Shaka II Read Online Free PDF

the Western nations, with whom I have signed no agreement or treaty, punish us-by sending bigger germs?”
        “But this will kill our own people too!”
        “They are not our people,” replied Robert. “They are Xhosa and Matabele. We are Zulu.”
        “They are South Africans, and you are their President!”
        “Then they will have died for their country, and their families will honor their memories.”
        “I just want it on record that I strongly disapprove,” said the advisor.
        Robert shrugged. “You have that right.”
        The advisor left the room. No one ever saw him again.
        Soon the reports began coming in. Nothing was alive within twenty-five miles of the crash-and ninety percent of McBride’s forces had been that close to it. None of the local residents had survived either.
        A few stray mercenaries, far out on the flanks, or advance scouts, were alive but grievously ill. Robert refused to allow them access to our medical facilities, and they were airlifted to Gaborone, where I am told most of them died within a week.
        “It’s just as well,” said Robert a few days later. “It could have taken as much as three years to starve them out. This saved a lot of time and effort.”
        “But not lives,” I noted bitterly.
        “I’m alive,” he shot back. “You’re alive. We have a new province almost the size of Spain, and almost none of the population died in the conflict. What more could you want?”
        I couldn’t think of any response that would alter his perceptions, so I remained silent.
        “Anyway,” he continued, “since McBride is dead and there is no one left of any rank to surrender to me here, I suppose I shall have to fly to Gaborone and allow them to surrender to me there.”
        “Don’t we have an ambassador there?” I asked.
        “Presidents do not surrender to ambassadors or underlings,” said Robert. “I will go myself.”
        And so he did. But first he got our finest calligrapher to draw up a list of his demands, and write them in beautiful script on an actual piece of parchment. Then, armed with that, he traveled to Gaborone, accompanied only by myself, an advisor, and a small handful of bodyguards.
        A huge crowd gathered as he climbed the steps of the Presidential mansion. The Botswanan President, a withered, elderly man who looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, greeted him at the top of the stairs, and the two of them went into his office. They emerged half an hour later, and Robert walked through the ornate entry hall to the top of the steps, holding the signed parchment aloft.
        “Citizens!” he cried. “I bring glad tidings! Beginning this week, the rivers shall flow again.” A huge cheer. “Beginning this week, you will never have to rely on a hired military that owes no allegiance to you, for you will be protected against all external threats by the army of South Africa.” Another cheer. “And beginning right now you will never again be led by a weakling such as this man standing next to me.” And before anyone realized what was happening, Robert had pulled a pistol out of his pocket, placed it against the President’s head, and pulled the trigger.
        The explosion brought a shocked gasp from the crowd, as the withered man collapsed in a heap. I thought they were going to race up the stairs and attack Robert, but he held up a hand. It didn’t mean anything, but it was a dramatic gesture, and it got their attention.
        “All he brought you was thirst and defeat. Now things will be different. To begin with, I am declaring a two-week paid holiday for every worker in Botswana. And if any employer doesn’t honor that promise,” he added sternly, “I want to know about it.” I saw the members of the crowd looking at each other, puzzled expressions on their faces. “Furthermore, to welcome you into the nation of South