Far Horizon

by Tony Park

  Hess pulled the trigger. The M-14 jerked back into his shoulder. The only noise was the gas-operated slide chambering a new round from the magazine. Blood spurted from the poacher’s forehead as his body rocked back hard into the wooden corral with an audible thud. The woman disappeared from Hess’s view and he heard a scream.

  ‘Shit, it’s the sniper! He’s up high!’ Hess heard a man shout out in English from behind the fence. ‘In the tree, Samson! That leadwood . . . about one o’clock high!’ said the same voice.

  Hess had a good vantage point over the compound, but no cover. Now was the time to retreat. He slung the M-14 over his head again and swung himself down from his perch to the next lower branches. With more time he could have found a safe spot in the tree and picked off the armed ranger when he broke cover, but Hess did not have time.

  Two rifles opened fire, the chatter of an AK-47 on full automatic, and the slower, deeper report of a semi-automatic FN. As he swiftly descended, Hess realised the man who had rescued the ranger had retrieved his rifle as well. The odds were now two to one, another good reason to retreat.

  Leaves, bark and twigs rained down on his head as blast after blast of copper-jacketed lead tore into the branches above him. Hess dropped the last six feet to the ground and landed silently, like a cat. Then he turned and ran for the cover of the bush.

  Samson and Mike fired a few more rounds into the bush at the base of the leadwood where the sniper had been hiding, but they had to conserve what little ammunition they had left.

  ‘If he is smart, he will be gone by now,’ Samson said, as he swapped his empty magazine for the last full one from his chest pouches.

  ‘Mike, Patrick’s still losing too much blood. We’ve got to get him to safety,’ Sarah said from the shadows of the wooden barricade.

  Patrick had taken a bullet in his left side, a through-and-through shot a few centimetres above his hip. Mike checked him again. There was no blood coming from his mouth and no air escaping from his lungs, which was good, but the old man was losing blood and they didn’t have any proper dressings to bandage him. Mike had taken his shirt off and wrapped it around him, as best he could.

  Patrick lay there now, just as Mike had left him before the gunfire started, with his hand pressed hard against the wound. He was a tough old chap, but that, too, was the problem. He wouldn’t let on just how bad the pain was.

  Mike understood why Sarah had to get a picture of him treating the ranger – it was her job – but he was glad to see she had slung her camera again to tend to him while Samson and he were blasting away at the sniper. He respected her professionalism for doing her job under fire, but he loved her for stopping to help the wounded man. She could have gotten some award-winning action shots of Samson and him shooting, but her first concern had been for Patrick.

  The smell of cordite stung Mike’s nostrils and the hot barrel of the FN smoked in the cool night air. His bare shoulder ached from the recoil, but it was a good pain. Patrick was alive and hopefully they had seen the poachers off for the time being. The captured poacher was dead, though, and Mike realised all of them had been lucky to escape with their lives.

  ‘Why would he shoot his own man?’ Samson asked, as he felt one last time for a pulse at the dead man’s throat.

  ‘Witnesses,’ Mike said, as he slung Patrick’s rifle and reached down to pick up the old ranger. ‘It’s their style. Make sure no one who can identify them lives to tell the tale. We would have been next, though.’

  ‘Give me the rifle, it’ll make it easier for you to carry Patrick,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Your little trick with the camera flash probably saved my life, and Patrick’s,’ Mike said as he unslung the rifle and handed it to her.

  She blushed and examined the weapon.

  ‘Pull the trigger here . . .’ he began with a smile.

  ‘And the bullets come out here, I know,’ she said with a nervous little laugh.

  ‘You’re getting good at this.’ This was an absurd time to be making jokes, Mike knew, and Samson gave them a peculiar look.

  ‘Samson, take point. Sarah, stay behind me and keep checking the rear,’ Mike said as he lifted Patrick up onto his back. Patrick was almost unconscious now, probably through loss of blood.

  Mike noticed how easily he had lapsed into the familiar routine of giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed. It was as though part of him had been dead for a year and was only now reawakening. He liked the feeling, although he didn’t underestimate the responsibility he was taking on. This was not a training exercise. Here the enemy were firing real bullets, not blanks, and people he cared about were in the firing line.

  ‘We’ll bomb-burst out of here, on a count of three,’ Mike said. Both Samson and Sarah gave him puzzled looks. He had, he realised, also lapsed back into army jargon. ‘We all go in slightly different directions when we leave the gate, then meet up in the trees on the lakeside. Got it?’ The others nodded.

  ‘One, two, three!’

  Samson swung open the gate and they ran out. Patrick was not a big man, but he was, almost literally, a dead weight. Burdened as he was, Mike knew he was the easiest target of the three of them, and he prayed that if the sniper was still around he would find him more tempting than Sarah.

  There were no shots. They regrouped and made their way back to the camping ground on the lake shore.

  ‘Come this way, sir,’ Samson said, directing them further along the shore, away from the houseboat’s tender boat and the now-blazing lights of the anchored vessel. ‘We have a bigger boat, bigger engine.’

  Around a small spit of land, out of sight from the main camp, they came to the National Parks staff accommodation. There were two simple brick houses with corrugated-iron roofs and a separate toilet block. All of the buildings were painted the light olive green favoured by the Zimbabwe National Parks Service. Hens clucked in a small chicken run and clothes flapped lazily on a wire washing line strung between two trees. An old woman emerged tentatively from one of the staff houses and Samson spoke quickly and reassuringly to her in their language.

  The woman, bent and grey-haired, rushed forward when she saw Mike easing Patrick from his back. Mike sat Patrick gently on the gunwale of the National Parks boat. The aluminium boat was bigger than the tender, and painted Parks green. On the back was a seventy-horsepower outboard. ‘Help me, Samson,’ Mike said.

  Samson hadn’t even worked up a sweat during the run. He helped Mike shift the old ranger into the boat and together they laid him on the deck.

  ‘This is Patrick’s wife,’ Samson said.

  The old woman pressed against Mike to get a look at her husband. Patrick opened his eyes and tried to smile at her. She pushed Mike aside and bent over so that her face was close to Patrick’s. She ran her gnarled fingers through his tight grey curls as they spoke.

  ‘He is telling her to stay here, to look after their child. They still have a daughter living here,’ Samson translated. He added, ‘I must take Patrick now.’

  Mike respected the younger ranger’s desire to stay with his comrade, but he had duties here. ‘No, Samson,’ he said, laying a hand on his shoulder. ‘You must stay here, protect your women and my people, over there.’ Mike pointed to the houseboat, bobbing at anchor. All the lights were on now and Mike could see people lining the rails.

  Samson looked hard at Mike, reluctant to leave his superior.

  ‘Stay, Samson,’ Patrick croaked in English from the hull of the boat. ‘Your duty is here.’ Painfully, the old man raised himself up onto one elbow, on his good side. ‘This is your post. Protect these people and these animals.’ Patrick gave a ragged cough and sank back down into the boat.

  ‘Stay, Samson,’ Mike said, echoing the older man’s words, ‘but first come with me to tell my friends that they will be safe.’

  The young man nodded and Sarah jumped into the boat, taking Patrick’s hand in hers. ‘I’ll look after him for you,’ she said to the old woman who, in turn, reached out and tender
ly grasped Sarah’s hand. There were tears in the old woman’s eyes as she waved farewell to her husband.

  Samson and Mike pushed the heavy boat into the water and then jumped aboard. The craft was big enough to have a separate seat for the driver and Mike settled in behind the steering wheel. He set the gear lever to neutral and pressed the starter button. Samson took a seat on the rear bench and apprehensively watched Sarah tend to Patrick as the engine roared to life.

  Mike rammed the gear lever into reverse and pulled away from the shore. Once clear of the submerged trees, he pushed the throttle to full-forward. The bow of the boat reared up like a prancing stallion as they accelerated.

  ‘I don’t suppose it would do any good to suggest that I drop you off at the houseboat with the others?’ he called to Sarah over the roar of the big outboard.

  ‘None at all,’ she said, as she looked up from her seat on the deck. She cradled Patrick’s head in her lap. ‘Besides, you need someone to keep an eye on Patrick.’

  It was a short ride to the houseboat and the nose of the boat dropped again as Mike flicked the gear lever back down into neutral.

  ‘What gives?’ a bare-chested Sam called from the railing on the houseboat’s lower deck. The captain and his mate were also awake and glaring angrily at Mike, along with everyone else from the tour group.

  ‘Poachers, but they’ve probably gone now. Sam, George, jump aboard and I’ll run you to shore to pick up the tender boat,’ Mike said as the Parks boat drifted up to the houseboat.

  ‘Probably gone?’ Jane asked in alarm, a protective arm around Julie’s shoulders. Sam and George stepped onto the boat, which rocked and dipped with the extra weight.

  ‘Fucking hell, what’s happened to him?’ George asked.

  ‘Gunshot wound. We’re taking him back to Kariba.’

  ‘Can I help, Mike?’ Kylie asked. ‘I am a nurse, remember?’

  ‘Thanks, Kylie, but we’ve got no dressings and no drugs. Our best bet is to get him to a hospital as quick as we can.’

  ‘What about us, Mike?’ Jane cried. ‘You’ve got to look after us!’

  Mike knew she was right, but there was too much to do and not enough people. ‘Samson here will take care of you,’ he said, gesturing to the tall ranger now standing next to him in the boat, cradling his AK-47. ‘You’ll be safe with him.’

  Samson slung his rifle, reached out and grabbed the railing of the houseboat. With a deft step he was aboard. Linda and Mel parted from their places at the railing next to Jane and Julie to make way for him.

  Once Samson was on board Mike said to him, ‘Ask the captain to let you use the houseboat’s radio. Call Kariba police and tell them to meet us at Andorra Harbour, with an ambulance. OK?’

  ‘Yebo,’ he said. ‘Take care of Patrick, please.’

  ‘And you’re just abandoning us?’ Julie interrupted. ‘With people firing bloody machine guns around us!’

  ‘There’s a man dying of blood loss here,’ Sarah spat back angrily at the mother and daughter. ‘For God’s sake, stop thinking about yourselves for one minute.’

  Jane looked tired and worried. ‘Mike, tell the captain to take us back as well on the houseboat. Tonight!’

  The captain spoke for the first time. ‘I’m sorry, madam, but we can’t travel at night, in case the winds pick up.’

  Before Jane could reply, Mike said, ‘You’ll all be fine. Captain, bring the boat back tomorrow, as scheduled. I’ll explain everything there. Sarah and I will meet you at the dock.’ To forestall the anticipated argument and barrage of questions, Mike gunned the motor and raced into shore.

  ‘Bring Samson back to shore once everyone on board the houseboat’s calmed down, OK, lads?’ Mike said to Sam and George as they closed on the beach. ‘Samson’s a good man. You’ll be safe with him. The poachers aren’t after you guys.’

  ‘No, they’re after you two, aren’t they?’ Sam said.

  ‘Jump ship,’ Mike said as the boat skidded up onto the sand, next to the houseboat’s dinghy. When the two young men were out of the bigger boat they gave Mike a hand to push the National Parks craft back out into the lake. ‘Take care,’ Mike said.

  ‘You too,’ replied Sam.

  24

  The water’s surface was etched with lines of white-topped waves as they sped into the centre of the inland sea. The swell sent shock waves through the boat’s hull as it bounced across the peaks. Sarah looked up pleadingly from the bottom of the boat, concerned about the constant slamming on Patrick’s body.

  ‘Take the cushion from the back seat,’ Mike suggested, then returned his concentration to the choppy water. Mike knew the rough ride wouldn’t be helping Patrick, but speed was what mattered now. There was nothing they could do for the ranger on board the small boat.

  Spray flew up over the bow each time they crested a wave, stinging Mike’s bare torso and soaking Sarah. He was bitterly cold and he had to continually wipe water from his eyes with his free hand. His mind raced in time with the screaming outboard as the boat thudded across the lake. He had plenty of questions to mull over, but not enough answers.

  Where were the poachers staying and what would they do next? Could he, or even should he, continue with the tour after what had happened tonight? Was it safe for them to complete their journey while the poachers were still at large? Where was Fanie Theron, and did he have enough information on Hess and Orlov for him or his counterparts in Zimbabwe or Zambia to arrest them?

  The last question concerned Mike the most. He and Sarah had been shot at and a man was close to dying but, as far as he was aware, none of them had actually seen their assailants. The only witness who could identify the members of the poaching party, and confirm whether or not two white men were involved in the hunt, was dead. There was a frightening possibility that even if the authorities could pick up Hess and Orlov – for Mike was convinced it was they who had been hunting the rhino – they would get off through lack of evidence.

  He decided to find Gerry O’Flynn again. He needed to know if Flynn knew anything about what Hess and Orlov planned to do after they left him. For all Mike knew, Flynn might have been with them on the night hunt.

  Mike looked down at Sarah and Patrick, and saw the ranger was now lying on the long green vinyl-covered cushion from the boat’s rear bench. His eyes were closed.

  ‘How is he?’ Mike yelled.

  Droplets of spray fanned from the top of Sarah’s head as she ran a hand through her short black hair. She placed two fingers on Patrick’s wrinkled neck to check his pulse. ‘He passed out a little while ago. He’s still breathing, but his pulse is very weak.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Mike said, pointing to their front. The lights of Kariba’s shoreline were now revealing the shapes of houses and other waterfront buildings. Mike saw a flashing blue light on the shore and swung the steering wheel so the bow pointed towards it. Never had he been so pleased to see a police vehicle.

  ‘Mike! Mike!’ Sarah screamed. Mike looked down.

  Patrick’s eyes were open now, but not focused on anything. His mouth was wide open, revealing stained yellow teeth. ‘He’s stopped breathing!’ Sarah yelled, looking up at Mike with pleading eyes.

  ‘We’re nearly there, Sarah! Start CPR!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mouth to mouth! Do you know what to do?’

  ‘Oh, shit! I think so.’

  She rocked Patrick’s head back, pinched his nose and placed her lips over his. Mike watched as the ranger’s skinny chest rose and fell twice.

  ‘Good girl!’ Mike said. ‘Now the compressions.’

  Sarah shifted her position so that she could press her left palm on Patrick’s chest. Covering that hand with her right she started compressions in exactly the right spot, at the base of Patrick’s sternum.

  Again she switched positions and blew more hard breaths into the old body. Suddenly, Patrick coughed. He was alive.

  ‘Bugger me!’ Sarah said, looking up at Mike with a broad smile. Blue light bathed h
er face, on and off. ‘I did it!’

  ‘You certainly did.’ Mike cut the engine and the boat settled in the water and coasted up to the concrete launching ramp beneath the darkened Kariba Yacht Club. A white mini-van ambulance was parked on the ramp, its back door raised, and two paramedics in green overalls pushed a wheeled folding bed down to the water’s edge. At the top of the ramp waited a white Land Rover with the blue and gold stripes of the Zimbabwe Republic Police. The blue beacon that had guided them there continued to flash. Two officers dressed in khaki were waiting for them and one grabbed the bow of the boat as it nosed in.

  ‘Mr Williams?’ the taller of the two policemen asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘We have received a message from National Parks. It seems congratulations are in order, but this is a very irregular business, as I am sure you will appreciate.’

  ‘Irregular is hardly the word for it, mate. But we’ve got a badly injured man here,’ Mike said.

  ‘Of course, he will be taken to hospital immediately.’

  Mike busied himself in helping the paramedics lift Patrick from the bottom of the boat. Patrick was cold and wet where the bilge water had soaked his back. As the ambulancemen laid him on the stretcher he reached out and locked a bony hand around Mike’s wrist.

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispered hoarsely.

  ‘Thank the lady,’ Mike said, gesturing to Sarah with a flick of his head. ‘She saved your life.’

  Patrick nodded and smiled at Sarah. ‘Madam . . . forgive me my rudeness earlier . . .’ He coughed painfully. ‘And thank you, too.’

  Mike looked at Sarah and there were tears in her eyes as she took Patrick’s hand in hers. The paramedics broke the contact by pushing the wheeled bed up to the waiting ambulance. ‘We must hurry,’ one of them said.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Sarah said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  The ambulance sped off, and Mike walked over to the policeman who had first spoken to them, taking note of his rank, as he was the most senior of the two. ‘Inspector, are we going to be charged with anything?’