Fatal (9 page)

The guy went down in a puff of dust.
 

Bruce bolted towards the guy he had shot. The man was screaming, writhing on the ground, blood pumping from the wound in his leg. The bullet had gone straight through the calf, the entry wound round and tidy, but pieces of bone and flesh were protruding from a gaping hole in front. Soft-nose shells are vicious ammunition. Grabbing the guy by the collar, he dragged him towards the camp.
 

The poacher in the tent was trying to crawl away, feeling his way forward blindly, the knife still in his head. He would die soon. Bruce walked to him and smacked the rifle butt down below his coccyx. Hard. The poacher stopped dead in his tracks, twitched and spasmed for a while, and then lay still.

Bruce cut some twine from the tent cords. He shoved the two poachers together and made them sit with their backs to each other, then he threaded the cord around their heads and through their mouths, like horses clamping down on their bits. They howled in pain and anger. He cut another length of cord and fastened their hands and their feet. This was temporary.

He search all three of them and found a cell phone in the back pocket of the guy with the hole in his head. Bruce walked away as he dialed a number from memory.

"Hi, Robby, Bruce here. Coordinates at 24014 degrees south, 31481 degrees east. There is one left in this group. I'm going after him now.” He disconnected the call, not waiting for an answer.
 

Bruce headed towards the hill where he last saw the plume of dust. A mile from the foot of the outcrop, he noticed something was wrong. The dust hadn't subsided, and he could hear the baying of angry animals, stamping their feet and snorting loudly. He headed east and took a difficult route up the hill, climbed up some rocks, then moved back towards the commotion.
 

He positioned himself on an outcropping of rock eight feet above the angry herd of animals. A group of ten bulls and three large female buffalo were tossing what looked like a rag doll between them. They rested for a couple seconds before continuing this savage ritual. The body was gouged and trampled, but one eye was still open. The animals were blind with fury.

The poacher lifted one arm towards him. His fingers splayed open and closed, clutching at some invisible tuft of grass, beckoning for help.

The body was a beaten to a pulp by horns weighing hundreds of pounds then battered by hooves. The body soared through the air in another graceful arc and fell with a dull thud to the ground.
 

Bruce stood up and walked back to the camp while the mauling continued. He wasn’t finished yet.

Kruger National Park

Close to Tshokwane Rest Camp

Colonel Daniel Roebuck took aim through his rifle's scope. The sun was setting, bathing the rock he was lying on in reds and ochers. He squinted and centered the crosshairs on Bruce Bryden's chest, then he pointed left and looked at the tied-up poachers. He lowered the rifle and dialed a number on his cell phone.

“He killed them. No, not all of them. Yes, I have a clear shot, but his backup has arrived. I'm outnumbered, and they have a chopper. I'll take him down when he's alone.”

He hung up and took a swig of water from his bottle. The water was tepid, and it tasted like dust. He grimaced, squinting at the setting sun. He swatted a fly from his sweaty brow. He hated the stuffy camouflage uniform that he had been issued. It would have been more comfortable in the cooler climes that he was used to. In Africa it was a bitch.
 

He looked back at the group of men. Bryden wouldn't be leaving with the helicopter; his mission was still far from over.

Colonel Roebuck lay back on his belly and settled in for the night. He didn't know much about the African bush. He relied on the one thing that helped him survive the Vietnam War and won him medals in Bosnia and Iraq.
 

Patience.

Bruce could smell the cigarette smoke from a hundred yards away. The cigarette shone brightly in the dusk as the poacher took a drag. These guys were amateurs.
 

He had been tracking them for less than a day. They left all kinds of telltale signs of their presence: discarded cigarette butts, flotsam of rubbish, and fire embers left to smolder. At times he came so close to their camp that he could hear their whispered conversations. They were overconfident, dismissing the death and capture of the poachers as the childish mistakes of amateurs.

Bruce gathered from their conversations that reinforcements were on their way. He crouched and took aim, centering the scope's crosshair on the glowing cigarette. As it grew brighter, Bruce steadied himself then pulled the trigger. A red flame exploded from the rifle's nozzle, and the double smack from the bullet reported his shot was true.
 

A commotion broke out in the camp as the smoker gargled his bloody death curdle. Those things would kill you.

Bruce stood up and sauntered back to his hideout two miles away. He wondered if the reinforcements would be any better than the scruffy lot that Perreira had sent yesterday.
 

He couldn't believe that Perreira was underestimating him; it must have been a lack of funds.
 

Roebuck studied Bruce Bryden through his binoculars. The man had set up camp next to a massive baobab tree, halfway up the hill.

Bryden was brushing his teeth. He took a swig of water from a tin cup, rinsed his mouth, and spat the water into a bush, then he washed the toothbrush and threw the dirty water into the bush as well.

It was obvious that Bryden had reconnaissanced the area carefully before deciding on this exact location. Roebuck could see why. The tree was probably a couple of thousand years old; its circumference was fifty feet, easy. At night he would crawl into a narrow opening in the tree and close the entrance with thorn bushes. It was probably the safest place in the bush, leaving Roebuck feeling exposed on his rocky hillock.

The baobab provided cover from the elements; no one would be able to see the flame from his gas stove. He had a clear view of the surrounding area. A dry riverbed ran along the edge of the hillock; with some digging he would have an ample supply of water.

Roebuck lifted his eyes to the horizon. He had a clear view for miles in the cool morning air.
 
Bryden had left his camp late last night and Roebuck had followed. He headed in the direction of the poachers who had set up camp two miles from them. The place was lit like a beacon in the night; he had seen it clearly from his own vantage point.
 

Bryden had disappeared behind some brush, and then the crack of gunshots as Bryden eliminated them. They were amateurs. The cigarette coal was visible in the dark from a mile away. Now their campsite was deserted, embers still smoldering on the ground.
 

Colonel Roebuck glanced at his watch. 5:45 a.m. He dialed a number and waited for the call to be answered. “Metcalfe? Roebuck here. He took out José last night.”

Metcalfe kept silent for a moment as if contemplating what to do. “All right, Colonel. Take care of him. How far away is he from your exact location?”

Roebuck looked up, estimating the distance. “About three hundred yards. I’ll phone you back when he is dead.”
 

“Good. Wait another fifteen minutes before you proceed. Perreira needs to send a recovery crew,” Metcalfe said and disconnected the call.

Metcalfe disconnected and punched a number on his phone. It was answered after one ring. “Captain Babbitt, this is Senator Metcalfe. How is Suzy doing?”

The man seemed glad to hear Metcalfe's voice. “Senator, very well, thank you. She’s recovering well after the skin graft. The doctor said that the burn wounds would look fine after a couple of months and another graft. Thank you for the donation to our charity.” He hesitated for a moment. “I was still meaning to call and thank you personally,” he said apologetically.

Metcalfe leaned back in his chair. “Never mind, Captain. It was my pleasure. The Burn Foundation is a cause that is close to my heart.” He drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. “Captain, I need your help to do some good as well.”

“Anything, Senator,” the captain answered without hesitation.

“I need you to take out a poaching ring for me. My undercover man has planted a beaconing device in their area. I will give you his exact coordinates. This operation will be authorized by me.”

“No problem, Senator.”
 

The man sounded keen to pay back his debt. Good, these military types were so predictable, strong moral code and all.
 

“When will you need to do this? And where?” he asked.

Metcalfe scratched his chin. “In fifteen minutes, lower part of the Kruger National Park."

"That's not a problem, Senator. I have some F-15s on standby in Swaziland. We can be there in ten minutes,” Captain Babbitt answered.

Metcalfe smiled and nodded. "Excellent, Captain. Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes, Senator?”

“I need you to take out an area of five hundred yards around the beacon. I want to get rid of the entire gang and the contraband that they have with them.”

Captain Babbitt went silent. Metcalfe heard him breathe. “We recently received a shipment of IFB-500s. I could set it for low impact detonation, which would make the kill-zone radius about a mile,” he said, his voice sounding hesitant. “But everything in that area would be annihilated, including animals and plants.”

Metcalfe cupped the phone and chuckled, then took his hand away. “I understand, Captain. It was a difficult decision, but it’s all for the greater good.” He sighed. “Collateral damage, Captain.”

“Very well, Senator. Thank god I don’t need to make the decisions.” He chuckled. “I will warm up the burners. We should be there in ten minutes.”

“Excellent, Captain. Godspeed.” Metcalfe disconnected the call. He shook his head in amazement. These military men with their codes of honor and false morality drilled into them by years of brainwashing. Sock puppets, each one of them.

Roebuck lowered the binoculars. The hair stood up on his neck. Something wasn’t right.
 

Metcalfe seemed preoccupied; he wasn’t as involved in their smuggling ring anymore. He had confronted Metcalfe a couple of months ago. Without Metcalfe’s oversight, things were going wrong. Supply routes closed. Business was slow. Roebuck hadn’t received his regular payment for more than a month.

And now this Bryden mess. Metcalfe should have stepped in a long time ago.
 

No, Metcalfe was busy with something else, about that he was certain. And they didn’t want to let him in on it. He was sure Callahan and Perreira knew what it was all about. He would get Perreira to square up to him after he had completed this mission.

Their phone conversation bothered him as well. The pause? No, there was something else. Why did he want to know how far Bryden was from his location?

He lifted his gun and studied Bryden through the scope. The man was packing his supplies and weapon into the hollowed-out trunk of the gigantic baobab tree, then he closed the opening with some branches.
 

Bryden travelled light. A backpack with binoculars and a camping stove. A couple of bottles of water. He was sweeping the ground in front of the tree with a leafy branch, then he scattered some pebbles and sand around the entrance.
 

Bryden peered up the hillock, then marched in Roebuck’s direction.

“C’mon Bryden, come to papa,” Roebuck whispered, steadying the crosshair on Bryden’s chest.

Bruce Bryden turned around and lifted his eyes towards the sky, and then Roebuck heard the F-15 Strike Eagle roar over his head. The plane made a graceful arc, the jet propulsion engines leaving a white contrail in the clear blue sky.
 

Then the fighter jet changed course and headed straight at them. A missile dropped from the side of the aircraft, and orange flames spouted behind the projectile as the turbojet propulsion system kicked in.

“What the hell?” Roebuck shouted as he jumped up and ran, fumbling for the memory stick in his pocket.

Metcalfe’s phone rang and he snapped it open.

“Yes?”

“Senator Metcalfe. Captain Babbett here. The mission has been completed.”

Metcalfe grinned. “Excellent, Captain. I knew that I could rely on you.”

The man hesitated. “The impact zone was somewhat larger than we anticipated, probably about a mile and a half.”
 

“That’s fine, my boy. I will deal with it. We’ll coordinate some cleanup crews.”

“Senator, we didn’t see any poachers, only a single soldier. And another guy running for cover,” Babbett said.

Metcalfe paced around the room. “They were probably in hiding. Did you get both these men that you saw?”

The captain chuckled. “Without a doubt. Your cleaning crew will be scraping them off the rocks and trees.”