Far Horizon

by Tony Park

  The memory of the failed rhino hunt burned in Orlov’s mind. As a businessman and, before that, as a soldier, failure had never been an option for him. He had come to Africa to hunt big game and he had been cheated. Tonight’s action would be his source of revenge and satisfaction.

  The thought of imminent battle had another effect on him. As he blackened his face with charcoal from a lightning-shattered tree he thought of sex, of a desire as primal as the need to kill. He felt his loins stir as he remembered the young black girl he had ravaged at Hess’s hunting lodge. The way she had felt, the way she had fought, the way she had screamed. He knew there would be female tourists on the overland vehicle. Hess, in his usual blunt manner, had explained that while the object of this mission was to eliminate two witnesses – the man and woman who had tracked them down at Victoria Falls – they could not afford to leave more people alive who could identify and incriminate them. How and when the others were killed, Orlov decided, would be a decision he would make.

  Hess had programmed in the coordinates for the last known position of the yellow overland truck into his GPS unit, the location having willingly been given by the burly Afrikaner tourist in the Land Rover. He had flagged the two South African vehicles down as they neared the Mfuwe end of the Petauke Road. He explained to the driver of the first vehicle that he was very concerned he had not yet met up with his friend, an Australian tour guide driving a big yellow Bedford, who should have been at Mfuwe several hours earlier.

  Hess had spoken to the helicopter pilot again on the satellite telephone. He ordered the man to fly to Mfuwe airstrip and remain there on standby through the night, although he didn’t tell him the exact nature of their illegal mission.

  Klaus had driven at breakneck speed from Lusaka back down to Siavonga on the Zambian shore of Lake Kariba, and recruited the remaining two poachers, Alfred and Ezekial, who had accompanied them across to Tashinga. It had been easy to convince them to join forces with the two white men again. They faced the same risk of imprisonment if their part in the rhino hunt was revealed and, on Hess’s authority, Klaus had promised them all the spoils a raid on an overland truck would bring. The impoverished poachers were more than happy to kill for a sackful of cameras, watches, jewellery and foreign currency.

  What Hess had not told Klaus was that he planned to kill the two poachers as soon as the job was done. There would be saturation coverage in the media of the violent deaths of a group of tourists and this would bring a high-level investigation. Hess could not afford to have any of their accomplices picked up and coerced into revealing the identities or descriptions of the white men who had organised the attack.

  For now, though, he treated the men like loyal foot soldiers. He gathered them around him in a circle where they stood, on the edge of the dirt road just outside of Mfuwe. ‘Tonight we will find the people who killed your comrade, William, at Matusadona,’ he said forcefully. ‘Tonight is your chance for revenge, and for money.’

  The poachers smiled and gathered their meagre belongings – AK-47s and crude shoulder bags stuffed with a little food and spare magazines of ammunition. They had no reason to doubt Hess’s story that their friend had been killed by a lucky shot from a ranger’s rifle in Matusadona.

  Hess reached into the front of the Land Cruiser and pulled out a detailed topographical map. He unrolled it on the bonnet of the vehicle, weighing one side down with his pistol and the other with a magazine crammed with burnished brass and copper bullets.

  ‘Gather around, gentlemen. Here is where the truck crossed the river,’ he said pointing to the wavy blue line. ‘According to our helpful South African tourist friends the river is probably in complete flood by now, so the overland truck will not be able to retreat from us. Notice these two hills on this side of the river? If we have not found the truck by the time we get to the first of these hills we will dismount, camouflage our vehicle and patrol through to the river. Everyone understand so far?’

  ‘Yes bwana,’ said Alfred. Ezekial and Klaus nodded.

  Hess smiled at the old poacher’s use of the Swahili term of respect. It would be a shame to kill him, but there was no other way. ‘When we find the camp we do the job quickly and we do the job properly.’

  A lifetime spent in the African bush had taught Karl Hess how to drive in any condition. Through deep sand, glutinous mud and innumerable creek crossings he kept the Land Cruiser travelling at a speed that killed conversation among his passengers. Orlov sat beside him in the front, with Klaus and the poachers crammed into the back seat. All the passengers had rifles resting across their knees, and Hess had removed his Glock from its holster and placed it in his lap.

  ‘We’re only a few kilometres from the two hills now, Karl,’ Orlov said, using a shaded flashlight to relate the coordinates on the illuminated screen of the GPS unit to Hess’s map. ‘Beyond the hills is the river where the tour truck was bogged.’

  Hess switched off the headlights, leaving only the parking lights on, and slowed the Land Cruiser. Eyes stared hard into the shadows flashing by. Hands tightened on the pistol grips and stocks of rifles. After a few minutes, Hess cut the lights completely and slowed the vehicle to a crawl. They had started to climb the second-last hill from the river. He noticed a break in the vegetation on the right-hand side, possibly an old elephant trail, and swung the Land Cruiser off the road.

  ‘Cut some branches,’ he said to the poachers and opened his door. ‘Cover the vehicle with them.’

  Once the vehicle was hidden from sight of the road Hess called the men together and said, ‘Alfred, you take the lead. We move in an arrowhead formation. We will spread out on either side of the road, but nobody walks on the road. Do not lose sight of the man on either side of you. No noise.’

  The night was eerily quiet, except for the occasional chirp of an insect or screech of an owl. The five heavily armed men moved slowly, searching the ground for any spoor, watching the bush ahead and to their sides for their quarry. The wet leaves and sodden earth helped deaden what little sound their movements made. They reached the top of the first hill and slowly descended the other side.

  Alfred raised his left hand, and everyone stopped and crouched.

  Hess, who was behind and to the right of the poacher, moved to him. ‘What is it?’

  Alfred pointed to the fallen tree across the road and they moved forward to the stump on the right-hand side of the track. He rubbed a finger on the white stump, then raised it to his lips, tasting the sticky sap. ‘This has not been cut for long, bwana. Maybe only a few hours.’

  Hess peered up the slope of the second hill in front of them. The fallen tree was a man-made obstacle. From his military training he knew that obstacles, by themselves, were of no use to a defender. The point of an obstacle is to slow an attacker, and allow the defender to observe or fire upon the attacker while he tries to bridge or destroy the barrier. ‘They are probably watching us. Alfred, when we move forward, keep an eye on the side of the road for tracks and other signs.’

  ‘The rain has been heavy, bwana, it will be hard to read tracks.’

  Hess clapped a hand on the black man’s thin but muscled shoulder, smiled, and said, ‘If they see us before we see them, Alfred, I will kill you.’

  He crept back along the line of advance, kneeling close to each man and whispering in his ear, ‘They are not far, probably at the top of the next hill. Stay low and stay quiet.’

  They moved forward again, even slower than before. Every few metres Alfred would stop, standing against the trunk of a tree or crouching next to a low bush so as not to be silhouetted. He would look and listen, and then move again. The tracker searched for fresh spoor along the edge of the road and in the bush around him, but the heavens rumbled above him and he knew more rain would come again soon, washing away what little remained of their enemy’s trail.

  An eerie, mournful howl sounded off to their left. The advance stopped again. Alfred turned to Hess, behind him to the right, and mouthed, ‘Jackal.’ Hess
nodded impatiently, for he reckoned he had probably seen more jackals in his lifetime in the Namibian bush than even the old Zambian poacher had.

  *

  ‘What was that?’ Terry whispered in alarm at the weird animal sound off to their right. George rolled over on the carpet of sodden leaves and mud, and clapped his right hand hard on his friend’s mouth. He felt Terry struggle beneath his grip, but held firm until the bigger man calmed his frantic movements.

  George pointed to the road, in front of them and slightly off to their right. Terry’s eyes widened in fear and recognition. There was an African man bent in a half crouch near the edge of the road, not ten metres away from where they lay at the base of the twin trees. Terry scanned the bush around him and then clutched the sleeve of George’s rain jacket. He pointed to the left of the black man, to a spot further back. A European wearing a dark watch cap was moving silently through the bush. ‘Look. It must be them,’ Terry whispered, his lips almost brushing George’s ear.

  The men were moving forward now, closer and closer to their position with every step. George felt sick with fear and anger. The men that he and Terry were there to spot in advance of their arrival were almost on top of them. He wondered what had happened to their vehicle, how he could possibly warn Mike and the others in time. George had been awake, but he had not seen or heard the men until just now. Terry had been sleeping, snoring, in fact, and George had decided that he had to wake his friend because he was making too much noise. George realised he had at least done something right, because the men gave no sign that they had noticed the OP yet. But that couldn’t last. His right hand clenched the wooden handle of the machete so hard he felt his knuckles start to ache.

  Slowly, a centimetre at a time, he moved his left arm down beside his body. His arm had been in the same position, his hand resting under his chin, for about half an hour and it hurt as the blood slowly started to circulate again. He would have only seconds to find the communication line and warn Mike before the men were literally on top of them. He found the stick they had tied the fishing line to and he yanked on it as hard as he could. Awkwardly, he wound more line around the stick to increase the tension on the line, to make sure that Mike felt the signal at the other end.

  Terry, worried that George’s movement would be noticed, laid a hand on George’s arm to still the movement. Blood pounded in Terry’s ears and his vision went blurry. He pressed his face hard into the mud and leaf litter, like a child who thinks he can hide by covering his eyes. He shook with fear, and worried that he would lose control and wet himself.

  George made out the distinctive silhouette of the lead poacher’s rifle – an AK-47. He risked a final glance at the white man wearing the black beanie and noticed a very long rifle. The weapon had a magazine, which meant that it had to be semi-automatic, if not fully automatic, and it looked familiar, but he couldn’t place the design – probably American. He noticed the huge sight mounted on top and recalled that Mike had said the men who had shot at him had used a night sight. George could have screamed at the frustration of not being able to pass this vital information on to Mike in time for him to use it. He could only hope that Mike had got the frantic signal. Now he, like Terry, lowered his face into the muck as the faint footsteps came closer.

  Suddenly, without a warning clap of thunder or a flash of lightning, the clouds opened and Terry and George felt fat drops of rain spatter their backs. George thought of all the wet, cold, miserable weekends he had spent in the field with the Territorial Army, and how much he despised getting wet. Now he smiled grimly into the puddle forming in front of his face.

  There was the swish of a leg rubbing against a low bush and the slosh of a boot in water beside him, close to his face. George tilted his head ever so slowly to the right. The man was beside him, just on the other side of the tree trunk. If George had stretched out his arm, he could have touched him.

  31

  Mike was dreaming he was on Manly Beach, seven miles from Sydney and a million miles from care, as the old tourist slogan said. The sun was shining, children were laughing and splashing in the shallows. He was out in the surf and a beautiful, long, perfect wave of liquid-green glass rose up behind him. He pushed off the sandbar and the wave lifted him, propelling him, and for a moment it felt like he was flying. He slid down the face of the wave, arms rigid beside him as he bodysurfed all the way into shore.

  Sarah was there, on the beach. Standing and waving. Her hair was back to her natural blonde again, and she was wearing that simple sexy black bikini. Her body was tanned, her teeth white, her eyes sparkling. She walked towards the water, hips swaying slowly, hypnotically. He stood in the shallows and shook the water from his long hair, then he started to jog towards her. He wanted her so much he could barely breathe.

  He reached for her. She giggled and they were almost touching, at the line of the sea’s furthest reach, where water meets land, wet meets dry, dark meets light. Their fingers were so close he could practically feel the heat radiating from her sun-drenched body. Then someone, somewhere, grabbed his left arm, painfully, and pulled him back. He fell and landed in the water, on his side. Water filled his mouth. Sarah faded from his sight.

  Mike coughed and rolled, aware immediately of a dull ache in his hip from sleeping on the bare ground, and a sharp pain in his wrist. His arm jerked like a puppet’s as he sat up, and his head knocked against something hard and dirty. He had been sleeping underneath Nelson, away from the others. The water was real, because his face was cold and wet. As his eyes slowly became accustomed to the gloom he noticed that a puddle had formed around where his head had been. The baseball cap he had been resting his head on was sodden. He squeezed as much water as he could from it and placed it on his head.

  The pulling on his arm was the signal from the boys at the observation post that Hess and Orlov had arrived. The ferocity of the tugging alarmed him. They had agreed two tugs, but his arm still jerked, the fishing line digging painfully into his skin. He reached for his pocket knife and cut the line. The line had served its purpose and if it proved to be a false alarm he would retie it after he had found out what was going on. He had to assume, though, that either George and Terry were about to arrive or, if things had gone wrong, the poachers were about to come over the hill and find them.

  Mike had slept under the truck in order to be ready to put his plan into action. Also, he couldn’t have slept in a tent or sleeping bag as that would have prevented him from feeling George and Terry’s signal. The rest of the group was at least dry, if not completely safe from danger. In the small clearing they had made next to the vehicle were the group’s green canvas dome tents, arranged in a horseshoe pattern, with the open end facing the tarpaulin they had rigged up to cover the eating area. At the border of the little clearing, half under the extreme edge of the tarp’s shelter, were the remains of the fire. Fortunately, the brief shower hadn’t extinguished it completely. Mike stood, joints stiff and sore, and walked to the fire. He knelt and blew hard on the embers. He was able to coax a red glow from a few sticks and a narrow column of smoke snaked its way up.

  He reached in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter, and lit one as he opened the driver’s side door and climbed into the cab.

  Hess passed the M-14 rifle across to Orlov and pointed to the direction in which he wanted him to look. From their vantage point on the crest of the hill they could plainly see the yellow overland truck. The rain had eased, but there were no stars or moonlight to assist the night sight’s image intensification equipment. When Orlov raked the truck with the sight, however, the lack of ambient light made the two pinpricks of illumination even more obvious than they would have been.

  The first was on the ground and, as Orlov squinted hard in concentration, he made out the glowing embers of a campfire. That meant there were people there, in the campsite, who were now sleeping in the open circle of dome tents. When he shifted the sight onto the cab of the truck, as Hess had instructed, he saw only blackness.

>   ‘Wait,’ whispered Hess.

  Orlov held the crosshairs on the cab and, a few seconds later, broke into a grin when the interior suddenly flared a warm bright green. He trailed a tiny bright speck of light, like a green firefly, from a point high up in the cab, to down below the dashboard, out of sight again. There was a person in the cab, smoking.

  The Russian could not comprehend such stupidity. Their quarry had taken the precaution of posting a sentry in the vehicle – a ridiculously obvious location in any case – but had allowed the person to give his presence away by smoking. When the tip of the cigarette flared bright again, Orlov picked out the man’s silhouette. He was wearing a baseball cap and sitting in the driver’s seat. Hess reached for the weapon.

  ‘No,’ Orlov said. ‘Let me take the shot.’

  Hess lowered his hand and looked at the Russian, who stared back at him. Hess saw the desire in Orlov’s eye, the look of a hunter who has been cheated of his prey and then given another chance. The professional soldier in him wanted to ensure the job was done properly and, in Hess’s book, that usually meant doing it himself. But he understood Orlov’s frustration, particularly since the man had spent a small fortune on organising the expedition.

  He touched Orlov on the arm and said, ‘Of course, Vassily.’ Hess motioned for Klaus and the two poachers to join them at their vantage point.

  ‘Listen in. Alfred, you and Ezekial go in first – quietly. I will give you five minutes to be in position. That should be plenty of time. As soon as the man in the truck is dead, you do as we discussed before. Klaus, you stay here in reserve with us. Understood?’ Everyone nodded.

  The two poachers disappeared into the darkened bush below the crest of the hill as silently as a pair of mambas in search of prey. Orlov used the time it would take for them to get into position to prepare himself for the crucial shot. He unfolded the bipod legs under the end of the rifle barrel, and cleared away grass and a fallen branch that obscured his view from the crest. He lay down on his stomach and lifted the butt of the weapon to his shoulder, caressing the oiled wooden stock with his cheek as he lowered his eye to the night sight. The man in the cab drew on his cigarette again, illuminating the outline of his head and hat. Orlov was sure that even if the cigarette went out he would still be able to make the shot with the little ambient light present.