by Barry Sadler
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.
Mtuba turned the wheel of the Land Rover over to his sergeant. He would need his rest. He had seen the jeep and knew that he was right in his earlier judgments. After he passed the Lusaka road, he'd have his man swing wide to the east and take another road not on the map that would cut around until he was able to get in front of the mercenary. After Mankoya, there was only one way the foreigner could go to cross the river between Sesheke and Livingstone, and he, Mtuba, would be waiting for him at the Zambezi crossing.
Montfort called van Janich at home, trying to control the excitement in his voice. "Sir, I have good news. Our friends in Rhodesia have just notified me that they have received a radio message from Romain's pilot, the crazy Englishman, Harrison. They say they have wounded on board and have brought me a special guest to speak to. Maybe this is our lucky day, and we'll get some straight answers for a change."
He listened to van Janich's excited res
ponse on the other end of the line, nodded his head, and continued. "I have asked our friends to send those of Mr. Romain's unit who are not seriously wounded on to us. They should be arriving by jet in less than two hours."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Montfort and van Janich were not at all pleased with what Van and Harrison told them, nor were they satisfied with the answers given by Major Xaun, who now claimed to have no knowledge at all of any plans for North Korean volunteers to be given to the N.F.L.K. to offset the Cuban presence in Angola. Now that Xaun was in what he felt were more civilized hands, he put on a passive expression and calmly denied everything, saying only that he had been sent to the N.F.L.K. as no more than an observer and just happened to be with the unit that met Casey's men outside of Kimshaka City. In fact, he claimed it was the mercenaries who'd started the firefight, though for what reasons he couldn't say. He suggested they might be in the pay of the Russians.
Harrison and Van didn't give a damn what the Chinese said or what van Janich did with him. They wanted to know what was going to be done for Casey. It had been three hours since they'd been brought from a landing field outside of Zawi, northwest of Salisbury.
They'd set down on the first strip that was near a town that looked large enough to have a hospital. That was where Beidemann and the other wounded mercs were now. They were under close guard by members of the Selous Scouts in order to make certain that their presence was kept secret from the outside world. When they were able to be moved, they would be returned to Malaya by a plane with diplomatic status. All the others were already on their way out of Africa after their debriefing by van Janich. Only Van and Harrison stayed behind. They'd refused to go until they knew about Casey and Beidemann, who was still under the surgeon's knife in the community hospital at Zawi.
Van Janich didn't push the issue. It was possible the mercs might still have some information to give him. Van Janich had to believe Harrison and Van; there were too many things going on in Kimshaka that made their statements make sense. It was now clear why relations with the N.F.L.K. had suddenly turned from their normal chilly state to one of near freezing. As far as Major Xaun was concerned, van Janich knew how to handle him. The Front said they knew nothing of any Chinese in their country. Therefore, Major Xaun did not officially exist. Once Xaun realized that he had no protection of any kind, he'd either talk or truly disappear forever from the face of the earth.
Harrison returned van Janich's attention to his and Van's concern. "What about Casey? Are you just going to write him off after he's done your dirty work for you?"
"We are going to do no such thing," Montfort answered with quiet sincerity. "We always live up to our end of a bargain. And we do believe what you've told us about the N.F.L.K. and the Chinese is true." Moving over to a large wall map of Africa, he asked Harrison to come and point out where they were when they took the Dutch plane. That was another problem to be taken care of, but money could buy many kinds of cooperation, and this particular mining company had been negotiating with them for some mineral rights. Now it looked as if they might have a very good chance of getting them.
Harrison pointed out where the field was located. It was just outside Kasempa. "Here. When we last saw him, he was in a jeep heading south."
Montfort looked at van Janich, who nodded, making an unspoken agreement.
"Mr. Harrison, we cannot go into another country with armed men to search for your leader. The situation is too politically explosive right now. Besides which, there is a lot of country out there and a dozen ways he could go. What we can do, however, is have everyone on duty at the Rhodesian border be on the alert for him. If he crosses into Rhodesia, they'll get him back to us as they did you and your comrades. If he goes south to Botswana and tries to cross the Zambezi, we'll have native agents on the lookout. Sooner or later he'll have to come to one place or another where we'll be able to help him. The moment we have a fix on him, we'll have a pickup arranged either by land or air. If he can just keep out of official hands until then, we'll be able to help. If he is arrested and jailed in Barotseland, then we'll have to pull a lot of strings. The most important leverage we have is the information you've given us about the Chinese and the North Koreans. While some of our black African neighbors hate us, we all have one thing in common: none of us wants any more foreigners in our countries trying to take over." Montfort knew the feelings Van and Harrison had for their leader. In the short time he had known Casey Romain, he had recognized qualities in him that drew one to the man. Whether one agreed with him or not, one had the feeling that he was basically a good man, although a bit strange.
Trying to reassure them was not easy. "Look here, chaps, there's nothing more you can do for now. Go and get some rest. As soon as we get any word at all, I promise I'll send for you. We are not going to leave your man in the lurch."
Van and Harrison knew Montfort was right. They were very tired, and there might come a time soon when they'd need to have clear heads and eyes. They would sleep, then they'd be back.
The night was clear, the stars brilliant. Warm winds came from the south off the Kalahari. There was no humidity, just a dry movement of air that had no taste in it of the rains yet to come. Between Casey and the Kalahari were two bodies of water, both of them now low: the Zambezi River and the Okovanggo swamps. Casey didn't want to go as far as the swamps and didn't think he had enough fuel to make it there anyway. More than likely, if he got as far as the Zambezi, he'd have to strike out on foot until he found another mode of transportation. The jeep had started to give him some trouble. It was running hot and missing. If it stalled out at the wrong time, it could mean big trouble if Mtuba or the local authorities got too close to him. Thinking of Mtuba, he realized he hadn't seen him since he'd refueled near Mankoya. But somehow he didn't think he'd lost him. He had a very strong premonition that he and Mtuba would meet again, and it would be very soon. He just hoped it wouldn't be beyond the Okovanggo, in the desert where the bones of thousands lay and where only the Bushmen were truly at home.
From Mulobezi, a two hour drive could take him either to Livingstone and the crossing over the Victoria Falls into Rhodesia or over the Mulobezi Bridge where he could go on to Sesheke and ferry it over the Zambezi. Neither option was particularly appealing to Casey, for he was growing increasingly weary. His eyes felt as though tiny, gritty, red hot coals were nestling under the lids. He would have to sleep soon, and that would be dangerous. But if he didn't, he'd probably end up wrecking the jeep. Sleeping wasn't something he wanted to do on this side of the border, but he had to. Pulling the jeep over to the side of the trail he'd been following, he tried to cover it with brush to keep it from being seen by casual eyes. If Mtuba or someone were really looking for him, there was no way he could conceal the miles of tracks the jeep's tires had laid behind him. It was just a chance he'd have to take.
When he had the jeep covered, he took his pack and weapons and moved a couple of hundred yards away from it to the south, where he'd be able to run for it if the jeep were found. This way he'd still be heading in the right direction.
Smoke drifted over the trees, and Casey could smell meat cooking. His mouth watered at the windborne menu. The savory smell came from a village that was one of the Tonga kraals. Cattle, distantly related to the Brahman, were being roasted for some celebration or other.
Climbing up into the branches of a tree, he made a nest where he could at last close his eyes. Twisting his body to fit the angle of the tree and its branches, he placed his G-3 over his chest with the strap around his neck, then slung the pack high on his left arm. He was taking no chances on dropping anything if he moved while asleep. Looking at the night sky through the branches, he tried to set his mental clock for no more than three or four hours of sleep, one for each day he'd been awake. When he awoke it would still be dark, and he'd be able to make the Zambezi crossing between Livingstone and Sesheke by dawn. He was still thinking about the Zambezi when he blinked and was out.
Mtuba pushed the
Land Rover hard. It had a larger motor and more power than the smaller and older American jeep. After he'd left Mankoya, he cut over and drove alongside the Kafue River until he came to the asphalt road between Lusaka and Livingstone. Being an African, he attracted little attention even in his uniform, which was not an uncommon sight to the villagers and travelers on the road.
Six miles north Livingstone he left the paved road and turned due west, which was how he believed Casey had gone. It was the only decent track a wheeled vehicle could traverse going south from Mulobezi. If he was right, and they'd picked up the extra time by using the paved road, then he would be well in front of his prey. Now he just had to wait for the pale, fish bellied hired killer to appear.
They reached the Zambezi crossing two hours before dawn. At that time of year during the dry season the water level of that section was so low that the river could be crossed on foot. Anywhere else on the river, however, one would still require a bridge or ferry to get to the Botswana side. This has to be the place, he thought. Sending his sergeant and two men out to check the ground around the riverbank, Mtuba leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.
He awoke at the sound of booted feet on dry leaves. The sergeant reported, "Sir, we went up and down the river for three kilometers in each direction. There is no sign that the jeep or any other vehicle has crossed. The riverbed shows only the tracks of bare feet. The one you want has not come this way."
