side door and stuck his head out to check on their approach. When the tailgate opened, a rush of wind whirled through the red lit interior, a welcome bit of relief in the claustrophobic confines of the flying boxcar.
Casey's men got ready, hands on their static lines. They'd tucked their soft caps into pockets where they wouldn't be lost during the jump and tightened the chin straps on the British made paratroop helmets, the kind that resembled motorcycle helmets more than anything else.
The lights of Kimshaka City were clearly visible to the jumpmaster as he gauged their distance. The C-119 had finished making its descent and had leveled off at seven hundred feet.
"Stand in the door," came the jumpmaster's command. Casey moved forward to the lip of the tailgate. Below him he could see the lights of individual houses and cooking fires. He wished that he'd been able to get a look at where they were heading, but he'd have to leave that to the jumpmaster's discretion and trust that the man was right.
Behind him, all were tense. A mixture of anticipation and fear ran through their bodies like an electric current.
"Go!" At the jumpmaster's order, Casey stepped out into the black night. Putting one foot over the edge of the tail, he was well aware that the next step was seven hundred feet down. Then he brought his other up to meet it and fell, his elbows tucked in, hands holding his kit bag close to his chest where his reserve chute would have been had he had one.
He was out and falling, his body whipped back by the cyclone blast of the C -119's props. There was a deafening roar followed by the opening shock of the chute. At the same time, the world went silent as the plane flew on ahead. Quickly he checked his risers, then looked around the sky for his men. They were all there. Turning his chute, he saw that the jumpmaster had been exactly on target; the palace grounds were directly below. The strings of colored lights on the walls serving as their marker, the mercs guided their chutes down.
Squinting his eyes, he saw several Simbas staring up at the chutes falling at them from the night sky. The ground came up almost faster than he could get ready for it. He hit hard, but nothing broke. Rolling over and hitting his quick release to break free of his chute harness, he unslung his Swedish M45 submachine gun and went down on one knee. The others were landing all around him.
A drunken soldier ran up to him, grinning, a hand extended with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red in it, the black man offering Casey a drink. The grin was stopped by the smashing of the Simba's jawbone with the metal stock of the gun.
Simbas started to yell out warnings, and several of the guests began to get a look of terror in their glazed eyes as they realized this was not some bizarre form of entertainment that their master had arranged for their amusement.
George ran up to kneel beside Casey, his sawed off shotgun at the ready. A group of five guards broke from the bushes to their right. One struggled with the bolt of his rifle. The time had come.
Not speaking, Casey took out the far two with a short, three round burst, twice repeated. The thundering sound of George's twelve gauge terminated the other three, blasting them back fifteen feet before they hit the ground. The fight was on.
Casey's mercs got their act together and started knocking out the guard posts on the garden walls. Two men had run to the garden gate where any reinforcements for the Simbas would have to enter. They took up positions on each side and waited. Their job was to keep the garden secure. Three minutes had elapsed. The mercs held the courtyard, but the Simbas were beginning to organize and return fire. Several of the mercs were wounded. Only one was dead, a young Irishman.
Casey gathered some men and assaulted the doorway, gaining the interior. They were brought to a halt by a blocking force of ten palace guards who had placed themselves to cover the entrance to the palace
Casey's men got ready, hands on their static lines. They'd tucked their soft caps into pockets where they wouldn't be lost during the jump and tightened the chin straps on the British made paratroop helmets, the kind that resembled motorcycle helmets more than anything else.
The lights of Kimshaka City were clearly visible to the jumpmaster as he gauged their distance. The C-119 had finished making its descent and had leveled off at seven hundred feet.
"Stand in the door," came the jumpmaster's command. Casey moved forward to the lip of the tailgate. Below him he could see the lights of individual houses and cooking fires. He wished that he'd been able to get a look at where they were heading, but he'd have to leave that to the jumpmaster's discretion and trust that the man was right.
Behind him, all were tense. A mixture of anticipation and fear ran through their bodies like an electric current.
"Go!" At the jumpmaster's order, Casey stepped out into the black night. Putting one foot over the edge of the tail, he was well aware that the next step was seven hundred feet down. Then he brought his other up to meet it and fell, his elbows tucked in, hands holding his kit bag close to his chest where his reserve chute would have been had he had one.
He was out and falling, his body whipped back by the cyclone blast of the C -119's props. There was a deafening roar followed by the opening shock of the chute. At the same time, the world went silent as the plane flew on ahead. Quickly he checked his risers, then looked around the sky for his men. They were all there. Turning his chute, he saw that the jumpmaster had been exactly on target; the palace grounds were directly below. The strings of colored lights on the walls serving as their marker, the mercs guided their chutes down.
Squinting his eyes, he saw several Simbas staring up at the chutes falling at them from the night sky. The ground came up almost faster than he could get ready for it. He hit hard, but nothing broke. Rolling over and hitting his quick release to break free of his chute harness, he unslung his Swedish M45 submachine gun and went down on one knee. The others were landing all around him.
A drunken soldier ran up to him, grinning, a hand extended with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red in it, the black man offering Casey a drink. The grin was stopped by the smashing of the Simba's jawbone with the metal stock of the gun.
Simbas started to yell out warnings, and several of the guests began to get a look of terror in their glazed eyes as they realized this was not some bizarre form of entertainment that their master had arranged for their amusement.
George ran up to kneel beside Casey, his sawed off shotgun at the ready. A group of five guards broke from the bushes to their right. One struggled with the bolt of his rifle. The time had come.
Not speaking, Casey took out the far two with a short, three round burst, twice repeated. The thundering sound of George's twelve gauge terminated the other three, blasting them back fifteen feet before they hit the ground. The fight was on.
Casey's mercs got their act together and started knocking out the guard posts on the garden walls. Two men had run to the garden gate where any reinforcements for the Simbas would have to enter. They took up positions on each side and waited. Their job was to keep the garden secure. Three minutes had elapsed. The mercs held the courtyard, but the Simbas were beginning to organize and return fire. Several of the mercs were wounded. Only one was dead, a young Irishman.
Casey gathered some men and assaulted the doorway, gaining the interior. They were brought to a halt by a blocking force of ten palace guards who had placed themselves to cover the entrance to the palace
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