by Tony Park
Behind Michelle, Wise was slowly edging around Caesar to get a better look at the little primate. As skilled as Wise was in moving silently through the dry bushveld, he was still not yet attuned to the ever present threat of the vines that carpeted even the open ground like trip-wires. His foot caught a tendril and he pitched forward, landing heavily against Caesar, who let out an involuntary curse as he took his comrade’s weight.
The baby gorilla shrieked. Before Michelle had time to admonish the two men, the jungle to their right erupted in a cloud of shredded leaves and trailing vines. The silverback bellowed as he charged into the clearing. Wise rolled to the ground and Caesar stood and turned in panic.
‘No!’ Michelle called over her shoulder.
The silverback headed towards them from a ninety-degree angle. Henri and Jean-Baptiste, at the head of the column, were too far forward to intercede. Caesar started to run, and Wise was clumsily clutching handfuls of long grass to pull himself upright.
Michelle reached out and planted a hand firmly in the middle of Wise’s back and pushed the man to the ground. He started to shrug her off, but she managed to hiss, ‘Down!’ Henri had warned them that to run from a charging silverback would only inflame the animal, and it might pursue them and attack. Against all instinct, they had been told to cower and not move in the face of a confrontation.
The little gorilla had panicked and run back to the centre of the clearing, but from there he had been uncertain in which direction to head. The silverback checked his stride for a split second to make up the baby’s mind. He snatched the wayward child by his tiny arm and hurled him, forcefully, but with enough restraint not to snap the limb, into the jungle in the direction in which the others had disappeared. The youngster squealed again, then scarpered off.
Michelle stood and took two long strides after Caesar. It was Shane’s turn to call a warning now, but she ignored him. She lunged for the fleeing black man and managed to grab the belt of his trousers and check his pace. The silverback stood upright, his height towering over the other cowed humans, and beat out a staccato rhythm on his huge chest. The sound was hollow but menacing. He shrieked and resumed his charge, heading straight for the standing humans.
Michelle held onto Caesar’s belt, despite his twisting and reaching. She pitched herself forward, her other arm reaching around his narrow waist, and used her full weight to push him down. Unprepared for the tackle, Caesar fell face-first into the grass. Michelle smothered him.
The gorilla reached the prone forms with half-a-dozen strides. He stood over them, bellowed and rapped on his chest again.
‘Quiet,’ Michelle whispered to Caesar. She thought he might be whimpering under her. She heard the gorilla behind her, sensed his shadow blanketing her, but she dared not turn around to look up at him. She was terrified by the charge, but she knew her fate now rested in the mighty beast’s hands.
The silverback grunted and coughed. He dropped to his knuckles, and looked around, his massive head swivelling as he glared a warning at the other humans in the clearing. Slowly he turned and, message delivered, walked back into the jungle.
‘He’s gone,’ Shane said, crawling over to where Michelle still lay across a motionless Caesar. ‘You can get up now.’
Michelle rolled over and started laughing.
There was a woman waiting for them at the Bukima gorilla-trekking and research base camp.
Shane spotted her from a hilltop, nearly a kilometre away, and later he would think it was her sheer presence that had made her so visible from afar. She stood in the middle of the encampment, a clearing dotted with a small circular wooden building, which he later learned was the grandiosely named visitors’ centre, and two dome tents. She had her hands on her hips, her legs slightly apart, waiting for them.
As they moved down the forested hillside he glimpsed her again, every few minutes, when a gap in the foliage allowed. Her features became clearer. Jet-black hair, cut in a mannish crew cut. Tight white sleeveless T-shirt. Toned, tanned arms, narrow waist. Not as tall as Michelle, maybe five-eight, but a woman hardened and sculpted by months on the mountains. She stood in front of a mural of a silverback, which had been painted on the side of the visitors’ centre. A Congolese soldier with an AK slung over his shoulder stood in the shade of a tin-roofed, open-sided cooking shelter, chatting to a pretty African girl who stirred a pot over a smoky fire. A group of eight westerners, mostly in their late teens or early twenties, paused with their two guides for a group photograph before heading away from the patrol post into the jungle.
‘That must be Marie Delacroix,’ Michelle said, pointing to the white woman.
Shane thought Michelle said the words with a mixture of awe and excitement. ‘Never heard of her,’ he replied.
‘You mightn’t remember the name, but you’ll have heard of the court case.’
When Michelle mentioned a furrier in Paris, Shane’s memory rewound to a series of reports on the satellite news channels he’d seen while working in Baghdad. The story had gone around the world. A group of animal rights activists had planted an incendiary bomb with a timing device in the warehouse of a fashion company that specialised in exotic furs. That in itself was not all that sensational; however, a female security guard had been burned to death in the blaze that consumed the building when the time bomb went off.
‘She was one of them?’ he asked.
‘The police arrested and charged her – Doctor Delacroix was the public face of the animal rights group – but the case against her was dismissed by the court. There was no evidence to tie her to the actual attack and she had a rock-solid alibi.’
‘Which was what?’
‘She was here in Africa, back at her gorilla research base, when the fire took place – although the police still claimed she was the mastermind behind the bombing, and another two fires in Paris.’
‘You called her “doctor”?’ Shane asked. They were close to Doctor Delacroix now. He saw high, sculpted cheekbones; a wide, sensuous mouth; feline green eyes. With a different haircut, he reckoned Marie Delacroix could herself have been on the catwalk.
‘She’s a highly qualified, respected zoologist. Time Magazine called her the new Dian Fossey, though apparently she hates being compared with her. She thought Fossey was too weak on the poachers who hunted the gorillas in Rwanda.’
Shane gave a snort of surprise. From what he knew of the late scientist – which was largely courtesy of Hollywood – her hard line against the locals who threatened the mountain gorillas might have contributed to her death. He took another look at Marie Delacroix. There was a hardness about her.
Shane, Michelle, Wise and Caesar were covered in mud, their exposed skin checked with scratches, their clothes sporting runs and tears from the walk. Marie Delacroix looked as though she had just stepped out of a sidewalk cafe in her native city. ‘You are Michelle, no?’ she asked in accented English, not approaching them, hands still on her hips.
‘Doctor Delacroix? It’s an honour,’ Michelle replied, wiping a grimy hand on filthier trousers. ‘You know my name?’
The Frenchwoman smiled. ‘Fletcher told me you would be here today.’
Michelle looked puzzled. ‘He did?’
‘Oui. We met when he came to trek with the gorillas. He told me he was bringing a researcher up with his hunting party. I understand you are to conduct a survey of his concession in the Sarambwe Forest, yes?’
Michelle nodded. Shane noticed that the other woman had not acknowledged his presence or that of his men. Michelle suddenly realised the faux pas and did the honours. Marie Delacroix nodded at the men but said nothing to them.
‘I’d be happy to show you around, if you wish.’
‘That would be wonderful, Doctor Delacroix.’
‘Call me Marie, please. It will be nice to have another woman over the age of twenty to talk to!’ They both laughed. ‘I know the area of the new hunting concession well. There is a troop of gorillas that has occasionally strayed across the bor
der from Bwindi into the Sarambwe Forest. When they cross, it is my job to monitor them on behalf of the Uganda Wildlife Authority until they return to Uganda. I will show you on the map the areas you may wish to focus on, when I visit.’
‘You’re already planning to visit us?’
‘Oui. Fletcher has invited me to stay at his camp tomorrow night. I will be there. He is a good man – for a killer of animals.’
Shane weighed in. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you would approve of hunting.’
She turned her head, still standing defiant and aloof with her hands on her hips, and nailed Shane with a well-aimed look. ‘I do not, but sometimes one has to dance with the devil, as the English would say. I know of Fletcher’s record against poachers in Zimbabwe – and of yours, Shane. He told me all about you. We need all the help we can get here to stop poaching.
‘Fletcher and I, we have talked at length, and we have made the truce – the pact of temporary allies. I am a realist. I know that I cannot protect the animals that live outside the national park, and I know that poachers, hungry refugees and Congolese farmers pose more of a threat to my mountain gorillas than American or European hunters. If a forest outside of the Virunga is used for hunting antelope and forest hogs, it cannot be slashed and burned to plant bananas. If men with guns hunt legally in such a concession and prevent poachers from doing their business, then so much the better. In a perverse way I admire Fletcher for the work he has done in Zimbabwe – this includes the efforts of you and your soldiers.’
‘We had the support of the police and the national parks authorities in Zimbabwe. We worked well with them,’ Shane said. He was always uncomfortable taking credit for the efforts of others.
‘You are too modest. This country is only just rediscovering the economic value of wildlife, and the magnitude of the poaching problem. They are learning that one must fight fire with more fire. I will forgive Fletcher and the bloated capitalist killers he calls clients if you do one thing for me, Shane.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Kill poachers.’
Michelle said, ‘We’ve also had success in Zimbabwe with educational programs in the schools, to teach the kids about the value of wildlife and . . .’
Marie cut her off, still staring at Shane. ‘This is a war. It is too late for mere words. I know that pig Colonel Gizenga has given Fletcher carte blanche to curb poaching in the concession. If you kill the poachers there, they will not make it into my national park. Perhaps one day Sarambwe will be proclaimed a park as well, and then you and your hunters will go home.’
My gorillas. My national park. Shane could see they were talking to one of the most dangerous personalities the human race could field. A zealot. Shane was a soldier, but it was people like Marie Delacroix who started wars.
‘Fletcher is going to take me on a hunting trip. I want to see firsthand what it is that gives men such a hard-on over killing.’
Shane coughed into his hand to cover his laugh. He thought that if Marie carried a gun, the rich hunters had better watch their backs.
17
Shane held the prismatic compass up to his eye and checked the direction in which Wise was heading. The scout was all but invisible in the gloom beneath the forest canopy, thanks to the camouflage uniform and his black skin. The route Shane had chosen took them through a deep valley, where the vegetation was more like a hot and humid jungle rainforest than the vine-covered slopes where they had tracked the gorillas.
The three of them wore matching tunics and trousers printed with differing hues of green and brown, punctuated with squiggles of black. The pattern – US Army jungle leaf, it was called – was familiar to Shane from joint military exercises with the Americans in the tropical north of Australia, Thailand and the Philippines. The uniforms had been a gift from a hunting client, one of Chuck Hamley’s Illinois National Guard buddies. Shane had initially thought the clothing useless – particularly in Zimbabwe’s dry, khaki-hued bush – but it was perfect for their new environment.
Shane wiped beads of perspiration from his upper lip with a gloved finger. With their green fire-retardant Nomex uppers and soft grey leather palms, the lightweight military flyers’ gloves were a favourite of special force soldiers. His face was painted with vertical stripes of black and green camouflage makeup, and an olive strip of rag tied around his forehead kept the sweat from running out of his hair into his eyes.
Wise looked back over his shoulder, and Shane held up a hand and pointed thirty degrees off to the left. Both his men were struggling with the intricacies of navigating with a map and compass, although Caesar grasped the theory quicker than his ex-military comrade. Wise had earned himself another classroom session in the tent later in the day.
Birds squawked and he heard monkeys scampering through the branches above them. Wise and Caesar could have been dropped blindfolded and naked a hundred miles from anywhere in their native bushland and still made it home for dinner the same day. In the jungle, however, they were as lost as cub scouts on their first outing.
Shane was not overly concerned. He was confident in his own ability to plot a course through the challenging terrain and enjoyed passing on his skills to others. Wise and Caesar, he was sure, would be fine after a few more training exercises. When they started patrolling in earnest they would have local guides to lead them through the jungle; however, it was vital that his men know how to navigate themselves in case they were ever split up and had to find their own way back to base.
Shane turned his head and motioned for Caesar, who was behind him, to move up. Shane appraised the other man’s movements critically. He had taught them the art of walking silently through the jungle – a special skill at which the Australian Army excelled. He had shown them how to move painstakingly slowly, placing a heel with deliberate care and then gradually transferring the body’s weight around the outside edge of the foot, while feeling and listening for the twig that might snap and give away a man’s position. He had armed them all with secateurs, small snips usually used for pruning roses, which Caesar now patiently used to cut away a ‘wait-a-bit’ vine that had snagged on one of his canvas water-bottle covers. Shane nodded his praise as Caesar knelt, with the exaggerated slowness of a mime artist, beside him.
‘Which way?’ Shane mouthed the question silently.
Caesar fished the compass out of the flapped breast pocket on his tunic and held it up to his eye. He pointed to a stout tree. Shane made a slight correction and indicated for Caesar to replace Wise on point.
They moved on slowly, and Shane tried to ignore the mosquitoes that buzzed around the back of his neck and the thought of the unseen, unfelt leeches that were probably right now burrowing into the skin above his boots. Out of habit, he constantly shifted his gaze from left to right, and above. After every few steps he also turned to check on Wise, who was still creeping along behind him. In the treetops he caught the occasional glimpse of one of the many primate species that lived in the mountains. A flash of colour danced through the dark green as a red-tailed monkey leapt agilely from one branch to another.
As part of a training exercise for Wise and Caesar, he had mapped a simple three-leg triangular route out of the camp: to the east towards the Ugandan border and away from the village where the would-be criminals had originated; into the concession’s forest to the north, and then off to the south-west until they rejoined the main track back to the camp. It was his intention that they march through the village on the way home, rifles slung, in full uniform. Shane wanted the local people to know he and his men were active in the area, in order to deter those who might be tempted to continue their subsistence poaching in the newly proclaimed hunting concession.
Shane’s eyes fell on Caesar. He had stopped. Slowly the other man raised his left hand, palm open. Shane passed the signal back to Wise, who also halted. Shane crept, with even more caution than normal, to a position on Caesar’s right. He looked at the Ndebele, who wrinkled his nose and softly sniffed the air. Shane mimi
cked him and caught the smell, faint yet distinct.
Smoke.
The three men crouched close to the dank floor of the forest, the smell of rotting mulch mixing with the sweat of their bodies to create a raw scent. Shane felt a tingle in his fingertips – the old sign of impending action.
They moved off, even slower than before, in the same order. It took them a full ten minutes to cover the next hundred metres, and with every painstaking step the smell of smoke became stronger.
Caesar dropped fluidly to one knee, stuck out his arm and gave a thumbs-down signal. Shane dropped to his hands and knees and crawled forward. Caesar was behind the massive wall-like root of a figtree, his left side huddled against the towering trunk, his AK 47 peeking around the girth of the forest giant.
Shane heard voices. He dropped all the way to his belly and leopard-crawled to a point on the ground to Caesar’s right. He counted eight pairs of legs. They stood or walked around a slowly burning fire, fed by damp, freshly cut logs. He smelled the metallic tang of fresh blood, then noticed a skinned animal haunch propped against a tree. The words of the African men were muted; the low, conspiratorial tones of the guilty at work.
Three AK 47 assault rifles stood in a tripod formation, their interlocking barrels keeping them upright, close at hand, ready for action. Two wicked-looking pangas, their long and wide blades burnished from sharpening, lay haphazardly on the bloodied leg of bush meat, which he guessed the men were going to smoke, in order to cure it.
Shane looked over his shoulder. Wise had gone to ground and was facing away from him and Caesar, back towards the direction they had come from, his AK 47 pointing down their near-invisible trail. Caesar watched out to Shane’s left flank. Good men, Shane thought. They had followed the drills they had rehearsed time and again.
He glimpsed hands and a face as a man bent down to place a heavy cast-iron pot into the glowing coals beneath some more meat, already laid on racks for smoking. If they were preparing a meal in the pot, these men were not going anywhere fast. He needed a better vantage point, so he gently shifted his body two metres to the right, moving with the patience and silence of a tortoise. His suspicions about the men being in no hurry were confirmed when he saw a man in a grubby white singlet and patched trousers stringing a rope hammock between two trees.
