by Mike Bond
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
LAST SAVANNA
By Mike Bond
CRITICS’ PRAISE FOR MIKE BOND’S NOVELS
The Last Savanna
“A powerful love story set in the savage jungles and deserts of East Africa.” (Daily Examiner)
“A manhunt through crocodile-infested jungle, sun-scorched savannah, and impenetrable mountains as a former SAS man tries to save the life of the woman he loves but cannot have.” (Evening Telegraph)
“Pulsating with the sights, sounds, and dangers of wild Africa, its varied languages and peoples, the harsh warfare of the northern deserts and the hunger of denied love.” (Newton Chronicle)
“A gripping thriller from a highly distinctive writer.” (Liverpool Daily Post)
“Exciting, action-packed . . . A nightmarish vision of Africa.” (Manchester Evening News)
“The imagery was so powerful and built emotions so intense that I had to stop reading a few times to regain my composure.” (African Publishers’ Network)
“An unforgettable odyssey into the wilderness, mysteries, and perils of Africa... A book to be cherished and remembered.” (Greater London Radio)
“The central figure is not human; it is the barren, terrifying landscape of Northern Kenya and the deadly creatures who inhabit it.” (Daily Telegraph)
“An entrancing, terrifying vision of Africa. A story that not only thrills but informs... Impossible to set aside or forget.” (BBC)
“The thrill of the chase when the prey is man – the only decent prey.” (The Times)
“Mike Bond’s The Last Savanna is shot through with images of the natural world at its most fearsome and most merciful. With his weapons, man is a conqueror – without them he is a fugitive in an alien land. Bond touches on the vast and eerie depths that lie under the thin crust of civilization and the base instinct within man to survive – instincts that surpass materialism. A thoroughly enjoyable read that comes highly recommended.” (Nottingham Observer)
Tibetan Cross
“A thriller that everyone should go out and buy right away. The writing is wonderful throughout, and Bond never loses the reader’s attention. This is less a thriller, at times, than essay, with Bond working that fatalistic margin where life and death are one and the existential reality leaves one caring only to survive.” (Sunday Oregonian)
“A tautly written study of one man’s descent into living hell... Strong and forceful, its sharply written prose, combined with a straightforward plot, builds a mood of near claustrophobic intensity.” (Spokane Chronicle)
“Grips the reader from the very first chapter until the climactic ending.” (United Press International)
“Bond’s deft thriller will reinforce your worst fears about the CIA and the Bomb... A taut, tense tale of pursuit through exotic and unsavory locales.” (Publishers Weekly)
“One of the most exciting in recent fiction... an astonishing thriller that speaks profoundly about the venality of governments and the nobility of man.” (San Francisco Examiner)
“It is a thriller... Incredible, but also believable.” (Associated Press)
“Murderous intensity... A tense and graphically written story.” (Richmond Times-Dispatch)
“The most jaundiced adventure fan will be held by Fire Like The Sun ... It’s a superb volume with enough action for anyone, a well-told story that deserves the increasing attention it’s getting.” (Sacramento Bee)
“Intense and unforgettable from the opening chapter... thought-provoking and very well written.” (Fort Lauderdale News)
“Grips the reader from the opening chapter and never lets go.”
(Miami Herald)
A “chilling story of escape and pursuit.” (Tacoma News-Tribune)
“This novel is touted as a thriller – and that is what it is... The settings are exotic, minutely described, filled with colorful characters.” (Pittsburgh Post-Gazette)
“Almost impossible to put down ... Relentless. As only reality can have a certain ring to it, so does this book. It is naked and brutal and mind boggling in its scope. It is a living example of not being able to hide, ever... The hardest-toned book I’ve ever read. And the most frightening glimpse of mankind I’ve seen. This is a 10 if ever there was one.” (I Love a Mystery)
Holy War
“Mike Bond does it again – A gripping tale of passion, hostage-taking and war, set against a war-ravaged Beirut.” (Evening News)
“A supercharged thriller set in the hell hole that was Beirut…Evokes the human tragedy behind headlines of killing, maiming, terrorism and political chicanery. A story to chill and haunt you.” (Peterborough Evening Telegraph)
“A profound tale of war, written with grace and understanding by a novelist who thoroughly knows the subject…Literally impossible to stop reading...” (British Armed Forces Broadcasting)
“A pacy and convincing thriller with a deeper than usual understanding about his subject and a sure feel for his characters.” (Daily Examiner)
“A marvelous book – impossible to put down. A sense of being where few people have survived. The type of book that people really want to read, by a very successful and prolific writer.” (London Broadcasting)
“A tangled web and an entertaining one. Action-filled thriller.” (Manchester Evening News)
“Short sharp sentences that grip from the start…A tale of fear, hatred, revenge, and desire, flicking between bloody Beirut and the lesser battles of London and Paris.” (Evening Herald)
“A novel about the horrors of war…a very authentic look at the situation which was Beirut.” (South Wales Evening Post)
“A stunning novel of love and loss, good and evil, of real people who live in our hearts after the last page is done…Unusual and profound.” (Greater London Radio)
Night of the Dead
“A riveting thriller of murder, politics, and lies.” (London Broadcasting)
“A tough and tense thriller.” (Manchester Evening News)
“A thoroughly amazing book. . . Memorable, an extraordinary story that speaks from and to the heart. And a terrifying depiction of one man’s battle against the CIA and Latin American death squads.” (BBC)
“A riveting story where even the good guys are bad guys, set in the politically corrupt and drug infested world of present-day Central America.” (Middlesborough Evening Gazette)
“The climax is among the most horrifying I have ever read.” (Liverpool Daily Post)
“Night of the Dead, named after the time each year when the dead return to avenge wrongs, is based upon Bond’s own experiences in Guatemala. With detailed descriptions of actual jungle battles and manhunts, vanishing rain forests and the ferocity o
f guerrilla war, Night of the Dead also reveals the CIA’s role in both death squads and drug running, twin scourges of Central America.” (Newton Chronicle)
“Not for the literary vegetarian – it’s red meat stuff from the off. All action... convincing.” (Oxford Times)
“Bond grips the reader from the very first page. An ideal thriller for the beach, but be prepared to be there when the sun goes down.” (Herald Express)
ALSO BY MIKE BOND
Saving Paradise
Tibetan Cross
Holy War
Night of the Dead
THE LAST SAVANNA
Mike Bond
MANDEVILLA PRESS
Weston, CT 06883
The Last Savanna is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, companies and/or organizations is entirely coincidental. Initially published in a slightly different form under the title The Ivory Hunters by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING PLC, London.
Copyright © 2013 by Mike Bond
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of
the publisher.
Published in the United States by Mandevilla Press
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Bond, Mike
THE LAST SAVANNA: a novel/Mike Bond
p. cm.
1. Elephants – Fiction. 2. Africa – Fiction. 3. Ivory Poaching – Fiction. 4. Environment – Fiction. 5. Kenya – Fiction. 6. Endangered Species – Fiction. 7. Survival – Fiction. I. Title
www.MikeBondBooks.com
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
for Peggy
What truths can there be,
if there is death?
– Leo Tolstoy
1
THE ELAND DESCENDED four steps down the grassy hillside and halted. He glanced all the way round the rolling golden hills, then closer, inspecting the long grass rippling in the wind, behind him, on both sides, and down to the sinuous green traverse of acacia, doum palms and strangler trees where the stream ran. The wind from the east over his shoulder carried the tang of drying murram grass and the scents of bitter pungent shrubs, of dusty, discarded feathers and glaucous lizard skins, of red earth and brown earth, of old scat and stones heating in the midafternoon sun. He switched at flies with his tail, twitched his ears, descended five more steps, and stopped again.
Thirst had dried his lips and eyes, tightened his throat, hardened his skin. Already the rain was drying out of the grass and soil pockets; here only the stream remained, purling between volcanic stones, rimmed by trees and tall, sharp weeds. He circled a thorn bush and moved closer several steps, his spiral gray horns glinting as he looked up and down the valley from north to west, then south, then up the slope behind him.
The shoulder-high thorn bushes grew thicker near the stream. The downslope breeze twirled their strong, dusty scents among their gnarled trunks; the sour smell of siafu, warrior ants, prickled his nose. He waited for the comforting twitter of sunbirds in the streamside acacias, the muffled snuffling of warthogs, or the swish of vervet monkeys in the branches, but there were none.
Licking his dry nose with a black tongue he raised his head and again sniffed round the wind, batting at flies with his ears, dropped his jaw and panted. There was truly no bad smell, no danger smell, but the wind was coming down the valley behind him and to get upwind he’d have to cross the stream and there was no way except through the thorn and commiphora scrub, which was where the greatest danger lay. He glanced back over his shoulder, gauging the climb necessary to regain the ridge and travel into the wind till he could descend the slope at a curve in the stream and keep the wind in his face. The sun glinting on the bleached grass, bright stones and red earth hurt his eyes; he sniffed once more, inhaled deeply, expanding the drum of thin flesh over his ribs, and shoved into the thorn scrub.
A widowbird exploded into flight from a branch on the far side of the stream and the eland jumped back, trembling. The sound of the stream pealing and chuckling coolly over its rocks made his throat ache. The heat seemed to buzz like cicadas, dimming his eyes. Shaking flies from his muzzle, he trotted through the scrub and bent his head to suck the water flashing and bubbling over the black stones.
The old lioness switched her tail, rose from her crouch and surveyed the eland’s back over the top of the thorn scrub. She had lain motionless watching his approach and now her body ached to move; the eland’s rutty smell made her stomach clench and legs quiver. She ducked her head below the scrub and padded silently to the stream, picked her way across its rocks without wetting her paws and, slower now, slipped a step at a time through the bush and crouched behind a fallen doum palm part way up the slope behind the eland, only her ears visible above it.
Far overhead a bearded vulture wavered in its flight, tipping on one wing, and turned in a wide circle. The eland raised his head, swallowing, glanced round; water dripping from his lips spattered into the stream. He shivered the flies from his back, bent to drink, raised his head, water rumbling in his belly. He turned and scanned the slope behind and above him; this was where he’d descended and now the wind was in his face and there was still no danger smell. His legs felt stronger; he licked his lower lip that already seemed less rough from the water filling his body. He trotted back through the thorn scrub past the fallen doum palm, bolting at the sudden yellow flash of terror that impaled him on its fierce claws, the lioness’ wide jaws crushing his neck as he screamed crashing through the bush. With one paw the lioness slapped him to the ground but he lurched up and she smashed him down again, her fangs ripping his throat, choking off the air as his hooves slashed wildly, and the horror of it he knew now and understood, dust clouding his eye, the other torn by thorns; the flailing of his feet slackened as the sky went red, the lioness’ hard body embracing him, the world and all he had ever known sliding into darkness.
The lioness sighed and dropped her head, the stony soil hurting her jaw. After a few moments she began to lick the blood seeping from the eland’s throat and mouth and the shoulder where her claws had torn it, then turned and licked her left rear leg where one of the eland’s hooves had made a deep gash. Settling herself more comfortably among the thorn bushes, she stripped back the skin along the eland’s shoulder, licking and gnawing at the blood and warm flesh beneath.
Crackling in the brush made her lay back her ears; she rumbled softly, deep in her throat. Heavy footsteps splashed through the stream and she growled louder, her rope tail switching. The male lion came up to the eland, lifted his lip and snarled.
Still growling she backed away slightly, lowering her head to grip the eland’s foreleg. The male sniffed the eland’s shoulder, crouched, ears back, and began to chew it. Then, gripping the shoulder in his jaw, he dragged the animal sideways, the lioness crawling after it, still holding the leg. Baring his teeth, the male leaned across the eland’s shoulder, bit down on the foreleg and pulled the eland over to get at its belly and flanks. Carefully the lioness edged round the carcass, reaching tentatively for a rear leg. With a roar the male flicked out a huge, flat paw that caught the side of her head. Her neck snapped loudly and the lioness tumbled back into the thorn brush, one rear paw trembling briefly.
The Samburu warrior rose from his hiding place among the rocks high up the slope, stretched his stiff legs and picked up his spear. From the shade he watched the lion’s thick black-maned head burrow into the eland’s belly. Since dawn, when the Samburu had begun watching the two lions, the young male and old female, they had mated nearly three times ten, but now he had killed her, giving the Samburu a possible solution to the problem that had been bothering him all day.
2<
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THE SAMBURU WARRIOR climbed to the ridge, keeping out of sight of the lion a half mile below, his bare, thick-soled feet soundless on the raveled, stony earth, his goatskin cloak soundless against his slender limbs. Once over the ridge he broke into a run, down a long, wide valley with a laga, a dry sandy stream-bed, against a line of umber cliffs bloodied by the afternoon sun. Where the cliffs became a scrubby talus slope he ascended to a large, spindly desert rose bush with red flowers. He waited till he’d caught his breath, unsheathed his simi and began to draw its blade up and down the head of his spear, till both edges glittered and easily shaved the few hairs on the back of his wrist. He sheathed the simi and knelt beside the desert rose, cut a downward slash in its stem with his spear, and waited.
Soon a bubble of white sap had collected on the slash. He fitted together the two halves of his spear, thunking the shaft against the earth to seat the top section firmly in the steel haft of the lower one. Then very carefully he drew both edges and the tip of the spearhead along the bubble of sap. He went back down the slope, careful not to touch the spearhead against the brush or bring it near himself.
A gerenuk standing on hind legs to munch at the twigs of an umbrella acacia dropped to all fours and scampered away, halting to look back over her shoulder, but the Samburu ignored her. He reached the laga and turned north, walking fast but not running, stepping once over the groove in the sand where a puff adder had crossed his earlier tracks, and he reminded himself to be watchful among the bare rocks warmed by the afternoon sun.
He climbed out of the valley to the ridge and down part way, smiling when he saw the lion was still there, far below. The lion had dragged the eland’s intestines, stomach and lungs to one side, eaten the liver and both rear legs and flanks, and was now lying belly down and holding the eland’s head and chest with his paws as he ripped strips of muscle from its neck.
The Samburu checked the sun now a forearm’s length above the western hills. He sniffed the wind, which had scurried round and now came upstream from the lion, towards the thick scrub below him. But once the sunlight had climbed above the streambed this would reverse, and the cooling air further upstream would begin to descend from him towards the lion.
