A Time to Die c-13

by Wilbur Smith

  The sun was casting their long shadows ahead of them.

  There was no defined border with Mozambique, no fence or cut line through the forest, but a sixth sense warned Sean that they had crossed.

  He was about to give orders to halt when Job whistled softly and made a cut-out signal with his left hand. Matatu pulled up and nodded his head in agreement, and the three of them bunched up and stood looking along the faint spoor that ran ahead of them into the darkening eastern forest.

  "Mozambique," Job said. "He has gone away." And the others did not deny it.

  "He still goes fast." Matatu spat on the spoor. "Faster than any man can run. We will not see Tukutela again this year."

  "Yes, but there will be another season," Sean said. "Next year, he will range back into the national park and come again in the new moon across the Chiwewe River. We will be waiting for him."

  "Perhaps." Matatu took a pinch of snuff from the duiker-horn container that hung around his neck. "Or perhaps the poachers will find him again, or he will walk onto a land mine in an old battlefield in Mozambique, or perhaps he will die of his own great age The thought filled Sean with melancholy. Tukutela was a part of the old Africa. Sean had been born too late fully to experience that era. He had been able to glimpse only vestiges of it, yet he had a deep, nostalgic reverence for the history and past of his continent.

  It was all going so fast, trodden under the greedy rush for power by the thoughtless hordes of the emerging nations, by the unbridled tribal rivalries and the lawlessness of this new age. Once again Africa was becoming the dark continent, but this time without the glory of its natural treasures-the wild game was decimated, the forests hacked down for fuel, the very earth abused by primitive and animal husbandry, and the Saharan desert each year marching southward. Tukutela was one of the very few real treasures.

  Sean turned back. He had wanted that elephant. He had wanted him with the utmost parts of his being. Now, as he turned back into the west, the disappointment weighed down his legs and his heart, and he went heavily.

  A little before midnight they found Riccardo and Claudia sleeping on a mattress of cut grass, under a lean-to shelter beside a fire that had burned down to coals, while Pumula sat guard at the second fire, close by.

  Riccardo came awake the instant Sean touched his shoulder, and he scrambled up eagerly. "Did you find him? What happened?

  What about the poachers?"

  "He's gone, Capo. Across the border. We chased off the poachers, but Tukutela got clear away," Sean told him. Riccardo sagged back on the grass mattress and listened in silence while Sean described the chase and the contact with the poachers.

  Claudia sat close to her father, and when Sean told them how Tukutela had crossed into Mozambique, she slipped her arm around his shoulders in a gesture of comfort.

  "All right." Sean stood up. "There is one of my hunting tracks that cuts through about five miles south of here. Matatu and I will go back to fetch the truck, and Job will lead you to the track. I'll meet you there. Should take us four or five hours."

  By the light of the stars alone, Matatu led Sean for four hours through forest and dense bush, bringing him at last unerringly to where the truck was parked.

  It was another hour's drive to the rendezvous, where they found Claudia, Riccardo, and the others sitting beside a fire on the verge of the rough track. They climbed wearily into the truck, and Sean turned back and headed towards camp. It was four in the morning, over twenty-four hours since they had set out on the hunt with such high hopes.

  They drove in silence for a while, Claudia asleep on her father's shoulder. Then Riccardo asked thoughtfully, "Do you know where Tukutela, has gone?"

  "Beyond our reach, Capo," Sean told him grimly.

  "Seriously." Riccardo was impatient. "Is there one of his regular haunts where he will be headed?"

  "That's rough country in there," Sean murmured. "Chaos and confusion. Villages burned and deserted, two armies fighting each other, with Mugabe's lads joining in."

  "Where has that elephant gone?" Riccardo insisted. "He must have an established range."

  Sean nodded. "We have worked it out, Job, Matatu, and I. We reckon he holes up from July to September in the swamps below the Cabora Bossa dam. Then in late September or the beginning of October, he crosses the Zambezi and heads north into Malawi, into the dense rain forest around Mlanje. He hides there until after the rains break and then comes south again, crosses the Zambezi near Tete and goes back into the Chiwewe National Park again."

  "So he'll be heading for the swamps now?" Riccardo asked.

  "More than likely." Sean nodded. "We'll get another crack at him next season, Capo."

  At dawn they reached camp, where there were steaming hot showers and freshly ironed clothes ready for them, and a huge breakfast spread in the dining tent. Sean loaded crispy bacon and fried eggs onto their plates.

  "When we have finished breakfast, we'll catch up on some of the sleep we missed last night, sack out until lunchtime."

  "Suits me," Claudia agreed readily.

  "Then we'll have a conference. We must work out our plans for the rest of the safari. We still have almost three weeks. We can try for another bull elephant. I can't offer you anything like Tukutela, but we might be able to find a sixty-pounder for you, Capo."

  "I don't want a sixty-pounder," Riccardo said. "I want Tukutela."

  "Don't we all, but let's drop it now." Sean's irritation was undisguised. "We can't do anything about it. Let's just drop the subject."

  "What if we crossed the border and followed him into the swamps?" Riccardo did not look up from his eggs and bacon, and Sean studied his face before he laughed mirthlessly.

  "For a moment you had me worried. I thought you meant it.

  We'll get Tukutela next season."

  "There isn't going to be another season," Riccardo told him.

  You know damn well Geoffrey Manguza is going to pull your license and take Chiwewe away from you."

  "Thanks, Capo, you certainly know how to make me feel good."

  "No sense fooling ourselves. This is our last chance at that elephant."

  "Correction." Sean shook his head. "It's over for this season.

  We had our chance and we blew it."

  "Not if we follow him into Mozambique," Riccardo said. "Follow him into the swamps."

  Sean stared at him, "My God, you are serious!" "I told you, there is nothing that I want more in this life than that elephant."

  "So you expect Job and Matatu and me to commit suicide for a whim of yours."

  "No, I don't expect it for a whim-let's say for half a minion dollars."

  Sean shook his head, but no words came out, and Riccardo went on. "I feel responsible for you losing your license. With half a million you could buy a good concession in Zambia or Botswana or fifty thousand acres of game ranch in South Africa. Half a million. Think about it."

  Sean jumped up from the breakfast table so violently he knocked his plate to the ground. He strode away without looking back.

  He stood alone at the edge of the camp, staring down toward the river where a small herd of impala were drinking and a white headed fish eagle sat on a dead tree above the green water. He did not see them.

  He thought about what it would be like next year without his own concession. He owed his brother Garry almost fifty thousand dollars, and his overdraft at the bank in Harare was touching ten thousand. Reema had told him the bank manager was anxious to speak to him, but Sean had avoided the appointment on his last visit to Harare.

  He was over forty and he had accumulated nothing. His father might be delighted to welcome him back to the family company, but his brother Garry was the chairman now and he would be less enthusiastic.

  He thought about air-conditioned offices, neckties and dark business suits, interminable meetings with lawyers and engineers, rush-hour traffic and the smell of the city.

  He thought about his father's philosophy, heartily endorsed by his brothe
r, that a man had to start at the bottom of the company and "work his way up.." Garry had more than twenty years" start up on him. Garry loved it and he hated it.

  He thought about half a million dollars. With that amount of money in his back pocket, he could thumb his nose at his bank manager, at Geoffrey Manguza, at Garry Courtney, and at the rest of the world and tell them all to go and get stuffed.

  He turned away from the river and started down the path to Job's tent. Job was eating alone at his own camp fire, served by his younger wife. He gave her a quiet order to leave when he saw Sean coming. Then he took the coffee pot off the coals, poured a second mug, and dribbled condensed milk from the can into it.

  Sean sat on the carved native stool beside him and took the mug from him. He spoke in Sindebele.

  "What would you think of a man who followed a great elephant like Tukutela to his secret place in the swamps along the Zambezi?" "A man of such stupidity does not bear thinking of." Job blew on his coffee to cool it, and they were silent for a long while.

  Matatu, who had been sleeping in his hut nearby, sensed the presence of his master, and came out, blinking and yawning in the early sunlight, to squat at Sean's feet. Sean let his hand rest on the little man's shoulder for a moment. He felt him wriggle with pleasure under the touch. He did not even have to ask Matatu. He would go where Sean went, without question, without a moment's hesitation, so Sean spoke directly to Job.

  "Job, old friend of many years, I give you something else to think on. Monterro wants to follow the elephant. He is offering half a million dollar. What do you think of half a million dollars?"

  Job sighed. "I do not have to think too long on that. When do we leave?"

  Sean squeezed his arm hard and stood up.

  Riccardo was seated at the breakfast table with a cup of coffee and a cigar. Claudia was beside him, and he could see they had been arguing. The girl's face was still flushed and her eyes asparkle, but she lapsed into silence as Sean entered the tent.

  "Capo," Sean said, you have no idea what it will be like across there. It will be Vietnam all over again, but this time without the backup of the U.S. Army. Do you understand that?"

  Riccardo nodded. "I want to go."

  "All right. Here are my terms. You will sign an indemnity for whatever happens to you. I am not responsible."

  "Agreed."

  "Then I want a written acknowledgement of debt for the full amount, binding on your estate in the event of your death."

  "Give me the paper."

  "You are crazy, Capo, do you know that?"

  "Sure." Riccardo grinned. "But what about you?"

  "Oh, I was born crazy." Sean laughed with him as they shook hands, and then he sobered. "I want to fly a reconnaissance along the border to make sure there are no surprises waiting for us. If all is clear, we'll cross tonight. It will mean forced marches and traveling light. I want to be in and out in under ten days."

  Riccardo nodded. Sean told him, "Get some rest now. You are going to need it."

  He was about to turn away when he caught Claudia's furious gaze. "I'll radio Reema to send down another charter flight to pick you up tomorrow. She'll wangle you on the first commercial flight back to Anchorage."

  Claudia seemed about to reply when Riccardo laid his hand over hers. "Okay," he said. "She'll go. I'll see to it."

  "Damn right she'll go," Sean said. "She certainly isn't coming into Mozambique with us."

  Sean taped over the identification markings on the Beechcraft's wings and fuselage, obliterating them from the scrutiny of any ground observer. He made certain the tape was so firmly adhered to the metalwork that the slipstream could not strip it away. While he worked, Job checked the emergency stores aboard the aircraft in case they were forced down. Rather than the heavy double barreled rifle, he loaded Sean's lightweight 30/06 with the black fiberglass stock.

  They took off and Sean banked onto an easterly heading, keeping barely fifty feet above the treetops. He flew with the map on his lap, checking each landmark as it appeared ahead of them. Job sat beside him in the right-hand seat, while Matatu was in the seat behind Job. Even after all these years, Matatu was terrified of flying and still occasionally suffered from airsickness. Sean refused to allow him to sit in the seat behind him.

  "Silly little bugger will puke down the back of my neck again."

  So Job had to run that risk.

  They reached the border and turned northward along it, searching for troop movements or any evidence of human presence. They found nothing, and thirty minutes later they saw the sheen of water on the horizon, an inland sea formed by the man-made dam on the Zambezi River.

  "Cabora Bossa," Sean grunted. The hydroelectric scheme, one of the biggest and most expensive in Africa, had been built by the Portuguese before they relinquished the colony to self-government.

  Although the South Africans would have taken all the power the project could supply, transporting it southward across the grids to their great mines at Palabora in the Transvaal, and although the revenue would have gone a long way toward alleviating Mozambique's desperate economic plight, Cabora Bossa no longer sold a single kilowatt of electricity. The southbound power lines were so continually being sabotaged by the rebel forces, and the government troops were so demoralized that they made little attempt to protect the repair crews from attack. Thus it had been years since a repair had even been attempted.

  "By now the turbines are probably just piles of rust. Score another sweeping triumph for African Marxism." Sean chuckled and dropped a wing to turn 180 degrees and head back southward.

  On this leg he flew deeper into Mozambique, setting a zigzag course to cover more ground, once again searching for occupied villages or mobile military units.

  They found only the patterns of old cultivated lands, now gone back to weed and bush, and burned-out deserted villages with no sign of human life around the shells of roofless huts.

  Sean intersected the road running between Vila de Monica and Cabora Bossa and flew along it for ten miles. He was so low he could see the ruts and potholes in the surface and weeds growing in the wheel tracks. No vehicle had used it for months, perhaps years. The culverts and bridges had been destroyed by explosives and the bodies of mined vehicles, burned out and rusted, littered the verges.

  He turned back toward the west and the border now, searching for a place that all three of them remembered so well. As they came up ahead, Sean recognized the symmetrical hillocks they called Inhlozane, "The Maiden's Breasts," and south of them the confluence of two minor rivers, now reduced to strings of green pools in wide sand beds.

  Job pointed ahead. "There it is." In the back seat, Matatu forgot his fear and discomfort to cackle with laughter and clutch Sean's shoulder.

  "Inhlozane. Do you remember, Bwana?"

  Sean banked steeply over the junction of the two rivers, circling them, all three of them peering down. They could make out no trace of the old guerrilla camp. The last time they had been here was in the spring of"1976 and they had come as scouts--Ballantyne's Scouts.

  Under interrogation, a prisoner had revealed the existence of a major guerrilla training camp in this area, and the Rhodesian high command had sent one of the Vampire jets over on a high photographic run. The camp had been cunningly concealed and every artifice of camouflage employed. However, the Rhodesian evaluators were highly skilled, most of them ex-R.A.F personnel. It is possible to camouflage the dugouts and hutments used by hundreds of men and women, but the pathways between them are the telltales. Thousands of feet moving daily between barracks and lecture huts, between mess halls and latrines, going out to forage for firewood or carrying water from the river, beat pathways that from the air look like the veins in a dead leaf.