by Barry Sadler
Harrison affected his most indignant posture from his repertoire of wounded looks and attitudes while he poured himself another cognac. "Really, Casey, it is damned unfair of you to take advantage of my weaknesses. One of these days you're going to get me hurt."
Casey smiled as he took the bottle away from the man. The image of Harrison speaking as if he were a delicate flower was amusing. One did not survive years with the SAS if one was less than the best, and the swagger stick Harrison carried was for more than just appearance. Harrison had long ago mastered kendo and Philippine stick fighting. He was always full of indignant protests, but in his own mind he was the last of England's great gentlemen adventurers and knights errant, looking for his own Holy Grail to pursue.
No, thought Casey, it would not do to underestimate this Englishman. Harrison was usually referred to as "the limey," but only by his friends. Anyone else who took such a liberty did so at his own risk. Harrison tried to persuade Casey to give him one more touch of the precious liquid, but now that a deal had been made he accepted, as graciously as he could, Casey's refusal on the grounds that from now on Harrison was under orders and in training. The pilot would have probably made a stronger protest, but Casey reminded him that once the glider was on the palace grounds, so was he. He'd have to take his chances with the rest of them.
Due to his special status as a pilot, he was quartered at the big house. It also made it easier to see that he didn't fall victim to temptation and hit the bottle during a moment of soul searching.
Geidemann and Fitzhugh kept the pressure on. Between the two of them, they ran everyone's ass, including Casey's, ragged. While Shan searched for gliders, they trained nonstop. Run to the firing range! Run to the barracks! Run to where the running and exercise area was located! Some of the men grumbled at what they considered an excessively demanding training regimen, but the complaints soon disappeared when Fitzhugh reminded them that they were going to be the only pale faces in a black crowd, and if anything went wrong, they'd need their legs to get the hell out, and God help the slow ones. The next day they set a record for their daily five mile run. Fear is a great motivator, and the smart man will use it to spur himself and others to greater efforts.
Run and fire. Down, up, hit the ground. Dig in, up, run, roll. Fire team exercises, one covering the other while they leapfrogged forward. Fighting withdrawal exercises usually ended the day's activities, since that was how they would have to get out of the palace and the city.
Each man was ordered to memorize the complete layout of the palace at Kimshaka and its grounds. The routes into and out of the city had to be known by everyone. Constant rehearsal at their mock up, where the palace buildings were represented by logs, made certain that every man would know where he was at any given moment. Alternate planning also came into play. It was always necessary to plan for the worst, to know what to do if the job went down bad.
It was ten days before Shan reached Casey, who was in Kuala Lumpur with Harrison picking up supplies. Shan ran him down at Mama Chin's, where he usually ate when in town. Mama, a huge Tonkinese woman with a single long braid, a full set of gold teeth, and an endless smile, called Casey to the phone in the kitchen.
"Mr. Romain, I have found your gliders. It was most difficult, but I have them in Taiwan. One is still in its crate awaiting assembly, but the other is ready for use." Casey had to get Mama to quiet the kitchen help, then had Shan repeat the information.
Covering the mouthpiece of the phone, he told Harrison, "He's found your birds."
Harrison nudged him. "Ask what kind they are."
Removing his hand from the mouthpiece, he said, "Major Shan, Harrison wants to know what kind they are."
Shan chuckled over the phone. "I believe they are what was known as American Wacos when they were used by the Chindits during the Burma campaign." Harrison was close enough to the phone to hear Shan's reply.
"Did he say Chindits? Wacos? Burma?" he cried. "You mean those bloody things are leftovers from World War Two? My God, they must be nearly as old as Gus!" Casey decided not to tell Beidemann what Harrison had said. His tall friend was getting a bit touchier lately. He pushed Harrison away from the phone and told him to shut up.
"Major Shan, where are you calling from?"
"Not a mile away from you. I am at the Kuala Lumpur Imperial by the park. Now listen to me! The glider in the crate is already on its way to your staging area; the other is in Taiwan. I heard your Englishman's response. As long as he is with you, you might as well send him over to me, and we will return to Taiwan on my private plane. It would be best if he practiced where I could have some control over the security."
Casey grunted in agreement. "All right, Shan, but why the hell do you sound so pleased today?"
Shan chuckled again. "Two reasons, my homely associate. First, a nice profit was made on the gliders. Second, I may be able to watch one of your degenerate friends commit hara kiri in the antique I have for him to practice on. Really, it is the kind of thing I have long dreamed of. I only wish that you were the pilot instead of Harrison. Now send him over to me today, and we will get on with what has to be done. You still have a time schedule to meet. Good bye, Mr. Romain."
Harrison continued to moan as he got into the cab to go over to the Kuala Lumpur Imperial.
"Casey, old boy, my dear friend, I really do think we should reconsider my participation in this venture."
Casey promised to send the rest of his kit to Taiwan in a couple of days.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Harrison joined Major Shan at his hotel, where he was given no time to do anything but get into a waiting cab to be driven to the airport. Shan's DC 3 was waiting with the engines running. Much to Shan's amusement, the Englishman questioned him nonstop about the condition of the gliders. Harrison didn't pause even when the DC 3 reached altitude and headed east over the Cameron Highlands, passing over Temerloh in the mountains, then over Kuantan on the east coast before entering the air space of the South China Sea. From there, the pilot took a heading that would keep Sarawak and Sabah to starboard. They made one stop for fuel at Baguio in the Philippines, then continued on to Tainan Air Force Base on Taiwan.
When the old DC 3 touched down on the tarmac, she rolled up to a tin hangar and stopped. Shan took Harrison by closed car to the same building where Casey Remain and his men had stayed before going on the Cambodian contract the previous year. He left Harrison alone for a time and returned to his office to check on the arrangements for the transport of Casey's unit to the staging area. Not even Shan knew exactly where they were going, or when the hit would be made, and he really didn't care. Once word was received that Matthew Dzhombe was dead, he would receive the balance of his commission for setting up Casey with the white Africans.
Much to Shan's irritation, Harrison spent the next three days getting the old Waco re-skinned with new canvas, but the pilot had refused to go up in the thing until new canvas had been laid on. The original was so rotten it could be torn apart by a child's hands.
Shan had done well on the glider deal. He had located them in a warehouse at a small airfield near Pingtung. They were indeed leftovers from World War II and had been forgotten when no one had any further need of them. He'd bought them from the field commander for three hundred American dollars and had sold them to the contractors for five thousand each. Not a bad day's work.
Once the glider was in good enough condition that Harrison was willing to make a test flight, Shan showed him a chart of the area near the town of Chingpu on the east coast. There was a clearing there with dimensions almost identical to the one on which Harrison would have to set down at Dzhombe's palace. Harrison knew he couldn't stall any longer; the glider was as good as it was ever going to be. He told Shan.
"Okay, let's set up a run," Shan said.
Using Shan's own DC 3 for a tow plane, Harrison had the Waco loaded with sandbags equal to the weight that would actually be on board. Harrison strapped himself into the pilot's seat, said a Hail M
ary even though he was Church of England, and released the brake. The DC 3 taxied down the runway and lifted off. He was surprised at how smooth the take-off was. Trailing behind the silver, twin engine plane by a rope umbilical cord, Harrison and his Waco were taken over a ridge of mountains rising to over three thousand feet. The flight to the landing zone would take less than three quarters of an hour.
Once over Chingpu, he had the pilot of the DC 3 go around four times while he checked out the field below. Finally he couldn't stand the tension anymore and released the cable. He was free and on his own.
Three days later, a forlorn and tattered looking Harrison showed up at the plantation. He'd come back without Shan. Casey had to hold back a laugh as Harrison entered the living room, his head covered with bandages. He had a definite limp, but it was obvious he wasn't seriously hurt.
Beidemann came in right behind him. "Well, Englishman, how did it go?"
Harrison pulled himself erect and snapped, "I do not have to take any crap from you, you great bleedin' rotter. Remember, we won the war, not you."
Beidemann was a little shocked by the hostility in Harrison's response and said, "That's only because I spent most of my time on the Eastern Front. You tell him, Cas–" He was stopped by a sharp move of Casey's hand, which told him to knock it off and change the subject. He did. Going to Harrison, he put his arms around him and picked him up. It looked as if a normal size man were trying to comfort a child. Ignoring Harrison's protests, he kissed the Englishman wetly on both cheeks. "Not to worry. Uncle Gus will take care of you." Casey told him to put Harrison down, which he did, dropping him to the floor and further denting the pilot's dignity.
After Harrison was back on his feet, Casey handed him a cognac and asked, "How was it?"
Harrison sat down heavily on a leather sofa before answering. "I can do it, but only once more and then I never want to speak to you again. The only reason I am going through with it is because Shan said the plane in the other crate had good canvas and termites hadn't eaten away the wing support struts. When that godforsaken antique finally stopped, it threw me clear through the bloody windshield! That's why I'm all cut up."
"What about your seat belt?" Casey inquired.
"Seat belt?" shrieked Harrison. "The reason I'm walking around like the bleedin' hunchback of Notre Dame is because the goddamned seat belt was the only thing in the entire plane that wasn't rotted clear through! The bloody seat belt held me to the bloody seat, which ripped and followed me through the bloody windshield!” Harrison leaned back, exhausted, and gulped his drink in an attempt to drown the memory.
Casey turned to Beidemann, who had been joined by Van and Fitzhugh. "I think Harrison's a bit upset, gentlemen, but if I understand him, he says it's a go."
Harrison raised his eyes, trying to look more wounded than he was. "That is correct. We leave in three days. The contractors, according to Shan, will pick us up in one of their aircraft and transport us to the staging area, wherever that is. The plane will have consular status and therefore will entitle us to a certain amount of diplomatic immunity. It won't be searched or inspected at any of the refueling stops along the way."
"Good enough," said Casey, turning to Beidemann and Van. "Get your men ready, and have them clean up any sign of them ever having been here. I want the area sterilized. Each man is to write instructions for the disposition of his share in the event he doesn't make it back. They're to give them to Yu Li by tomorrow evening at the latest. She'll see that they are followed to the letter, according to our agreements."
Pouring a round for everyone, Casey toasted them with the ancient salute of the Roman gladiators before they fought. Beidemann had seen him do this a number of times and still did not understand the strange look that always appeared in his friend's eyes when he made the old toast: "Ave Caesar! Te moritu, te salutas. Hail Caesar! We who are about to die salute you."
Graveyard humor was common enough among men like these, and no one thought the toast an ill-omen or out of place. Each accepted the possibility of his own termination as an occupational hazard. They were ready for whatever fate was in store for them. Three days to Africa.
“By the way, Harrison, all your shots are up to date, aren't they?" queried Casey, who already knew the answer.
"Shots? What shots?" Harrison grew instantly leery. "You're not going to shoot me up with those awful bleed in needles! No, sir! Not me! I've never caught anything, not even the ruddy clap!"
Casey tried to ease some of his mental anguish. "Yu Li will do it. She has a delicate touch." Taking Harrison's arm, he led him to a small room off the rear porch and turned him over to Yu Li, who smiled sweetly and removed several hypodermics from a glass medical case. To Harrison, most of them resembled ice picks more than they did instruments of healing.
Leaving him to Yu Li's tender ministrations, Casey returned to the living room. The others had left to take care of their men and prepare for the upcoming flight.
Yu Li joined him a few minutes later, looking pleased. He caught a brief glimpse of Harrison limping off to his room.
Casey and Yu Li spent most of the following three days with the children. He liked to watch them at play. There was something restful about them. He wished he could spend more time with them but knew that Yu Li more than made up for it. They spent more time than usual in each other's arms during those days. Even for one such as he, there was never any telling of what the future held.
Beidemann and Fitzhugh increased their efforts to make certain their men would be ready. As Casey had ordered, the area was sterilized. If any of them were killed or had be to be left behind, there would be no way they could be traced to the plantation. Even the movements that had brought them to Malaya had been covered through the use of false passports and visas provided them, at Casey's request, by the contractors. Having a government sponsor on a mission certainly made such things easier.
Gear was packed and stored, weapons were returned to the arms room and locked away, and letters were given to Yu Li, who hoped she would be able to return each of them to the writer but knew there was little chance of that.
Beidemann had even quit drinking. Much to his dismay, he found that be didn't have quite the resilience he used to boast about. Time does take its insidious toll.
Fitzhugh went about things as if it were just a training exercise. The others, including George, Van, and Yousef, looked forward to the coming operation. Men like them needed periodic injections of action to make their lives seem worthwhile.
Casey read constantly, trying to cram into his memory everything that could possibly be of value once they reached their destination. He studied photos of his target for hours, trying to see behind the shiny black face into the man's mind. Dzhombe was a lot of bad things, but he was still a hell of a man and wouldn't go down easily. Another name for a black face flashed into Casey's mind, one he hadn't thought of in many, many years. Jubala. There was a faint resemblance between the two men, and if it went to the limit, then, as with Jubala, he would kill Matthew Dzhombe.
At four in the morning of the third day, Casey and his men drove through the open end of the runway outside Kuala Lumpur to where a twin engine jet waited. The pilot greeted them with obvious distaste. Casey didn't give a damn as long as he knew how to fly and took them where they were supposed to go. The early morning darkness had a heavy dampness to it, smelling strongly of the thousands of miles of jungle and ocean around the field.
The men were silent as they loaded their gear and boarded the plane. Even though they were wearing civilian clothing, anyone who looked at them could have easily determined that they were anything but bored businessmen out on a junket. When they reached the staging area, they would have one week to adjust themselves to the new climate and have one last frantic burst of training before going into action.
The door closed behind them, cutting off the outside world. Engines started and turbines spun, revving up to 4,500 rpm before fuel was fed to them, then to 8,000 rpm before the brakes
were released. The jet taxied to the end of the runway, turned around in a tight circle, and then the pilot gave it full throttle. They were up. The landing gear was raised. Before the sun rose they would be over the white beaches of the Andaman Islands.
The sleek jet flew on. Whispering through the dark sky, it seemed to be racing the sun. Beyond the Andamans they would make a stop at Colombo in Sri Lanka. From there they would fly across the Somali coast, head a bit south, then go on to Kenya for another refueling at Nairobi. Some of the mercs slept; others played cards or just sat with their thoughts. Most grew a bit restless during the long hours of idleness after the past weeks of hectic training.
From Nairobi it was another fifteen hundred miles before they touched down at the capital of the white contractors, Regisburg. The flight was timed so they would land at night. For the first time since departing Malaya, they were permitted to exit the aircraft, and then only to take the two dozen steps to where they boarded a propeller plane closely related to the American Caribou cargo and troop transport so popular in Vietnam, a plane that could take off from a rice paddy and land on a football field.
Not a word was spoken to them as they made the transfer, but they welcomed the brief chance to stretch their legs and smell the strange air of Africa. Most wished they could have had a few hours in the city, whose lights bounced off a low bank of clouds to the north. Lights were where one would find women and whiskey. But there was always later, when they had pockets full of money.
The cargo plane lurched forward, then thrust its blunt nose into the air, rising with its new and unfamiliar cargo of killers, then flying inland to where a dry lake bed would be its landing field. They flew across the borders of several nations, then crossed the lesser tributary of the Congo River known as the Lualaba. They skirted Lubumbashi, formerly Elisabethville, to avoid the airport's radar, then headed south.