Casca 12: The African Mercenary Read Free

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.
     
     

CHAPTER THREE
    In Singapore, Casey sat with his number one man, a Vietnamese named Van, in the cool interior of Raffles, one of the last vestiges of the British Empire's better days. Van had been of great value to him on more than one occasion because of the man's family connections on Taiwan. Members of his once very large family had been in nearly every branch of the overthrown South Vietnamese government, and through them Van had many contacts with friendly interests on Taiwan. Van had a sleepy look to him that was deceptive. His smooth good looks and fine olive skin made many who saw him from even a short distance mistake him for Spanish or Portuguese.
    Casey leaned back, listening to the drone of the overworked air conditioning system, sipping slowly at his stengah , enjoying the blend of whiskey and soda. Van was savoring both his San Miguel beer and the pretty Malay waitress, whose blue and white cheongsam showed a sleek length of golden leg where the dress was slit to the thigh.
    Waiting was not all that bad. Van Janich had lived up to the letter of their agreement and had deposited the money into Casey's accounts in Brussels and Zurich. His machinery had been put into operation, and everything was in order. For once, he wouldn't have to go to the trouble of acquiring weapons. Working