The Jungle Warrior
Read The Jungle Warrior Online
Authors: Andy Briggs
For Mumâa jungle queen!
1
A
taro Okeke was a mass murderer, although you wouldn't know it by looking at him. The short, stocky, bald man was wreathed in cigar fumes as he stood on the balcony of his luxury apartment gazing across the nighttime urban sprawl of Kampala's Nakasero Hill, which was now covered in skyscrapers and construction cranesâthe mark of progress. It had changed dramatically in recent years. He could remember when everything he saw lay under a cloud of war with Tanzania. But that was when he was just a child.
Inside, the telephone rang. Okeke sucked on his cigar as he opened the wide French windows and entered the air-conditioned apartment. A pair of zebra pelts hung on the wall, one on either side of the doors. The entire apartment was a gallery of dead wildlifeâfrom the polar-bearskin rug to the ivory elephant tusks that perfectly framed the dining room doorâa testament to the many animals he'd slaughtered.
Okeke stubbed out the cigar in a bowl crafted from a tortoise shell and picked up the phone.
“Yes?” He listened to the voice on the other end of the line. It was his agent. The middleman not only served as a convenient buffer between him and his clients, who demanded exotic animals, but he was also a pawn, an easy scapegoat who allowed him to stay beyond the reach of the law. Okeke felt he was untouchable.
“That's a very specific request he has. That will cost him $300,000 minimum. They're critically endangered.”
While Okeke waited for his agent to relay the information to the buyer, his gaze lingered on an ornamental gorilla skull mounted in a display case on his desk. It was a huge specimen, one he had hunted himself. After a short time his agent returned with a brief acknowledgement that the deal was on, and the line fell dead.
Okeke dialed another number. As it rang he opened the glass case and ran his fingers across the skull. The call was answered on the fifth ring. The voice was low, a whisper made all the more harsh by its pronounced Russian accent.
“You're a fool calling me now! You could have blown everything.”
Okeke smiled. He enjoyed annoying the Russian, although he was careful never to go too far. As much as Okeke hated to admit it, the Russian was his most valuable asset.
“I have another task for you.”
“I'm busy.”
“This one you'll like. I assure you.”
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Across the border to the east, in the vast Kenyan savannahs, the Russian lay flat on the ground, lit only by the partial moon and concealed by tall, slender grass. An earpiece relayed Okeke's message and, despite himself, he couldn't help smiling.
“I have a particular interest in that region,” the Russian replied. “The White Ape legend . . . I'll be in touch to discuss my fee.”
He abruptly hung up and gazed through the night-vision scope attached to the top of his Saiga semiautomatic hunting rifle. The 30.06-caliber bullets were so powerful they could bring down an elephant. Which was exactly what he was planning on doing.
The bull elephant was grazing on an acacia tree, its slender trunk plucking the tastiest leaves from the top branches. The hunter guessed it was about forty-five years old, judging by the impressive set of tusks it sported.
Just a little older than I am
, he thought.
Time to retire
.
His finger hovered over the hair trigger as he centered the crosshairs on the middle of the animal's skull. He held his breath, not out of anticipation but to eliminate any tiny movements that could throw his shot wide. Even if he was armed to the teeth he didn't want to risk facing a charging elephant.
The high-velocity round cracked across the landscape and the elephant fell with a thud. The Russian leaped to his feet, and as he did so the foliage behind him came alive as his entourage burst out of their concealment carrying the tools to finish the job. The men knew exactly what they had to do. They moved with speed and precision, wearing night-vision goggles to guide them. They never used flashlights, which would easily give their position away.
The Russian pulled his own night-vision goggles down from his forehead and the world immediately lit up in grey-green hues, just as he had seen through the night scope. With the goggles on, he looked like an insect stalking through the grass. He approached the elephant and saw that its chest was still heaving even though its skull had been cleaved open. The ground was awash with blood, and he was careful not to get too close. Blood was difficult to wash off his favorite boots.
He pulled back the rifle's bolt, chambering another round. He didn't need the night scope to aim at the elephant's heart. Another shot echoed across the savannah, scaring away any scavengers that may already have smelled the blood.
“OK, hurry. I don't want to be here when the patrols turn up.” On many occasions he had come under fire from anti-poaching patrols, especially in Kenya where they were exceptionally vigilant and well armed. He had no qualms about firing back. He'd lost count of the men he had injured and even killed on patrol. He didn't enjoy it; there was no sense of sport in shooting men. It wasn't the same as pitting his wits against the cunning of a wild beast.
That
was sport.
A chainsaw revved in the darkness and came down on one of the tusks, chewing effortlessly through it. The Russian wished there was an easier way of transporting the elephant carcass; he could get a good price for the various parts. Somebody somewhere would be convinced that an elephant liver was a cure for cancer or some other nonsense. Instead, they would just take the ivory and leave the body to feed the vultures and hyenas.
“The circle of life,” he said to himself sarcastically.
A small ferrety man looked up as he helped pull the first tusk free. “Instead of muttering, you could come and get your hands dirty,” he grumbled. Paulvitch was a Russian too; the others were Kenyans desperate for cash. They were easily recruited and easily expendable, whereas Paulvitch was an old friend. He was the only man alive whom the Russian allowed to speak to him in such a familiar way.
“I did the hard part,” he reminded Paulvitch. It was true. He had been tracking the elephant for several days, following the signs, closing the distance on the animal. For two hours he had crawled through grass just to get close enough. “So shut your mouth,
drook
. And hurry up. We've got a far more interesting job lined up now.”
“Where to next?”
The Russian pulled off his night-vision goggles and gazed across the moonlit grassland. He scratched his goatee beard and turned his thin, cruel face upward. His black eyes narrowed in anticipation. His mind was already racing with the possibilities of the next assignment. This one could test his hunting craft to its limits. He relished the task ahead. He was Nikolas Rokoff, the greatest hunter in the world, but it had been a long time since he'd had a real challenge. This might be just what he needed.
“The old Congo. We've got a gorilla to catch.”
R
obbie Canler drove the supply jeep into the camp and sighed when he saw Jane Porter was the only person around. She glanced at him, then quickly looked back at the book she was reading. He climbed from the vehicle and glanced around Karibu Mji, the adopted name of the logging camp that Jane's father had established deep in the Congo jungle. The operation had recently been moved even further into the humid rainforest away from the mountain Karibu Mji, dismantled and rebuilt to provide extra protection from the dangers of the jungleâbut the name had stuck.
“Have you seen Clark anywhere?” asked Robbie as he combed his fingers through his tangle of black hair that the wind had messed up. The jeep had no air conditioning so he had to drive it with the windows down, even during downpours.
Jane's eyes never left the page. “No.”
Robbie was about to ask another question but instead headed toward the camp's office. If Jane wasn't in the mood to talk to him, he wouldn't force the issue.
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Jane watched him walk away out of the corner of her eye. The last few weeks had been difficult to say the least. Their run-in with a gang of jungle rebels had made them all face the difficult choice between staying in the jungle or closing up camp forever.
A month before, Jane would have been cheered by the news that they might be going back to the States, but now she faced a dilemma. Suddenly she had no wish to leave the jungle, yet if they stayed, now more than ever she was opposed to how her father, Archie, was plundering it.
In the end Archie's business partner, Clark, had persuaded him to carry on. Jane had known Clark all her life and knew that the one thing he prized above all else was money. It hadn't taken him long, behind closed doors, to talk her father round.
New equipment had been brought in, at a huge cost to the operation. Another expense Archie had insisted on was a set of satellite phones for himself, Clark, Robbie, and Jane, so they could stay in touch no matter where they were. All they needed was a clear patch of sky.
Ever since they had made the decision to stay, a strange mood had descended on the camp. Jane found herself being left out of conversations and odd glances were cast her way when people thought she wasn't looking. Even Robbie was dealing with her at arm's length. Things just weren't the same between them since Robbie had confided that he was wanted for attempted murder. He revealed how his sister, Sophie, had died a victim of their abusive stepfather. On finding his sister's cold, frail body, Robbie had clubbed his stepfather across the head. Then, convinced he'd killed the man, he had fled his hated home and left the country as quickly as possible, a burden of guilt weighing heavily on his shoulders. He stowed away on a cargo ship until Clark had found him.
After a little Internet digging, Jane had uncovered the fact that his stepfather was not dead. She'd thought Robbie would be pleased with the news and that it would ease the guilt he felt; instead, her announcement had made him sullen and thoughtful. Several times she tried to talk to him about it, but each time he changed the subject. Once, he was so desperate to avoid that conversation that he pointed to the camp's jeep and said, “Do you want me to teach you how to drive?”
The message was clearâhis past was no longer up for discussionÂ. Jane felt hurt; she was only trying to help. But those feelings were quickly overshadowed when Robbie showed a sudden interest in Tarzan.