Читать книгу Killing Godiva's Horse - J. M. Mitchell - Страница 20

The next morning.

Weeds. In abundance.

Jack stood, hands on his hips, staring out at the ground surrounding headquarters. Anything but pristine. Not unexpected. “Okay. This certainly collapses the effectiveness of our training, but . . .”

“Will it not require the same methodology?”

“It will, but I’m not sure how applicable it feels.” Jack shook his head. “Uh, . . . before we get started, I’d like to send a few emails.”

“Perhaps later.” Samuel shrugged. “The internet connection is not functioning properly.”

“Seriously?”

“These things happen. Service will be restored. At times patience is required.”

“Okay, but . . . I have emails I need to send, pronto.”

Samuel rubbed his eyes.

“You look like hell, Samuel.”

“I did not get much sleep. I was up late, following leads. Leads that did not play out.”

“No help?”

“Correct, no help. Shall we continue the lessons from yesterday?”

It wasn’t long before Samuel understood the concepts behind the cover classes. “The most difficult thing for most people,” Jack said, after watching Samuel make several quick, almost flippant judgments, “is precision. Developing your eye to make accurate calls. Doing it the same every time.”

“Am I being inaccurate?”

“You’re fine. Consistency comes with repetition.”

“And you will make me do it correctly?”

“Yes.”

“Will students at the University of Nairobi know this methodology?”

“They should. How long will it take for the shock of Gabriel’s death to blow over?”

Samuel shook his head. “I do not know.”

—·—

After a few hours of training, Jack stood upright, stretched his back, and pulled his watch from a cargo pocket. “Can we check the internet?”

“It is not yet working. I left word with my office manager to let me know.”

“And they haven’t.”

“Correct.”

“Then, it’s time for lunch. I grabbed a few things from the cupboard this morning. We can drive south, eat in the southern part of the park.”

“I will not put you in danger. Not again.”

“We can stick to the main roads.”

Samuel held his tongue.

“I’d like to understand these migration corridors. I’d like to understand why you have connectivity issues.”

“No.”

“Samuel, you can take care of me. What happened yesterday will not happen today.”

“It could. Your director . . . ”

“I know what my director said, but I can’t get a sense of how I can help unless I understand the issues you face. I want to understand these connectivity issues.”

Samuel scowled, and rubbed the scar on his chin. “On one condition.”

“Anything.”

“Follow me.” Samuel led him into a building, past a counter, into a back room. On the back wall, in a rack, rifles stood upright.

Jack stopped at the door. “Whoa.” He shook his head. “I do not do automatic weapons.”

“I will take you only if I believe you can protect yourself.”

“Hell, I’d probably shoot myself.”

Samuel pulled a rifle from the rack. “This is an AK-47. Standard issue.” He opened a drawer, took out a magazine, checked to see if it was loaded, slipped it into its slot on the rifle, and pulled back on a lever. “It is now loaded and ready.” He held it out.

Jack stepped back.

“You will take it, or we will not leave headquarters.”

Jack eyed the well-worn rifle. “Never used one of those. No interest in starting now.”

“You have never used a rifle?”

“Not one like that.”

“It is not difficult.”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“Unless you do, we stay at headquarters.”

Jack scanned the length of the rack. Rifles, most being AK-47s. At the end, a few different kinds. He pointed. “What are those?”

“Carbines, from the great war. Old. I wish we didn’t need to keep them.”

“Got anything like a thirty-aught-six?”

Samuel sighed and stepped over to a door, opened it—a closet —and pulled out a padded case. He slid out a rifle with scope and strap. “Taken from a poacher.”

“Just my style.”

“In terms of fire power, little different than those.” Samuel nodded at the carbines. “I would suggest the AK-47.”

Jack took hold of the rifle and ran an eye down its length. “This will be perfect. Can’t get in much trouble with this.”

“You will look like a poacher. A poor one. If I were you, I’d want the best rifle I could get.”

Jack reached into the pocket on the padded case. He pulled out a box. Springfield shells. “No one ever said I was smart.”

—·—

Driving south, the savannah gave way to breaks in the terrain. The vegetation grew dense. Samuel steered onto a rise. “Mbagathi River. Southern boundary,” he said, turning off the road onto a smaller track overlooking the drainage. “This location is popular with those on photo and bird safari.” He followed the track, stopping where they had a view of the more broken terrain to the south. He turned off the vehicle, took hold of his rifle, and climbed out of the cab.

Jack followed.

“Your rifle, Mr. Jack.”

“Here?”

Samuel nodded.

He turned back and retrieved it, slinging it over his shoulder. “Expecting trouble?”

Samuel offered no answer. He led to high ground, stopped, and pointed. “The park boundary follows the river. Migration corridors cross the river. Nairobi National Park is made up of lands that were once Maasai. Maasai then moved south, into what is called the Kitengela.” He swept his hand across an expansive scene. Houses, fences, gardens, livestock, cultivated lands. “Many Maasai remain. Those with the small protected gardens are likely Maasai. Some lands have been sold and divided into group ranches. Farmers, corporate farms, and developers. It is these farmers and group ranches that are most likely to fence their lands to hold in their cattle, sheep and goats. Migration corridors are becoming filled with these farms, the corridors cut off. Wildebeest and other wildlife move between the park and the Athi-Kapiti Plains to the south.” He pointed. “It is on the plains that they feed during wet season. Then, they return to the park in dry season.” He pulled off his beret and ran a hand over his sweat-covered brow. “Fences now limit options for migration. In many places, they block access to water courses, which are already limited in this part of the world.” He squinted, scowling, as if seeing something he’d not seen before. He seemed to shrug it off. “Wildebeest numbers . . . a mere fraction of former abundance. Range compression and truncation affect eland, buffalo, giraffe and Thompson’s gazelle, but some of those are not migratory. Wildebeest has been replaced as the dominant herbivore by zebra. Even they are at risk.”

“What do you see in a wildebeest migration, numbers wise?”

“Thousands, now. Tens of thousands, before. Now, in some years very few migrate into the park. Fences are to blame, not just for their influence on the migration corridors. Poachers and dogs drive them into the fences and kill them. Populations are not what they used to be.” Samuel sat.

Jack plopped down, laying the rifle beside him. “Gabriel’s study plan looked at factors related to migration corridors. He also hoped to map and document the decision variables with common range science methodologies. A question is starting to form in my mind. It seems those grazing pressures were already here, if those kinds of herbivore numbers were common. Migration corridors are but one factor to manage. Are there other factors that shape the ecosystem?”

“Fire.”

“Explain?”

“Fire was not uncommon on the grasslands. The Maasai use burning to maintain the land for their herds, but those practices are hard to continue, in light of the newer practices of the pastoralists. In the park, grass now grows tall. Some animals want the green re-growth. Others, however, want the tall grass. What would be best would be both, tall grass and green re-growth.”

“A mosaic. Wonder why he didn’t address fire in the plan?”

“As a phenomena, it is well understood. By researchers at the University of Nairobi. Gabriel’s colleagues.”

“I see. So Gabriel’s work is intended to yield bigger picture data. Something systematic. To leave no doubt?”

“Gabriel believed in science. In many ways, Gabriel was a naïve young man. He would often quote great men, like Hippocrates. Science is the father of knowledge, but opinion breeds ignorance, he would say.” Samuel paused, and dropped his eyes to the ground. “I will remember Gabriel more for his own words. He once told me that science is a light. That light cannot be counted upon to shine where you think it will. It will shine only upon the path of evidence. If you stick to that path, he said, you will learn something. Something that will guide you, he said.” Samuel stared north, over the expanse of savannah. “I suppose we should go.”

“So, you’re looking for that light? That path?”

“He deserves to have his work completed.” Samuel started toward the Land Cruiser. “Do not forget your rifle, Mr. Jack.”

—·—

“Stop,” Jack said.

Samuel stepped on the brakes. The Land Cruiser slowed to a stop. He stared out the windshield at savannah. “Why here?”

Jack grabbed the backpack and rifle. He opened the door and slid out. “Next lesson.”

“I think we should return to headquarters, Mr. Jack.”

Jack slammed the door. Slinging the rifle over one shoulder, he dug into the pack as he walked. Pulling out the PVC, he began assembling the quadrat, veering toward a distant margin of acacia. Nearing its edge, Jack stopped and dropped the quadrat. It settled into the grass. He turned to Samuel. “There. Is that random?”

Samuel looked down, then up, then spun around, eyeing the surroundings as he rubbed the scar on his chin. “It appears random.”

“It’s not.”

“It is not?” Samuel looked confused.

“I chose this spot. I could do this all day. Selecting sites that appear representative, but my bias would affect the results. If we were only studying impacts, we could start at places that show those impacts, but we still need inferences about the larger ecosystem. We need random study sites, and sampling repeated with enough frequency to deal with the variability in the ecosystem.” He looked into Samuel’s eyes.

He stared back.

Clueless. “Samuel, are you really prepared for this? To go on? You can send me home, I can come back when things blow over.”

“Show me. How do we achieve random?”

Jack slipped off a pack strap and pulled Gabriel’s plan from the pack. Then, a booklet. “We can achieve random the old way or the new way. The new? Random numbers generators. The old?” He held up a booklet. “This.” He flipped through the pages. “It appears Gabriel was rather traditional, maybe because of who he studied under at Oxford. These are random numbers tables. Fortunately for us, he’s generated a list of random sampling locations. Places to start. We’ll go to those locations, then use the tables to place the quadrat. Make sense?”

Blank stare.

“Okay, let’s do this. Assume this was one of Gabriel’s study sites. We could lay out a one hundred meter tape, and stake it out, running north.” He pointed, then opened the book and turned to a 4 digit table. “The first number is 4139.” He stood. “We could be random by following our tape north for forty one meters, then east for thirty nine meters. Then, we’d drop our quadrat, see what we get.”

Samuel nodded.

“We’d repeat those steps using the sequence of numbers on the table.”

A loud chattering rose up from the east, beyond the line of acacia.

Jack turned. “What’s that?”

“Birds. Long-tailed fiscal.” Samuel pointed toward a patch of tall grass. “There. Secretary bird.”

Streams of plumage. Feathers flowing from yellow eye patches. A terrestrial raptor, stalking on long legs, picking through grass, snapping at the ground. It stood upright, a lizard in its beak. It quickly devoured its prey.

“Uh . . . and . . . uh, that’s how we achieve random.” Jack stared, amazed. “I have never seen anything like that.”

“Follow me,” Samuel said.

“Where we going?”

“To water. To see birds. People come thousands of miles to see this.”

Jack picked up the quadrat, slung the rifle over his shoulder, and followed.

“We must be careful. We do not want to encounter hippopotamus. If we do, we must avoid threatening their access to water. They are faster than we, and dangerous.”

Seemed unlikely, but Jack didn’t dispute it.

Beyond the veil of acacia, Samuel stooped and waved Jack over. He pointed. Near-shore, long-legged, black and white birds, standing in a cluster. “Marabou storks,” he whispered.

Jack watched as one opened its wings. Huge. Tremendous wingspan.

“Black-winged stilt. Egyptian goslings,” Samuel said, pointing to birds near shore.

The stilt pecked in shallow water, the goslings floating nearby.

“And across the way, African spoonbill.”

“Too much to take in.”

Samuel pulled off his pack, dug out binoculars, and scanned along an arc. “No sign of hippopotamus. Not yet.” He pointed, and whispered, “Black rhino. Far end, in the water.” He offered the binoculars.

“I see him,” Jack whispered back. He watched the beast slog forward, head down, drawing from brown water. “Big guy.”

“Yes.” Samuel ducked his head, and moved right. He stopped, stared, then turned back. He raised a finger to his lips.

Jack froze.

Samuel waved him to follow.

They crept right, staying behind acacia.

Samuel knelt. Squinting, he stared past thorny branches, scanning the shore.

“What is it?” Jack whispered.

“Sh-h-h-h. I saw something.”

Jack turned and looked. Trees. Shadows. A hippo? No. Another rhino? No. “What? A lion maybe?” he asked.

“No,” Samuel whispered. “Potentially more dangerous.” He continued scanning the shore, then gave a slow nod and pointed. “There.”

“What?”

“A man.”

Jack searched—in the shadows, along the edges of the trees—seeing nothing.

“He’s moving toward the rhinoceros,” Samuel whispered.

Through the leaves, Jack could see the outline of the rhino, knee deep, head down, slurping up water.

Samuel dropped to all fours and crawled forward. He stopped and readied his rifle.

Jack fell back, then followed, stopping beside him. “What are you doing?”

Samuel parted the grass with his rifle. “I would try scaring him away, but there may be others. I think he will wait, let the animal return to shore. But is he alone?”

“What if he isn’t, and what’s wrong with a guy out here watching a rhino?”

“He is not simply watching. He is a poacher.”

“How do you know?” Jack turned, disoriented by the ruckus of sound, of birds in abundance. He noticed a head, bobbing in and out of view, moving laterally. “Are you sure?”

“He carries a rifle. He is not a ranger.”

The rhinoceros turned, lumbering toward shore.

The man stepped behind a tree, stopping or disappearing in the brush below it.

Samuel stared over the gun sights. “When next he shows himself . . .”

“Samuel, wait!”

Samuel scanned the shore. He reached, tapping Jack on the arm. “There are two.” He pointed. “Maybe more.”

Jack followed his point, spotting a profile in the brush.

“Can you use that?”

“The rifle?”

“Of course.”

“Yes . . . but . . . it’s a man.”

“Yes, and if he sees you, he will shoot you first.”

Jack picked up the rifle and slipped the caps off the scope. What if it’s not sighted in?

“Take the one to the right. He’s further away,” Samuel said. “Okay, this one has shown himself.” He leaned into the rifle, peering over the sights. “Quickly, Mr. Jack. He’s preparing to shoot.”

Jack chambered a round, shouldered the rifle, and put his eye to the scope, aiming where he’d last seen the poacher. Where’d he go?

“Quickly,” Samuel repeated.

He searched the shadows, then saw him. Dark skin. Red shirt, sweat drenched. “I see him.” Jack set the crosshairs on his chest.

“On two,” Samuel said. “One.”

He’s a kid.

“Two.” Rounds pulsed from the AK-47.

Jack lowered the crosshairs and squeezed off a shot. He watched the poacher go down.

Birds took flight, thousands escaping, all directions, the beat of wings horrific.

The sounds died away, leaving only screams of pain.

“The rhinoceros is gone,” Samuel said, sounding relieved. He craned his neck. “I do not believe they got off a shot.”

Jack lay staring through the scope. The boy rolled in agony.

“I know. It is difficult,” Samuel said.

Jack nodded.

“I am sorry to ask you to do that, but the rhinoceros lives.”

“How long? How long have you been doing this job?” Jack muttered.

“Twenty years. A long time for a warden.” He dug his radio from his pack, exchanged words with someone, then put the radio away. “It is easier for me,” he acknowledged. “But I have seen rangers killed. I have seen what is left of rhinoceros after slaughter. I have seen the population of rhinoceros decimated.” He got to his feet. “Do not let down your defenses, Mr. Jack. One lives. Scared men are dangerous.”

Jack stood, ejected the spent cartridge and chambered another round.

Samuel negotiated his way through the brush, circling the waterhole. No wildlife to be seen, the waters sat dark, no sound other than the moan of someone in extreme pain.

They neared the tree where Samuel’s target had stood. A man lay crumpled on the ground, having collapsed where he stood. The man, poor, likely in his twenties, maybe his teens. Old T-shirt, now blood soaked. Holes, not all from bullets. Pants, tattered. Sandals, worn.

Samuel kicked the man’s rifle away. An old one. A carbine. He prodded the body. No movement. He stooped and lowered a hand to the poacher’s neck. Without words, he moved on, toward the screaming.

Waving Jack to slow, Samuel raised his rifle, slipped past a tree, and stepped forward. He shouted, words Jack could not understand, and kicked the poacher’s carbine from reach. He gave the young man a once over, and abruptly looked at Jack. “His leg? You shot him in the leg?”

Jack shrugged. “Sorry. Couldn’t do it.”

Shaking his head, Samuel turned his attention to the boy. In terse words, he spoke. The poacher, writhing in pain, unloosened his belt and pulled it from its loops.

Samuel placed the belt around his leg, above the knee, then stood and put in a call on the radio. When finished, he turned to Jack. “I have rangers coming to get him.”

The boys eyes grew wide.

“His name is Ojwang,” Samuel said. “Interesting name. Infers having survived despite neglect.”

“Does he speak English?”

“He should. Ojwang, do you speak English?”

“Yes,” he said, cringing in pain.

“You are a lucky boy, Ojwang. You could be dead. This man chose to shoot you in the leg. You live. Your friend did not.”

He stared at Jack. Scared, hate-filled eyes, appreciation the furthest thing from his mind.

—·—

Two rangers arrived, both extremely tall. The bleeding now slowed, they dressed the wound, put the boy on a stretcher, and loaded him into the bed of their Land Cruiser.

Samuel and Jack stood watching as the vehicle pulled away, the boy screaming.

“Two more rangers are en route,” Samuel said. “To protect the rhinoceros, wherever it has gone.” He sighed. “The poachers are getting bold.”