by Tony Park
‘Tonight is my treat. A business dinner where you can tell me all about the faecal habits of canine predators or something equally stimulating.’
She changed in his hotel room while he waited downstairs in the bar for her. She fussed over her hair and frowned at the meagre choice of clothes she had to draw on. In the end she settled for a green skirt – the same colour as ninety-nine per cent of her wardrobe – and a bright yellow sleeveless shirt. Her palms were a little moist and there were butterflies in her stomach as she walked downstairs to meet him.
He wore tan chinos and a freshly ironed blue cotton shirt. He exuded an air of relaxed prosperity; cool and completely in control. He was the best looking man in the bar. In fact, he was the only man in the bar who didn’t work there. The safari lodge suffered from the same malaise as the national park it bordered – a lack of custom. A grotesque elephant’s head peered down at them from above the fireplace, as Fletcher ordered another gin for her.
Her diet contained too much pasta, rice and sadza – the bland mealie-meal paste that was the staple food of most Africans – so she leapt at the chance of a three hundred gram fillet steak, while Fletcher ordered fish. This was his excuse, he admitted, to order two bottles of wine, a red and a white. She hoped he wouldn’t be too drunk to drive her home. She told herself she would take it easy.
He started with small talk, drawing out the details of her life in Canada, her childhood, where she had studied, and ended up with past boyfriends.
‘One steady relationship, that lasted a year or so, just before I left for Africa. He knew I had my heart set on coming over here, and he talked about visiting, but . . .’ She shrugged.
‘He was a fool.’
‘Not to come and visit?’
‘To ever let you leave.’
She bridled. ‘No one tells me what to do.’
He held up his hands in submission. ‘I know. But life is sometimes about compromise. My wife hated the bush. Oh, she liked the idea of it all, the romance of it, at first. But later she complained about missing shopping and restaurants, and theatre. It got harder for her once the boys went to boarding school. She wanted us to keep a house in Harare, or maybe South Africa, for six months of the year and spend the rest of the time here. I wouldn’t budge. She left.’
‘I understand,’ she said. She admired the fact that he didn’t blame the failure of his marriage solely on his wife, as many men would have. ‘But nothing could have stopped me coming here. It’s where I belong. Besides, there shouldn’t be a need for compromise if you find the right person.’
‘To finding the right one,’ he said, raising his glass of white, and they toasted.
They moved outside to the lawn after dinner, to escape a group of young African men who watched at full volume an English Premier League soccer match on the bar’s satellite TV set. The rising moon lit up a herd of elephant rushing towards the reward of fresh water. Fletcher and Michelle had talked and talked over dinner, enjoying each other’s company, and now they sat in silence over coffee, both aware the evening was drawing to a close.
‘I should be getting you home,’ he said.
‘Maybe you shouldn’t be driving after a bottle of wine.’ As she spoke, she felt her cheeks colour. He raised his eyebrows theatrically. What she’d said must have sounded dangerously like a come-on. Was it?
He smiled. ‘I’ll take it slow. There are no cops on the road back to Main Camp. The main thing we have to watch out for are elephants.’
‘My swimming costume – it’s still in your room,’ she remembered.
They walked back through the foyer area, between the darkened bar and restaurant, the soft slap of her sandals on the polished stone floor the only sound. He led her upstairs, to his room on the hotel’s upper level, and opened the door for her.
She saw, in the moonlight, that the bed had been turned down. The crisp starched sheets looked cool and inviting. Her bikini hung from the back of a chair, his towel and swimsuit draped beside it. It looked like the most natural thing in the world. She heard the door close behind him, and turned in the narrow confine of the small hallway that led into the main part of the room. He was standing beside her in the half-darkness, saying nothing. She felt her heart trying to escape her body through her throat. What if he kissed her, now, or she kissed him?
‘Let’s get you home’, he said.
‘How about another cup of coffee – or something from the mini-bar?’
8
Shane and Caesar had been on the hill for four days, baking in the merciless sun, watching, watching, watching.
Their observation post was nestled amongst a cluster of granite boulders, over two of which they had been able to string a hutchie, a camouflaged Australian Army shelter sheet, which provided a little shade during the heat of the day and a place for whichever of them was not on duty to attempt to sleep.
From the OP they had a commanding view of the dirt road traversing the concession from east to west, and myriad back roads and game trails that ran off and across the main route like brown capillaries. Neither man had washed, but it had been two days since Shane had been able to smell Caesar – the stinks always cancelled each other out after a while in the bush. Even though they had used no water for anything more than a cursory wash of their hands and privates, they were nearly out.
And they had seen nothing. Not a vehicle, not a man, woman or child for four long days and nights. Of game, there had been plenty. Lion, thankfully far off in the distance – a pride of five sauntering down the road early one morning as though they ruled the concession; elephant by the hundred, roan and sable antelope, impala, kudu, buffalo, giraffe, zebra and even a pack of wild dogs chasing a warthog family. It had been a feast of wildlife viewing, which Shane had appreciated as a consolation prize, and he had made careful note of the number and estimated ages of the dogs, as he knew Fletcher was sponsoring some Canadian woman’s research into the predators.
Caesar seemed content as he gazed out over the bushveld, while Shane cleaned his rifle and tried to ignore the tiny mopane flies that buzzed around his eyeballs and nostrils. Caesar was a good kid – an excellent choice by Charles, who knew his father. Like Charles, the twenty-three year old had grown up in Hwange as a ranger’s son. He had first left the park to work as camp boy on canoe safaris on the Zambezi River, but the operation had folded due to lack of foreign business. He was a fast learner and a quiet, studious young man. Shane had told Charles he wanted thinkers and learners with the strength of a buffalo and the patience of a stalking leopard. Of the two new recruits Charles had brought in, Caesar was more suited to this type of work – long, boring hours of reconnaissance. Wise, the other newcomer to the team, had served in the Zimbabwean Army in the Democratic Republic of Congo. He was the louder of the two, and thirsted for action. On this, the first patrol since the two had joined, Shane had decided to leave Wise with Charles, to see how the young hothead dealt with hours alone, cooped up in the radio room he had set up in the lodge manager’s house. Shane and Caesar radioed sitreps – situation reports – every four hours, twenty-four hours a day, and Shane had been pleased to hear Wise’s prompt replies, even at three in the morning.
Shane wiped the breech block and slide with a lightly oiled cloth. Too much oil and the working parts of the SLR would just attract excess grit. Also, when fired, an oily weapon gave off a telltale plume of white smoke. The rifle was spotless before he stripped it, and could have gone another day without cleaning, but he wanted to get Caesar, who had no military experience, used to the idea of sticking to a daily routine. Teaching by example was the best way with new recruits, and Shane had cleaned his rifle first thing in the morning on every patrol he had ever been on in fifteen years of peace and war.
Caesar grabbed his knee and shook it. Good man, was Shane’s first thought. He had told him, during his training back at the ranch, never to speak in an OP when he could communicate by hand signal or gesture. Shane looked up briefly from the weapon and saw the d
ust plume of a moving vehicle. He cocked his head and heard the engine on the faint dawn breeze.
Shane tracked the dented blue bakkie – an Afrikaans term for a pickup in common use in Zimbabwe – through his high-powered binoculars as it juddered along the dirt road. It was coming from the direction of Victoria Falls. In the back he noticed four dogs. That piqued his curiosity. Although the truck was heading towards Botswana he doubted anyone would be taking pets into that country, which enforced strict quarantine rules on the movement of animals and livestock.
‘Log the time,’ he reminded Caesar in a whisper. There were precious few entries in the notebook so far, other than NSTR – nothing significant to report – at each sitrep hour. ‘Zero Alpha, this is Taipan. Contact, wait out,’ he said into his radio. Given the time of day, Charles would be on the other end, in the operations room. The old man responded with one click of his transmission switch. Good drills, Shane thought to himself – Charles knew that he did not need to speak to acknowledge the report.
The bakkie slowed and turned left into a stand of long adrenaline grass and bounced another hundred metres into the virgin bush. The driver stopped in a clump of mopane trees and his passenger got out and returned to the dirt road. Walking backwards, a broken sapling in his hand, the man methodically obliterated the vehicle’s tracks from the roadside. To complete the deception, the driver hacked off some more leafy branches and placed them around and over the pick-up’s cab. He opened the tailgate and the dogs bounded down.
Shane lifted the walkie-talkie to his lips again and gave his report, following a set procedure he had worked out with his team. Charles would be writing down the information on a printed-out form.
‘Two African male adults. Dented blue Nissan bakkie. Believed hunting with figures four dogs. One Lee Enfield .303 rifle seen. Location . . .’ he double-checked his map and read off an eight-figure grid reference. ‘Heading south-west, following a family of warthog. Acknowledge, over.’
‘Taipan, this is Zero Alpha, affirmative, over,’ Charles replied from Isilwane, then repeated the details Shane had just provided. Shane was impressed with the calmness of the man’s tone, and hoped it was a reflection of his.
‘Zero Alpha, stand to, stand to. Relay information to Niner and report to parks and wildlife and Wankie police, as per SOPs, over.’ Shane knew it wasn’t necessary to tell Charles what was expected from him, or to remind him of the standard operating procedures they had hammered out together, but he wanted to make sure Caesar, who was listening intently while watching the poachers, was aware of everything that would be going on at the other end of the operation. The message to ‘stand to’ was to ensure that Wise was woken for duty in the operations room, while Charles made his report to Fletcher Reynolds.
All Shane and Caesar could do now was wait for a reply from base and watch. From their lofty vantage point the poachers’ plan seemed clear. The men, who were presumably just after bush meat rather than ivory or rhino horn, had obviously spotted the warthogs as they ferreted along the edge of a dried river course. They had rounded a bend in the road and stopped downwind of the pigs. Shane had heard that warthog was good eating, but he had never tried one. With their knobbly faces, protruding tusks, hairy backs and antenna-like tails, they were amusing to watch, and cute, in a butt-ugly way.
The poachers were stalking through the grass and thornbushes, their dogs silent, though straining at their leashes as they caught scent of the prey. The man with the rifle kept his weapon slung. It seemed he would let the dogs do the work for him, rather than waste a precious bullet. The men looked about as well off as their vehicle. Poor and hungry, Shane thought. Yet they were criminals. He wondered what sort of sentence the courts would give them once the police rounded them up. It should be a straightforward operation – particularly as the men relied on their vehicle to get home. He just hoped the cops arrived before the men finished their morning’s hunting.
The radio hissed. ‘Taipan, this is Niner, over.’
Shane nodded to Caesar to maintain watch on the hunters. He acknowledged Fletcher’s reply. The man must have run straight from breakfast. Shane tried not to think about bacon and eggs and freshly squeezed orange juice. He knew Fletcher was hosting another party of American businessmen, so the dining table would be groaning.
‘Taipan, I am on my way to your location. Should be there in thirty mikes, over.’
Half an hour. That wasn’t too bad, Shane thought, although the plan was that if there were clients at the lodge, Fletcher would keep them well away from any poachers to ensure their safety. He wondered who would be looking after the Americans. Still, that wasn’t his business. ‘Niner, Taipan. What’s the ETA for the police, over?’
‘Unable to establish contact at this time. Will keep trying. Fix that vehicle, Taipan, I don’t want them getting away.’
Shane nodded to himself. The plan had been for him to stay put as soon as contact was established, or to follow any poachers at a discreet distance if they were on foot and looked like they might get away. Ordering him to disable the men’s vehicle – for that was what Fletcher clearly meant by ‘fix’ – was a departure from what they had agreed. Still, Shane remembered an old army saying he often repeated, that no plan survives the first ten minutes of action. Besides, it would be fun. ‘Roger, Niner, over.’
‘Taipan, once you have disabled the vehicle, move out . . . I say again, move out, to the pick-up point and stay concealed. You don’t want to get involved when the police arrive, or have them open up on you if they see a couple of armed men in the bush. I’ll send the rest of your callsign to pick you up.’
Another change in plan. Shane chewed the skin on the inside of his cheek. There was no way the police would spot them high up on the hill. Their original concept had been for him and Caesar to remain in their OP to keep an eye on the operation, in case other poachers showed up. Caesar had heard the message and turned to Shane and frowned. The youngster had clearly hoped to have a grandstand view of the capture and arrest of the criminals. Shane shrugged and responded that he understood. The pick-up point was a kilometre to the west of where they were. Mingled with his disappointment at not seeing the operation go down was his relief that all had gone well so far, and that he would soon be back at the lodge under a shower. ‘Pack up, we’re moving,’ he whispered to Caesar.
Shane had to remind Caesar, through hand gestures, to slow down his pace as they walked down the hill towards the road. The boy was overexcited. Shane led, stopping every few paces to look and listen. He held up a hand and they both dropped to one knee. Shane heard the yapping of dogs – he guessed they had either made a kill or had cornered a warthog. He pointed in the general direction with the barrel of his SLR. Caesar, who had the butt of his AK 47 in his shoulder, nodded. If the poachers had done their business, they would be on their way back to their vehicle soon. Shane moved off, just as cautiously, but his paces were longer and quicker.
They stopped within sight of the bakkie. Shane nodded to Caesar, who smiled broadly and crept forward. Shane took up a position behind a stout tree, where he could watch the vlei the poachers would likely move through, and where he also had sight of the road. His heart pounded. He and Caesar had already placed their weapons at ‘action’ before leaving the hilltop – that meant each of them had a round chambered and sights up, though their safety catches were still on ‘safe’. Shane had double-checked Caesar had not been too eager and let his safety catch slip to ‘fire’.
He heard the hiss of air as Caesar pressed the tip of his pocket-knife blade against the valve of the truck’s right rear tyre. Next, Caesar crawled under the pick-up, located the spare, and punctured it with his knife. There was no point in stabbing both tyres, as either Fletcher or the police would have to drive the bakkie out of the bush once the operation was over, and all of Fletcher’s vehicles carried portable air compressors.
Caesar crawled back, the beaming grin on his face impossibly wide. Shane stayed stony-faced and nodded his approval
.
The young man leaned closed to Shane and whispered in his ear, ‘Eeeh, but I got a fright there, boss!’
‘What?’ Shane mouthed.
‘There is a dead leopard in the back of that bakkie.’
‘They’ve been busy,’ Shane whispered back. ‘Anything else?’
Caesar shook his head.
It wasn’t over yet. He pointed the way they were to head, away from the poachers’ vehicle, and indicated that Caesar should lead. The boy looked proud and determined as he stood and moved off. Shane was pleased. He let Caesar lead so that he could watch their backs, where the most likely threat still lurked. He heard the hounds barking louder now, and the chatter of voices. He assumed the hunt was over and the poachers were celebrating their success. He gestured for Caesar to get a move on. They melted away into the bush, staying parallel to the dirt road.
Shane checked his watch. It was fifteen minutes since the first radio messages. Ahead was the road junction that marked the pick-up point. He selected a spot where he and Caesar could keep watch on the rendezvous point but stay out of sight themselves. They lay down in the shade of an umbrella thorn that had miraculously lived long enough through decades of elephant migrations to reach maturity, and waited.
Ten minutes later they heard a vehicle. Not the rumble of one of Fletcher’s lodge trucks, but the agonised whir of an old starter motor in need of service. Perhaps the poachers had not noticed their flat tyre. They soon would. After two more nerve-jangling attempts the engine caught. However, the motor ran for less than a minute, then stopped. Shane nodded to himself. He pictured the men on the side of the dirt road now, getting out of the cab and cursing at their bad luck, perhaps arguing over who would change it.
Another car noise. Caesar craned his neck to see, but Shane forcefully pointed in the other direction, reminding the rookie that his job was to watch along the road for their lift home, and any other intruders. Caesar mouthed an apology. Shane smiled. The other vehicle had to be Fletcher.