by Tony Park
All the army, police and national parks officers who had been inside the base camp tents had come out to watch the helicopter pick up the ivory. Some had small digital cameras raised. Alex could make out the short, grey-haired figure of Colonel De Villiers. He felt sorry for the grief he was about to cause the man.
‘OK, here we go,’ Kobus said.
The hook-up man was standing, holding the donut above his head to signal he was ready. Kobus would hover above him and Kevin would give minute directions to bring the helicopter’s hook as close to the man as possible.
‘Move right five metres . . . four, three, two, one,’ Kevin said into the intercom, counting off the distance as Kobus brought the machine down out of its hover. ‘Forward. Three, two, one . . .’
Kobus worked the controls gently and the helicopter responded.
‘Over the load . . .’
Alex saw a cloud of red dust on the road. ‘Cole’s coming. Hurry it up.’
‘Going as fast as we can,’ Kobus said testily.
‘Bring her down, Kobus, five . . .’ said Kevin.
‘Shit, he’s pointing his rifle out the window,’ Alex said.
Above the whine of the Oryx’s twin turbine engines they heard the pop, pop of two gunshots fired in quick succession. The men and women who had been standing on the side of the airstrip watching the hovering helicopter now turned at the sound of gunfire. More than one reached for a sidearm. Alex saw De Villiers and a couple of staff officers break from the crowd and move to cut off the approaching bakkie.
‘These blokes are looking nervous,’ Kevin said into the intercom.
Alex dropped to his belly and stuck his head out into the rotor wash to look underneath the helicopter. As Kevin had said, the two soldiers who were supposed to be hooking up the cargo net had been distracted by the noise of gunfire and the commotion near the tents. Kevin waved to them and pointed furiously at the hook.
Alex looked up and saw De Villiers, Cole and two other men in army uniform sprinting towards them. De Villiers was waving his hands above his head. Cole had his FN in his hands and the other two soldiers carried R5s.
The soldier holding the donut sling still had his arms raised, though he was watching the approaching officers. ‘Nearly on,’ Kevin said. ‘Go forward, Kobus, and you’ll snatch the bloody thing out of this idiot’s hands.’
Kobus nudged the helicopter forward.
‘Nearly on the hook,’ Kevin said. ‘Don’t stop now.’
The hook-up man felt the sling twitch in his hands and looked up at Kevin and Alex, startled. He glanced back at the running men and then snatched the sling back off the hook. He shook his head furiously.
Frank Cole stopped halfway across the width of the airstrip and raised his rifle.
‘Shit, they’re firing at us!’ Kobus jerked back on the stick and the helicopter rose a couple of metres and banked to the left.
The two soldiers needed no further explanation. They dropped the slings, disentangled their feet from the pile of tusks and the wire mesh of the net, and sprinted away.
‘This is bullshit. I’m getting us out of here,’ Kobus said.
‘Wait!’ Alex got to his knees, grabbed his R5, slung it over his head and across his body and vaulted out of the helicopter.
‘Bloody madman,’ Kevin said.
Novak tapped Henri and Heinrich on the shoulders and lifted his own rifle to his shoulder and pointed it out the open hatch. ‘Covering fire! Aim short, don’t kill anyone unless you have to!’
Colonel De Villiers had stopped Frank Cole from firing more shots, forcing down the barrel of the hunter’s weapon with a slap of his hand. He wanted the hook-up team safely away from the helicopter first; but now the men were clear, Cole and the other two armed soldiers took up firing positions.
Alex hit the ground heavily and rolled, the rifle digging painfully into his back and side. Bullets raised geysers of dirt on the ground around him, and he crawled to the far side of the net full of ivory. He didn’t think the tusks would provide great protection against copper-jacketed lead, but he would be out of sight for a few moments. Spent brass cartridges rained down around him from the helicopter overhead and Alex could see the winking muzzle flashes from Novak, Heinrich and Henri’s rifles. He looked up and Kevin, still peering over the rim of the cargo compartment floor, gave him an urgent thumbs up.
Alex clambered up onto the pile of ivory. He slipped and felt the sharp point of a tusk jab him painfully in the right calf. He carried on, groping in the choking, blinding dust for the mouth of the net and the nylon slings attached to it.
Cole, De Villiers and the other riflemen had dropped to their bellies in the long grass in response to the fire coming from the Oryx, but they were still trading bullet for bullet. On the edge of the airstrip police and soldiers were climbing into bakkies.
Alex found the round donut sling and stood, raising it above his head. He heard the whine and zing of bullets cleaving the air around him. Come on, come on, he willed Kobus. He could see Kevin talking into his mouthpiece and slowly the helicopter levelled out and started coming down towards him. The sheer bulk of the mechanical beast eclipsed the sun and Alex stretched up to meet the oncoming hook. Kevin guided the pilot to him.
As Alex slipped the ring over the point of the hook he heard three or four bullets strike the metal skin of the bird, followed by a scream of pain. The ivory under his feet shifted as another fusillade ripped into the precious cargo.
Alex gave Kevin a thumbs up to confirm the hook was securely attached, but the Australian was pointing over Alex’s shoulder. He turned and saw trucks full of police and soldiers bouncing across the dirt and grass towards them.
‘Go! Go!’ Alex screamed, pointing upwards. Kevin relayed the order and the Oryx started to climb.
Alex unslung the rifle from his shoulder and held it with his good hand. He opened fire with a wild burst in front the oncoming trucks and one swerved. The driver overcorrected and the rear of the bakkie slid hard to the right. The second truck was just behind him and the driver couldn’t brake in time to miss him. The two vehicles collided and the one that was already sliding spun three-hundred and sixty degrees. Two policemen who had been standing in the tray were thrown into the dirt. Alex wrapped his left arm around the now taut nylon sling that attached the cargo net to the hook. He dug his feet into the holes in the net’s mesh, and the jumble of shifting tusks below.
Muzzle flashes winked at him from the ground, and though the seconds dragged like hours, they were soon sixty metres off the ground, heading towards the Lebombo Mountains and Mozambique.
Alex screamed with a mix of relief, elation and the wild, terrifying euphoria that comes from being shot at and surviving. As he swung below the helicopter, the slipstream flapped his clothes and tousled his dark hair.
It was the ride of his life, and it was taking him home.
29
Jane came to, in darkness.
It was hot and stuffy. She heard the continuous dull throb of an engine somewhere, and the vibration it sent through the bare metal springs of the bed she was lying on mirrored the steady pounding in her head.
She raised a hand to her forehead and wiped away perspiration but not the pain.
She sat up and felt dizzy, so she lay back down again for a moment. Her back felt scored by the imprint of the surface she’d been lying on. She was wearing the same business suit she’d had on when she’d left to meet the police detective in Cape Town, though her shoes were missing, along with her belt, watch, rings and bracelet.
Taking a deep breath she raised herself again, slower this time. When she placed her feet on the floor she felt warm bare steel. She let her body adjust to the change in position and, resting her hand on the railing at the foot of the bed, she stood. She swayed a little and at first thought it was another case of light-headedness, but then realised she was not the only thing moving. She was on board a ship and could feel a mild swell. Not as it might have been on a small boat, but mor
e like the gentle rocking she’d experienced during her weeks on board the Penfold Son.
Jane walked slowly away from the bed, hands outstretched in the blackness, until she came to a wall. She felt the steel and confirmed by the number of paces it had taken her what she had begun to suspect – she was inside a shipping container.
In one corner was a steel bucket, which she discovered by painfully stubbing her toe against it. It was empty. In another corner was a full bucket. She dropped to her knees. It smelled odourless so she guessed it was water. She realised then how thirsty she was, but she wasn’t sure if the water was safe. Jane got back down on her knees and scooped some water into her mouth. It was lukewarm, but she gulped down several handfuls. She was perspiring, so she shrugged off her cropped grey jacket.
Jane sniffed the air as she stood. It was dank inside the container, but there must be air holes drilled somewhere. If so, that meant it was either night-time or she was inside the hold and the lights were turned off. She listened closely, and above the engine noise she heard the slight hum of wind rushing along the metal sides of the container. She was on deck. She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious after she’d been dragged into the van and drugged. What she did know, however, was that she had to urinate.
She counted her paces back to the bucket, found it and undid the button and zip on her suit pants and lowered them.
Cooler but saltier air flooded the container and she squinted, holding one hand to her eyes, as a powerful torchlight blinded her. Acutely embarrassed, she tried to stand and pull her pants up at the same time.
‘Stay still! Don’t you fucking move a muscle, bitch. Keep squatting there for us.’ The accent was American and she knew, with dread, who it was. Mitch Reardon. ‘Remember me, cunt?’
Jane bit her lower lip to stop from crying. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. She remembered how she had left him crying in pain on the floor of the basement of Alex’s hotel. She shivered.
‘That’s quite enough of the name calling, Mitchell.’
‘George . . .’ she started to stand.
‘No. Do as Mitchell says, Jane. Stay where you are.’
She was confused. ‘For God’s sake, let my pull my pants up, George.’
He said nothing and she couldn’t see either man, but the one with the torch strode across to her as she started to rise, and swung the long-handled light against the side of her head. She dropped to one knee, knocking over the bucket. The dull thud in her head turned to blinding pain and as she righted herself she saw glints of light at the periphery of her vision.
‘You’ll fucking learn to do as you’re told,’ Mitch said.
‘Indeed she will,’ George said from behind the blinding light. ‘She’s a smart girl, aren’t you, Jane?’
‘What . . .’ she coughed. ‘What do you want, George?’
‘Aha. No games now? No misdirections? No one to blame for your predicament but yourself, now, Jane, is there? Good. We’ll come to the point then. The boys found the original tape and memory stick in your handbag, along with a copy on a disk in an envelope addressed to your parents. Very clever, but too bad you didn’t make it to the post office. Did you make any other copies I don’t know about? Did you send or email it anywhere?’
‘YouTube.’
At an unseen signal Mitch moved forward and grabbed a handful of Jane’s hair. She screamed and he half pushed, half dragged her so that she rocked back and fell on her bottom, her pants still around her knees. Mitch flashed the torch down on her nakedness and she pressed her thighs together. When she looked up at him she saw he was carrying a compact assault rifle in his other hand. He was also wearing some kind of headset with a cylindrical object attached to it that looked like a small telescopic lens. She guessed it was a night-vision device.
‘Don’t bruise her too much, Mitchell. It won’t look good on camera.’ Mitch retreated, holding the light up into her eyes again.
Jane knew her worst nightmares were coming true. ‘You got the only copy I made when your thugs grabbed me. Who was it, Van Zyl, or this small-pricked psychopath?’
The light moved and Jane heard the squeak of Mitch’s rubber-soled combat boots on the bare steel floor. ‘No, Mitch. Ignore her insults. We’ve got several days’ grace.’
‘You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?’
Jane heard the groan again as the container door started to swing shut. Mitch switched off the light and the two men stood there, in silence. Jane was too scared to move in case she was hit again. After seconds, or minutes, George spoke, so softly she had to strain to hear him above the throb of the diesel engines. She couldn’t see either of them in the dark, though she could smell Mitch’s sweat and George’s aftershave. She’d never liked either.
‘I may do, Jane. But whether I do or not is very much up to you. Certainly, you won’t ever see London, or your family, again.’
A sob escaped her, despite her best attempts to show him no weakness. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the steel walls as he walked around her. She thought about making a move on them. George might be carrying a pistol, or she could try to grab Mitch’s rifle in the dark. It would be better to go down fighting, quickly, she thought, than endure whatever they had planned for her.
‘But if you cooperate with us, you will save your own life, Jane.’
She moved silently to her hands and knees and started to crawl towards the sound of George’s voice. Her eyes probed the darkness, then she saw the movement of a tiny red light.
Mitch laughed. ‘Hey, George, your bitch is down on her knees coming towards you. Maybe she’s hungry for some cock.’
Jane froze and looked towards the sound of the American’s voice. She saw the pinprick of red light again and cursed. He must have switched on his night-vision monocular and he’d been watching her every move. Dejected, she sank down on her haunches.
‘She’s still now,’ Mitch said.
‘Thank you, Mitchell, and, as I said before, keep the obscenities to a minimum – for now, at least. As I was saying, Jane, if you are completely honest with me, I will let you live, if you wish, or I will kill you quickly.’
‘And if I live?’ she whispered into the impenetrable gloom.
‘A Chinese business associate of mine has expressed a desire to purchase you from me.’
‘What? You’re fucking crazy, George, I wouldn’t –’
‘Hush. White slavery is not a thing of fiction, Jane. There are men in the Middle East who would pay good money for a European woman – blondes, especially. Who knows, you may even be well treated.’
‘You’re sick. I’d rather die.’
‘As I said, that’s also an option. If you tell me what I need to know, I’m happy to kill you quickly, instead of selling you. If not, I’ll let Van Zyl and his men use you for a few days. Mitch has expressed a desire to be first.’
‘Yes, ma’am!’ Mitch laughed out loud again.
When silence filled the shipping container again George continued his measured monologue. ‘If you still refuse to cooperate, I’ll have your mother and father abducted and I’ll let you listen, on the satellite phone, while a man who specialises in extracting information and money from people begins severing their joints, starting with the first knuckle joint of each of their little fingers.’
Jane swallowed her tears. She knew, then, that he had won. He would live, as a free man, and she would die, her body tossed overboard into the Indian Ocean.
She wished, now, with all her might, that she hadn’t been so harsh on Alex, hadn’t forced him out of her life, and not just because he might have protected her from these men. The truth, which she would never be able to tell Alex, was that she was fairly sure she loved him.
30
Colonel De Villiers looked around the tent for someone to blame.
As commanding officer of the military component of the operation, the buck stopped with him. He’d thought it would be a good way to end a thirty-five-year career in the So
uth African Army – a high point that would set the benchmark for future culling operations. Instead, it was his ticket to ignominy. He had summoned all the senior police, army, air force and national parks representatives to a crisis meeting. People were talking on cell phones, their frantic reports filling the tent with nothing more than hot air. De Villiers ran a finger around the neck of the T-shirt under his camouflage battle-dress shirt. He looked at Jacob Mandile, from national parks’ investigative services, raising his eyebrows hopefully as Mandile snapped his mobile phone shut.
Mandile shook his head. ‘Our helicopter is still at Skukuza refuelling. It’s doubtful they’d catch the Oryx, even if Mozambican radar is able to pick it up.’
‘Thank you, Jacob.’ De Villiers turned to a female African staff officer. ‘Winnie, where the hell is Captain Steyn?’
‘I’ll –’ Before the officer could give an excuse, Steyn strode into the tent, threading his way through the crush of men and women in blue, khaki and camouflage.
‘Sir! Good news.’
‘It had better be, Steyn,’ the colonel said. ‘Where the hell have you been, man?’
Steyn fought to slow his breathing. He wiped sweat from his forehead and eyes. ‘Sir, I regret that there was something I didn’t tell you, something the air force was planning today.’
De Villiers gritted his teeth and balled his fists. ‘Get. On. With. It.’
‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir. When I found out that the army camera team was going to be travelling with the Oryx to Skukuza, I made some calls to a friend of mine who’s the operations officer at Air Force Base Bloemspruit. I knew that one of their helicopters was going to be arriving at AFB Hoedspruit today, to refuel, after taking part in an exercise with Seven SA Infantry Battalion at Phalaborwa, and –’
Everyone in the tent was silent now, watching the red-faced man. ‘Steyn, you’re wasting valuable minutes. We’ve just heard that the parks helicopter wouldn’t be able to catch up with the poachers from Skukuza, so how can another Oryx catch up with them from further away?’
