been a scene out of Dante's Inferno. The night bird flew on....
Field Marshal and Premier for Life, Matthew Dzhombe, sat on the hereditary throne of his tribe and held court. His speech of the day had been hailed by one and all as his best, and no one seemed to mind the four and a half hours it took to deliver. The thundering cheers of the people assured him of their devotion, especially since his best troops, his ufaSimbas , were covering them with automatic weapons. No one seemed to notice when some Simbas took away several spectators. Included in this group were a number of attractive young women. No one interfered. Their fate was well known, and not all of the young women were frightened. Some thought it could be a way to a better life if they pleased Dzhombe.
Cars waited to take them to the palace for the pleasure of Dzhombe and his guests. Once there, they would be bathed, dressed in gowns from Europe, and given instructions as to their duties. All obeyed. To refuse was unthinkable.
The celebrations at the presidential palace had started soon after Dzhombe's speech had ended and the huge crowd was permitted to return to their homes. No stores or restaurants were open for business. Everyone was to be in his own house by nightfall. Anyone found on the streets without special permission would be shot on the spot.
The party at the palace had degenerated into its normal drunken orgy. Dzhombe roared with laughter, his huge frame shaking with mirth, as his sycophants enjoyed his bounty. The pretty young women brought in for the celebration laughed too, most of them high. Cocaine, heroin, and hashish were to be had for the asking. Possession of narcotics was a crime only when Matthew Dzhombe said it was.
The palace grounds were lit with lanterns, the walls adorned with strings of multi-colored bulbs. Many of the guests had already passed out or were clutching each other in the bushes and flower gardens. Dzhombe's few remaining off duty palace guards helped themselves to whatever they could get their hands on. Dzhombe, they knew, understood their needs, and as long as they didn't offend anyone of importance, they could do as they pleased.
Dzhombe watched over them, resembling some gross idol observing his worshipers in their pagan rites. Nothing escaped him. He made a mental note of those he did not like. His criteria for this fatal judgment was often nothing more than that the subject of his displeasure did not seem to be enjoying himself enough. Sober men who avoided healthy whores at his parties were men to be watched. Before selecting for himself one of the women who had been taken from the streets, he made one last scan of the doorways and windows. The men there were not drinking. All were completely sober, trying to be unobtrusive as they watched over their master's guests. Each Simba's rifle was loaded and ready to fire.
Clanggggg ! The ten minute warning bell rang, startling in its suddenness. Casey stood and hooked up, giving the command to his men to do the same. As they lined up, he yelled out over the plane's roar, "Sound off!" Starting at the rear of the first stick came the responses:
"Thirty okay."
"Twenty nine okay."
"Twenty eight okay..."
Casey was number one. All of them would be out of the plane in less than twenty seconds from the time the jumpmaster gave the word. Both sticks would exit by the tail. They'd be jumping at about seven hundred feet. No reserves were carried. If anything went wrong, there'd be no time to use one anyway. From that jump height, they would be in the air for only about twenty three seconds before they touched down. That wouldn't give Dzhombe's guards much time to respond to the invasion.
"One minute to the DZ," came the call from the co -pilot now turned jumpmaster, a tough looking man in his thirties wearing British and American jump wings on his olive drab coveralls. He pulled the switch that opened the tailgate, exposing the night to the men inside. Then he opened the
Field Marshal and Premier for Life, Matthew Dzhombe, sat on the hereditary throne of his tribe and held court. His speech of the day had been hailed by one and all as his best, and no one seemed to mind the four and a half hours it took to deliver. The thundering cheers of the people assured him of their devotion, especially since his best troops, his ufaSimbas , were covering them with automatic weapons. No one seemed to notice when some Simbas took away several spectators. Included in this group were a number of attractive young women. No one interfered. Their fate was well known, and not all of the young women were frightened. Some thought it could be a way to a better life if they pleased Dzhombe.
Cars waited to take them to the palace for the pleasure of Dzhombe and his guests. Once there, they would be bathed, dressed in gowns from Europe, and given instructions as to their duties. All obeyed. To refuse was unthinkable.
The celebrations at the presidential palace had started soon after Dzhombe's speech had ended and the huge crowd was permitted to return to their homes. No stores or restaurants were open for business. Everyone was to be in his own house by nightfall. Anyone found on the streets without special permission would be shot on the spot.
The party at the palace had degenerated into its normal drunken orgy. Dzhombe roared with laughter, his huge frame shaking with mirth, as his sycophants enjoyed his bounty. The pretty young women brought in for the celebration laughed too, most of them high. Cocaine, heroin, and hashish were to be had for the asking. Possession of narcotics was a crime only when Matthew Dzhombe said it was.
The palace grounds were lit with lanterns, the walls adorned with strings of multi-colored bulbs. Many of the guests had already passed out or were clutching each other in the bushes and flower gardens. Dzhombe's few remaining off duty palace guards helped themselves to whatever they could get their hands on. Dzhombe, they knew, understood their needs, and as long as they didn't offend anyone of importance, they could do as they pleased.
Dzhombe watched over them, resembling some gross idol observing his worshipers in their pagan rites. Nothing escaped him. He made a mental note of those he did not like. His criteria for this fatal judgment was often nothing more than that the subject of his displeasure did not seem to be enjoying himself enough. Sober men who avoided healthy whores at his parties were men to be watched. Before selecting for himself one of the women who had been taken from the streets, he made one last scan of the doorways and windows. The men there were not drinking. All were completely sober, trying to be unobtrusive as they watched over their master's guests. Each Simba's rifle was loaded and ready to fire.
Clanggggg ! The ten minute warning bell rang, startling in its suddenness. Casey stood and hooked up, giving the command to his men to do the same. As they lined up, he yelled out over the plane's roar, "Sound off!" Starting at the rear of the first stick came the responses:
"Thirty okay."
"Twenty nine okay."
"Twenty eight okay..."
Casey was number one. All of them would be out of the plane in less than twenty seconds from the time the jumpmaster gave the word. Both sticks would exit by the tail. They'd be jumping at about seven hundred feet. No reserves were carried. If anything went wrong, there'd be no time to use one anyway. From that jump height, they would be in the air for only about twenty three seconds before they touched down. That wouldn't give Dzhombe's guards much time to respond to the invasion.
"One minute to the DZ," came the call from the co -pilot now turned jumpmaster, a tough looking man in his thirties wearing British and American jump wings on his olive drab coveralls. He pulled the switch that opened the tailgate, exposing the night to the men inside. Then he opened the
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