Elephant Song - Smith Wilbur - Страница 5

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It was the song of the elephant.

One of the old cows was the first to detect a threat to the herd.

She transmitted her concern to them with a sound high above the register of the human ear and the entire herd froze into utter stillness.  Even the very young calves responded instantly.

The silence after the happy uproar of the feast was eerie, and the buzz of the distant spotter plane was loud in contrast.

The old cows recognised the sound of the Cessna engine.

They had heard it many times over the last few years and had come to associate it with the periods of increased human activity, of tension and of unexplained terror that they felt transmitted telepathically through the wilderness from the other groups of elephant in the Park.

They knew that the sound in the air was the prelude to a popping chorus of distant gunfire and to the stench of elephant blood on the currents of heated air along the rim of the escarpment.  Often after the sounds of aircraft and gunfire had faded, they had come across wide areas of the forest floor caked with dried blood, and they had smelt the odour of fear and pain and death exuded by members of their own race which still mingled with the reek of blood and of rotting entrails.

One of the old cows backed away and shook her head angrily at the sound in the sky.  Her tattered ears flapped loudly against her shoulders, a sound like the mainsail of a tall ship filling with wind.

Then she wheeled and led the herd away at a run.

There were two mature bulls with the herd, but at the first threat they peeled away and disappeared into the forest.  Instinctively recognising that the herd was vulnerable, they sought safety in solitary flight. The younger cows and the calves bunched up behind the matriarchs and fled, the little ones racing to keep up with the longer stride of their dams; in different circumstances their haste might have been comical.  Hello, Parks.  The herd is breaking southwards towards the Imbelezi pass. Roger, Sierra Mike.  Please head them towards the Maria Pools turn-off. The old cow was leading the herd towards the hills.

She wanted to get off the valley bottom into the had ground where pursuit would be impeded by the rock and severe gradients, but the sound of the aircraft hummed across her front, cutting her off from the mouth of the pass.

She pulled up uncertainly and lifted her head to the sky, where tall silvery mountains of cumulus cloud were piled up as high as the heavens.

She spread wide her ears, riven and weathered by time and thorn, and turned her ancient head to follow that dreadful sound.

Then she saw the aircraft.  The early sunlight flashed from its windshield as it banked steeply across her front, and it dived back towards her, low over the tops of the forest trees, the sound of its engine rising to a roar.

The two old cows spun together and started back towards the river.

Behind them the herd wheeled like an untidy mass of cavalry, and as they ran the dust rose in a fine pale cloud even higher than the treetops. Parks, the herd is heading your way now.

Five miles from the turn-off.  Thank you, Sierra Mike; keep them coming nice and easy, Don't push them too hard.  Will-do, Parks.  All K-Units.

Johnny Nzou changed his call-sign.  All K-Units, converge on the Mana Pools turn-off.  The K-Units, or kill teams, were the four Landrovers that were deployed along the main track that ran down from Chiwewe headquarters on the escarpment to the river.  Johnny had put them in as a stop line, to head off the herd if it broke awkwardly.  It did not look as though that would be necessary now.  The spotter plane was working the herd into position with professional expertise.  Looks as though we'll make it on the first try, Johnny muttered as he reversed the Landrover and swung it in a full 180-degree turn, then sent it flying down the track.  A ridge of grass grew between the sandy wheel-tracks, and the Landrover rocked and rattled over the bumps.  The wind whipped around their heads and Daniel pulled his hat from his head and stuffed it into his pocket.

Jock was filming over his shoulder as a herd of buffalo, disturbed.

by the sound of the Landrover, came pouring out of the forest and crossed the track just ahead of them.  Damn it!  Johnny hit the brakes and glanced at his wristwatch.  Stupid nyati are going to screw us up.

Hundreds of the dark bovine shapes came in a solid phalanx, galloping heavily, raising white dust, grunting and lowing and splattering liquid green dung on the grass as they flattened it.

Within minutes they had passed and Johnny accelerated into the standing dust-cloud and rattled over the loose earth that the herd had ploughed up with their great cloven hoofs.  Around a bend in the track they saw the other vehicles parked at the crossroads.  The four rangers were standing in a group beside them, rifles in their hands and faces turned back expectantly.

Johnny skidded the Landrover to a halt and snatched up the microphone of his radio.  Sierra Mike, give me a position report, please.  Parks, the herd is two miles from you, just approaching Long Vlei.  A vlei is a depression of open grassland, and Long Vlei ran for miles parallel to the river.  In the rainy season it was a marsh, but now it made an ideal killing ground.  They had used it before.

Johnny jumped down from the driver's seat and lifted his rifle from the rack.  He and all his rangers were armed with cheap mass-produced .

magnums loaded With solid ammunition for maximum penetration of bone and tissue.  is men were chosen for this work on account of their superior marksmanship.

The kill must be as swift and humane as possible.

They would shoot for the brain and not take the easier but lingering body shot.  Let's go!  Johnny snapped.  There was no need to give instructions.  These were tough young professionals, yet even though they had done this work many times before their expressions were sombre. There was no excitement, no anticipation in their eyes.  This was not sport.

They clearly did not enjoy the prospect of the bloody work ahead.

They, were stripped down to shorts and velskoen without socks, light running gear.  The only heavy items they carried were their cheap weapons and the bandoliers of ammunition strapped around their waists.

All of them were lean and muscled, and Johnny Nzou was as hard as any of them.  They ran to meet the herd.

Daniel fell into position behind Johnny Nzou.  He believed that he had kept himself fit with regular running and training, but he had forgotten what it was like to be hunting and fighting fit as were Johnny and his rangers.

They ran like hounds, streaming through the forest effortlessly, their feet seeming to find their own way between scrub and rock and fallen branches and antbear holes.  They barely touched the earth in passing.

Daniel had run like that once, but now his boots were slamming down heavily and he stumbled once or twice in the rough footing.  He and the camera man began to fall behind.

Johnny Nzou gave a hand signal and his rangers fanned out into a long skirmish line, fifty yards separating each of them.

Ahead, the forest gave way abruptly to the open glade of Long Vlei.

It was three hundred yards wide; the dry beige-coloured grass was waist-high.

The line of killers stopped at the edge of the forest and looked to Johnny at the centre, but his head was thrown back, watching the spotter plane out there above the forest.  It was banking steeply, standing vertically on one wing.

Daniel caught up with him, and found that both he and Jock were panting heavily although they had run less than a mile.  He envied Johnny. There they are, Johnny called softly.  You can see the dust.

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