Casca 12: The African Mercenary
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Authors: Barry Sadler
This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are Fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.
CASCA: #12 African Mercenary
Casca
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Copyright © 1984 by Barry Sadler
Cover: Greg Brantley
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Table of Contents
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.
"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!"
Outside of Bern, Switzerland, in a storybook chateau overlooking a lake, ten men sat together, united only by their mutual mistrust. There were five white and five black Africans. On one side of the polished conference table sat the descendants of the Bantu tribesmen who had subjugated most of central Africa for centuries. On the other sat the heirs of the tough-minded Dutch settlers, the Boers, who had destroyed the Zulu nation and conquered that land for their own, building their cities and universities where once the kraals of the Mplele held sway over the veldt.
Beneath the formal courtesy of each group lay their violent heritage. These men were going into a partnership out of necessity, not friendship. The black Africans were representatives of the insurgents wishing to take over the government of Matthew
Dzhombe's Kimshaka. The whites were an island of sunburned faces surrounded by a hostile black ocean. They wanted a secure outlet to the sea to prevent their being completely cut off from the outside world in case of an embargo by the United Nations.
Understanding this, both groups
, the blacks uncomfortable in ill-fitting suits, the whites sullen over having to deal with them, came to an agreement. The black Africans were among the few surviving members of Kimshaka's intelligencia, and had either been driven into exile or had managed to escape before Dzhombe's executioners found them. All had reasons for wanting to return. All had lost members of their families to the executioners, and all had friends still being held in concentration camps or, as His Excellency Matthew Dzhombe referred to them, "re-education centers."
The negotiations had been going on for eleven days, both sides twisting and testing each and every word of their agreement until at last they had made their pact. If the B
oers were successful in arranging the timely demise of Matthew Dzhombe, the new government would cede to the whites a narrow strip of land leading from their country to the sea, giving the whites their corridor through which supplies could reach them without hindrance. Their country would no longer be isolated or subject to the whims of a madman. Before leaving, the white delegation made one more veiled threat, letting their unwilling black allies know that if they went back on their word, they would be the next ones to die.
Leaving the black Africans still sitting, the Boers returned to their consulate and sent a coded message confirming their agreement to their capital. The following day, the head of state security for their country, Colonel Alan van
Janich, changed from his normal khaki drill uniform into a lightweight suit that did little to hide his military nature. The fact that he was a soldier was as obvious as if the words were tattooed on his brow. He had received his orders and had been told to go to the limits of his power to negotiate.
Van
Janich knew where to go to find the hirelings he needed. Through one of his colleagues on Taiwan, a Major Shan, he had been put in touch with a man whom Shan had said was highly qualified for jobs that required a closed mouth and a quick mind. There was no shortage of mercenaries in Africa, but this job required special skills, and it would be best if the faces for this contract were not too well known. During that initial telephone call, Shan had given van Janich a briefing on a man called Casey Romain, whom the Chinese had used on a recent job in Cambodia. Shan was not personally fond of the man, but he assured the Boer that Mr. Romain always held up his end of a bargain. At van Janich's urging, Shan related what he knew of the mercenary's background. Casey was a former Foreign Legionnaire who had seen action in French Indochina and Algeria, and was a veteran of the United States' debacle in Vietnam. Shan had sent van Janich a recent photograph of Casey Romain, adding that he thought the man had also served in the German Wehrmacht. Van Janich found that hard to believe; the man in the photo, who had an ugly scar running from the corner of his eye to his mouth, looked to be no older than his mid-thirties.
Van
Janich took a commercial flight to Johannesburg, and from there, with only a two hour layover, he was on his way to Hong Kong with a stop at Bangkok. He hoped that everything would go as planned and that this special man, Casey Romain, would be waiting for him when he touched down. If he wasn't, then his timetable would be shot to hell and he'd have to start over, looking for someone else who had a death wish.
Van
Janich was pleased to see that the face in the photograph Major Shan had sent him was waiting with the crowd gathered to greet the new arrivals to the British crown colony on the doorstep of Communist China.
My God!
he thought, and being a good member of the Dutch Reformed Church, he rarely used the Lord's name in vain.
That's one man I wouldn't want to have angry with me
. There was a latent power to the man, who, though of average size, had the thick body of a fighter and gave off an unmistakable message: "It would be best if you let me be." The mercenary's hands were scarred, as was his face, and through the open collar of his khaki shirt, Van Janich saw more evidence of past wounds. He had the uneasy feeling he would not like to see the man naked.
Van
Janich's hand was shaken firmly but without undue pressure by powerful fingers. He was greeted, if not warmly, at least with a modicum of courtesy.
"Welcome to the Orient, Mr. van
Janich," Casey said. The voice was not exceptional, only a bit strange in its texture. There was something in the intonation that was both familiar and alien at the same time. Well, Shan had warned him that Casey Romain was not your average hired killer. Refusing Casey's offer to take his briefcase, Van Janich followed after the square back as it led the way through the throngs of people to a bar and cocktail lounge where passengers could watch the planes take off.
Van
Janich found that Casey Romain already had a good idea of what the Boers wished him to undertake, so he just filled in the details over a few gin and tonics. Casey soon set his mind at ease, at least as far as his expertise in matters such as these were concerned. His questions were kept to a minimum, but all were vital and to the point. The Boer security officer sweated a bit more than usual, but his new acquaintance showed no signs of anxiety or tension. Van Janich couldn't put his finger on the man's attitude. It was as if what was being offered him really didn't matter at all. Van Janich felt that Casey was taking this contract to kill a man merely to use up time.
They reached a basic understanding before van
Janich's flight to Tokyo departed three hours later. The number of men, the mission, and the pay were all agreed upon. Within a week, deposits would be made to the proper accounts in Zurich and Brussels. Once van Janich was certain Casey was his man, he gave him his briefcase. Inside was information necessary to begin operational planning: names of those for and against Matthew Dzhombe; photos, charts, maps, and timetables for trains, planes, and buses; the times of the tides; and a list of holidays in both the target area and the surrounding nations.
As the British trained security officer left him to board the flight to Tokyo, Casey was already going over the list of his first priorities. He still had a couple of hours before his own flight left for Singapore. He moved to a corner booth in the lounge where the sounds of voices and laughter wouldn't interfere with his thinking. He was lost in his own thoughts and never noticed the obvious invitation made by the attractive waitress who brought him his drink. She left a bit disappointed that she wasn't able to get at least a smile from the solidly built man with the scarred face and tired blue
gray eyes.
At that moment, however, Casey
Romain had more pressing things on his mind than the interest and availability of the waitress. Sliding over in his booth to where he could set his legs half on the cushions, he wondered again, as he always did, who among his rapidly declining number of acquaintances would be next to die. He wondered why he troubled himself with such futile speculation. It made no difference who died; others would always be there to take their places.
Vive la mort! Vive la guerre! Vive le mercenaire!
Straightening up, he winced as a muscle knotted up below his left shoulder blade. A round from a Czech made AK 47 had punched a neat puckered hole through him there, a part of his built in collection of souvenirs. Like most of his profession, he carried his wartime memories on his body. Running a hand through short cropped, sandy hair, he hauled himself up out of the booth after checking his Rolex. He had a lot to do, and time was short.
Outside the lounge he checked on his flight. It was on time and due to depart in thirty minutes to take him back to Singapore, where in three days he would verify the transfer of the monies he would need. While waiting, he began to develop the timetable for his plans and review the data that van Janich had given him about the current situation in Kimshaka and the surrounding countries.
From what he had heard of Matthew
Dzhombe, the bastard needed killing, and there would be little mourning for him even among his own tribesmen. He also knew that whoever took over the government after Dzhombe's demise would not be much better. But that wasn't his problem. He was only a man paid to do a job.
Dust clouds rose over the dry lands to the west and south, whisked into the heated air of the African sky. The serenity of the heavens was being broken that day by repeated bursts of rifle fire in the courtyard of the presidential palace.
A shame
, thought the massive form.
To be the Chosen One is hard. But my brothers should have known better, and if one chooses to oppose me, then he deserves his fate. It is the will of the gods
.
Matthew
Dzhombe's life had been devoted to those dark gods of his youth in the tiny kraal deep in the bush country where the wizards of his village had passed him through the rituals of manhood and initiated him into the warrior society of his tribe.
He had seen men die and shrivel when the Holy Ones put the juju on them. He knew the power of the Unseen Ones, and in his mind they lived, alive and real! They had brought him to power and had told him who his enemies were, and Matthew
Dzhombe, the Avenging Lion of Kimshaka, was afraid of them.
Sometimes at night they would come and punish him, showing him the unspeakable things that would be done to him if he did not obey them. He would obey and do whatever they wished. If he had to hurt his people, it was because he was ordered to, and when it was over, he knew that the gods were right. They were always right, because he always felt so good when it was done. One must never fight the will of the gods.
The troops below had finished their preparations. The sound of bolts closing on rifles was followed by the repeated chatter of automatic fire cutting down the figures tied to the stakes. There was a few seconds' pause, then the regularly spaced cracks of pistol shots as the officer in charge of the firing squad delivered the coup de grace with a single, well placed bullet to the back of the head of each of the twenty two men and women who had dared to offend the gods and their servant. When the sound of the last shot faded away, Dzhombe felt a warm glow of satisfaction spread throughout his body.
Moving to his desk of hand carved ebony,
Dzhombe sat, his two hundred and eighty pound frame remarkably similar to one of the mountain gorillas that lived to the northwest of Kimshaka. His eyes were small and dark, the lids red rimmed. Tribal scars adorned his face like a series of well laid railroad ties waiting for the tracks to be placed on them.
It had been necessary for him to remove from his census no less than 150,000 persons, most of them from tribes with whom his people had a long history of rivalry and intertribal warfare. Old hatreds die hard, and those learned in one's youth live the longest. Each foe eliminated made his role that much more secure. And while to the minds of the outside world there could be no doubt that
Dzhombe was insane, he was still in power. Within him ran a streak of shrewdness and the innate ability to anticipate his enemy's actions. Matthew Dzhombe was a dangerous man.
The first thing he did upon seizing power, in the coup he had precipitated fifteen years earlier, was to have all the whites and mixed bloods, including Asians, Arabs, and anyone else not a black African, relocated and held until he decided what the best method of disposing of them would be. If he'd had his choice in the matter, the solution would have been obvious. But once he'd assumed the reins of
power, he had to make some small concessions to the outside world, for there were many things he needed that could only come from either the East or West, mostly the weapons necessary to keep him in power.
He sighed with regret. It would have been so much easier if he had been able to simply line them all up and let his
Simbas chop them to pieces with their long spears, the assegais. Whites were especially dangerous to him; they were too educated. He didn't trust people with too much education; they were always troublemakers, especially the missionaries. Those people had some insane compulsion to change the customs of centuries by teaching the tribesmen to read and write, causing them to become dissatisfied with their existence. Then they offered their pale, pathetic Jesus as an insipid substitute for their own vital lords of nature. It was their teachings that caused most of his problems at the country's single university located in his capital. They encouraged the students to start trouble. But he had seen films from Europe and America, and saw the problems the industrialized west had with its young people. He was going to make sure that would not happen in Kimshaka.
One out of every three college graduates was dead. Every missionary, if not dead, had been deported along with every foreign landowner. He hated letting most of them go, but he did feel some satisfaction when he had four young whites executed for possession of narcotics. The United Nations did nothing. True, he had received a letter of protest from some U.N. office professing concern about possible violation of the human rights of those who had been executed or jailed.
Dzhombe chuckled, his belly shaking at the thought of written protests. For the United Nations to say they thought he had acted in an overly harsh manner was hardly an intimidating indictment. All it proved to him was that the West would do nothing, especially once he had let the Russians move in and outfit his army. The Russians were a little more difficult to deal with, but not much. They wanted a toehold in central Africa so badly, they would believe almost anything and give nearly everything to get it. He gave them enough time to train his army and equip it with new modern weapons. The Russians thought they had him in their pocket, but before the Soviets could convert too many of his people into their agents, he had turned his secret police the ones they had trained so expertly loose on them and their few supporters.
For executing the leftist subversives and expelling the Soviets, who were obviously interfering in
Kimshaka's domestic affairs and fomenting disorder, the West had applauded him and then immediately offered to take the Soviet Union's place. Dzhombe let them and took them the same way he had taken the Russians, then ran them out of the country once he got what he wanted from them.
The American secretary of state said that he thought the premier of
Kimshaka had acted in bad faith, another condemnation from the West that did not upset Dzhombe terribly. However, by using the money, weapons, and training given his country by both the East and West, Dzhombe had all the opposition he could find, real or imagined.
Dzhombe
liked to think he was color blind. He had the thirty or so black Americans in his country expelled along with the rest of the American advisors. He had more sense than to want those troublemakers loose in his country. Besides which, they were the descendants of slaves and were not true Africans no matter how much they tried to pretend they were.
Dzhombe
had sent all of the Americans packing except for three he had killed himself while questioning them. The American State Department had accepted without question the story that they had been killed by Marxist insurgents.
Matthew
Dzhombe, premier for life by his own decree, was quite satisfied with himself as he sat in his office. Only one group was in any way opposing him, the National Front for the Liberation of Kimshaka, the N.F.L.K. It was, for the most part, a loose alliance of members of the southern tribes of the desert and outer regions of the country who were being given aid by the colonialist whites who occupied what he rightly felt should be his land.
He would attend to that white country in time, but at present they gave him no trouble. He had them landlocked, and the closest route to the sea was controlled by him. As long as they paid his price, he would continue to let vital materials get through to them by way of
Kimshaka's one operating rail line. He had a stranglehold on them, and he had no fear that they would try to invade and take the rail line by force. The United States and its ambassador to the U.N., the black activist George Olderman, would see to that. All Dzhombe had to take care of was the N.F.L.K., and as long as they spent most of their time in Angola, he really didn't give a damn about them. And, he figured, they could always provide him with an excuse to remove anyone he considered to be bothersome by merely declaring them to be supporters of the traitors.
Matthew
Dzhombe felt he had done well. He had his army, the wealth of his country's resources, and a very healthy Swiss bank account at his disposal, eight sons – one didn't count girl children – and of course he had the gods on his side to counsel and protect him. Soon it would be time for him to make his annual pilgrimage to the village of his birth. For a short time he would return to the old ways. He would sit in the huts of those who belonged to his clan, and in secret places known only to them, sacrifices would be made to the primal forces of creation as they had been made since the heavens and earth had been formed from the skull of a hippopotamus.
