Читать книгу Killing Godiva's Horse - J. M. Mitchell - Страница 18

Jack woke at sunrise, made his way to the kitchen and figured out the stove. After making a pot of coffee, he slipped on cargo pants, took his first cup to the porch, and sipped staring out over the savanna.

Scattered fever trees, tall and wispy, floated above the grasslands, their canopies seemingly held in check by the sky. Birdlife welcomed the morning. Chatters and songs rose from acacia surrounding the enclave.

He went for a second cup, and when finished, forced himself to go inside. No more time to enjoy this. Need to wrap it up and get home, before the coalition falls apart.

First things first. Email.

He pulled out his laptop and hurried to draft a message to Karen Hatcher and Kip Culberson, with the latest version of the coalition’s report to Congress, and changes he’d made on the flight from Washington. After attaching the document, he noticed no signal for wireless. Seriously? He checked the outpost for phone lines. Nothing. No place to plug in a modem.

He dug his phone from the top pocket of his day pack and turned it on. Signal, fair. But who the hell is the carrier, and what’s this gonna cost? He checked email. Nothing new. Not since yesterday. No data transfer. Electronically, stranded. He noticed the charge on the battery—nearly dead—and glanced at the nearest electrical outlet. No way the charger’s gonna fit that thing. Not without a converter.

The emails aren’t going anywhere. Not now. It’s the middle of the night in the states. A few hours won’t hurt.

He turned off the devices and put them away, then sauntered into the kitchen, poured another cup of coffee, and opened the cupboard to look for the key to the desk. He found it under a bag of rice.

He opened the desk and found the research plan alone in a drawer.

The plan was thorough, and, as Samuel said, multi-faceted. Gabriel Kagunda had all the hallmarks of a good scientist. His sampling protocol and statistical design were well defined and likely had been well before he ever went into the field. Nothing reeked of pre-determined conclusion, but his work would help them understand how the ecosystem worked, and serve as a basis for decisions and monitoring conditions over time.

His initial phase of work focused on grass and browse species for rhino, zebra, gazelle, wildebeest, and giraffe. He also intended to look at those same plant species in areas used during seasonal migration, and for what would be prime and sub-prime years, for habitat utilized in and outside the national park, for wet and dry seasons. His purpose appeared to be that of defining the values—the plant species and their distributions, the water sources and connectivity factors—that held the migration corridors together. Ambitious, and hardly something easily tackled in two to three weeks. After a morning of hard study, Jack had a sense of what he could do to help kick start Kagunda’s work.

Promptly at ten there was a knock at the door.

Jack reached back and swung it open.

Outside, Samuel stood, almost at attention. “Good morning. If you are ready, Mr. Jack, we will begin with a tour. We will go only places where tourists go on safari.”

“Sounds great.” Jack reassembled the sections of the research plan he had scattered around the desk. “I think I’ll bring this.”

“Very well. Were our preparations for your arrival adequate?” Samuel remained planted a meter from the door.

“Yours were great. Mine sucked.”

“Pardon me. I do not understand.”

“American colloquialism. Not worth explaining. The provisions are great, thanks. My preparations, not so great. Need some sort of adaptor for the electrical. I need wireless, or some way to send email. Got a report I need to send home. Soon, or things go to hell.”

“Your research?”

“No, other duties as assigned,” Jack muttered. He stuffed the research plan in his pack. “Politics and deadlines.”

“Politics and deadlines? For a scientist?”

“Everyone has deadlines, Samuel.”

“Yes, but politics? Gabriel Kagunda spoke of science being best when sheltered from the influence of politics.”

“Yes. That’s wise, but . . .” Jack paused, remembering the director’s words. You’re only a scientist. “Never mind.” He gave a flippant wave of his hand. “Just work. Something I need to pass off to someone while I’m here.”

“I see. I will get you what you need.”

Rubbing his chin, Jack said, “Forgot to shave.” He threw the pack over his shoulder, backed out and closed the door.

Samuel led him to the Land Cruiser.

Climbing in, Jack noticed something on the floor. A rifle. Stock, wooden. Magazine, curved, and long enough for a not unsubstantial number of rounds. “Tourist route? Do tourists have guides carrying AK-47s?”

“No. Rangers only. I promise, this is not the time of day to be worried. Poachers prefer the night. In the day they know rangers are about, watching and ready.”

“How about at night? Rangers, I mean.”

“We are there at night, but the odds are less in our favor.”

“Why?”

“Some poachers are better equipped.”

—·—

Wildlife in abundance. Not quite everywhere, but the sight of giraffe with a cityscape background made it seem as though they were, the two seemed so incongruous. Herds of gazelle moved gracefully through the savannah, while the occasional rhinoceros plowed about, picking through forage with, what seemed, all the time in the world. When there were rhino, Jack—if he bothered to look—could typically spot rangers nearby, toting automatic rifles, eyes searching the bush. “What about cheetah and leopard?” he asked.

“You will see both, in good time.”

Driving south and west, Leboo pointed at zebras on the move up a draw, grazing as a unit. “This is dry season. Zebra and wildebeest have moved back into the park. Their wet season ranges are to the south.”

“Beautiful thing to see. These the only zebra in the park?”

“Many are here. More will come.”

To the west, across the grasslands, lay distant upland forests. Species Jack had no clue about. He pulled a notepad from his shirt pocket and wrote two entries. Plant book. Plant key.

The radio crackled, then words, none in English. Samuel seemed to turn an ear, listening. When the talk died away, he said, “Did you form an opinion about Gabriel Kagunda’s research?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Very thorough. Are you sure you have the background to help, Samuel?”

Leboo held his eyes on the road. “Are you saying I cannot contribute without being a scientist?” He gave the radio a look, as more chatter came over the speaker.

“What language is that?”

“Maasai. You will also hear Swahili and English. I wish for you to teach me how to do his work. I do not expect to learn enough to call myself a scientist, but I hope to keep the project moving forward. To not let it suffer a sudden death.”

“Samuel, no offense, but Gabriel’s study plans are not exactly basic. They require both a good knowledge of the local flora, and a detailed understanding of sampling methods and statistics. Have you thought about turning to the local university? Finding a grad student. Someone to help.”

“I have. I had believed two students from university would join us today. They did not come. Their professors are concerned.”

“Same response as Oxford? Concerned for their safety?”

“Yes. I promised protection, but still, they did not come.” A look of resolve formed on his face. “For now, it is only I to assist. You are here for only so long. I must learn what I can, while I can.”

“Maybe you should rethink this. Put things off a while. Find someone with credentials to do this permanently. Send me home, bring me back when the fear has blown over.”

“Are you afraid?”

“No, it’s just that . . . ”

“I will find someone. I hope it is while you are here. For now, you have me to teach.”

“This may be tougher than you think. Plus, I need some things. Basic supplies.”

“What?”

“Three-quarter inch PVC pipe, or whatever it is in metric used here, and cotton cord. I need a plant key. If there are plant books published for the park, that’d make things easier.”

Samuel steered the Land Cruiser off the road and stopped. He climbed out and returned with a well-worn day pack. From the top of the pack jutted four pieces of three-quarter inch PVC. Samuel took hold of the pipe and pulled, sliding them out of the pack. One meter long. Small screws set at intervals. Elbows for forming a square. He handed them over, then dug into the pack again, finding white cotton cord wrapped around a stick. Opening the pack wider, he stared inside, then pulled out two books. Plants of Nairobi National Park, and The Plants of South Central Kenya.

“That’s responsive.” Jack took one book and flipped through the pages. Dichotomous key. Perfect. “I’m impressed. You have everything we need to get started.”

“They are Gabriel Kagunda’s. I intend to return them to his wife, but not until I have cleaned the blood from his pack.”

Jack glanced over. Reddish black stained the nylon. “Should we be using this?” Jack whispered.

Samuel looked up. “I think he would want us to do so, to continue his work. I will ask his wife, but for now, show me what this is for.”

Jack exited the Land Cruiser, PVC in hand. He plugged the long pieces into the elbows, then strung the cord between screws. “Nine equal squares. Three by three, defined by the cotton cord. This is a quadrat. Basic tool of the plant ecologist.” He let it drop. It lay over grass and forbs. “Gabriel prescribed using what are called Daubenmire cover classes. Common methodology in rangeland studies. Very commonly used in the United States and, I suppose, elsewhere. Two days ago, I was helping a colleague, using this very methodology.”

Samuel nodded.

“Daubenmire used half a dozen cover classes, from as small as zero to five percent . . . the mid-point of which is two point five percent . . . to as large as complete coverage . . . ninety-five to one hundred percent for the class. So, these grasses, are, uh, . . .” He reached for the park plant book.

“Themeda triandra and Bothriochloa insculpta.”

Jack glanced over. “Serious?” He opened the index at the back of the book, found Themeda triandra and turned to the page. He studied the picture, then looked at the grass. “Very good, Samuel. You know your grasses.”

He smiled.

“If we assume this species covers almost all of the quadrat, we’d give it ninety-seven percent cover, midpoint for the cover class. This little forb in the corner . . .” He pointed, giving Samuel a questioning look.

“I do not know. Is it not inconsequential, as small and as few as there are?”

“Maybe, but that’s not for us to decide. We’ll let the science—the analysis—determine that.” He pointed at another plant. “How about this one?”

“I do not know that one.”

“Okay, what about this one?”

“I do not know that one.”

“We were going strong there for a moment. I’ll key them out later. Each would get listed with a small amount of cover.” He picked up the quadrat, and tossed it a few meters away. “Now, those plants, those species are entirely different. By randomly locating the quadrat, and doing enough quadrats to deal with the variability between quadrats, you sample the population—and compile information to use in statistical analyses. Those analyses are used to make inferences about the entire ecosystem. Looking at impacts, and levels of utilization by wildlife species and humans, and comparing those results over time, to controls—or places where you do not have utilization—you can actually draw inferences about system resistance and resilience.”

Samuel nodded.

Jack turned to face him. “So, Samuel, you obviously know some plants, but not all. More importantly, you’re not a scientist. You don’t strike me as a foolish man. Even with the risk of losing the research, it’d be better to put it on hold than do it poorly, dishonoring the reputation of Gabriel as a scientist. Take the time. Find someone with credentials to carry on his work.”

“I will find that person. But first, we must show that Gabriel’s work has continued. That it must continue.” His radio crackled with voices. Samuel turned away and listened. When the exchange ceased, he turned back.

“Do you understand Maasai?” Jack asked.

“I am Maasai.”

“All the rangers are?”

“No. We are a small tribe compared to others.”

“Was Gabriel Maasai?

“No. He was Kikuyu.”

“I see,” Jack said, watching his eyes, wanting to ask more questions, deciding not to probe. Not now. Not without knowing what questions were right or wrong.

The radio popped. Incomprehensible words. Samuel pulled the radio from its holster, and spoke. When the exchange was over, he said, “I must go. Poachers.”

“In the daylight?”

“I will return when I can.” Samuel bolted for the vehicle.

“I can stay in the truck,” Jack shouted. He tucked the plant book under his arm, and picked up the quadrat, disassembling as he jogged. He climbed in, as Samuel started the Land Cruiser.

Samuel hit the gas, steering onto the road. At the next crossroads, he turned south, then abruptly onto a lesser road. At the sight of another Land Cruiser, he lifted the radio to his mouth, spoke a few words, listened to the response, then drove past, slowing at a bend in the road.

Ahead, two rangers—one male, one female—lay prone on the ground, aiming AK-47s across open grassland toward a fringe of acacia. Samuel grabbed his rifle and slid out the door.

Samuel moved quickly, then diving as bullets pinged the length of the Land Cruiser. With the vehicle’s shell perforated, sound rang through the cab. Jack froze. Another burst. Glass shattered. He yanked the door open and rolled into the grass, crawling for the front wheel well. Sheltered behind the wheel and engine block, he drew in an excited breath. Another shot, and the vehicle sank, one tire gone.

Stay or run?

Another shot.

Jack twisted around, unable to see. Where’s Samuel? He started to yell, then stopped. Don’t. You’ll get him killed.

The rangers in front of the vehicle, wearing camo, returned fire from behind a berm, in bursts directed across open ground. Another burst came from behind. Maybe Samuel.

Shots popped in the distance. Dirt erupted at the top of the berm. Rangers lowered their heads. One raised a Kalashnikov and returned fire. The other crawled toward a larger, grass-covered mound. She peeked over the mound, sighted in and waited. After a moment, she raised binoculars and scanned.

Jack sat watching, listening, tucked behind the wheel.

A ranger fired off another shot, then looked over the berm.

Jack cringed as he watched the man raise his head.

Nothing happened.

Peering through grass, they scanned for movement.

After a few minutes, and exchanging words, they crept forward.

Jack watched, staying low, losing sight of them as they advanced. Stay put. Don’t be a disruption.

Minutes passed.

No more shots.

More minutes, then, “Mr. Jack?”

Jack jumped.

Samuel stood clutching his AK-47, sweat dripping from his brow, his shirt soaked.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

“No harm done.”

“Your rangers?”

“No one hurt. Poachers are gone. Your director was right. We shall stay at headquarters. I am sorry. I put you in harm’s way.”

Jack let out chuckle. “My idea, and . . . hey, happens all the time.”

“You are attempting to jest, I assume.”

“Yes, I’m joking.” He stood and followed, as Samuel walked around the vehicle, surveying the bullet holes in the rear door and quarter panel.

“Poachers are getting bolder. I did not expect this to happen during the day.” He sighed. “It is wise that you chose not to stay in the vehicle.”

“Needed some air.”

Samuel ignored the humor. He stared hard. “Regardless. After today, we stay at headquarters.”