides of their transport.
Stepping out and stretching, Casey removed a flare gun from one of the kit bags Harrison had put in the front seat. Selecting the proper shells, he loaded and fired a red then a green flare into the sky. Watching the flares flame over the trees like beacons from a ship at sea, they slowly faded to nothing as they fell to earth. Two, then three minutes passed and there it was! One white flare answering theirs.
"Everyone back on board! And keep your eyes open we're not out of this yet! When we get to the next turn in the road, watch for me to blink my lights. Yousef, you unpack my MG and put a drum on it. Van, you hang back with Fitzhugh in his half-track and keep out of sight. Keep your heavy stuff ready. Set up a mortar in the bed of your vehicle and place the fifty seven millimeter so you can fire from the front without any of your people getting blown away by the back blast. If anything comes down wrong, get your ass in high gear and bail us out. Got it?"
Van acknowledged his orders. "Got it, master. This boy always ready to do white god's bidding," Van said, teasing him, his boyish smile making him look more like a teenager than a battle proven soldier.
Casey grinned back and muttered something about an insubordinate little bastard.
Slowly they started off. Fitzhugh turned off his lights and let the others get far enough ahead so their taillights would just be visible. In the rear, Van got his gear ready as Casey had ordered and leaned out over the cab to the front, eyes squinting to catch any movement. The half-tracks and the British Saladin were doing only about eighteen miles an hour, taking their time as they headed in the direction from which the white flare had been fired.
The jungle closed around them, a monstrous cloak of dark, heavy air. They drove on for almost two miles before grinding to a halt. A roadblock consisting of a jeep and a Citroen sedan blocked their path. Just off to the side of the roadblock was a British Land Rover.
The Saladin, with Beidemann and George inside, nearly hit Casey's half-track in the rear before the brakes held. Fitzhugh saw the brighter glow of the truck's brake lights and brought his half-track to a quieter, more controlled stop.
The small convoy waited, engines idling. Beidemann let himself slide out the door of his armored car, taking his G-3 with him. From the rear of Casey's half-track, Yousef did the same, following in the big German's wake as he slipped into the shadowed darkness of the trees.
Casey stepped out
. Only his half-track kept its lights on. They allowed him to see several figures move up to the roadblock. One stepped forward, a tall figure in leopard type camouflage. The man smiled, his teeth very white in the lights from the half-track. With him were two others wearing the same kind of uniform, shiny new weapons carried at the ready. "Welcome, Mr. Romain, welcome. I am Colonel Lawrence Mtuba. My agents in the capital have radioed me that you were successful in your quest and the beast is dead. Congratulations. Please," he indicated the shadows behind him with a sweep of his hand, "join us."
"Thank you, sir," Casey called out loudly. "Are the arrangements ready for our transport out?" Casey caught a glimpse of another figure standing in the darkness beyond the range of the half-track's lights. Something about the figure set him on edge. He kept on talking, his voice loud. "We want to get out of here as soon as possible. One of my men has a bad case of bewacht."
"Be ... what, Mr. Romain? What is that?" queried Mtuba.
Tensing, Casey repeated even more loudly than before, “Bewacht." There were enough men in his convoy who understood the German word. Casey had told them, "Beware! Something is not right up ahead." Van got ready to fire as the mortar crew stood by, shells on hand and ready to be dropped down the tube.
"That's a slang word used by my men for a gut wound," Casey told the confused ebony face in front of him.
"That is not a slang word. It's German and you are correct in being cautious, Mr. Romain. However, there is no real danger for you here that cannot be settled to everyone's satisfaction." The smooth voice came from the shadows near the Citroen, a voice that had the flavor of Asia, not Africa.
Not taking his eyes off the man in front of him, Casey greeted the unseen voice. "Ni how ma? You're a long way from home, Chinaman."
The lilting voice laughed gently. "You are more perceptive than I would have thought. You know that I am Chinese. What else?"
