Poacher Read online

  Poacher

  by Leon Mare

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2012 Leon Mare

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  About the Author

  Leon Mare was born in South Africa, and lived close to the Kruger National Park for most of his life. He was involved in extensive wildlife research, and spent all his free time in the African wilderness. Dr. Mare has an intimate knowledge of the wilder side of Africa, which is reflected in most of his work. He has written several TV drama series, and produced a TV documentary on the indiscriminate killing of marlin on the east coast of Africa.

  His paperback "Dying Is Not Easy" has become a collectors item, and used copies are now selling on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Waterstones for up to $ 1680. The novel has just been re-published with Smashwords under the title of "Poacher".

  He now lives in the UK, where he owns a dental practice.

  Also by Leon Mare

  Vixen

  The story of Michelle Montagne is not for the faint-hearted. Her genes held the potential for greatness and success. Fate had dealt her a good hand, but kept all the aces. Her destiny was determined by traumatic events from a very early age. Michelle's life became a continuous battle between good and evil - and she wanted both. The price was high,and Fate was relentless. But she was a tiger....

  Fighting AIDS

  The third book in the Sam Jenkins trilogy. Once the AIDS virus had undergone a mutation which enabled it to survive in the salivary glands of a mosquito for up to six hours, the death rate had soared exponentially. Governments collapsed, and social order ceased to exist.

  The distance a mosquito could fly in six hours became a paramount factor for survival. Deep in the African wilderness one could keep intruders at bay. For a while.

  Fighting Aids is an action-packed romantic adventure, concluding the Sam Jenkins trilogy.

  Glossary

  Braai —Barbeque

  Casspir —Soft-armoured troop carrier

  Donga —Narrow valley with steep sides, mostly formed by erosion

  Drift —Shallow ford crossing a stream or river

  Harvard —Propeller-driven training aircraft used by the S.A. Air Force. Fondly known as a flying brick, with the aerodynamics of a garage door

  Hau —Exclamation in Shangaan language

  Lowveld —The large tract of land stretching from the escarpment in the West to the Mozambique border in the East.

  Nkosi —Respectful way of addressing a superior

  Ratel —Heavily armoured six-wheel drive troop carrier with a .50 Browning machine gun on the turret. (The name is derived from the Afrikaans for honey badger, weight-for – weight probably one of the fiercest animals in the African bush)

  Recce —Abbreviation for the S.A. Special Forces, the Reconnaissance Battalion. These were hard men, trained to be ruthlessly efficient in clandestine bush warfare.

  Spruit —Small river

  Terrorist —Someone who kills indiscriminately for his beliefs. The tools of his trade were usually of Russian origin - The AK47, RPG7 rocket-propelled grenade, and land mines. If his side lost, he remained a terrorist. If his side won, he became a Freedom Fighter and a national hero.

  Tourist camp —In the Kruger National Park tourists are accommodated in large Rest Camps (Skukuza, Satara, Olifants etc.). These are enclosed with animal-proof electric fencing, and tourists are only allowed out between dawn and dusk.

  Tourist hut —Most of the accommodation is in the form of thatched huts (“rondavels”) with air conditioning and all the mod-cons

  Veld —Bush, wilderness

  Zol —Home-rolled equivalent of a cigarette, usually consisting of pungent coarse tobacco, brown paper and saliva

  Maps

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Leon Mare

  Glossary

  Maps

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  Sam Jenkins lay in the darkness, breathing the smell of wet earth and washed foliage. The downpour had ceased as suddenly as it had started, but when the light breeze occasionally stirred the water berry tree under which the tents were pitched, a shower of drops was sent hammering into the canvas. Far to the west the storm still flashed, sending the rumble of thunder rolling over the wide expanse of wilderness. In the distance a lion was airing his discontent with the wetness and the mud.

  The rainy season in the Eastern Transvaal Lowveld was short and intense. With temperatures soaring into the forties Celsius during summer, the coming of the rains played a major role in the frail balance of life in the arid bush.

  Sam could hear the drone of Aaron’s voice in the darkness of the other tent, relating the encounter with the reed bull earlier that afternoon.

  Yesterday a black ranger, patrolling along the Nwanetzi spruit by foot, got trampled by a rogue buffalo bull. When a bull was evicted from the herd, it had to fend for itself, which it did in one of two ways. Either the evicted bulls joined to form a small bachelor herd, presenting a united front against the onslaught of lions, or the bull remained solitary, staying in or close to the densest vegetation it could find. Even a very hungry pride of lions would think twice before tackling a lone buffalo in an environment where there is no room to maneuver. Most of these solitary bulls preferred the cover offered by riverine bush and reeds. The loneliness did nothing to improve the temperament of these reed bulls.

  The helicopter of the National Parks Board being occupied with an intensive culling program, Sam had decided to even the score on his own. First light had found him and Aaron Skosana, his chief ranger, with two more of his men picking up the spoor at the scene of the near tragedy. Six hours later Aaron warned that they were getting very close. The huge thunder clouds rolling in from the direction of the warm Mozambique current to the east spurred Sam on to settle the matter before the deluge obliterated the fresh spoor in the sand. The bull was sticking to the dense, reedy streambed, which made it clear to Sam that he was up against an experienced reed bull, wise to the ways of ambush in conditions that gave him the edge.

  He checked the action of his .458 Steyr Mannlicher for the umpteenth time, knowing full well that, once again, his own life was most probably going to depend on its reliability. His own ability, having spent nine years as ranger in the Kruger National Park, was beyond reproach. He knew, however, that this did not necessarily mean much with a buffalo in a dense riverbed.

  The going was getting steadily worse. The sparse clearings were getting smaller and smaller as he approached the sandy Nwanetzi spruit. A barely audible hiss at his right shoulder told Sam that Aaron had spotted the buffalo. He froze in his tracks and followed the direction of the pointing finger. At first he could discern nothing in the dense riverine reeds. On seeing the oxpecker he noticed the dark blotch that must be the buffalo. The only thing he could be certain of was that the buffalo was there – which way it was looking was anybody’s guess. It was a stalemate position, with a wind that could chang
e at any moment with the approaching storm. Bearing in mind the awesome knockdown power of the gun he was using, Sam decided to chance it. Zeroing in on the dark shadow he let out his breath and slowly squeezed the trigger. A millisecond after the thunderous roar of the big gun he heard the echoing slap of the heavy bullet impacting. At the same instant, with a bloodcurdling bellow, the buffalo was in full charge. Reeds were whipped down in a storm of dust and breaking branches – the buffalo was covering ground at a speed that belied its bulk, head held high and eyes bulging. Sam knew from experience that nothing in the world was going to stop it except a brain shot – that meant a moving target measuring about two by four inches. With a clump of reeds obstructing a clear shot, Sam stepped to the left while working the bolt of his rifle in one smooth movement. Ironically, it was a buffalo thorn bush in which his left leg got entangled, and he went crashing down, cradling the gun. For what felt like eternity he was disorientated with the dust and the fury around him. He could hear Aaron’s .303 discharging behind and to the right of him and, without having to look, he knew that the two other rangers were by now heading in the direction of the nearest big tree, under full sail. They were both fairly new men, and this was the first time they were experiencing the sensation of having something very big and very dangerous thundering towards them, intent only on killing them.

  Clearing his mind of all thought, he searched for the buffalo over his open sights. When he had it centered, the bull had already lowered its head for impact, typical of the last few yards of a charge. Sam squeezed the trigger and rolled to his left at the same instant. With a momentum of 750 kilogram’s moving at 55 kilometers an hour the buffalo ploughed into the earth next to him. He rolled once more, reloading and aiming at the same time. He was sure the animal was dead, but ‘dead’ buffaloes were notorious for their ability to get up and kill their pursuers. It was good policy to kill them at least one more time. The next bullet hit it at an angle behind the ear, exiting through the heavy boss.

  Aaron walked up and also gave it a shot in the back of the head, grinning at the prostrate Sam. ‘Hey, nkosi, what’s this lying down on the job? A man could get killed that way.’ A glance at the carcass confirmed Sam’s suspicions – a broken wire snare was embedded in the flesh around the animal’s neck, pus oozing from the open wound. ‘Meat poachers,’ Aaron said. ‘Pity they did not meet him in the reeds.’

  On their way back the rain caught them five kilometers from base camp. After the initial deluge it had settled down to a steady drizzle which lifted Sam’s spirits tremendously.

  Drifting off into a peaceful sleep his last thoughts were of gratitude for the water falling outside, quenching the thirst of the veld he loved so dearly.

  Ten kilometers to the North West, Rui dos Santos was cursing the rain. For the past three hours he had been huddling in the lee of a large boulder with his two accomplices, trying to stay dry under their groundsheets. They did not have the luxury of a tent, for ivory poachers crossing the wire from Mozambique had to travel light. Rui was not only cursing because of the discomfort – that was a small price to pay for the huge profits they were reaping, selling ivory to the Chinese trader in Maputo. What irked him was the fact that the big bull’s tracks were going to be obliterated by morning, and they would have to start searching blind again. The rain would also fill every pan and hollow in the veld, causing elephants to disperse from the vicinity of permanent water where they had spent the winter. In the coming summer months hunting would become much more difficult and much more dangerous, as venturing deep into the Park would increase their chances of running into a ranger patrol.

  The eastern boarder of the Kruger National Park is also the border between South Africa and Mozambique. As it is approximately three hundred kilometers long, running through probably the only part of Africa that is as wild and untamed as it was when the white man first set foot on the continent, the maintenance if its integrity has been a headache to the South African Government since the days of Paul Kruger himself. Before settling for the present game fence, incorporating two twenty-millimetre steel cables in the upper part of its three-metre height, many alternatives were tried. The main considerations were keeping poachers out and keeping big game in. The present fence does neither. For an agile and determined human it is fairly easy to scale the fence, hence the constant patrols by the South African army and the rangers in the employ of the Parks Board. The lengths of railway track, embedded in a cubic metre of concrete every thirty yards to hold up the cables, do not stop a determined elephant either. Fortunately, the indiscriminate shooting of any game entering Mozambique discourages the highly intelligent elephants from breaking out. At one stage a lethal electrified fence was tried over a short distance. It killed two illegal immigrants and six elephants. Then, at great expense, a variety of natural barriers were tried. First, a band of sisal, six metres wide and three hundred kilometres long was planted. On maturation of these evergreen, thorny plants, the elephants and porcupines proceeded to devour the whole of the eastern border of the Park in due course. Next, one of the more toxic of the Euphorbia species was tried. In man a scratch by one of these thorns evokes a violent allergic reaction, and a single drop of the milky sap in an eye results in permanent, agonising blindness. Although these succulent plants were to be found in abundance in the area, the cultivated plants would not grow satisfactorily.

  The poaching by deserters from both the Frelimo government army and the Mozambique National Resistance, of especially elephant and rhino, and the infiltration of illegal immigrants, are overlapping problems, fought nail and tooth by both South African army and the Parks Board.

  Over the past years poaching had become a well organised international business with unscrupulous ‘businessmen’ raking in millions annually. The man in the field who does the actual killing receives only a fraction of his merchandise’s worth, while the big dealers scoop off the cream. Their Swiss bank accounts swell every year as the endangered species list grows longer and the elephant and rhinoceros populations on the continent of Africa dwindle.

  In 1978, rhinos were nearing extinction and the elephant population on the continent of Africa had dropped to 1.6 million to about half a million. With an international ban on the ivory trade, the price of the so-called ‘white gold’ had gone soaring past the official price of 250 dollars a kilo. With the dwindling animal populations in Central and East Africa, the focus of the big smuggling networks had begun to shift towards the Kruger National Park, one of the few last strongholds of the pachyderms.

  The population of about 8,000 elephants in the Kruger Park was being kept constant by means of a well planned culling program providing about seven tons of ivory annually. The considerable proceeds of this harvest used to be ploughed right back into the Kruger Park, contributing directly to the survival of the species. With its CITES ban, however, millions of dollars worth of ivory was now being stockpiled by the Parks Board.

  Rui knew little of this, and cared even less.

  Six days a week, at exactly 7 a.m., the twenty-two rangers in the Kruger Park communicated with headquarters at Skukuza rest camp in a radio session. Sam used the radio in his Toyota 4x4, while his assistants were breaking up camp. To most of the rangers, radios were their only link with the outside world, as there were no telephones deep into the Park. It was tried long ago, but it was found that the elephants used the telegraph poles as rubbing posts, with the result that no telephone link lasted more than a couple of days.

  John van Reenen’s voice broke through the static at seven sharp. ‘Skukuza calling all rangers. Good morning everyone. No general message from this side. 362, Louis, come in please.’

  Sam lighted his first pipe of the morning and surveyed the dripping bush around him while his colleagues were reporting in, starting with Louis Steyn stationed at an outpost between Olifants and Letaba rest camps. The aromatic smoke of the tobacco mingled with the smell of wet foliage, causing Sam to draw a deep breath. The clear ‘trrrpp-chirrrrrr’ of a woodl
and kingfisher contributed to Sam’s sense of well-being. Far off, in one of the deep pools of the Nwanetzi river he could hear the contented ‘honk honk’ of a hippo that had fed well the previous night.

  He was sitting sideways in the passenger seat, his feet resting on the sill of the open door, holding the pipe in his mouth with one hand, the microphone dangling in the other. He was an extraordinarily big man, well over six feet, pulling the scales at just over 230 well-proportioned pounds. Constant exposure to the Lowveld sun had permanently bronzed his face and forearms, and bleached his short hair to the colour of winter grass. Eyes as grey as the granite hills abounding in the Park completed the picture of rugged good looks. An aura of unadulterated maleness emanated from the man like pheromones.

  He was contemplating the efforts of a dung beetle battling with a gigantic ball of wet dung, trying to push it out of a footprint with its hind legs, when he was shaken from his reverie by John van Reenen, the chief ranger, repeating his call sign.

  ‘371, Sam, are you receiving me?’

  ‘I’m not receiving you too clearly, John. I am not at my base station.’

  ‘Problems?’

  ‘No, I camped on the Nwanetzi last night. On my way back now. I got the buffalo yesterday.’

  ‘Good. I got word from Nelspruit Hospital this morning, your ranger will be up and about again in about six weeks time.’