The Cull

by Tony Park

  She moved carefully, watching where she put her feet and then sweeping her eyes and the barrel of her AK-47 in a 180-degree arc to her right. Mario, in front of her, covered the left, and Ezekial, their forward scout and tracker, focused on the ground and the bush in front of them.

  As she finished her sweep she saw that Ian, behind her, had picked up their rhythm and was also covering the right. Tema, who continued to impress Sonja with her skills and concentration, took a few steps then turned and swept the 180 degrees to their rear. Her job was to make sure no one was following them.

  Sonja’s gaze moved slowly to her front again and she allowed herself a couple of seconds to look at Mario from behind. He was still in pretty much the same shape as he’d been in Afghanistan. She remembered the smoothness of his skin, save for the two puckered scars where a bullet had entered and exited, by his right shoulder. She had touched the wounds the one time they’d had sex.

  The years had flown and in the intervening time she’d met Sam, fallen in love with him, and then lost him. It might have been love with Hudson Brand, if she had given it time, but their relationship, if she allowed herself to call it that, had rekindled the memories, good and bad, of devoting herself to another. Mario had been a fling, the result of one too many brandies, but they had gone their separate ways as friends. He was gentlemanly enough not to have raised it or joked about it since she had found him at the silversmith’s gallery.

  He turned, covering his side of their route, and their eyes locked, briefly. He gave a half-smile and she looked to the opposite side, in case he could guess what she had been thinking.

  Sonja heard the click of fingers and stopped. She looked forward. Ezekial had his right arm up, his hand now clenched in a fist. She looked back to Ian and motioned with a downward gesture for him to drop to one knee. Tema had done so already, and was facing rearward. Good girl.

  Sonja moved slowly forward. Mario had his rifle up into his shoulder, covering Ezekial. Low and slow, she went to the tracker’s side.

  Ezekial tilted his face up and touched the side of his nose. Sonja sniffed the air.

  ‘Smoke,’ she whispered into his ear.

  He nodded. Sonja concentrated and caught a whiff of cooking meat. It had to be their quarry. The tracks Ezekial had picked up spoke of a large group of men, about twenty. Most of them were bearers, carrying the ivory from the poisoned elephants. It had been like following a highway, their tracks impossible to disguise. They were operating with impunity, which, in itself, made Sonja doubly cautious.

  ‘Pull back,’ she said.

  They reformed twenty metres to their rear and Sonja gave her orders.

  When they set off again adrenaline was filing their nerve endings and senses to needlepoints. Each step was slow and deliberate, all weapons were raised, all eyes straining to read and interpret the ghostly glowing green landscape in their night vision goggles.

  Mario and Ian had moved wide and to the right in a flanking manoeuvre, while Sonja took point and led Ezekial and Tema directly in the direction the smoke was coming from. The poachers had followed a well-worn hippo path, the big animal’s rounded feet leaving a raised middelmannetjie hump between its right and left legs, but Sonja’s group weaved among the trees and bushes on either side, in case a sentry was covering the track.

  As the smell of smoke and braaiing meat became stronger, so too did the murmur of voices. These men were either stupid or they were supremely confident of not being followed.

  They were close enough now to see embers flying skywards and orange light reflected on the trees. A man laughed, too loud, and someone was cautious enough to shush him.

  Sonja dropped to her belly and Ezekial and Tema did the same. They leopard-crawled closer. Sonja motioned for each of them to take up position behind a tree – Tema a leadwood and Ezekial a Natal mahogany.

  The campfire glowed bright in her goggles, which intensified any ambient light. Casting her eyes over the group, it became immediately apparent to Sonja why the men were so confident. Seated at the centre of the feast that was now getting underway was a man in the uniform of the Zimbabwe Parks and Wildlife Service, his green beret hanging from the tip of the barrel of his AK-47, which was propped against the fallen tree most of the men were sitting on. The four men either side of the senior ranger, who wore officers’ insignia on his epaulettes, were dressed in khaki bush gear with good boots on their feet, and an assortment of packs and military-style webbing gear and rifles was piled next to them on the ground or resting against the trunk. Another ten men squatted or sat in the dirt around the fire, but these wore older, more ragged clothes; they would be the ivory bearers, Sonja thought. A cook was carving a leg of antelope, probably kudu.

  Sonja had told her people, and Ian had seemed content to let her give the orders, that after they had established the location and number of the party they were tracking they would take up position and keep them under observation until the early hours of the morning, once all or most of them were asleep. They would then, following Sonja’s lead, move into the enemy position, disarm any sentry who might be awake, and separate men from weapons and tie all of them up. They would then radio for national parks rangers to come and take the poachers into custody.

  Sonja knew that no plan, according to Rommel, himself paraphrasing an earlier German general, Helmuth von Moltke, survived contact with the enemy, and the presence of a senior ranger in this group was about to prove the old adage correct again.

  Sonja was mulling over her chosen course of action and settling down to at least watch what transpired between the ranger and the rest of the gang when a shot rang out. The ranger she had been watching toppled backwards off the log. Men yelled to each other and scrambled to pick up their weapons.

  From the right flank, where Mario and Ian were, muzzle flashes lit up the darkness. A man screamed. Others crawled behind the fallen tree or stood, not knowing which way to run.

  ‘Shit.’ Sonja stood. ‘On me.’

  Tema and Ezekial got up and moved to her, following as she moved closer.

  Some of the poachers were firing wildly towards Mario and Ian, who were returning with one or two aimed shots at a time.

  ‘Fire at the men with guns, not the bearers,’ Sonja said. ‘Make every shot count.’

  Their only advantage, now that surprise was lost, was the fact that they had night vision devices and so, as long as they stayed away from the fire, they were invisible – at least until they fired.

  Sonja ran forward through the darkness, Tema close behind her. Ezekial opened up, prematurely, with an overeager burst of automatic fire. Consequently, he drew fire from a man armed with an AK-47.

  Sonja dropped to one knee, raised her rifle and took aim at the man who was firing at Ian. She let off two shots and the man dropped. Tema leap-frogged past her, getting closer to the poachers, and Sonja covered her.

  Mario was up and moving, charging towards the enemy from the right flank. He dropped a man in his path with a double tap and Ian paused to fire at another man, who also fell to the ground. Men were scattering everywhere.

  A man with a hunting rifle stopped and took cover behind a tree. He took aim at Mario and Ian, but Sonja was quicker and put two rounds into his back. His body slammed into the trunk and he slid to the ground.

  Sonja scanned the bush for more armed targets, but there were none. She was at the campfire. ‘Re-org!’

  At her shouted command the others swept through the position the poachers had been occupying, checking for dead and wounded. Sonja heard screaming, then a single shot.

  ‘Report,’ she ordered, dropping to one knee beside the last man she had shot. She tossed his rifle a metre away and put two fingers to his neck. He was definitely dead. ‘One dead.’

  ‘Two dead here,’ Mario called from the other side of the fire.

  ‘One here,’ Tema said.

  ‘On me,�
�� Sonja called to them. They came to her and Tema and Ezekial, with a whispered reminder from Tema, took up positions around Sonja, facing outwards in different directions.

  Sonja looked to Mario and Ian. ‘What was that last shot?’

  ‘Wounded guy went for his gun,’ Mario said, ‘so I finished him.’

  Sonja’s eyes went to Ian’s. He looked away for a split second, then back at her and nodded.

  ‘Who fired first?’

  Ian squared his shoulders. ‘I did. That senior ranger – his name is Obert Mvuu – heard something. I saw him look our way.’

  Sonja hadn’t seen any such movement from where she was looking, but now was not the time for a fight, out here in the middle of the bush. ‘We’ll talk about this later, in the debrief. Let’s collect up the weapons and call for an uplift.’

  ‘I’ll organise a vehicle,’ Ian said.

  ‘You do that.’

  Tema was staring down at the body of a man. Her lower lip began to tremble.

  Sonja went to her, but did not touch her. ‘Are you going to be OK?’

  She nodded. ‘I just need a moment to compose myself.’

  ‘We will talk, later, I promise. Ezekial?’

  He came to her. ‘Yes, Sonja?’

  She gestured to the man at Tema’s feet. ‘Check his pockets. See if he’s carrying ID, a phone, anything that will tell us something about him.’

  Tema stepped closer to the body, preventing Ezekial from getting to it. ‘I will do it.’

  Ezekial looked to Sonja, who nodded. ‘Check the others.’

  Sonja walked to the mound of tusks, the whiteness of which almost glowed by the light of the moon. She shook her head. It was madness, what people killed and died for. Ivory, rhino horn, gold, diamonds – the cost of all of them was horrendous.

  Mario came to her. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m fine, you?’

  ‘OK. Pretty good, in fact. I haven’t done this shit for a while. It never gets old, does it?’

  She looked at him. He had the eyes of a nineteen-year-old, clear, sparkling and excited. ‘It is what it is.’

  ‘Come on,’ Mario nudged her arm with his, ‘don’t tell me it’s not a rush for you. It’s why we do this, or at least why I used to.’

  ‘It’s not meant to be fun, Mario.’

  His eyes became older and the fingers on her forearm gripped in a way that was not painful, not intimate, just sincere. ‘We won. We did good.’

  Sonja looked at the bodies around the campfire. She had fought in several conflicts and was hard pressed to justify the causes of any of them. This one, however, was a battle to protect innocent animals. They may not have been worth more than humans, but they never did anything stupid or greedy or killed for fun.

  She cast her gaze over to Ian, who was on his radio. Mario released his grip on her arm. ‘Any news?’ she called to Ian.

  ‘Uplift in twenty minutes.’

  Ian pulled a pack of Zimbabwean Newbury cigarettes from his uniform shirt pocket. He offered one to Sonja. She shook her head; she had quit a couple of years ago, but the sound of the tobacco catching and the smell of the smoke still triggered a craving.

  She gestured to the body of the park ranger. ‘You say you know him?’

  Ian nodded. ‘Obert Mvuu; he’s as guilty as sin. It was an open secret around here that Obert was running an ivory and bushmeat syndicate. He was the local big man and everyone was afraid of him; too scared to report him to the higher-ups. His brother’s a provincial governor, very high up in the party, and Obert gets shuffled from national park to national park so he can line his and his family’s pockets, but he never stays long enough for the good people in parks to catch him in the act.’

  ‘Why did you execute him?’

  ‘I told you, he heard us, went for his gun.’

  Sonja could tell a lie when she heard one and Ian’s body language gave him away. ‘Was he responsible for the deaths of your men?’

  ‘Yes. The poachers were often a step ahead of us; it would seem that they would strike wherever we weren’t patrolling. I had to supply national parks with briefings on our patrols so they could de-conflict – make sure none of their guys bumped into ours and started shooting. Obert was telling the poachers where we’d be patrolling and that was helping them, and that was frustrating, but no one was getting killed. This last time he used the information I supplied to set up an ambush.’

  Sonja rubbed her chin. ‘Why? If he was taking a cut, or running things as you say, and it was working to his advantage, why would he risk his men in a gunfight or run the risk of being involved in a murder rap?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just know he deserved to die.’

  She felt her anger rise. ‘And you took it on yourself to be his executioner and, more importantly, put my people at risk by triggering a gunfight that we could have avoided.’

  ‘I told you, Sonja, Zimbabwe operates a shoot-to-kill policy. This is my country and we play by our rules.’

  ‘You said this man was well connected, politically. The police could make trouble.’

  Ian shrugged. ‘Well, that’s my problem, isn’t it? Your job here is done and I thank you and your people for your assistance, but the best thing for you all would be to get on a plane at dawn and fly out of here.’

  ‘We’ll do that,’ Sonja said.

  ‘This is a war and our enemies are becoming increasingly aggressive and better resourced. Obert Mvuu wasn’t alone; he had backing in the form of weapons, training and ready-made markets for the ivory his gang took.’

  ‘Organised crime?’

  ‘About the only thing here that is organised, yes. We believe the ivory taken here in the valley is transported across the river to Zambia and bought and shipped from there.’

  ‘Who are the buyers? Chinese?’

  Ian dragged on his cigarette, exhaled and coughed. ‘Maybe. It’s easy to think they’re behind it. There are so many Chinese here and in Zambia building roads, logging forests, developing new mines, so there’s a ready conduit out of Africa to Asia for anything you want, legal or illegal.’

  ‘You don’t sound totally convinced.’

  ‘My guys caught a poacher, a bearer actually, a couple of months ago, and I interrogated him. His job was to ferry ivory across the Zambezi from our side to Zambia. He’d then carry it through the park on the Zambian side to waiting vehicles. He mentioned seeing a white man. The bearer overheard this guy talking on a satellite phone in a foreign language, not English. He thought it might be Russian.’

  Sonja wasn’t surprised. She’d had dealings with the Russian mafia in Africa in the past. Like the Chinese, the Russians had existing networks and alliances in Africa thanks to both countries’ support for Cold War independence movements and military uprisings. ‘You ever hear of an organisation called the Scorpions?’

  Ian stubbed out his cigarette and, as Sonja once had, followed the old soldiers’ habit of putting the butt in an old-fashioned plastic camera film container he took from his pocket, so as not to leave a sign for an enemy. ‘What did Paterson tell you about them?’

  The briefing had been just that – brief – because of the rush to get them to Zimbabwe. ‘It’s a nickname for a criminal organisation that’s trying to corner the market on poaching in South Africa and Mozambique.’

  ‘And here,’ Ian said.

  ‘So Obert Mvuu was part of the Scorpions?’

  Ian turned away, tilting his head. ‘Listen. Vehicle coming?’

  ‘Answer me, Ian,’ Sonja persisted. ‘Did you know Obert Mvuu would be with these men tonight? It’s a big haul of ivory. Was Obert here to make sure it got across the river without interference from any national parks patrols?’

  He looked back at her. ‘All I can tell you is that when I reported to Julianne about the loss of my men, I told her that I
had checked in at Nyamepi Camp and was told Obert was on leave for two days. His car was still at the staff compound. I told Julianne I thought Obert was going to link up with the poachers.’

  Sonja didn’t need him to explain the rest. ‘And you didn’t have enough shooters to go after him.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Ian said. ‘I asked for help and Julianne sent you and your team.’

  ‘And you told Julianne that if you could track and catch the gang then you would have an opportunity to take out Obert Mvuu.’

  ‘No, I told Julianne that we had an opportunity to catch Obert in the act.’

  ‘Catch him or kill him?’

  Ian shrugged his shoulders again. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘It does to me and to my people. I’m not running a hit squad here, Ian, and I’m nobody’s hired assassin.’

  ‘Well, thanks to you my people will be safer, and so will the wildlife here now that Obert’s tickets. I’ve heard plenty of politicians and landowners talk tough about poaching, but Julianne’s prepared to put her money where her mouth is. She knows how to deal with the poachers’ bosses.’ Ian drew a finger across his neck.

  Chapter 13

  Hudson Brand was pleasantly drunk. He and Rosie Appleton sat on the verandah of the Rissington Inn bar. They were the last two guests still up.

  ‘So, do you want that room?’ Chris, the owner, asked Hudson.

  ‘He will,’ Rosie said. ‘He’s too drunk to drive home.’

  ‘Very sensible,’ Chris said. He gave Hudson a key. ‘Now I’m going to bed.’

  ‘’Night,’ Hudson said. ‘I won’t be far behind.’

  ‘One more drink,’ Rosie insisted.

  Hudson checked his watch. ‘Sheesh, midnight already.’

  ‘You have somewhere to be at the crack of dawn?’

  ‘Nope, business is slow.’ Chris departed and the waitress came over.

  Hudson ordered a wine for Rosie and, ‘I’ll have an ABF.’

  ‘ABF?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Absolute Bloody Final.’