by Barry Sadler
The first burning rays of the sun reflected off the starboard side of the plane as she set down in a cloud of red dust whipped up by the whirling props as the blades were reversed. The men who were sleeping were jerked into instant awareness by the landing. They were down! They were here!
As the cargo master opened the door to the outside, Casey stood behind him and wondered if their target had any idea of what was coming for him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Matthew Dzhombe, the Avenging Lion of Kimshaka, watched with pleasure the passing of his favorite regiment, the ufaSimba. As with the first Shaka, they were given the name meaning "haze" to signify the manner in which they surrounded their enemies and destroyed them. Simba meant lion in Swahili, and if strangers chose to call them lions, then that did not displease him either, for they were his lions.
Very few knew his great secret. Only his mother and the wizards of his home village had seen the signs at his birth that marked him as the inheritor of Shaka, first of the great Zulu kings. It was he who had brought the warring tribes of the southern Bantu under one standard.
The passing fighters of the ufaSimba saluted with Kalashnikov rifles. The loincloths, ostrich feathers, shields, and short spears of the original "Haze" warriors were now replaced by camouflage uniforms and automatic weapons. Behind them, rolling up dust on the streets, came several armored vehicles – American half-tracks and British Saladin armored cars – Dzhombe's only motorized infantry force. There were a few vintage Russian T 34 tanks in his army, but these were usually in need of maintenance and out of service. He was woefully short of diesel mechanics.
The ufaSimba made their turn, marching around the corner of the palace and out of sight. Dzhombe watched them with affection. They were the roots by which his tree of power would grow until all of southern Africa lay in the shade of its branches.
He had come far from his native kraal to be here at this moment, at the head of a nation named after his soul spirit, Shaka.
Before he had received his umuTsha, the slit skin loincloth, at his puberty rites, his mother and the umThakathi of his clan had told him of his heritage. His mother was of the same bloodline as was Nandi, the Great Mother who had given birth to Shaka. It was she who had introduced him to the mysteries that were to guide the course of his life and told him of his favored place with the gods. This was all confirmed by the wizards who taught him the rituals and secrets that brought the gods to him in his sleep after he would drink of their magic potions made with secret herbs and plants. Then, in his dreams, he knew the truth. He was Shaka reborn, and as Shaka had done before him, he would rule as supreme master. After a few years he no longer needed the potions to bring the gods to him in his dreams, and now they came whenever he willed it, reassuring him of their favor and of their punishment should he disobey them. They had even given him the body of Shaka, over six feet in height with the same massive arms and chest endowed with the strength of a Cape buffalo.
During his youth he had acquired all the known skills of his soulmate, becoming a master of the spear. And by the time he was fourteen, he had killed both leopard and lion by himself, hunting them alone to prove his worthiness of the mantle of power. On his body were the scars left by the claws of the leopard. It was the spirit of Shaka that gave him the strength to defeat the beast. Dzhombe remembered standing over the great cat's body, his spear above his head, bleeding from a dozen cuts as he cried out to the gods his thanks for their gift to him. In his child's play he even had a secret place named after the capital of the first Shaka, kwaBulawayo, "the place of he who kills."
It had taken time to bring his small tribe into a position of supremacy over their more numerous neighbors, time and death, the latter dealt out with a free hand. Soon he would be ready to move to reclaim the lands taken from his fathers, and he would make the whites pay for it. With the money they paid to use his railway line, he had made arrangements to buy sophisticated weaponry that would soon be brought to him from the armories of Europe. Then he would move south. No one would stand against him and live, white or black. Then, when he had done this, his impis would turn their faces to the north and begin the long march that would bring all of Africa under his rule, for such was the destiny of those born to be king.
He was relieved when the ceremonies were over. This was to be his last official act before returning to his home kraal for the rites of rebirth and renewal. Only his most loyal officers knew where he would be. They were all men from his tribe whom he had raised to power. Their fate was tied to his. If he died or fell, so would they. He was the man who held all the strings of power in one hand, and they knew it.
Under the cover of darkness, Dzhombe left his palace taking with him only three men as an escort. He wore, as did they, the uniform of a private in the ufaSimba. Sitting in the back of the nondescript weapons carrier, a floppy bush hat cast his face even further into the shadows of the night. The men with him were all of his clan and his tribe. They would offer their bodies to protect him. In the secret places of their souls, they believed Dzhombe to be more than just mortal man.
Dzhombe reinforced that concept with brutal regularity. In the interrogation, rooms of his palace, they had seen him kill strong men by crushing the life out of them with his bare hands as if his victims had been no more than sickly children. Several times he had dismembered those who angered him by ripping off their arms at the shoulders, and sometimes he would place one of his giant hands on the head of the unfortunate man and squeeze ever so slowly, gradually increasing the pressure of his fingers. Dzhombe took his time with his demonstrations of power so the impression he made on those who witnessed his actions would stay with them forever. They would remember everything they had seen and bear witness to those not present. Even the most hardened of Dzhombe's ufaSimba felt sympathy for the victim. As they watched, they seemed to feel the bones of their own skulls begin to give way, the unrelenting pressure of those huge fingers increasing until the victim's mouth opened involuntarily to howl like a wounded beast. His men's mouths would open spontaneously when the victim's did, as the pressure to the skull was transmitted to the jawbone. Blood would begin to flow from nostrils, ears, and scalp as the thick nails of Dzhombe's fingers tore through the flesh of the head to ultimately crush the doomed man's skull like an eggshell. And through it all, Dzhombe's face showed no sign of the tremendous power it took for his fingers to complete the grisly task:
There were other times when those chosen to be his personal guards were bound even closer to him by participating in ancient rituals after the executions, by sharing the flesh of Dzhombe's victims, by eating the heart, liver, and brains. Dzhombe had them swear great oaths to him that could never be broken. Like him, his men came from the kraals of the forests. None had been contaminated by Western education. They were still the children of primal forces and faith. They would serve him as they were sworn to.
All that night they drove, leaving the warrens and hovels of Kimshaka City behind, returning to the clean, pure life of kraal and clan. There the air was touched only by the honest smoke of cooking fires and not the vile urban pollution of gasoline and diesel fumes.
At the entrance to the valley where his home kraal lay, the weapons carrier stopped. Waiting to greet him were the umThakathi, the wise men and good wizards of his tribe, and those who were to be the privileged participants in the rites of renewal. He would stand before them, and they would remove the trappings of the West from his body until he stood naked. Sacred oils and ash would be spread upon him to remove any contamination brought with him from the outside world. He had to be as in the beginning.
Bowing low before their master, the participants prostrated themselves, each falling to his face to crawl before him as he placed his foot on their heads. Then, rising to their knees, they would throw their heads back and offer him their knives, symbolizing total submission. Sometimes, just to make his point, Dzhombe would accept the proffered blade and slice the exposed throat. The others would make no comment. Wha
t he did was his right, for they were his to do with as he chose. They belonged to him body and soul. He could take what he wished. It was good.
The entrance to the valley would be guarded by his men. No one would be permitted to enter the valley or interrupt the ceremony. Until he left, anyone who came to the valley would be turned back or killed. Over the years the neighboring tribes had learned to keep their distance during these times.
In the deep bush near the escarpment, where the mountains dropped from the cloud covered heights to the lush heaviness of the jungle, Matthew Dzhombe walked upon a trail used for uncounted centuries by those of his clan. Behind him came the others who were to celebrate this sacred ritual, fifteen warriors and three umThakathi. They followed in the wake of the huge, sweating body clad only in his umuTsha. Bearing packs that contained the things they would later require, they moved silently through the mist shrouded trees. Like their leader, they too wore paint smeared in mystical whorls and circles upon their ash coated bare bodies. Each had his hair plastered down under a thick cap of red river mud in which were implanted ostrich feathers and the brilliant plumage of the red and green bird who screamed like a woman in labor.
In the center of the line of men were three young girls of thirteen and fourteen, shoulders and budding breasts covered by drab, homespun cotton mantles. The lobola, the bride price, had been paid for each of them in full. Their parents were pleased and honored that their daughters had been chosen. The girls walked wearily, heads downcast. Their movements were those of ones who had reconciled themselves to an unknown fate. Their young age prevented them from fully appreciating the great honor being shown them, but they would obey. During the trek from their village they had not been abused or hurt. To the contrary, they were treated with great kindness and consideration by the naked warriors, and each girl was still a virgin.
Dzhombe looked to the sky. Through a break in the trees he could see the mountains where the gods of his fathers lived. It was to them he had been dedicated when he reached puberty and had gone through the initiation rites that entered him into manhood and the privileged membership of his clan. Every year since then he had participated in the rites. He knew that to fail in this would lead to disaster, for the gods would turn their faces from him, and his enemies would destroy him and his people. Here, where great waters fell from the lips of the gods to form the rivers that fed the lowlands, he and his warriors would once more make the earth fertile as had been done since the beginnings of memory. He regretted that no young men were of the right age to take their place in the rites, but ten years earlier a bad time of disease and drought had wiped out nearly all the young males who would now be the proper age. Next year there would be new blood added to the clan.
By the waterfalls known as the Breath of the Mountain, they made camp. Here they would fast for three days to purify the body and spirit. During that time the girls were permitted to do much as they pleased as long as they did not wander from the camp. The girls made for themselves a crude shelter of palm leaves tied to a frame of thin saplings. The mist from the waterfall never ceased. All day and all night it cast its eerie shroud over the men as they sat in a circle by a fire chanting and singing.
From their palm leaf hut the girls watched the men with a mixture of fear and anticipation. They knew they were to be brides, but they did not know any of the details of their marriage ceremony. It was the unknown part that frightened them. It was truly an honor to be the bride of Dzhombe or one of his clan. But why was the ceremony to be held so far from their village where there would be no witnesses, as there had been for the other girls who had been given as brides to the young men?
At dawn on the fourth day of purification, the umThakathi cast dried leaves and herbs into the fire, and the men breathed deeply of the smoke. The herbs were liberally laced with ganga to heighten the senses, to put them on a higher plane where the grass beneath their feet felt as soft as the young breasts of the brides to be. When thorns were their pressed against their bare flesh. it felt as if warm lips were caressing their bodies. It was time....
The three girls were brought forth. The wizards shaved their heads and covered their bodies with a paste of animal fat and ash. Then they were made to breathe the smoke of the fire until their eyes grew glazed and red, tears running down their cheeks as they leaned over the coals to breathe deeply. Fear left them as their minds floated on the smoke. Around them the men formed a circle and chanted. The girls began to dance. Stepping up to the fire, then turning to face the circle of men, they moved back and forth to a timeless rhythm. They had never danced this way before nor did the wizards tell them what they were to do. Somehow they just knew what was to be done. Eyes glazed, bodies trembling, both men and brides knew the time was near. Anticipation of the completion of the marriage act made the area between their young thighs moist and the men erect.
Dzhombe lay on his back, naked. Each of the maidens was brought to him by the men, then held over his body and lowered on him until the hymen broke. When each had been penetrated, they all returned to the fire, and Dzhombe rose from the earth, turned to face the four directions of the wind, raised his arms to the mountains and cried to his men:
"Make your offerings to the earth!"
The fifteen men threw themselves at the girls, raping each one, spilling their seed into their bellies. Not until each girl had been ravished by each man did Dzhombe speak again, this time to the wizards.
"Complete the offering."
One by one the wizards took the bleeding girls to a place that had been prepared the week before. Into a trench dug in the earth they lay each girl down and prayed over her, begging the gods to accept their offering.
When all three were in the ditch, the men gathered above them and began to shove the moist, claylike earth on top of them. Numb from the ganga smoke and pain of their marriage rites, they tried to scream, but it was too late. Their thin legs were too weak to fight the weight of the earth being pushed on top of them.
The rites were complete. The earth would be reborn again by the seed of the men in the bodies of the brides.
Dzhombe's guards were on the alert at their posts when he returned. Saying nothing, Dzhombe went to a nearby stream and washed his body clean of its now streaked coat of ashes. Putting his uniform back on, he sat in the front seat of the weapons carrier and waited to be taken back to his capital. All was well, and the gods were pleased. It was time to return to the outside world, but he took with him, as always, a part of the old.
CHAPTER NINE
"Mr. Romain, I presume," said the Oxbridge accented voice, his tone clearly meaning I am a regular army officer and you are not. Those exact words were unsaid, but the message was unmistakable. Casey and his men were distasteful to this graduate of Sandhurst, the British West Point that produced even stuffier officers than did its American counterpart. As with West Point alumni, once the new officers got the bullshit out of their brains, they were among the best military minds the world could produce, and if one didn't like their style, one couldn't argue with their sense of honor and personal courage. The British did do some things right, and training soldiers to be tough was one of them.
Casey stood in front of the officer with the full, bristling mustache and starched khaki drills, and said, once he got a look at the pips on the man's shoulders, "Major, I can tell right now that we may have some problems in communicating, so let's get it out in the open. I don't give a damn if you approve of me or my men, but we are here to do a job, and we're going to do it, even if it is the death of us," he paused for a moment, "and you."
"Very good, Mr. Romain. You have made your position quite clear, and perhaps you're right. Incidentally, my name is Montfort. Your original contact assigned me to this job with orders to give you all the assistance you require, and in spite of any differences between us, that is exactly what I shall do. Now, if you will follow me, I will take you and your men to your quarters." He pointed across the landing strip to a cluster of Quonset huts. Casey to
ld Beidemann to have Fitzhugh get the men and their gear, and follow him when they were ready.
As they crossed the strip, Montfort gave Casey the tourist guide treatment. The field was set on a plain surrounded by low brush reaching out as far as the eye could see and spotted in places by giant baobab trees. Casey knew that in the trees and brush lived thousands of animals. Birds, lemurs, and leopards shared the baobabs. Lions and warthogs staked out their territories in the brush. A pair of vultures rode the hot air currents, rising from the flat runway to soar and glide in search of something dead or too weak to fight. Montfort pointed to them and said, "Not a bad omen, I hope." And he smiled.
"This, by the way, was an emergency field built by the South Africans during World War Two and used by them as a refueling depot on their way to the front in North Africa. At the far end of the runway there's one still usable hangar. That is where your advance cargo is stored. It has already been assembled. The field itself has been abandoned for the past twenty or so years, and now it's only used occasionally by hunters, ecologists, and the like. But with all the recent troubles, there are none of those types around now. I have ten of my own people here. They will act as a buffer between your people and anyone who might happen to stray this way. If that occurs, get your men out of sight and leave the talking to me. The reasons, I believe, are obvious."
Casey agreed.
"One more thing," said Montfort. "Meals will be served at 0600 hours, 1100, and at 1700."
"Just a moment, Major." Casey stopped, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead to get rid of the thin layer of red dust already collecting on it.
Montfort waited, watching his guest. "Yes? What is it?"
Lighting a cigarette between cupped hands, Casey took a drag and exhaled before speaking in flat tones. "We brought our own food, and we'll prepare it ourselves. Also, there will be no communication between your men and mine other than what is absolutely necessary."