by Tony Park
On his lap, Hess cradled the weapon they would use for the hunt. He would hand it to Orlov once the rhino was in sight, but not before. The rifle was an old American M-14, and it was perfect for the mission at hand. The M-14 was issued to American soldiers and Marines in the late 1950s and ’60s. The rifle looked very much like its ancestor, the semi-automatic M1 Garrand rifle carried by US soldiers in the Second World War but the M-14 could be fired on full automatic. To feed the faster rate of fire the weapon had been fitted with a twenty-round magazine. The American army had swapped its M-14s for the newer, lighter, mostly plastic M-16 by the mid 1960s. The US Marine Corps, however, had held on to the trusty M-14 for most of the ’60s during the Vietnam War. The rifle’s heavier 7.62mm-calibre ammunition gave it a greater accuracy over long distances than the smaller-calibre M-16 and, as such, it had an extended lease of life as a sniper rifle.
Hess had bought his weapon from an ex-Marine who served in the Rhodesian Light Infantry during the bush war. Already a long and heavy rifle, Hess’s model was even more cumbersome as it was fitted with a silencer on the end of the barrel and a starlight nightscope on the top. The rifle was the largest-calibre weapon Hess owned that could be silenced to an acceptable level, and that was why he had brought it along. He wanted Orlov to kill the rhino in silence and, if it became necessary, Hess would be able to deal with any rangers who stumbled into their path during the hunt in the same way.
Klaus and the three poachers each carried their trademark AK-47s, and the Zambian rogues also carried razor-sharp pangas, to behead the dead rhino. One of the men had an old potato sack stuffed with hessian to wrap the massive skull in and rope to sling the trophy between them.
Hess had left his Glock pistol behind, but had given Orlov Klaus’s Russian Tokarev pistol for personal protection. Klaus had taken the old pistol from a Cuban military adviser he killed on a cross-border raid into Angola. If they were stopped by the authorities from either side of the lake during the crossing, they would ditch their rifles and the old pistol over the side of the boat and claim that they had gotten lost while on a night-time fishing trip. The cover story was flimsy, but they carried rods, bait, tackle and half-a-dozen fresh-caught bream at the bottom of the boat to help substantiate it.
Orlov raised the heavy pistol slightly to catch the moonlight and, for the second time that night, eased back the metal slide to check that there was a round chambered in the breech. At that moment, Alfred swung the outboard’s tiller sharply to port to avoid the top of a dead tree that only just broke the black surface of the water. Instinctively, Orlov reached for the side of the boat with the same hand that was holding the pistol. The weapon clunked against the fibreglass hull with enough noise to make all the occupants turn and stare at him. Orlov hurriedly replaced the pistol in the pocket of his combat smock. He cursed silently and was glad the darkness hid his embarrassment.
Hess masked his annoyance at the noise by kneeling lower and resting the wooden stock of the M-14 on the side of the boat. He peered intently into the M-14’s nightscope. The houseboat showed as a bright, pale-green box against the darker shoreline. The low-wattage navigation light that burned dully on top of the boat’s stubby mast shone like a full lime-coloured moon surrounded by a lighter, brighter halo. The nightscope magnified any ambient light it detected and had the single bulb been brighter, its luminescence might have washed out everything else in his view, and even damaged the scope. As it was, Hess could scan the decks easily, the weak navigation light helping, rather than obscuring his view. It was after two in the morning and, predictably, there was no sight of movement on deck. All the cabin lights were dark. He had no reason to fear the houseboat – the tourists on board would see and hear nothing if all went to plan. There was no sign that anybody aboard had heard Orlov’s clumsiness.
The most direct route to where they had last seen the rhino would have been to beach at Tashinga Camp again and retrace their steps, via the boma where the orphan animals were kept. But that was also the most dangerous route. Instead, Alfred took them past the camp and the moored houseboat, and into a small cove half a kilometre further on. As they entered the cove, he cut the engine and the boat coasted noiselessly into shore and beached gently in the sand.
As they had rehearsed on the beach near Siavonga, Klaus was first out. He sprinted across the sand to where the grass began and dropped to one knee. The barrel of his assault rifle followed the sweep of his eyes as he scanned the bush in front of them. Hess followed, then Orlov, and they crouched beside Klaus while the three Zambians dragged the boat into the tree line. Alfred broke a branch from a mopani tree and returned to the water’s edge. He walked backwards to the group, sweeping the sand clear of footprints and drag marks as he moved. Then he handed the branch to one of his comrades, a tall, thin man named Ezekial, who would bring up the rear from now on and follow Alfred’s example as they moved.
Hess touched the third man, William, on the arm, and pointed towards the camp. William nodded and scratched the ugly, puckered scar running vertically down his left cheek. Alfred, the leader of the trio, claimed the wound had been inflicted by a leopard, which William had subsequently killed with a knife. Hess thought it more likely the injury originated in a shebeen brawl and that William had encountered the business end of a broken bottle.
‘Disable the radio first, then watch the boma,’ Hess whispered to William, who nodded, once again, that he understood his part in the operation. He was to break into the camp office, cut the antenna and any other leads he could find on the solar-powered radio, and then make his way to the orphan rhino enclosure, where he would maintain surveillance on the guard there. ‘Only watching, OK? No shooting unless there is trouble. Understand?’ Hess repeated his orders again.
William nodded once more, annoyed that the hunter was treating him like a stupid child. He crept off through the bush, the AK-47 pointing ahead of him, and followed the shoreline back towards the camp.
Hess raised his hand and pointed into the bush. Klaus surrendered the lead to Ezekial, who would take point until they reached the approximate area where the rhino’s tracks had last been seen. The Zambian had hunted rhino many times before and, though his trips across the lake had been fewer and fewer in recent years, he was still able to detect the animal by sound and smell, as well as by any visible spoor.
Orlov was eager to find their prey as soon as possible. He felt acutely underpowered with only the ageing Russian pistol for protection and eyed Hess’s long, ungainly M-14 covetously. The rifle was the same one with which he had shot his sable, and he had enjoyed the feel of the heavy sniper’s weapon.
They crept silently, pausing every ten or twenty metres for the trackers to listen and smell the bush around them. After an hour at this snail-like pace, Hess slipped the GPS unit from its belt pouch during one of the stops. He knelt and bent over the instrument to shield the glare from the tiny screen light. The distance to the point where they had seen the rhino during the day was a mere hundred metres, but instead of heading towards the sighting point, Ezekial was now leading them away, back towards the camp.
Hess moved forward until he could whisper into the tracker’s ear. ‘What have you found?’
‘Fresh spoor. He left the area where you found him during the day sometime, but look, see the broken branch and the footprint, he has passed back this way tonight. He can smell the woman, you understand?’ Hess nodded. ‘He is heading for the boma. We are close to him now.’
Hess reckoned they were now less than a kilometre from the camp and the lake shore. He wanted Orlov to make the kill as far away from the rangers’ post and the guarded boma as possible, but the lovesick rhino was making it difficult for them. ‘Move quickly, Ezekial,’ he whispered.
The tracker nodded, hiding his exasperation at such a foolhardy command. The money the three poachers would make from this one kill was more than they would have received if they had taken all the horns from all the rhinos in the boma, so he held his tongue.
A gentle breeze rustled the leaves above their head, but the wind, what little there was of it, was on their faces, so the rhino would not smell them. Hess had to admit that the Zambians knew their trade well. Of course, for them the price of sloppiness was death.
For another half-hour they continued the hunt, all the while the footprints and other evidence of the rhino’s path becoming more obvious to everyone in the small column now they knew what they were looking for. Ezekial stopped, so abruptly that Klaus nearly walked into him. They all knelt. From somewhere in front of them they clearly heard a low grunt and a shuffling of heavy but nimble feet in the dry leaves. Then there was a sniffing noise. The rhino was almost as close to his prey now as the hunters were to theirs.
The tracker pointed into the gloom ahead. Hess raised the butt of the M-14 to his shoulder and peered into the starlight scope. At first he saw nothing but a fuzzy haze of glowing green vegetation. He swung the rifle a little to the right, to the exact spot where Ezekial was still pointing, and waited. The problem with the night sight was the lack of depth in the image it displayed. Everything looked as if it was the same distance away from the observer. Hess blinked sweat from his eyes and stared hard to find meaning in the illuminated clutter.
Then he saw it. Just a shape moving among the glowing leaves, but an unmistakable silhouette. The rhino was moving into a thinner patch of thorn bush now and was clearly visible in the scope, though hardly so to the naked eye. Hess estimated the range at seventy-five metres, no more. Close enough for a killing shot.
He lowered the rifle and nodded to Ezekial, who crouched lower into the grass. Hess turned to Orlov and the Russian instinctively knew it was time. ‘It’s cocked,’ he whispered as he handed over the M-14.
Orlov took the weapon, relishing its weight, the smoothness of the stock, the ungainly, brutal beauty of the long barrel.
Hess knelt close to the Russian and whispered, ‘Remember, put as many rounds into the animal as you can. You must disrupt his internal organs, the way the poachers do with their AK-47s.’
The Russian frowned at the unnecessary advice. They had been over the killing tactics earlier in the day, and he did not need to be told how to hunt. Also, Hess’s comparison of their hunt to a poaching expedition annoyed him.
Orlov squinted into the eyepiece of the nightscope and sighted the rhino immediately through the lime-coloured haze of intensified moonlight. The rifle was fitted with a folding bipod for extra stability in the sniper role, but if Orlov lay on the ground and used the supports he would not see the rhino clearly. He chose a sitting position instead, knees bent and legs spread, pointing at forty-five degrees to the right of the rhino.
He swivelled his torso slightly to the left and rested his elbows just below his raised knees. He double-checked the selector was set to semi-automatic fire. The rifle would fire one shot every time he pulled the trigger. He lifted the butt of the rifle to his shoulder again.
Hess willed the Russian to take his shot, because the rhino was starting to move again. Mercifully, the beast stopped and sniffed the wind.
Orlov had the rhino in his sights now. The animal was munching contentedly on the thorns from a head-high branch. The Russian took a breath and slowly exhaled, then he lowered the rifle without moving his elbows. Orlov raised the sight to his eye again and allowed himself a small smile – the moment’s relaxation had allowed him to confirm, when he looked into the sight once more, that his whole body was aligned perfectly for the shot.
He moved the crosshairs of the sight to the spot just behind where the rhino’s stubby front left leg joined the body. The thick hide was painted a shimmery luminescent green by the night sight, making the creature appear like something from a child’s storybook.
Orlov wrapped his index finger around the trigger and started to squeeze.
*
Whether it was the new haircut or not, Mike was unsure, but he had started acting like a soldier again. The realisation, which came to him while he was sitting on the deck of the houseboat gazing at the silvery reflection of the half-moon on the lake, both scared and comforted him.
The poker game had deteriorated into near debauchery as the evening wore on. George had beaten Jane down to bra and pants and then resorted to taking off his contact lenses, one at a time, instead of losing his underpants when he lost hand after hand. Even Nigel seemed to be enjoying himself at last, and he, too, was down to grey-white jockeys when Sam convinced him it was time to turn in. Mike feared that if the game had gone on much longer the next phase would have been skinny-dipping in the lake – not a good idea given the number of crocodiles and hippos they had spotted within a stone’s-throw of the houseboat. He had called lights out around midnight to a chorus of half-hearted boos, jeers and facetious ‘yes, sir’s.
Mike stuck around after the last of them had stumbled off to bed, and climbed the shaky aluminium ladder onto the top deck to look at the stars and finish the remains of his third beer of the day. He wanted to stay relatively sober, just in case Hess and Orlov were stupid enough to cruise past the houseboat and give themselves away.
From his shirt pocket he fished a crumpled packet of cigarettes and his Zippo. He lifted the lighter and flipped the cap, but something stopped him from striking the wheel against the flint. He looked out across the lake. There was no sign of anything odd, just a couple of kapenta rigs. The chug of their diesel engines and the occasional whine of a winch reeling in a net filled with thousands of tiny fish carried clearly across the water.
When he was a young soldier, and smoking was still the rule rather than the exception, he had to be very careful doing so at night when he was out in the bush on military exercises. A naked light would expose him to the enemy. ‘The enemy’ was a relative term. It could be some prick from a rival unit sneaking around the perimeter, or his own troop sergeant prowling around inside the perimeter looking for an excuse to kick arse. Either way, the smokers had to be a cautious lot.
Mike glanced across the water again. This would be the approach his enemy would take, if he was out there. From the shore there was nothing to fear. He padded on bare feet across the non-slip deck, around the upper wheelhouse so that he was shielded from view from the lake. As a further precaution he faced the shore and cupped his hands close to his mouth as he lit up.
Bats squeaked in the trees above the empty camping ground and every now and then a nightjar issued its repetitive call, like a mini electric motor purring away. Above the night noises Mike detected a new sound. This time it really was a motor, the high-pitched whine of a fast, smooth-running marine outboard. It wasn’t loud, so it couldn’t be nearby, but the sound was man-made and out of place.
He flicked the cigarette into the inky waters of the lake, the lee of the boat concealing the glowing trail of burning embers that followed the butt. The cigarette died with a plop and a hiss and he instinctively dropped to the deck. He edged along the rough surface, using his elbows to drag himself forward until only his head poked around the wheelhouse.
The wake gave away the position of the little boat before he saw the craft itself. What surprised him at first was how close it was. No more than a couple of hundred metres away, he guessed. The engine was very quiet, though, for the fast speed it was travelling at.
The boat jinked wildly as Mike watched it, probably to miss a sunken tree. Another noise echoed across the water, this time a loud clunk of heavy metal striking a deck. The boat slowed and the wake started to settle.
Though it was closer than he had thought, the boat was still too distant for him to tell how many people were on board. More than two, by the look of it, with some bulky cargo as well. The moonlight rippled on the disturbed water and the slowing boat rocked as someone, or something, changed position.
Shadows moved in the boat and a menacing shape broke the otherwise smooth silhouette. Someone had raised a rifle, a long-barrelled rifle. The movement was over in a split second, but there was no mistaking it. Mike lowered his body even more, hoping to di
sappear into the unyielding deck. He pressed his face to the gritty surface, in case the comparative paleness of his skin caught the moon’s reflection.
The pilot of the darkened boat revved the engine again and Mike heard it fade away. At last he risked a look. There was nothing but a shimmering wake to prove the boat had ever been there.
His mind raced as possible explanations came to him and were then cast away. Could the boat be a National Parks vessel? No, as it would have had its navigation lights on. An anti-poaching patrol, sneaking about hoping to surprise illegal hunters? Not likely, and besides, the boat was coming from the Zambian side of the lake.
He and Sarah had clearly seen Orlov and Hess in a speeding boat, a different one, earlier in the day. Had they been doing what he would have done in their shoes? A daytime reconnaissance under the enemy’s nose was a ballsy move, he had to give them that, and from what Flynn had told him, it seemed exactly what the hunters had had in mind. There was no way they could hunt in broad daylight, so the night after their trip was the logical time for their return, when the trail of the rhino they’d been tracking was still fresh.
Mike got himself up off the deck with the first movement of a push-up. He may have been thinking like a soldier again, but his body had well and truly retired from the military. He grunted with the effort, and his pectoral muscles shrieked messages of protest as he stood and shook his arms.
He retraced his steps down the ladder, taking care not to make any noise. He didn’t need his passengers or the houseboat crew waking up and asking questions about what he was going to do next. On the lower deck he eased open a door and padded inside. George snored as only a passed-out drunk can snore, and Jane and Julie rolled restlessly against each other in a double bed as he crept past the tiny bedroom they shared. He gingerly stepped over an unconscious Nigel, who for some reason had not made it to his bed and lay sprawled in the narrow corridor between the cabins, one white cheek poking out very unattractively from his underpants. Mike’s cabin was at the end of the corridor and he gently worked the door handle.