Once Upon the Congo

by Applewhite, Claire; Harper, Chap

  Chris, Mit and Modesto were told the theories behind the attacks on the village of Mlogulu. Entire prides of lions had killed at least a dozen natives in the last two months. Because of their hunting permits the three friends would be allowed to kill any lions near the village regardless of the lions’ sex or age. Mit had a game warden friend in Kenya who had alerted him to the problem. They had been in contact with the Tanzanian warden by phone. The latest phone call to Mit was urgent, since another attack had occurred three days before. Lions need about eleven pounds of meat a day to survive but can eat as much as seventy or eighty pounds at a time. The overall assessment was the lions were about to head back to the dinner table.

  In some places in South Africa, lions are raised in captivity and then released into the wild a few days before a hunt. This type of hunting is often called “canned lion hunts.” These hunts have caused uproar from conservationists and the general public. On the other hand, surely the lions these men would face would have no fear of humans. The men might be a canned hunt for the lions.

  The three men from Abu Camp introduced themselves to the hired guns and learned their names. Mickey Hanson and Will Carpenter worked for a safari firm in Northern Tanzania. They looked the part and according to their resumes, were the real thing. Both were about six feet two inches tall with sun bleached hair and skin that was burned brown.

  Will requested a quick strategy meeting. He asked the village chief where the lions normally came in. They walked the area, a low naturally wide path between two ridges. Some trees dotted the otherwise arid land.

  “Here is what I suggest, and I will defer to Frank since he is the local warden. We don’t need to be out in the open to face up to ten to fifteen lions at night. A hunt in the daylight would be a challenge since their nature is to attack once they see you. You just wound them—they come right at you. Fast, deadly…perfect killers. So, I suggest two tree stands and two Range Rover roof stands. Put the stands in those two trees.” He pointed at two of the tallest acacia trees, and then he indicated where he wanted the trucks stationed.

  “I will ask the chief to surround the trucks and the base of the trees with thorn bushes and to help with building the stands. Frank, what are your thoughts?” He turned his gaze towards the warden, who had been silently nodding in the affirmative.

  “I agree with you, Will, but we need one hunter to be in the village to take out lions that get through or go around the other hunters. The lone hunter will be pretty exposed—maybe around a circle of thorn bushes, but he must be able to pick off the beasts quickly,” the warden said, suddenly aware of the frigging danger of this hunt.

  “For those of you in tree stands—lions climb trees in a split second. Those on a Rover roof—they can jump over the thorn barriers in a millisecond. Kill spots will be hard to judge at night. Keep extra rifles, handguns, and ammo close by. Once you hit a lion and he goes down—shoot him again. They have a bad habit of coming back to life. Watch your buddy’s back,” Mickey spat this out as if he was about to take an unnamed suicide hill in Korea. No one said much—just a few “holy shits” and a “fuck me—we’re toast,” from the group of non-professional hunters.

  In addition to the rifles brought by the three amateurs, Will and Mickey issued back up weapons to everyone. They were bolt action Weathersby .460s, and could stop a dump truck at a thousand yards. However, one needed to be a good shot, since it only held three cartridges—two in the receiver and one in the chamber. One special weapon to be used by the person stationed at the village was a Barrett 82A1 .50 caliber semi-automatic rifle with several ten round clips. When Will pulled the Barrett out of the back of his Range Rover, the group gasped audibly. This weapon had been used by combat soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan to take out targets at some distance. The rifle was so powerful and accurate it was deemed—“one shot, one kill.”

  Will asked the group if anyone had ever fired that weapon.

  “I own one and the conversion kit for taking it to a .416 caliber.” Chris said. Modesto and Mit were not surprised, as they felt certain Chris owned an Abrams tank. He was a gun nut beyond reason.

  “You will guard the village then. What other gun did you bring?” Will asked.

  “My Holland and Holland .375 and my Desert Eagle .50 caliber pistol.” Chris stated proudly.

  “Fancy crap! If it gets down to you pulling out that pistol, you might just shoot yourself rather than being eaten alive.” Mickey said. Though he smiled as he spoke, he meant every word. He gave the impression of being battle tested, rugged, and a loyal partner in a foxhole.

  Will and Frank were deciding where to place people according to each person’s experience. Mit had spent the least time with large caliber weapons, but he was a damn good shot. He had seen action where people actually shot back at him. Modesto had trained with all kinds of weapons including a few rounds through a Barrett .50 cal. He and Chris had fought and survived a small war in Haiti a few years back. That kind of fighting was not anything either of them wanted to repeat. The three friends from Abu camp wondered what the hell they had signed up for. At first, they had been led to believe there were two lions at the most. Now it was a pride—or maybe two prides—that just might out-number the guns pointed at them. This was scary, but it was too late to back out. The villagers’ lives were at stake.

  Mit and Mickey teamed up in a tree stand built with scrap lumber from the village. Modesto was stationed on the top of a Land Rover. Frank took the other vehicle, while Will got in the second tree stand and pulled up his rifles and ammo by a rope. Chris found his way to the little fort made of African boxthorn and climbed up using two ladders. Inside the fort were thirty gallon barrels, so he could stand above the bushes to shoot. A huge ceremonial drum was even taller than the barrels. Chris asked for blankets to drape across the top of the thorn bushes, so he could place the big Barrett on them for support. He also received thick rugs, promised to be more useful, since it would be difficult for the three-inch thorns to penetrate them. The hunters were enjoying a meal of vegetables prepared by the villagers. Everyone hoped the attack would come before dark, but in case they were unlucky, each man had spotlights to seek out the lions.

  Since the circle of thorns was set up in a large clearing next to the dirt road leading into the village, Chris had great views. He was about 200 yards to the rear of the Land Rovers. The tree stands were farther still. If a lion escaped the other five hunters, Chris would be able to kill the lion before the pride reached the front of the village. Directly to the rear of Chris’s position, was a hillside infested with a thick growth of thorn bushes. Chris realized that beyond poisonous snakes, crocodiles, and man-eating lions, thorns were the next worst threat in Africa. So many varieties of thorns peppered the land—there were even thorn trees.

  The sun colored the sky with pastel orange streaks, and the light became much softer. All the men were on high alert, hoping the big cats might come in before dark. A runner from the tribe came up the trail at a fast clip and told Frank he had seen movement from the pride, several miles away. The villagers had tracked the lions and found where they usually bedded down. The pride was up and walking around. No one knew if the lions were headed in the direction of the village, as the natives didn’t hang around to see. One of the natives said he had never seen so many lions. Frank passed around this information on two way radios, and said something few of the hunters could comprehend. “Could be a super pride—couple prides combined,” Frank said. His voice sounded tense.

  In the heat, insects thrived on stationary targets. In Africa at dinner time, every living being appeared to feed off the next lower animal on the food chain. Night would be upon them, and in the darkness, bellies were filled at the expense of others. Africa can be terrifying at night, but for now, twilight still reigned.

  Chris thought he heard something on the brushy hill behind him. He turned to look, but didn’t see anything. Just to be sure, he swung the Barrett around and adjusted the scope. He guessed the edge of the
thicket was between one hundred and two hundred yards away. As the scope was focused it gave a read-out of 163 yards—elevation 27 feet. Chris worked the scope in grids, seeing only dense grass and bushes. No movement.

  Then, he realized that a thorn had pierced his hunting jacket and was trying to poke a hole in his arm. He placed a thick rug on the thorn bushes, and stood on the big drum. He took another look through the scope moving to 189 yards—elevation—46 feet. A blur of yellow fur flashed behind a bush—then another and another. Chris felt his heart pounding as loudly as the drum he stood on could be played.

  He pulled a cartridge out of his vest. Sliding the lever on the .50 cal. back, he inserted the extra bullet, leaving a full ten in the magazine. He sent the bullet into the chamber, clicked off the safety, and adjusted the tripod on the front of the barrel. The big cats had decided to flank everyone and attack from the rear, avoiding the mass of hunters on the lion’s much used trail. All the lions were running—how could he get a shot?

  A male lion, still for a second, popped his head out around a thicket. Chris took the shot. The recoil almost knocked him off the drum. The lion fell immediately, but Chris scrambled to get back in position to fire again. Unlike firing from the ground, there was nothing to absorb the recoil but Chris’s own body—he would just have to adapt. The thorn bushes were no help. Back behind the scope, he tried to find a stationary target, but couldn’t. Near the bottom of the thicket, he spotted two yellow objects, soon to be in the clear. He focused on them. His walkie-talkie in his vest crackled, but there was no time to answer.

  The first lion emerged. In an instant, Chris made part of his head explode. The second lion never slowed—charged straight for Chris, with his eyes on him like a missile locked on target. Chris fired and hit the hindquarter, causing the lion to flip over. To Chris’s disbelief, the lion came up and locked on target again, aiming for him. This time, Chris’s shot found the head and spine. The male lion turned his head and magnificent mane, just before he collapsed and slid into the maroon colored dirt.

  The first two had been males—bigger and slower than females. At this instant, three immature lionesses hit the level ground at lightning speed toward Chris’s little fort. Chris decided to take a quick shot on each to slow them and come back for the kill. His semi-automatic allowed him to accomplish the initial shots with three taps of his finger. Amazingly, all three lions got back up to charge. What are these animals made of? Chris thought. He tapped three more times. Only one got up again—another tap from Chris.

  The two way radio was going nuts, but four lionesses and a young male had just broken free of the bushes and headed his way. Chris slapped another magazine in the Barrett, even though he wasn’t sure of the count. He found each of the speeding lions and sent a round into each one. Four of the lions got up like ghosts from the red African dust and came at him again. Chris had never seen a more persistent beast of any kind. Chris found all of them again in his scope and popped them with head shots.

  On the heels of the four he had just killed were three more—all mature lionesses—and closing in fast. He found one and brought her down. He moved the scope. He pulled the trigger and heard a click—out of ammo with no time to reload—he grabbed the H&H .375 and fired at one of the lions. She flipped over a couple of times, but kept moving. The other lioness had reached jumping distance of the fort. She took the leap and cleared the thorn bushes. Chris fired while the cat was in the air and hit her underneath. The wounded cat fell into the fort. Though she was bleeding profusely from her gut, she remained hunkered, ready to pounce from the opposite end of the enclosure beside the metal barrels.

  Chris found the handle of his pistol and brought it up to fire. Before he could shoot, the other wounded lion pounced on the rug where the Barrett was lying and was preparing to launch herself. In a second, a pink mist blew out of her head, and then the sound of a gunshot could be heard from behind Chris. Without hesitation Chris started sending .50 caliber pistol slugs into the lion who had invited herself into his fort. By the time he spent his last shell, there was no more movement in her carcass.

  The men packed up and readied themselves to head to return to the airstrip, but not until the village chief gave Chris a ceremonial spear, shield, headdress, and a small bag made of an animal skin. Chris peered into the bag. Ten large uncut blue tanzanite stones, found only in Northern Tanzania, astonished him. How the chief came to possess these rare and valuable gems, Chris had no clue, but he was thrilled and divided them with Modesto and Mit.

  Later, Chris learned that Mickey had taken that shot from 300 yards. Soon, all the men gathered at his compound, amazed at the carnage. Fourteen lions lay dead, and Chris had taken all of them but one. If Mickey hadn’t made that shot, the last lion probably would have killed Chris. Facing both of those wounded lions would be the subject of some sweaty nightmares for years to come.

  Hopefully, thought Chris, the natives would now be safe from the lions. The Mormons, however, moved closer to the village gates every day.

  Chapter 18

  Spies

  Since they left the Dominican Republic a few days before, Chris and Lu Zacharius had been under constant surveillance. Even though the team assembled for the secret expedition to the Congo was small, they had security leaks. Of course, the information highway runs more smoothly when money is allocated. Barbos Vieux had a keen interest in anything Chris Zacharius did, since in most cases Chris’ efforts involved a treasure hunt, no matter how cleverly he might disguise them. Barbos didn’t buy the story of the safari and felt quite sure the three amigos would make some excuse to leave the girls at the lodge and head out on their own. He arranged for a young couple at Abu Camp to call him with daily reports on the comings and goings of the group from the Dominican Republic.

  Roland and Zoe Dishongh were white Haitians who had lost a great deal of money in a venture in Port au Prince. They accepted the spying job from a private detective agency for assistants offered through a newspaper ad. Their mission would be to report on a group of travelers at a safari camp in Africa. They would be paid handsomely and get a free trip to Africa. Dead broke, they bit on the offer and made few inquiries about their new employer. They had worked very hard to build a resort in Haiti. All their savings and borrowed money from their parents was literally wiped out on January 12th when the earthquake hit. Insurance only paid a small amount of their mortgage after the huge deductible for earthquakes. They didn’t have nearly enough money to rebuild. Who would be so crazy as to put up a new resort in such a broken country? The couple longed for a new start, and no pair on earth deserved a vacation more than Roland and Zoe Dishongh.

  So far Roland and Zoe had left Barbos the information on his cell phone concerning the three couples, including nighttime elephant rides where sexual activities took place on the backs of unsuspecting pachyderms. Barbos laughed and said “kinky.” However, the couple left out the part where they themselves did the same thing on a different night. During cocktails one evening, the two spies had drinks with the group and learned the boys were planning a lion hunt. Mr. Vieux received that information more enthusiastically than details about elephant sex.

  The two attractive, young, well dressed people made friends easily and mixed well in a crowd. Both were college educated in Miami and came from very good families. Had either set of parents known their kids were working for a famous drug trafficker, they would have flipped out and given them all the money they needed. But this couple didn’t want any more handouts from parents. Also, if a yuppie class existed in Port au Prince, these two would be charter members. They liked being around educated and well-heeled people, even though Roland and Zoe had no idea where their lives would take them after this African gig. Also, they had no idea how the information they were giving Barbos would be used. People planning to make investments in Africa needed the information. Barbos assured them nothing illegal was involved.

  The truth was, Barbos Marcel Vieux had done little in his life that could be cl
assified as remotely legal. He was released from jail in Florida because of an overcrowded prison system. Deportation was a free trip back to Haiti to piece together the crumbling drug empire of his brother, Jon Jon Vieux. Barbos found he had to eliminate some excess personnel who had slivered into management slots in the organization. All in all, 2008 was a rebuilding year for Barbos. At times, blood ran freely. Solidly back at the helm of Haiti’s vast and profitable narcotics trade, Mr. Vieux was flying high.

  Then came the earthquake. Planes couldn’t take off, ships couldn’t get in the harbors, and worst of all the roads that allowed ground transportation to the sites where drugs leave the country were destroyed. Haiti was often called the drug parking lot of the Caribbean, but this time the drugs were truly parked. Barbos worked desperately to repair the roads, with many in the country praising his efforts as a humanitarian. He accepted the accolades in stride, but had his own devious reasons to patch up the potholes and cavernous gaps in huge sections of the highway.

  Stealing all or part of Chris Zacharius’ treasure would surely recoup some of Mr. Vieux’s losses. He had his own twin engine plane and would shadow Chris and his two friends all over Africa if needed, which is exactly what he did. After the lion hunt Chris, Mit and Modesto left the village of Mloguhu, Tanzania and traveled to the nearby airstrip to be shuttled to a larger airport where Chris’s aircraft was waiting. When they arrived on a small plane at Tabora to board their private jet, Barbos’ private Gulf Stream was sitting in the dark awaiting take-off. The surfaced, treated, gravel airstrip was better for the jet and the Gulf Stream than dirt, but still was not a real runway. Barbos had paid local airport officials to find the jet’s flight plan. However, no one aboard the Gulf Stream had a visa for the Democratic Republic of the Congo, where Chris and his friends were going. This problem could be fixed, but would require time and dealing with some of the most wretched people on earth. There was one particular person Barbos had done business with before and had sworn he wouldn’t make that mistake again. The man’s name was Joseph Kony.