Kelvin pulled a pained face as he tried to remember the answer. ‘I … I …’
‘You knew the answer last week, Kelvin,’ said the sergeant.
‘Speed and agility,’ Josh said in a low voice, trying to help Kelvin.
A broad smile lit up the instructor’s face. ‘Very good, young Fulton. You two are in this together. And by helping each other, you help yourself. This is one of the lessons that the warrior learns. It’s called teamwork. But first you must learn to take care of yourselves as individuals.’
‘My dad’s a part of a team,’ Josh said proudly. ‘Dad, Caesar and Charlie.’
‘Yes, they are, young Fulton,’ Sergeant Kasula agreed. ‘As individuals, balance, agility, speed and concentration – these are the qualities that will enable you to successfully take care of yourself, young Fulton. Until now, you have struggled to overcome a larger opponent. Let’s see if you have taken on board the lessons I’ve been teaching you.’ He took several paces back, then looked over at Kelvin. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ said Kelvin.
Kasula turned to Josh. ‘Ready?’
Josh nodded. ‘Yes, Sergeant.’
Over the past few months, Josh and Kelvin had attempted to put each other on the mat dozens of times. Often, it had been the much-larger Kelvin who had dropped Josh onto his back. Not once had Josh been able to get Kelvin off his feet. But Josh would keep going and keep trying.
‘Then … begin!’ the sergeant called.
Kelvin immediately leapt forward and attempted to get a hold of Josh’s neck. But Josh quickly slid beneath his grasp and dashed to the other side of the mat, where he turned and faced Kelvin again.
‘Good, good,’ Kasula said approvingly. ‘Speed and agility. Speed and agility!’
Kelvin turned and glared at Josh. ‘I’ll give him speed and agility!’ he growled, before lunging at his opponent.
This time, Josh danced back and, with his left foot, tripped Kelvin up as he drew level with him. Kelvin fell face-first on the mat.
‘Bravo, young Fulton!’ said Kasula.
Josh stood looking at Kelvin in amazement. For the first time, he had put him to the mat.
Kelvin, embarrassed, looked up at Kasula. ‘He got me while I was off balance!’ he protested.
‘Precisely!’ Sergeant Kasula gave a wry smile and offered Kelvin a hand. ‘Here, we have had lessons for you both. For the smaller boy – use your opponent’s superior weight against him. For the larger boy – do not lose your composure or your balance. So, once more.’ He waved for the pair to again take up positions facing each other.
Josh readjusted his robe. He was tired but he was pleased with himself. He had used his brains as much as he had used his muscles, and he had at last succeeded. Now, for the first time, he really believed what Sergeant Kasula had been drilling into him. He began to see the point of all this. He only hoped that Kelvin did, too.
In the late afternoon, the heat rose up from Canberra’s flight deck in a dancing, distorted haze. The air temperature was almost forty degrees Celsius. As far as the eye could see, the Indian Ocean was a relatively calm Sea State 2. Yet, while Canberra surged along as if it were sailing up the Tanzanian coast on a flat roadway, the little patrol boat Julius Nyere was bucking up and down through the low swell as it strove to keep up with the big Australian warship.
Aboard Canberra, deck crews were scurrying around three aircraft standing on the flight deck. Two Seahawk helicopters had been brought up from the hangar deck by lift and they stood one in front of the other below the island with their rotors twirling and aircrews in place. To their left, the Heron UAV was lined up with the ski jump, its rear-facing propeller churning the air.
One of the massive deck lifts now came sliding up. Nothing more than a large square section of the deck which went up and down between the flight and hangar decks, it was bringing the members of the GRRR team to the flight deck. All members of the team were kitted out in green camouflage uniforms and had their heavy packs on their backs. They each carried their preferred weapon, from assault rifles to Baz’s Minimi machinegun.
Ben was laden with a forty-kilo pack filled with his and Caesar’s gear. On his belt he carried two full water canteens – one for him and one for Caesar. In one of the pouches on his belt he carried an aluminium cup that was just the right size for Caesar’s tongue. On Ben’s belt, too, were a sheathed Sykes commando knife, a torch, and pouches containing spare magazines for the compact Steyr automatic rifle he carried and the Browning Highpower automatic pistol holstered on his right thigh. One pouch on his belt was devoted to dog biscuits.
Signaller Brian Cisco also had his heavy-duty radio on his back, while combat medic Willy Wolf was weighed down with medical supplies as well as his own personal equipment. Every one of them was bathed in perspiration from the tropical heat. Sitting patiently at Ben’s side, Caesar took in the scent of the salty sea and aviation fuel as the lift came to a shuddering halt.
The twelve-man team split in half, with the two groups striding toward the waiting Skyhawks. Charlie led one group, accompanied by Ben and Caesar, and followed by Baz, Angus Bruce, Chris Banner and Casper Mortenson. Duke Hazard led the remaining members of the team to the second helicopter.
‘Caesar, up!’ Ben commanded, pointing to the heelo’s interior, and the labrador immediately leapt into the cabin with an effortless bound. Once Ben had seated himself on the cabin floor with his knees up and back against the rear bulkhead, Caesar lay beside his handler, resting his chin on his paws and wrinkling his brow as he watched the others get settled. He recognised them all and felt content that the team he had come to know so well was around him. When Ben ruffled one of Caesar’s ears affectionately, Caesar’s tail wagged in response. Caesar knew they were off on another adventure together, and that was just how he liked it.
‘Launch heelos! Launch heelos! Launch heelos!’ came the voice of Lieutenant Commander Lockhart over the ship’s loudspeakers.
Moments later the first Seahawk lifted into the air, angling to the left as it swung out over the ship’s port side and climbed steadily away toward the unseen coast of Tanzania to the west. Once the first helicopter was clear of the ship, the second Seahawk lifted off and followed it. From a bridge window, Major Jinko watched the two choppers grow smaller in the western sky.
‘Launch Heron! Launch Heron! Launch Heron!’ Lockhart instructed.
The Heron’s engine surged and the machine lurched forward, running across the deck. At increasing speed it slid up the ski jump, shooting into the sky as if it were a projectile released from a slingshot. Once in the air, the UAV climbed steadily as it, too, headed west. Before long, all three aircraft were lost from view.
On the bridge, Captain Rixon handed control of the ship to the XO and rose from his chair. ‘Inform SOCOM that Pink Elephant’s three birds are in the air,’ he instructed, before heading for the door.
Major Jinko also departed the bridge. He went down to the ship’s operations centre. For a few instants, he stood behind the Heron operators, looking at their trio of screens and the pictures being sent back from the UAV. Then he slipped into the seat that he would occupy for the days ahead as mission controller of Operation Pink Elephant. First looking at his watch to note the time, he tapped away at the keyboard in front of him: 0710 hours – heelos and UAV launched from Canberra. Operation Pink Elephant ground phase underway.
First one blue-grey Australian Navy Seahawk and then the other descended slowly from the sky. The noise from their engines brought Leboo villagers out of their huts, but the downrush from their rotors raised such a dust cloud that the men, women and children were forced to cover their eyes and mouths and retreat. As soon as both helicopters were on the ground, their Special Forces passengers emerged, and more than one villager pointed with surprise at the brown labrador padding along beside one of the foreign soldiers.
Charlie Grover led the way to a group of Tanzanian soldiers waiting with a ranger. They stood under the
shade of trees, which protected them from the fierce but dry inland heat and from the dust raised by the two choppers that remained on the ground with their engines running and rotors spinning.
A bearded man in khaki stepped forward and extended his hand to Charlie. ‘Wally Springer, Chief Ranger with the Tanzanian Wildlife Service.’
‘Charlie Grover,’ the Australian SAS sergeant responded, shaking Springer’s hand. ‘I recognise you from the Tanzanian Government’s video. You’re Lucky’s boss.’
‘Nice to have another Aussie on the case, Charlie,’ said Springer, leading him to a Tanzanian Army lieutenant. ‘This is Lieutenant Benson Roy. He’s in charge of the army detachment that’s been trying to track down Lucky and the other hostages.’
Charlie took the lieutenant’s hand. ‘Good to meet you, sir. Sergeant Charlie Grover, Special Air Service Regiment, attached to the Global Rapid Reaction Responders.’
Roy, a young man with a lively smile, shook Charlie’s hand. ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sergeant Grover,’ he said in a posh English accent.
‘The lieutenant only recently returned to the army after graduating from the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst in England,’ Springer informed Charlie with a slight raising of an eyebrow.
‘Yes, this is my first real assignment since my return to my country,’ said Roy. ‘Although, I must confess, it is not proving as easy as I at first thought it would.’
‘The birds have flown, Charlie,’ said Springer. ‘Zuba and his hostages were here yesterday, but the Tanzanian Army has lost track of them since they left.’
‘They were heading west,’ said Roy, ‘but have disappeared.’
‘My bet is that they changed course or may have doubled back,’ said Springer. ‘Zuba has proven a pretty tricky character. He’s not your average elephant poacher. The man has a good strategic brain. Although, some people have yet to appreciate that.’
The lieutenant smiled blithely, unaware that Springer was referring to him, among others.
‘How long can you keep the heelos here?’ Springer asked Charlie.
Charlie checked his watch. ‘Another hour or so, then they’ll have to head back to the ship to refuel.’
Springer grimaced. ‘Not long enough. There are thousands of square kilometres to search out there.’
‘That’s not the heelos’ job. They will insert and extract the GRRR team, that’s all. We’ve got a much less obvious helper up there in the heavens.’ Charlie raised his eyes to the sky.
‘You intend to rely on God to help you find Colonel Zuba, Sergeant?’ said Lieutenant Roy, incredulous.
Charlie smiled. ‘No, sir. We have a drone up there. A UAV.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Roy, looking slightly embarrassed.
‘I’ll send the heelos back until we need them.’ Charlie beckoned Brian Cisco over. When the radioman reached him, Charlie took the handset of Cisco’s radio and spoke into it. ‘Sally One from Oscar Zulu Leader. Receiving? Over.’
‘Oscar Zulu Leader, this is Sally One,’ came the reply. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Go home to Mama, Sally One. I’ll call you when we need you.’
‘Copy that, Oscar Zulu. Sally One and Sally Two going home to Mama.’
With that, the first Seahawk rose up into the air, banked left and headed toward the coast, climbing steadily as it went. The second Seahawk followed suit.
‘I’ll give you lot a briefing in the village schoolhouse,’ Springer said as the noise of the choppers faded.
As it was a Saturday, the small building was empty. It consisted of a single room, with a ceiling of naked corrugated iron. The classroom had no desks, let alone a solid floor, and no electricity. There was no glass in the open windows. The village children crowded around outside, giggling among themselves as they watched the foreign soldiers standing on the dirt floor in front of the blackboard. None of the children was above twelve years of age – the older boys of the village, and some girls, had been taken by Colonel Zuba to become soldiers in the RAT. Some had died in battles with the Tanzanian Army, others had run away. Some were still in Zuba’s ranks. These remaining youngsters were especially amused to see a big brown dog sitting with the soldiers.
‘What is that dog doing there?’ one bold child asked a sergeant of the Tanzanian Army.
‘I think that is a war dog, child,’ said the sergeant, an older man whose name was Simon Simma.
‘A war dog?’ said the boy, wide-eyed with surprise. ‘Can it also shoot a gun, like the soldiers? It must be a very clever dog.’
‘I think it is indeed a very clever dog,’ said Sergeant Simma, ‘but I would be very surprised if it could fire a gun. Now, all of you be quiet while Ranger Wally talks to the soldiers.’
‘Will these mzungu soldiers catch Colonel Zuba?’ asked a girl. ‘He took my brothers and killed my father.’
A scowl came over Simma’s face. ‘I hope they catch Zuba. But now you must all be quiet.’
The children’s chatter died away as Wally Springer took a laptop from his backpack and opened it on the teacher’s desk at the front of the classroom. Lieutenant Roy had joined the briefing and, without saying anything, he stood to one side so that he could see what was on the laptop screen as Springer spoke to the Special Forces troops.
‘This is what pays for the Revolutionary Army of Tanzania’s activities,’ said Springer. The chief ranger brought up an image of a dead elephant on the screen. ‘This was one of hundreds of elephants killed less than a month ago, eighty kilometres from here. Poachers catch elephants with wire traps like these.’ He pointed to a primitive wire contraption wrapped around the lower leg of the dead animal. ‘They then come and kill the trapped elephant with rifles or spears and hack off its tusks.’
‘Barbaric!’ exclaimed Angus Bruce. ‘Absolutely barbaric!’
‘It turned out that my rangers and I were only about half an hour away from where the poachers were operating. They used a shotgun to speed up the removal of the tusks.’
Caesar was shifting restlessly at Ben’s feet, and Ben reached forward and patted him reassuringly. He knew that Caesar was picking up a variety of new scents from the earthen floor. To Caesar, every living thing had a distinctive scent. Children in the inland parts of Tanzania had a very different diet to that of Josh and Maddie and the other children that Caesar was accustomed to in Australia. They ate a lot of bananas and very little meat, so their scents, to Caesar, were very different, and took a little getting used to.
‘Where do the elephant tusks go, once the poachers have them?’ Ben asked Wally.
‘They send the tusks in shipping containers to sea ports and ship them to China, Japan and elsewhere in East Asia.’
‘Why to China and Japan, may I ask?’ said Jean-Claude.
‘Elephant tusks are pure ivory – a fine-grained form of dentine,’ Springer replied. ‘It is highly prized in Asia, and in China in particular. They use it for all the sorts of things that you see in every tourist shop in Hong Kong.’ He brought up a picture of ivory statues, ivory chopsticks and intricate ivory jewellery. ‘The Chinese also grind ivory down to use in certain medicines and folk remedies.’
‘And elephants die just for that?’ said Casper. ‘The hunters don’t even eat the elephant meat?’
Springer shook his head. ‘Even when local farmers sometimes kill elephants to protect their crops from being trampled, they never eat the elephant’s flesh. For one thing, it’s too tough.’
‘Such a waste of a noble animal,’ said Willy Wolf, shaking his head.
‘The elephant only has one enemy in the wild,’ said Springer, ‘and that’s us human beings. Elephants have nothing to fear from any other animal. We humans are its only enemy, all because some people like shiny ivory souvenirs.’ He said this with disgust.
‘Why doesn’t the Chinese Government stop the importation of ivory?’ said Chris Banner.
Springer smiled a wry smile. ‘Officially, the Chinese Government says that it only permits the
legal importation of sixty-seven tonnes of ivory each year, and that it cracks down on illegal imports. But that sixty-seven tonnes represents thousands of butchered elephants. Even so, the Chinese turn a blind eye to much of the smuggling of additional ivory into their country. Ivory carving and selling is a multi-billion-dollar industry in China, with tens of thousands of people employed by it.’
‘Is the importation of ivory illegal in the US?’ asked Tim McHenry.
‘It is,’ Springer replied, ‘but at the same time it’s not illegal to sell ivory products in the US, so that in itself encourages the illegal ivory imports. US ivory imports, though, pale in comparison to those going from Africa to Asia. Some Asian countries like the Philippines and Thailand are cracking down on the sale of ivory products, but ivory is freely and massively available in China. Demand in China for elephant tusks has actually increased, sending the price way up – it’s gone from one hundred and fifty dollars per kilogram six years ago to one thousand dollars per kilogram today.’
This generated low whistles from around the room.
‘Ivory now rates alongside illegal drugs as a money-maker for criminals,’ Springer added, ‘and it is Zuba’s sole source of income, for his army and himself. The villagers here in Leboo tell us that Zuba is hard-up for cash right now, so he’s obviously still waiting to be paid for his last ivory haul. And he’ll keep on making money from killing elephants unless he’s stopped.’
‘The Tanzanian Government seems serious about stopping the poaching,’ said Baz. ‘That’s why they hired Lucky, wasn’t it?’
Springer nodded. ‘They are serious. But until all the poachers are caught, there will always be a trade in illegal ivory. And as you know, the poachers are better armed than most of the government’s men.’
‘Can’t the authorities stop the ivory getting out of the country?’ Angus Bruce asked. ‘They have to choke off the supply.’
‘Easier said than done,’ Springer replied with a sigh. ‘We know that there are Chinese and Japanese merchants living here, in Tanzania, who arrange the export of the poached tusks for a handsome cut of the profits. But the local police have never been able to catch them in the act. There is so much money involved, and we suspect that some police are taking bribes from the merchants to look the other way.’
Operation Pink Elephant Page 8