The Delta

by Tony Park

  ‘You were crying before.’

  She snapped her head around and looked at him like he’d just hit her.

  ‘It’s all right, you know. I was taught that it’s not a bad thing, to let your emotions show. It’s harder, supposedly, for a guy, but it’s therapeutic. It took me a while to learn.’

  ‘To learn?’ She shook her head.

  ‘Yes. It never came natural to me. I was never a crier as a kid, except for the time I broke my leg. I didn’t even cry when … when a good friend of mine passed away. But I learned.’

  She picked up a stick and poked the fire. ‘You Americans. You live in a society in which men are taught to cry.’ She shook her head at the absurdity of it. ‘In Africa there is so much sorrow people gave up crying long ago. In Zimbabwe, just across the border, children are starving, yet you have a generation that is being told to eat less in case they die of obesity.’

  Finally, he’d got her talking, and she turned out to be just another American hater. He wished he hadn’t bothered. ‘You Africans …’

  She looked back at him.

  ‘White, black or brown, you can’t help but screw up one of the most beautiful continents on earth. You think you’ve got a monopoly on sorrow? Well, if you do it’s because every time the ball passes from one team to another you can’t wait to stick a knife in it.’

  ‘An odd analogy.’

  He clenched his fists. ‘Fuck it up, is what I mean, excuse my language.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re excused, but please go on.’

  ‘We have enough bad shit to deal with in America, too, believe it or not. At least our government is accountable to its people. Here – in Africa – whichever tribe is in power does its best to rob the rest of the country blind and, if it can get away with it, maybe kill off a few thousand of the opposition at the same time.’

  ‘Botswana’s not like that,’ she said.

  ‘Sure, maybe not as bad as the Afrikaners when they ruled South Africa, or the Shona in Zimbabwe, or the Hutus and Tutsis in Rwanda, but they’ve moved Khoisan people off their homelands to dig new diamond mines.’

  ‘You know a lot about Africa for someone who’s been here a week.’

  He presumed she was being sarcastic, but didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of acknowledging it. ‘I read. What do you know about America? About Americans?’

  She opened her mouth as if she was going to say something, then shut it. She seemed tempted to carry on with the argument, but another emotion or thought stilled her. She took a deep breath through her nostrils and when she spoke her voice was calm and low. ‘It’s late. Get some sleep.’

  He paced out to the darkness then back to the fire. ‘I told you, I can’t sleep. Also, for the first time we were damn close there to actually having a conversation. It turned into an argument, but started because we were talking about crying.’

  She glared at him, saying nothing.

  Once upon a time he’d been happy to sit on the prairie or in hides and watch and listen and take notes. When he was observing his coyotes in the wild, just them and him and the big sky and wide open plains, he truly felt like the happiest man in the world. He felt that was the way he should be; the reason why he had been put on earth, to form a link between humans and this misunderstood, maligned but amazing mammal. Now all he did was talk for a living. Talk shit.

  They stared each other down. He knew that if he said a word right now she might never speak to him again. He didn’t want that.

  She looked away, back to the fire. ‘I don’t like seeing animals die.’

  He laughed.

  She looked up at him, anger flaring in her eyes. ‘What? I tell you something about myself – admittedly to shut you up, to end your incessant questioning – and you laugh at me?’

  ‘You must be tired.’ He squatted and placed his ten fingertips on the ground to steady himself. ‘Either that or you’re a terrible liar. You told me you were a professional hunter yesterday, and now you tell me you cry when see an animal die?’

  She unzipped her sleeping bag and slid into it, still wearing her boots. ‘You’re right, I’m tired. If you’re not going to sleep, then you can take first watch. Don’t touch my rifle and wake me if you get too scared.’

  The noise of a vehicle engine woke her. She sat upright, all senses alert instantly. The sun was breaching the dark tree line, a crescent of red beginning its morning chore of redecorating the landscape. She checked her watch. Four hours, maybe five? It was a long sleep for her.

  Sam was standing, looking out towards the noise. ‘Morning. I only just heard it.’ He took three steps in the direction of the noise.

  She grabbed the M4 and got to her feet. ‘Sam, stop.’ He looked back at her. ‘The lioness, remember? She’s over that way. Stay put. The smoke will bring them.’

  The growl of the diesel was getting louder and she heard the snap of small trees being broken and the splintering crunch of fallen branches and dried leaves beneath off-road tyres.

  Sam held his hand to his eyes to shield them from the brightness of a spotlight.

  ‘Coo-eee!’ cried a voice over the engine noise.

  Sonja smiled, slung her M4 and cupped hands either side of her mouth. ‘John Lemon!’

  The white Land Cruiser came into view and shifted its aim, destroying a few more saplings as it trundled over the uneven ground towards them. There was a black African man sitting on the roof. He smiled broadly and waved.

  ‘Watch out for the lioness!’

  The African man pointed over his shoulder, from the direction they had just come. ‘The mafazi is gone now, Miss Sonja.’

  She took another look at the tracker. ‘Elliott!’ She ran to the vehicle, which stopped in front of her. ‘Oh my god! How are you?’

  ‘I am fine, missy.’

  John opened the door and climbed down. He was four inches shorter than Sonja and she would once have teased him about the sweat-stained foam rubber pillow on the driver’s seat, but not today.

  ‘Bloody hell, are you who I think you are? Sonja bloody Kurtz? Well I’ll be buggered.’ He stood on his toes to kiss her cheek.

  ‘John bloody Lemon. I never thought I’d be so glad to see you. I can’t believe you’re still here after all this time.’

  He held her at arm’s length. ‘Time, tide and the painted dog wait for no man. But I know what you mean, the time’s flown. You were, what, eighteen when you left?’

  She nodded.

  The Australian whistled. ‘Stirling was mad to let you go. You’re even more beautiful than when you left.’

  She punched him in the heart and he grasped his chest theatrically. ‘And you’re still a lecherous sexist pig. I’ve missed you, John.’

  There was a cough behind her.

  ‘Aha, beneath all that dirt and grime that looks like the missing, almost late, Mr Sam Chapman. Is that right, mate?’

  Sam nodded.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ John stepped around her and shook Sam’s hand. The American had thirty centimetres on him, easy.

  ‘Likewise. You must be the cavalry?’

  John laughed. ‘Yup. We’ve been looking for you, Sam. G’day, I’m John Lemon.’

  ‘John, it’s great to see you, but if you’re looking for me then hopefully you know what the hell is going on. Do you know what happened to the rest of my crew?’

  John paused by the Land Cruiser. ‘The helicopter, Sam … it crashed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pilot’s badly burned, but he’ll live. Poor guy. Little’s a good bloke, for a Kiwi. Your mob’s all right, though I heard one of them has got a broken arm or leg or something. The others are probably back at Xakanaxa by now.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Sam leaned against the truck as he tried to compose himself. ‘Thank you, anyway, for coming along. You’re Australian?’

  ‘As the late, great Steve Irwin. I was kind of hoping I’d be the one to find you. I’m a fan of your work, Sam. Be an honour to buy you a beer once we get ba
ck to civilisation, if you’re not too busy.’

  ‘Well thanks, but the beers are on me.’

  ‘Can we stop the love-in and get moving?’ Sonja said.

  Sam asked John what an Australian was doing in Africa as they gathered their things and, with the help of old Elliott, the grey-haired scout who had worked on the wild dog research team as long as John had, loaded the Land Cruiser.

  ‘Been researching painted dogs – that’s the new warm and fuzzy term for the old African wild dog – since this girlie Sonja was still at school. You been to Africa before, Sam?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Didn’t think so. I’ve seen all your shows on satellite telly and don’t remember you doing one over here. Anyhow, beware of Africa, mate. Once she bites you or gets under your skin you might find yourself coming back here, for good. I couldn’t see myself going back to Oz full-time. And besides, I reckon I’d get bored researching kangaroos or wombats.’

  ‘How long did you say you’ve been here?’

  ‘Me? Twenty years, give or take. I heard your mob was in the area filming and I was hoping to meet you, but we were told that once you’d finished your survival filming you’d be off to Namibia. Is that right?’

  Sam nodded. ‘That was the plan, but I’ve got no idea what’s going to happen now.’

  ‘Elliott, can you get these guys some water out of the fridge, please?’

  The tracker nodded and opened the side door of the heavily modified Land Cruiser. He reached inside and pulled two bottles of cold water from a humming Engel car refrigerator mounted behind the driver’s seat.

  Sonja unscrewed the cap and downed the crystal clear water in two long gulps. After the purified but muddy swamp water she’d been surviving on it was like nectar. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘How did you find us?’

  ‘We’ve been searching the bush looking for Sam for a couple of days. They found his tent from the air and Elliott and I got there late yesterday. We found his note and tracked you for a while late yesterday afternoon and we made camp when it got dark. Didn’t like the idea of driving round the bush in the middle of the night in case I put a stump through the sump or a branch through the radiator. The note said Sam was with a guide, but when Elliott told me there was a man, a woman and horse walking through the bush, I was pretty surprised. Who’d have guessed the mystery sheila would be our Sonja?’

  ‘I’m glad you showed up when you did. It would have been a long walk to camp from here.’ Sonja told John about her horse and they just stood there for a few moments looking at each other, both replaying a stream of memories.

  ‘Your dad …’ John began.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not interested, John.’

  ‘Fair enough. Anyhow, let’s get you two loaded and back to base. What about your gear, Sam? Do you want to go back for your tent and stuff, or would you rather have a hot shower and a cold beer?’

  ‘A beer sounds better, John. Besides, I really want to catch up with the rest of the team and see how they are.’

  John climbed up to take his place behind the wheel, but didn’t make it into his seat before Sonja grabbed the slab of foam rubber and pretended to fluff it up for him. He scowled at her, but couldn’t hold it. She sat in the front passenger seat. Most of the roof of the Land Cruiser had been cut away to make a viewing hatch and the inside edges were heavily upholstered with canvas-covered rubber. Sam stood in the open observation area behind Sonja and John. Elliott resumed his place sitting on a padded bench seat that ran along the leading edge of a roof rack.

  Sonja looked out the Land Cruiser’s window and saw the vultures in the tree above the remains of the horse. She squeezed her eyes shut and fought back the prickling tears before they showed. Get a grip, she told herself.

  How many men had she killed? Maybe the SWAPO terrorist in the South-West when she was a kid – maybe not. The Koevoet team that did the follow-up said there was a blood trail and that judging by the amount he wouldn’t have survived, but who knew? The next one there was no doubt of. She forced him from her mind. There were the two RUF men in the jungle of Sierra Leone; the Afghan; and the female suicide bomber in Baghdad. The Americans had wanted to give her a medal for that one. It didn’t matter if it was a woman or man, it had never seemed to affect her.

  She didn’t cry, though she did have nightmares occasionally. In between jobs a few years’ back she’d been to a shrink and he’d told her she was probably suffering post-traumatic stress disorder, and that the degree might increase or lessen as years went by, depending on her future career choices. She’d made her decision, though, when she woke in the back of Chipchase’s campervan in Kasane. This was it. She was through with the mercenary game once and for all.

  When she saw the big lappet-faced vulture leave the tree and touch down in the grass, wings spread wide like a grotesque angel of death, she wanted to cry again. Why on earth would the death of a half-starved animal past its prime make her want to bawl, while the death of a human had little effect on her? How fucked up, how evil had she become since she’d left Stirling? She shook her head.

  ‘I said, how was Iraq?’

  ‘What?’ She looked at John, who had returned his eyes to the bush in front of him. He wrenched the steering wheel to avoid an aardvark hole.

  ‘Iraq? That’s where I heard you were.’

  She glanced behind them and saw Sam’s caramel brown legs. She wondered idly if his tan was sprayed on. His head and shoulders were sticking out of the hatch as he watched for game. Sonja nodded towards the American and mouthed ‘Shush’ to John.

  The Australian nodded. ‘Secret women’s business, eh?’ He winked. ‘Mum’s the word. So, what is it that you do … officially?’

  ‘I’ve told Sam I’m a professional hunter,’ she said softly.

  John laughed. ‘A hunter with a 5.56 millimetre assault rifle? That’s rich. I remember you crying when your dad had to shoot a hyena that had become a problem in camp. OK, professional hunter it is.’

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it later.’

  John navigated them back into the parallel deep ruts in the sand that passed for a road through the concession. The Australian had to slow to a near crawl and engage low-range four-wheel drive in some stretches, but it was still faster than bashing through the bush, and certainly quicker than walking.

  She looked out over the open grassland. It was beautiful country, even if it was too dry. They passed the big dry pan and four female kudu took flight at the growl of the engine. She loved the way their short white fluffy tails curled over their rumps as they leapt. A cheeky vervet monkey peered at her and blinked when she raised her eyebrows at it.

  ‘I think my sterling rescue effort calls for a liquid celebration,’ John said. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.

  Sonja reached around the back of the driver’s seat and undid the catch on the Engel fridge’s lid. ‘Beer?’

  ‘Is the Pope a German?’

  She grabbed two bottles of Windhoek Lager and handed one to the driver, then craned her head out of the passenger side window. ‘Elliott?’

  ‘Coke, please missy.’ She passed the can to the tracker, via Sam. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Um, it’s a little early for beer. Do you have any Diet Coke, John?’

  The Australian laughed and shook his head. ‘You’re in Africa, mate, not New York. Give him a beer, Sonja, and hold the twist of lime.’

  She handed a Windhoek to Sam, who nodded his thanks.

  ‘Stirling’ll be pleased to see you, I expect. Pleased, but surprised.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Sonja asked.

  ‘Best you just wait and see.’

  With the welcome breeze in his face it was difficult for Sam to hear what John and Sonja were talking about below him. Although it was none of his business, his ears pricked when he heard the word ‘Iraq’.

  He wondered, still, exactly what Sonja did and what she was doing riding about the African bush with a military
rifle in her hand and a bullet wound in her leg. He could tell, by the lull in their conversation, that Sonja had told John to be quiet.

  All the same it was amazing for him to see how different Sonja was around people she knew. She’d been bubbly and talkative and joshing with the Australian. Perhaps he’d see more of this other side of her when they arrived at Xakanaxa, where she’d said she had a friend.

  The cold beer was disappearing fast and he was feeling euphoric now that he knew where he was going and what he was doing again. The view was great from the open top of the vehicle and he marvelled at the sight of a herd of elephant as they trundled slowly across the road in front of the Land Cruiser. John had stopped to give them right of way. He wished he had his camera, but then wondered if the documentary was even salvageable. He wondered how Cheryl-Ann and the guys were after their ordeal. His time in the bush had been no picnic, but it wasn’t on the same scale as being involved in a helicopter crash.

  The Australian’s mention of Stirling’s name, however, gave him something else to worry about.

  TWELVE

  Stirling was standing outside reception at Xakanaxa Camp when he saw the painted dog research vehicle coming up the sand road. Elliott, the wild dog team’s chief scout, waved from the roof, his grin wide. No doubt he and John Lemon thought Stirling would be relieved, but he had very mixed emotions about the return of the missing Sam Chapman.

  The camp was groaning with people at the moment, adding to his stress levels. If all had gone according to plan the American television crew would have been leaving this morning, but instead they were all arriving after their unplanned absences.

  Stirling clenched and unclenched his hands. It had been a difficult few days for him, what with tracking the search and rescue plan; the bombshell dropped by the mercenary, Steele, over dinner the previous night; and Tracey’s tearful confession that she may have led Chapman on.