The African Mercenary

by Barry Sadler

  Casey directed the Saladin to where they'd have the most cover from the trees. The 20mm gun was loaded; inside, belts of oiled machine gun ammo were made ready. As soon as Mtuba's men came into range, they'd fire and try to hold them off until they heard the sounds of the Dakota's engines turning; then they'd make a run for it.

  Beidemann made for the brush. His men spread out at the ready safeties in a thin skirmishing line, weapons ready, safeties off. He carried a G 3 rifle in one hand and the heavy recoilless rifle in the other. On his shoulder was a sack containing their last five rounds.

  Xaun twisted his shoulders around, trying to ease the burning pain in them and his back. His bonds had made it nearly impossible for him to get any sleep. From what the mercenaries were saying, he knew that Mtuba was coming for him. Good, then he would have his revenge!

  The truck screeched right up to the side of the plane. Men piled out of the back and threw a cordon around the aircraft. This was to be their salvation, their only way out. They'd let no one near it at any cost. Van took two men with him into the hangar. Inside were four men, one white and three black, who kept the plane and hangar in order. Their questions were stopped by the sight of automatic weapons pointing at them and the expressions on the mercs' faces. These were not men to argue with. Van waved them over to a screen walled cage where tools were kept.

  "Inside! No talking, no questions, and maybe you'll still be alive an hour from now. We don't want anything from you except the plane." The four men made no protests. They had been around long enough to know when to keep their mouths shut and obey orders. Van used the padlock that was on the cage intended to keep thieves out of the tool room to lock the mechanic and his helpers inside where they wouldn't get in the way. To the other men with hint he barked, "Check out the rest of the building. If there's anyone else here, put them in the cage too."

  A quick search turned up no one else. Leaving the mechanic and his helpers inside, they returned to the cordon around the plane. Harrison was already in the cockpit checking it out. Leaning his head out the cockpit window, he yelled down at Van, "We need gas." Pointing to a manual pump and some fifty five gallon drums near the hangar, he said, "Check those out and if there's anything in them, get a couple of men to pump it into the wing tanks."

  "Right!" Van detailed five men to check out the drums and to begin rolling the full ones over to where they could be hooked up to the pump and lines. Another climbed onto the wings to open the caps over the tanks.

  "How long will it take?" Van called up to Harrison.

  The pilot snapped back, "Until I get enough in this son of a bitch to be sure we can get to Rhodesia. I'll let you know. Now get them moving so we can get the hell out of here!"

  Van yelled up to him about the men he'd locked in the tool cage. "I think one of them's a mechanic. Do you want to talk to him?"

  Harrison popped his head back out. "Bet your ass I do! If there's anything wrong with this antique, I want to know about it now rather than at ten thousand feet! I'll be right out."

  Jumping out of the plane's side door, he followed Van inside the hangar. The mechanic did not like being locked up, and while not stupid enough to give them any back talk, he had suddenly gotten a bit stubborn and decided he wasn't going to tell them anything. Harrison got nothing from him other than dirty looks. He expressed his frustration to Van. "I can't get anything out of him one way or the other. If he did tell us anything, how would we know if he's telling the truth?"

  Van thought that over for a moment, then grinned under his coating of dust. "That's easy. Tell him he's going up with us. That way, if anything goes wrong, he'll be right there when we go down."

  "Good idea, you wily Oriental gentleman. Did you hear that, you obstinate Dutchman? If we go down, you'll go down with us." Jan Reiks turned a pale green. Chewing one fingernail with a ten year undercoating of grease, he re-evaluated his decision.

  His English was good, though heavily accented. "Since you put it that way, there are a few things. The warning light is out on the hydraulics, and the line to the landing gear is disconnected."

  Harrison told Van to take him out of the cage, then pointed a warning finger at Reiks. "All right, now you get out there and fix it and do it right, because you're still going up with us. One more thing you don't have much time. There are some very angry people corning after us who want our guts for garters. They won't know you're not one of us, and they'll cut your bloody white head off as fast as they will ours."

  Reiks swallowed, his Adam's apple sending signals. "It will take only five minutes." Running back into the cage, he brought out a tool chest and a five gallon can of hydraulic fluid.

  Mtuba moved his Land Rover to the front, out from his safe place between the two trucks. Putting his field glasses back up to his eyes, he adjusted the focus. The plane came sharply into view. He could see men around the plane and on its wings. The truck was there, but where was the armored car?

  The radiator on Mtuba's rear truck suddenly erupted in a spout of flame and steam. Casey's 20mm round had hit it squarely. Mtuba's men scrambled out of the truck, but they took their weapons with them, including the 106mm recoilless rifle. Casey whipped the Saladin in and out of the brush, his machine gunner raking over the trucks. They had to be put out of commission to give their men on the field time to get the plane working.

  Mtuba's gun crew were pretty good. They had the 106 set up and loaded in less than a minute. The Saladin came out of a patch of brush, the 20mm and the machine gun firing. Three of Mtuba's men went down. The 106 fired, the shell hitting the Saladin right above the left front tire, blowing it and the fender off, and sending red hot shell splinters inside the car to bounce off the steel sides. Casey was thrown out of the turret as the armored car turned over. Landing solidly on his back fifteen feet away, he was stunned. From inside the car, screams could be heard as the fuel tanks exploded, turning the interior into an iron furnace. Exploding ammunition brought a merciful end to the two mercenaries' agony.

  Mtuba called to his men, pointing at the dazed Casey, "Get that man for me and knock out that plane! Without it they can't get anywhere!" Three men ran for Casey as the 106 crew manhandled their long tube around, readjusting the sight for their new target.

  The men of the N.F.L.K. were nearly upon Casey, running, crouched low, weapons at their hips ready to fire. They were stopped by a strange whooshing noise that shredded their bodies, tearing holes through their chests, and ripping faces and skulls apart.

  Beidemann came out of the bushes to the left of Casey. Behind him, the men on the 57mm reloaded with high explosive, having used their last round of canister on the three Africans. Beidemann yelled back at them, "Hit the enemy gun!"

  Bending over Casey, Beidemann grabbed his friend's arm and jerked him to his feet. Throwing him over his shoulder, he ran back into the brush, bullets clipping at his feet. The mercs on the 57mm fired one round, missing the enemy recoilless rifle but scaring the shit out of Mtuba when the round passed close enough to his Land Rover that he could have reached out and touched it.

  Van looked across the field to where the fight between his friend and Mtuba was taking place. His men were setting up empty steel drums for cover. Jan Reiks worked as feverishly as the crew, who were refueling the plane's tanks under the frantic urging of Harrison. Reiks had reconnected the hydraulic lines to the landing gear, filled the reservoir with fluid, and had just finished bleeding the lines. Throwing the empty can over by the hangar, he called up to Harrison, "That's it!"

  Checking his fuel gauges, Harrison yelled out to the men on the wing tanks: "Cap that son of a bitch off!" To Van, he waved his arm. "Get 'em on board!" Two mercs leaped through the open cargo door as Van prodded Xaun to his feet. Two more men grabbed the Chinese and threw him bodily up to the pair waiting for him. In relays they began to climb on board.

  A round from Mtuba's 106 blasted three oil drums high into the air, killing one Belgian. Van was glad the drums were empty, or they would have sprayed the p
lane with burning oil and gasoline. Another shell hit on the dirt runway, shrapnel splinters splattering the fuselage, breaking out the right window on the copilot's side.

  "What the bloody hell are you waiting for?" Harrison screamed at Van as he hit the starter switch and opened the throttle.

  That was all the encouragement Van needed, and he followed the last of the men on board as the port engine coughed into life. By the time he'd run up to the cockpit, the starboard motor was running. Harrison wasted no time. As soon as he could, he started the plane rolling back down the runway to the north. He could have taken off to the south, but he wanted to get as close as possible to those who were fighting their rear guard action. Seconds meant life, and he was not going to leave them behind just to save his own neck. From the open cargo door and along the windows that the mercs had smashed out, machine gun and automatic rifle muzzles stuck their lethal spouts out the sides of the cargo plane as firing apertures were made.

  Running, twisting, and dodging through the brush and trees, Beidemann carried Casey toward the landing strip. The men on the 57mm fired off their last rounds and covered his retreat with light weapons fire, spraying the N.F.L.K. in front of them, trying to make them keep down until they could break free and follow after the big German.

  Mtuba kept after the 106 crew to keep firing, cursing them for missing a target as big as the plane. Now the damned thing was moving! All his men were out and on their stomachs, firing wildly at everything that moved, including the breeze through the dry leaves of the brush.

  "Cease fire, you fools! Wait until you have something to shoot at!" A burst of bullets from one of the rearguard mercs shattered the Land Rover's windshield.

  "Why aren't you firing?" he screamed as he hit the ground, his face bleeding from glass splinters.

  The two mercs caught up with Beidemann, who turned Casey over to them. They placed his arms around their shoulders and half carried, half dragged their unconscious leader to the north end of the landing strip.

  Beidemann broke to his right. Taking advantage of all the cover, he ran to get around the flank of the enemy. He had to get that 106 out of action before they hit the plane or damaged it so badly they couldn't take off. For all his bulk, Beidemann could move fast when he had to. Getting around the flank, he dropped to his stomach and went into a crab walk. His body raised half off the ground; his weapon on his chest, he scurried from bush to bush until he was behind them.

  Under the lash of Mtuba's tongue and the sincere threat of execution the N.F.L.K. troops managed to get into a semblance of order. Getting them into a line, Mtuba ordered them to advance at a half run toward the end of the air strip. Overhead, the 106 sent another round arcing into the sky to blast a small pit twenty feet in front of the Dakota as Harrison zigged and zagged closer to where the two mercs with Casey waited for it to come and get them.

  The crew operating the 106 concentrated their attention to the front as they tried to adjust to the changing distance and position of the Dakota on the strip. They never saw or heard the figure to their left raise up and draw the bolt back on his weapon. Thirty 7.62mm rounds ripped through their backs, tearing hearts and lungs open. The three men of the recoilless rifle crew died instantly. Another object fell through the air to fall among the bodies by the boxes containing the shells for the recoilless rifle.

  Mtuba dropped to his knees and turned around when he heard the firing behind him. He just had time to see the grenade land among the shells and scream "Down!" before it went off. The explosion threw the 106 fifty feet away, its tube twisted and warped. A fireball rose overhead, and smoking white flakes began to fall to earth, many of them landing on several of his men, who immediately quit whatever they were doing and went into spasms, slapping themselves. They clawed at their uniforms, screaming as they tried to put out the burning pieces of white phosphorus eating their way deep into their flesh.

  Beidemann gave the backs of the N. F. L. K. another full burst, then he dropped and rolled out of sight, going back the way he had come. He'd have to hurry; the Dakota was nearly at the end of the strip.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Harrison worked the throttles, giving the old bird just enough juice to keep her under control. He tried to navigate to where he saw the two mercs with Casey. But where the hell is Gus? he wondered. Suddenly he heard a heavy explosion, and then he noticed that there were no more 106 rounds coming at them. That gave him his answer. "So, Gus got the sons of bitches! Bloody good!"

  A round from an SKS assault rifle poked a hole through Beidemann's left leg, a neat, round puncture in the fleshy meat of his calf. But he didn't stop moving. The skirmish line of the N.F.L.K. was too near the end of the strip. They were advancing, firing from the hip. The two men with Casey were trying to hold them off, but there were too many. He needed to get back to them as fast as he could. He knew the wound was not too bad and figured the bullet that hit him had to be one of the military issue slugs with a copper jacket. Soft lead or a dumdum would have knocked him down and torn up the leg.

  As Harrison taxied the plane nearer to the two mercs with Casey, the men in the aircraft had their weapons angled as far out the windows as they could to provide firepower aimed at the advancing line of rebels in the trees. There wasn't much chance they'd hit too many, but perhaps it might slow up Mtuba's line a little.

  Beidemann stumbled and fell. Before he could get to his feet, he was knocked back down. His left shoulder was smashed at the socket by another round fired from point blank range. One of Mtuba's men, a member of the Luba tribe, was trying frantically to reduce the stoppage in his MK 47. The bolt was jammed with an expended cartridge casing that was half in and half out of the chamber, caught between the bolt and the chamber. Beidemann rose, and sweeping his good hand like a scythe, he knocked the legs out from under the Luba. Jerking the jammed rifle out of the man's hand, he swung it by the barrel, crushing the man's head.

  Staggering back to his feet, he retrieved his own G3 and looked to see if there was anyone within sight he could kill. Seeing nobody, he took off again, ignoring the burning dead weight of his useless left arm.

  Casey was back on his feet, his head clearing from a crack that would have given a normal man a migraine for the rest of his life. Shaking the cobwebs from his brain, he took stock of the situation. The Dakota was almost to them. There was a shout from the left as Beidemann staggered out of the trees, a trail of blood marking his path. Bullets whipped around him.

  Casey dropped to one knee, firing short, three round bursts into the trees behind his wounded friend. A cry of pain gave him some satisfaction. Giving the two men with him cover, he sent them to get Beidemann. Grunting under their load, they obeyed Casey's instructions and stumbled out onto the strip.

  The Dakota was beginning to make its turn so that it would face back down the runway. Shots from the N.F.L.K. poked holes through its sides. They buzzed erratically inside the cargo bay like angry bees, ricocheting until they fell to the deck. As the plane made its turn, the return fire from its windows increased as more guns could be brought to bear. Van had left the co-pilot's seat and had moved back inside. Setting up the 60mm mortar in the cargo door, he hand held it on the butt plate and began to lob rounds into the trees.

  The N.F.L.K. were almost on them. Casey concentrated on every shot, making most of them count as the enemy grew visible in the brush. Moving from one spot to another, hiding behind trees or even tall clumps of grass, he held them off. Looking over his shoulder as he changed magazines, he saw the two mercs heave Beidemann up into the cargo bay with the help of waiting hands. The plane completed its turn, showing the enemy its tail. Van cried out over the roar of the engines for Casey to run, which he did, waving for Harrison to go ahead. Harrison gave it a bit more gas, and the bird started to taxi. Casey was almost to the cargo door when a round hit his left thigh. He fell, and the distance between him and the plane increased to thirty feet. Mtuba was on the north end of the strip, his men laying down all the fire they could mus
ter at the retreating plane. If the plane stopped now, even for a few seconds, all would die. Casey staggered back to his feet. Calling upon hidden reserves of strength, he ran after the plane. In one last, final burst of energy, he grabbed hold of the guy lines on the tail and pulled himself up on the flat blades. Van had to be stopped from jumping out of the cargo bay and going to him.

  Harrison leaned out as far as he could from his window and looked back. A bullet nearly took his ear off as machine gun fire raked the side of the plane. He could see Casey hanging onto the ailerons. He gave the old bird some more gas, increasing its speed; he still had some runway left. Inside, Heideman was being treated by the medic, who was frantically trying to stop the bleeding from his nearly ripped off arm. Harrison knew that he couldn't slow down too much or he'd never be able to get up the speed necessary to take off on what runway remained. And if he did take off, the first time he pulled back on the stick, he'd knock Casey off. He came up even with the hangar, and Casey made his decision for him and let go, rolling to the ground. He stood on his feet and waved for Harrison to go on, crying out, "There's nothing you can do! Get the hell out of here if you can!" Then he turned to fire back down the strip, hitting one more of Mtuba's men with a lucky shot.

  Van was screaming in rage and fury at Casey's being left behind. It took three men to hold him back. One of them threw a G-3 and a pack containing ammo, grenades, and rations out the open cargo door, figuring that the longer reach of the rifle would give Casey a better chance. But no one inside the plane really believed he had any chance at all. Tears in his eyes, Harrison laid it on, pushing the throttle until the old plane vibrated from stem to stern as it picked up speed. The cargo door was closed just as the wheels lifted off at the end of the strip, barely clearing the line of trees. They were airborne and safe. Banking the bird to port, Harrison could see Casey. He'd reached the G-3 and the pack, and was heading for the hangar, laying out fire as he went.