AN: the German drinking song can be found at the following link (add 'youtube' to the beginning). I apologize for those of you who had alerts set up for setting off alarms last night doing revisions, but unfortunately there's no way to fix mistakes without deleting the old chapter and uploading a new one. Oh well, so ist das Leben (such is life)!

.com/watch?v=Y5ryo-cd-EU

ZWEIUNDZWANZIG

Bier her

That afternoon

"Right here are the Outlanders' two most likely routes of approach," Hermann said as he scraped an outline of the rocks with a stick and pointed to a series of potential pathways. "Either they'll come up this set of steps here, the way everyone here does it, or they'll go around the other side through the boulders. That would give them more cover, but it would be a harder ascent—they'd only take that path if they knew we have the rifles, and I'm pretty sure that's not common knowledge." Simba stood next to Hermann, watching intently as the diagram on the floor became more and more complex: the rocks housing the pride sprouted a crude German flag on the top, trees and large boulders were scratched in or represented with pebbles, and before long, the entire picture was crisscrossed with arrows and arcs meant to show where a bullet could be placed with the necessary accuracy. After he had drawn in the last detail—for the time being at least—Hermann got up off his knees and looked over his handiwork, confident in his ability to draw, but in little else otherwise.

"See this arc?" he said. "That's the area we'll be able to cover, regardless of where Markos and I set up. Anything inside that arc is a target, provided we can see it as it makes its way here. Unfortunately, that also means anything outside the arc is more or less untouchable. We'd have to station two ranks on each side to compensate, and barring a miracle, we'd get our own little version of der Götterdämmerung.

"What now? I've never heard you use that word before…German, is it?"

"Yes, of course it is. It doesn't mean anything good—let's just leave it at that. The point is, it's a fairly limited window we've got. Unless any attackers happen to stay in between those two imaginary lines I've draw, Markos and I can't see them or shoot at them. No matter where the two of us are, there's only so much we can do; anything behind us or too far off to one side—there are rocks behind us, above us, and to the left and right blocking our view—isn't in any danger until it's staring us in the face."

"What about Roberto?" Simba asked. "Didn't he say he could help us?"

"Yes, he did, and it sounded like a good idea until I thought it over a bit. Are you familiar with tanks?"

"No, what are they?"

"Tanks are heavily-armored vehicles with some very heavy weaponry…sort of like the car we have outside, but much bigger, hundreds of times stronger, and packing lots of firepower. They're almost impossible to destroy—

"But those are all good things! I thought you said it wouldn't work."

"I did; I wasn't finished yet. Yes, a tank is pretty much indestructible, which is the good part about having one on your side, but they're also slow and rather hard to maneuver. Essentially, they're like crocodiles with guns…you can't kill them, but if you're on foot and up against a tank, you can dance around it and stay out of reach all night. Unless Zira gets close enough, Roberto can't do much except chase her, and she'll have the speed advantage over him…even a fourteen-foot crocodile has his limits. With respect, Euer Majestät, even if everything were to go our way, I don't know how we're going to pull this off."

"Duly noted, Herr Sterlitz," Simba replied, knowing that Hermann couldn't stand being called Herr anything, even his proper last name. It was the best friendly reminder Simba could think of to keep the German royal honorifics from spiraling out of control; as much as Hermann preferred to be called Hermann, even at the hospital where it would have been all good and proper to call him by his surname, Simba was equally insistent that the formal titles, regardless of language, be disposed of. "I'll admit, it doesn't look good," he said, "but if I didn't know any better, I'd say you've already done this kind of thing—the diagrams, the careful planning—once before."

"Yes, and no," Hermann replied. "It wasn't nearly as high stakes as what we're in now. You see, every year in medical school, there was a competition between two dorms wherein we would try to get into the other building and steal a designated case of beer inside. My team decided to give me the task of coming up with the master plan, seeing as I wouldn't be able to move very quickly and the sound of my cane would give all of us away, so I came up with an absolutely brilliant idea that involved disabling the building's alarms, sending three people dressed in black through a back window at 3 am, and ferrying the beer bucket-brigade style back to our place. Otto von Bismarck couldn't have done better himself."

"So it worked then?"

"Actually, we never got the chance to test it. As all of us were meeting in my room behind closed doors to discuss the plan, the other guys showed up, went through our front door undetected, and waltzed out thirty seconds later with a free case of Celebrator Doppelbock. We didn't even see them; they left us a note congratulating us for facilitating the easiest heist in German history. I'm convinced that had we actually been given the opportunity to try out my plan, it would have gone off without a hitch, but nevertheless it brings up an important point."

"What, that we need to make sure Zira doesn't steal our beer?"

"Not beer…ourselves. The other team got in because our backs were turned; we were so focused on our own plan of attack that we completely forgot to defend. That time, it cost us a twenty-Euro case of booze, but if we make the same mistake here, we won't be nearly as lucky. The price will be in lives, not bottles." Hermann kneeled back down to look at his diagram, knowing he had already gleaned from it what little information there was. "I don't know what to tell you…this is completely foreign territory for me, in every sense of the word. I've never had any military training, commanded a detachment, or shot in self-defense…and on top of all that, Vitani doesn't want me to shoot any of the Outlanders. What am I supposed to do, just drop my gun and cover myself with steak sauce?"

"I can't blame her for not wanting you to shoot," Simba said. "They're her family…and most of them, except for a few die-hard loyalists, would escape if they could. It's Zira's penalty for desertion alone that keeps them following her."

"What penalty? Death?"

"Exactly…a slow and painful one at that. Zira has a following out of fear; Adila told you so herself, that's why she never ran away until the prospect of certain death suddenly hinged on her staying as opposed to her going. Normally, however, it's the other way around."

Hermann started pacing unsteadily back and forth, staring at the ground and rhythmically scratching his head with the hand that wasn't holding on to the cane. What are you thinking?" Simba said. "You seem like you're about to say something."

"No…no big ideas to speak of yet. I'd get Markos to help us out too, but the last time I checked, he was displaying his enviable role model qualities by teaching the cubs German drinking songs."

"You mean the one that goes, 'Beer here, beer here' over and over again?"

Hermann kept up his walking back and forth, a steady step, step, tap sound echoing off the walls as he went along. He knew Vitani didn't want him to wipe out the rest of her family, and he was trying hard to come up with some way to do so and not die himself, but his success in this endeavor so far had been rather limited.

"The only way to keep from actually having to shoot at the Outlanders would be to keep them from attacking us in the first place; if we're in danger, I won't have any choice but to shoot. And if they didn't attack us in the first place, Zira and whoever she has as her back-up would pick up on that pretty quickly. So what we need is some way to make it look like their good guys are doing her dirty work, but without her knowing that they're actually on our side. I might be on to something here…you follow where I'm going with this?"

"Sort of…but how would we ever manage something like that?"

"We offer an olive branch. Say Vitani and Adila are right—that most of their pride are just good lions stuck in a bad situation. Right now, their only choices are between our rifle bullets and Zira's death sentences, but we can promise them protection, a good home for their families, food and water, freedom…everything Zira's denied them. If they're good at heart and desperate to get out, why wouldn't they take us up on that? And most importantly, we can do it all without Zira ever knowing any better."

"How?"

"With a fake firing squad. We shoot, miss on purpose, and they fall over...alive and unhurt, but pretending to be dead. Markos and I can send the bullets overhead or into the ground; as long as the ones on our side really sell it well, Zira won't be able to tell it's an act. The actual gunshots are all we need for her to buy it."

"Still, the question remains, how are we actually going to make it all happen? I like your idea, but we can't just stroll into the Outlands and advertise, and besides, there's no telling if they'll turn on us afterwards."

"I can be rather convincing if necessary," Hermann said as he pointed to the revolver strapped under his belt. "Besides, like I've already said, if what we think we know from Vitani and Adila is true, we'd be helping them as much as they'd be helping us, so there's probably going to be no need for any extra coercion. As far as actually getting the necessary information out to Vitani's family…that's a completely different story. How far away are the Outlands, out of curiosity?"

"Three or four days of steady walking—but you don't mean to tell me you're actually going to go there, do you?"

"Do you know of any other way to end this thing once and for all? We have to trust the information we've got, that we won't be in nearly as much danger as we think. Vitani and Adila can guide us and advise us on who to talk to, we can take the rifles with us for protection, and if we go in the car, those three to four days turn into three or four hours."

"You're crazy, Hermann. You can't go risking your neck out there for nothing. You'll be killed, and you're no good to anyone dead."

"I'm risking my neck no matter what. The way I see it, going and trying to talk with them is the only way we might be able to win in the end. You asked me to help you, and unless someone's got a better idea, I'm afraid that's how it's going to have to be."

"Fine, if you insist…but I'm coming with you. You can't go to the Outlands by yourself."

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that," Hermann flatly replied. "Remember how the other med students stole our beer while we were preoccupied with planning the same for them? Like I already said, there's a lesson in that: no leaving your home base unguarded. You have to stay here with Markos and keep things held down in the short time I'm gone."

"I'll do no such thing. You don't stand a chance without some kind of backup."

Hermann sighed heavily. "I was hoping it wouldn't have to come to this, and please know I don't mean any disrespect, but that was an order, not a request. If you want to do the right thing and keep innocent lives from being lost, and have all of ours survive on top of that, you've got to trust and listen to me. Kings listen to their advisors; even the German Prime Ministers have entire groups of people helping them—more than all of us combined, in fact. And I'll still have backup. Vitani and Adila will come with me, plus I'll make sure I'm more than adequately armed. I'm your Director of Security, after all; shooting's one thing I know quite a bit about."

"Deputy Chief of Security, not Director of Security," Simba replied, wondering if there was much of a difference between the two. "You drive a hard bargain, but I'm in no position to argue. Start packing what you need; you should set off at first light tomorrow. With any luck, you'll be back by sundown."

"I will be. And please don't think this is some sort of power trip; it's for Kopa, for all of you…not for me."

"I know, I know…I shouldn't have been so stubborn. I will carry out your instructions to the last detail, you have my word. I'm only reluctant because I'm worried about you; I can't lie and say I'm not. All you've done for us in these short few weeks; you're like a brother to us. I'm not sure what we'd do if we lost you, Kopa especially. He'd never get over it.."

"I told you I'll come back. That means I will."

Sunset

Between convincing Markos to let him leave with the car and persuading Adila and Vitani to come with him on his trip, as well as telling Kopa time and again that he wasn't going to die and would be back within the day to resume their concert practice, Hermann spent the better part of the subsequent two hours arguing over minutia and assuaging fears of his demise at the hands of another pride. But finally, he was able o win an uneasy acceptance; as he and Simba already knew, there didn't seem to be any better options available. As he was packing a few vital necessities into his suitcase, which had been emptied of its former contents, Markos came in and asked where the matches were hidden.

"They're wrapped up inside my Universität Stuttgart sweater," Hermann said, wondering what his friend was up to. "Are you cooking tonight?"

"I'm not sure what I'm doing; Simba and Nala asked me to build a big fire outside, so that's what I'm doing."

"They speak German now?"

"No, but luckily for all of us, the words feuer and fire are close enough for even me to understand. And it looks like there's something else hidden in that sweater along with the matches…you planning a fun night out on the town? Markos held up the bottle of Scotch and shook his head with a smile.

"Actually, I thought the both of us could drink that. Tonight's as good a time as any, but not until we've got something to eat. I can't afford a hangover with what's in store for me tomorrow."

"You know you'll have one anyway. Keep packing your things, and meet me outside in one hour. Simba and Nala's orders as well."

"There's no way you understood that sentence in English."

"No way at all. But between myself, the two of them, and Kopa, there's enough German floating around to be sufficient. See you in sixty minutes."

I wonder if he's already drunk, Hermann thought as he heard Markos leave and resumed packing up his suitcase. By the time he was satisfied with what he had decided to bring—a change of clothes, pen and paper, his passport, and a rifle with a box of ammunition—the sun had already started to dip below the horizon; Hermann surmised an hour had passed, and as such, he could go and see whatever surprise was awaiting him. "What…the…" was all he could say when he walked outside to a hero's welcome and what could only be described as a towering inferno.

"We heard about a tradition you humans have where you all sit around a fire, eat, and tell stories, so we figured we'd try to recreate it for you before your big trip tomorrow morning," Simba explained. "It's the least we could do."

"Not bad at all," Hermann said, "but for the record, the fire's supposed to be a fairly small affair, not a recreation of a napalm drop."

"We knew that…but Markos insisted on a big one. We've got your favorites cooking, what I think you call 'steak'—from an antelope, of course, but just as good as anything you could find in Germany."

Hermann said a rather humbled "thank you", sat down next to Markos by the fire, and poured two shots of Scotch. "Wait, wait," Markos said before his friend could drink, "we need a toast first. I would have thought a career drinker like yourself would know better than that…"

"OK, OK," Hermann grumbled as he raised himself up and lifted his glass. Through the dancing smoke and flames, he could see Simba and Nala sitting on the other side of the fire with Vitani—now the newest official member of the family—and Kopa lying at their feet, flanked by the rest of the pride and all waiting for a few words of inspiration. "Tomorrow," Hermann said, addressing everyone around the fire, "we make for the Outlands…for you, for ourselves, for our homelands. Much is expected of us; we will not fail. Of course, I would like very much to think that everything we have done thus far was based in perseverance and skill alone," he went on, "but the truth is, we've been lucky as well—we all have been—and that certainly hasn't hurt us. So let's hope that luck continues. Auf das Glück…to luck!"

"To luck!" all echoed as Markos and Hermann clinked glasses and drained the contents.

"How did that sound?" Hermann asked in German as he sat back down.

"Like you lifted it from a Soviet submarine film…I've seen The Widowmaker before. The bit about not failing, the toast to luck; you took those straight from the script."

"Guilty as charged. How about a drinking song?"

"OK! I'm not very good at these English ones, but I'll try". He stood up and cleared his throat. "There was a young lady from Wheeling, who had an incredible feeling—

"STOP! For God's sake, Schreiber, keep it clean!"

"You asked for a drinking song, I gave you a drinking song. Sue me."

"I didn't mean for you to sing that one! The beer song from earlier—the one you taught Kopa and Vitani—do that instead. First, though, we need more shots. Who wants a shot?" He asked the question in English so that everybody would understand, but he had forgotten that apart from a short glass of liquor, the word "shot" had two additional, very distinct definitions that a certain pair of cubs were not keen to revisit.

"Why would I want one? I thought I was done needing those!"

"Shoot yourselves, not me."

Hermann laughed as he grabbed the Scotch bottle and filled the two glasses, spilling as much liquid on the ground as he intended to drink himself. "OK, go!" he said to Markos, "and try to stay on key for once, it won't kill you."

Bier her, Bier her, oder ich fall um, juche!

Bier her, Bier her, oder ich fall um.

One by one, everyone else joined in as they figured out the words.

Soll das Bier im Keller liegen,

Und ich hier die Ohnmacht kriegen!

Bier her, Bier her, oder ich fall um!

"Bravo…prost!" Hermann shouted as he emptied the contents of his glass. "Another!" Even more shots were poured, and the surrounding African plains were summarily treated to go-round after go-round of German bar-room repertoire and raucous cheering, the words getting more sluggish and slurred together with each passing verse. An hour or so later, having finally tired of singing and watching their two human friends try to drink each other into oblivion, Kopa and Vitani decided to play around on the rocks nearby; Hermann and Markos, true to form, were trying to finish off the last of the bottle.

"Why doesn't one of you go watch those two?" Simba asked, speaking to both men but knowing only one would understand him fully. "I'd appreciate it if you could keep an eye on them for me."

"S'okay," Hermann said getting up, motioning for Markos to stay put and trying to remember where the cubs had gone even though they were only fifty feet away. "I'll…go an'…find them."

Hermann slowly walked away, titling ever so slightly to the left and looking a bit to the right as he went along. He could no longer be seen by the others once he found Kopa and Vitani, but his voice (now undeniably garbled) and the tapping of his cane, which had become even more irregular than normal, told everyone he wasn't far away. "Are they chasing each other?" Nala asked Simba, picking up on the hurried footfalls coming from nearby. "It sounds like they're playing tag or something."

"With Hermann?" Simba replied. "That's going to be the world's shortest-ever game if he's playing, but I think you're right…I can hear them over there."

"I'm the fastest!"

"No, I'm the fastest!"

"I'm drunk!"