Vietnam and Cambodia.
For Casey, the remaining hours until they reached the drop zone were spent going over the final plans again and again, trying to anticipate everything that could possibly go wrong. Reviewing the plan, it seemed simple enough. Their aircraft would be coming in on the same flight path that a regularly scheduled flight from Pretoria used at this time every week, but the regular flight would be delayed for thirty minutes while the mercs' plane took its place. The troops in Kimshaka were used to the regular commercial flights and wouldn't be alarmed at the sound of the transport's engines. Nor would the air traffic controllers behind their radar scopes in the airfield tower think anything was out of the ordinary. They would be given the proper call signs and would think the plane was just a bit off course as it made its approach to the field. How the white Africans had arranged for the delay was none of his business.
Harrison sat calmly at the controls of the glider, taking it easy. He kept a light hand on the stick, letting the tow aircraft do the work. So far, so good. The old Waco handled quite well and was riding steady.
Beidemann came up front and sat in the co-pilot's seat. Below, the jungle was bathed in a bluish glow. Soon the moon would be down. They had another four hours until they would be cut loose. In the back, the men were preparing themselves again; for the tenth time they made last checks of themselves and their gear. They had changed into tiger striped camouflage uniforms, stuffing their civvies into a duffel bag.
At the same time as the C -119 and C-47 carried their cargoes of death through the night skies of Africa, the liberation forces of Kimshaka were ambushing small government outposts around the capital, drawing off troops from the city until even the palace guard had to send out most of their off duty men to take care of these insect bites that threatened to spoil the gaiety of the Avenging Lion's celebration.
News of these raids were kept from Field Marshal Dzhombe. They were not serious. No positions had been lost. They were only nuisance actions designed to interrupt the festivities and embarrass their leader. A wise man knew when not to bother Matthew Dzhombe with bad news. In the morning it would all be over with anyway, so why disturb the master?
The men in the C -119 adjusted the straps on their parachutes; the damned things never seemed to fit exactly right. Most of the men felt as if they had to take a leak, a common phenomenon when a person's under stress. The body wants to eliminate fluid in the bladder when danger is near. That way, if the body is injured, the risk of severe infection from a urine filled, ruptured bladder is reduced.
The pilot left his seat in the C -119 and went back to speak to Casey. "You have one hour to go to the DZ. If there's anything you, or your men need to do, you'd better do it now. Once we get near the drop zone, my co-pilot will come back and act as jumpmaster for you. Don't worry about him. He's had over a thousand free falls and knows his business. Nothing but the best for you guys." His voice was steady, with just a hint of the American Midwest in it.
"You're an American," said Casey, surprised.
"That's right: Dayton, Ohio. Don't ask what I'm doing up here and I won't ask you, okay?"
"Okay," replied Casey with a broad grin, pulling himself up from the canvas bucket seat. The pilot returned to his controls, and Casey yelled out over the noise of the engines, "One hour to go. Check your weapons and your harness. Make sure there are no grenades hanging loose that can catch on something. Keep them off your webbing and in your bags until we exit the plane."
The Midwestern voice turned on the interior red lights so the mercs could see what they were doing and to give their eyes time to adjust to the darkness outside. The red glow gave a strange, hellish aura to everyone and everything it touched. The interior of the plane could have
For Casey, the remaining hours until they reached the drop zone were spent going over the final plans again and again, trying to anticipate everything that could possibly go wrong. Reviewing the plan, it seemed simple enough. Their aircraft would be coming in on the same flight path that a regularly scheduled flight from Pretoria used at this time every week, but the regular flight would be delayed for thirty minutes while the mercs' plane took its place. The troops in Kimshaka were used to the regular commercial flights and wouldn't be alarmed at the sound of the transport's engines. Nor would the air traffic controllers behind their radar scopes in the airfield tower think anything was out of the ordinary. They would be given the proper call signs and would think the plane was just a bit off course as it made its approach to the field. How the white Africans had arranged for the delay was none of his business.
Harrison sat calmly at the controls of the glider, taking it easy. He kept a light hand on the stick, letting the tow aircraft do the work. So far, so good. The old Waco handled quite well and was riding steady.
Beidemann came up front and sat in the co-pilot's seat. Below, the jungle was bathed in a bluish glow. Soon the moon would be down. They had another four hours until they would be cut loose. In the back, the men were preparing themselves again; for the tenth time they made last checks of themselves and their gear. They had changed into tiger striped camouflage uniforms, stuffing their civvies into a duffel bag.
At the same time as the C -119 and C-47 carried their cargoes of death through the night skies of Africa, the liberation forces of Kimshaka were ambushing small government outposts around the capital, drawing off troops from the city until even the palace guard had to send out most of their off duty men to take care of these insect bites that threatened to spoil the gaiety of the Avenging Lion's celebration.
News of these raids were kept from Field Marshal Dzhombe. They were not serious. No positions had been lost. They were only nuisance actions designed to interrupt the festivities and embarrass their leader. A wise man knew when not to bother Matthew Dzhombe with bad news. In the morning it would all be over with anyway, so why disturb the master?
The men in the C -119 adjusted the straps on their parachutes; the damned things never seemed to fit exactly right. Most of the men felt as if they had to take a leak, a common phenomenon when a person's under stress. The body wants to eliminate fluid in the bladder when danger is near. That way, if the body is injured, the risk of severe infection from a urine filled, ruptured bladder is reduced.
The pilot left his seat in the C -119 and went back to speak to Casey. "You have one hour to go to the DZ. If there's anything you, or your men need to do, you'd better do it now. Once we get near the drop zone, my co-pilot will come back and act as jumpmaster for you. Don't worry about him. He's had over a thousand free falls and knows his business. Nothing but the best for you guys." His voice was steady, with just a hint of the American Midwest in it.
"You're an American," said Casey, surprised.
"That's right: Dayton, Ohio. Don't ask what I'm doing up here and I won't ask you, okay?"
"Okay," replied Casey with a broad grin, pulling himself up from the canvas bucket seat. The pilot returned to his controls, and Casey yelled out over the noise of the engines, "One hour to go. Check your weapons and your harness. Make sure there are no grenades hanging loose that can catch on something. Keep them off your webbing and in your bags until we exit the plane."
The Midwestern voice turned on the interior red lights so the mercs could see what they were doing and to give their eyes time to adjust to the darkness outside. The red glow gave a strange, hellish aura to everyone and everything it touched. The interior of the plane could have
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