African Ivory

 

A Steve Braker Action-Thriller

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Dear Reader,

This is the fourth book in the William Brody series. I sincerely hope you enjoy African Ivory, as much as I have enjoyed the journey of writing it.

The poaching industry in East Africa has become an epidemic. The losses are at such a rate we may well lose these wonderful creatures within our lifetimes. I don’t know about you, but I would hate not to be able to show my grandkids an elephant.

I mention the Sheldrick Trust in this book. It’s a fantastic charity that really helps orphaned elephants. My family have been staunch supporters for many years. Whenever we go to Tsavo, we pop in to see the baby elephants they are looking after. If you want to get more information, then please visit their website: http://www.sheldrickwildlifetrust.org.

The Pokomo tribe mentioned in African Ivory are real and live on the Tana River. I visited them when I was looking for crocodile eggs in the delta. They are a gentle tribe, living peacefully in the environment.

Tana River, although a bit remote, is opening up to tourism. There are several lodges there now. The wildlife is spectacular, especially the birds. It is known as the center for birdlife in East Africa.

I hope you enjoy the read. Please get in contact or visit the website www.stevefreelancewriter.com we also have a newsletter with special offers.

Yours

Steve Braker.

Chapter One

The torturing hot African sun was directly overhead, beating down on the bleached, arid, dust-filled savannah. Everything it touched seemed to shimmer, radiating remorseless heat. There was no escape. This was not a place to be; only mad dogs and Englishmen were out at this time of day. The small group sheltering under the acacia bushes were neither mad nor Englishmen. But they were here. Greed the major factor for their presence in this unforgiving landscape.

 Tsavo National Game Reserve was either hot and dry or wet and flooded. Full of wildlife: from the giant Rothschild giraffes (with their extended necks and distinctive orange and brown fur), to the gangs of unruly warthogs running through the bush, with their twenty offspring chasing each other’s short, wiry, curly tails. The current season was the hot one. Everything stood still. The heat was intense, burning the red dusty soil, making it so hot your head felt like it would burst. Water was scarce, down to a few soured, mud clogged pools. But change was in the air. Huge black clouds gathered in the far distance over the Taita hills. When it finally broke, the deluge would come, washing the heat away, changing the dust to thick red mud. Flowers would rush to enjoy their short time to bloom. The watering holes would fill, and the great migration to the south would start. But now there was no respite. The deserted plains carried on forever in every direction, small stubby bushes and acacia trees the only haven from the intense sun. The savannah was as quiet as a graveyard at this time of day. Everything that walked, flew, or slithered knew to stay still and hide away until the sweltering ball of heat in the sky moved through its arc. Only later would there be some relief.

Under the cobalt blue, cloudless sky a nearly seven-foot-tall, gaunt, ebony tribesman was standing stock still. Perched on one leg, motionless. Frozen in time. Thick plaited curled ringlets of hair covered in cow grease hung down his back. A red and black tartan robe was draped over his shoulder and secured at the waist with a long leather thong. On his hip hung a fourteen-inch, brown, battered, hide scabbard, holding a razor-sharp blade. His feet were wrapped in sandals made from old car tires, with more leather wrapped around his ankles. From head to toe, this formidable warrior was covered in beads of many different colors: wrapped around his neck in bands, plaited into his dreadlocks, around his wrists and ankles, all making for a very impressive sight. Finally, in his right hand, was a wicked-looking spear with a six-foot-long, worn mahogany shaft and a blackened steel point. He was standing with his eyes closed, head cocked to the left and mouth slightly open. The puffs of wind gusting across the arid savannah had suddenly changed direction, veering almost 180 degrees. This could be trouble. The Maasai warrior was not concerned for himself. He had carefully smeared buffalo dung all over his body before they had left. It was the Muzungus, the stupid white men, that would cause the trouble. If he could smell their sweat, the prey, about 40 yards in front of them, would pick up the scent in seconds.

The small group of six hunters stood very still, hardly breathing, willing themselves not to sweat. But the burning heat directly above had removed any chance of that. Their clothes had been sodden almost as soon as they had left camp eight hours ago. Seven men trudged through the pre-dawn wilderness, waiting for the day to begin. Large wet patches appeared under their arms and stretched to belt straps, backs became soaked and itchy under the light-weight packs each member carried. The stench of humans wafting in the wind was like a mushroom cloud from a nuclear explosion to anyone or thing that lived downwind.

The tall warrior slowly motioned for them to retreat. He whispered, “Eh Muzungu, Rudi Nyuma.” ‘Go back.’

A short, squat guy in white safari pants and jacket full of useless pockets was head of the team. Standing at the front of the group, he looked up surprised. “No chance. We’ve been tracking these beasts for five days. This is the perfect opportunity. We can bag them and be out of this godforsaken place.”

The warrior said, “Boss. No, that’s wrong. The bull will smell us, any closer and he’ll charge. We cannot win a head-on fight with this one. He is old and will be cunning. I can sense his presence very close by. We need to be cautious.”

The white hunter said, with a gloating smile. “He is no match for me. This rifle is a Ruger Tropical 675 loaded with a 600 Nitro Express Elephant Stopper. Nothing can get past us.”

The warrior looked at the gun. “Boss, you think that small thing can really stop this beast if he is mad? And soon he’s going to be madder than hell.”

 The white Muzungu said conceitedly, “You people don’t understand. We know more about guns and killing than you ever will. We move forward, now!”

The warrior had seen this since he had signed up with this group two weeks ago, the arrogance of these people they never learned. The guns, the bullets, and the safari pants seemed to make them think they were invincible. “OK, Boss. Your life, not mine.”

The warrior moved forward towards the edge of the thicket. Through the mass of twisted branches, it was possible to see the small herd of elephants chewing on the acacia bushes. Three large females, about twenty years old, covered in the red dust of Tsavo, calmly waiting for the sun to move across the sky so they could venture out again. The largest one was flapping her huge gray ears trying to get rid of the heat, standing with closed eyes, dozing serenely, whiling away the afternoon. She stood almost fourteen feet tall from her round flat feet to the top of her head with two long beautiful white tusks either side of her dusty, wrinkled trunk. The second and next in age leaned against a broken acacia tree. Before getting tired, she had ripped the larger branches off trying to find some soft, moist, green bark to quench her thirst. The youngest of the females was watching the calves intently, always concerned for their safety. Lions had tried to take one of the babies entrusted to her a couple of weeks ago. The memory was vivid in her mind, like the long-jagged rip marks along her flank, bearing witness to her bravery. She had stamped one of the beasts into the earth to save her calf.

The kindergarten was enjoying the shade of the small trees in the mid-afternoon sun, their paper-thin ears flapping gently to release the heat. The youngest calf had settled around the base of the trees, laying on his side, trying to feel the coolness of the dusty floor. The second was greedily suckling at its mother’s teat.

The wind wasn’t blowing. It was gently puffing across the arid landscape. Occasion miniature whirlwinds spun off across the dust, only to disappear in an instant. This the warrior knew was dangerous, too unpredictable. If one of these monsters got the scent, they would charge without warning. The mothers would protect the babies to their last breath. Plus, the male was around somewhere. The warrior knew this, as he had smelled him about twenty minutes earlier, somewhere in front of them and to the right.

The Maasai and the head Muzungu slowly crept forward pace by pace. The Ruger Tropical elephant rifle had one shot, then a reload. This could take up to 30 seconds under calm conditions. Under pressure, who knew?

The tall ebony warrior was from the plains of Maasai Mara in Western Kenya. As had all of his brothers, he had been named after sixteen seasons had passed. Before this, the immature boys had been called Layonis, the lowest of the low, just a dog’s body. Every boy yearned for the ceremony. His father had presented him to the Ol-Oiboni, the witch doctor, then the ritual had begun. It was long and tiring. The boys were taken into the bush by a council of elders and put through a grueling routine of marches and hunting. After two weeks, the youngsters had changed they were now almost men. Only one last thing remained. On the great day of the full moon, they were taken to the river and smeared with mud. A cow was bled. The blood was rubbed into their long snaking dreadlocked hair and smeared on their faces. As the moon rose over the river valley, the terrifying witch doctor appeared in the clearing. He danced around them chanting and screaming, his lion’s head mask with huge polished canine teeth glinting from the surrounding fires. One by one, the soon to be men were led to the ceremony. An elder stood beside each new man with a large earthenware bowl. The boy lay on the floor and spread his legs. His father appeared in the night and shouted, “Lemasolai.” As he did this, the elder poured cold water over his head, and the witch doctor cut a good inch of his foreskin off with one swift slice. The loop of bloodied skin was then threaded on a leather thong and tied around his neck, where it still hung today. He was now a Moran, a Maasai Warrior called Lemasolai.

At sixteen he already stood nearly six feet tall and was highly skilled with a spear and his knife. Lemasolai’s father Meitinkini trusted him with the highly valued cows the family-owned. But as was the way of his tribe, he had been sent away. A Moran is still a ‘Kijana’ until he kills a lion, only then can he return to the family and take a wife.

This had been over a year ago. Since then, he had wandered around the Mara and then through the plains all the way to the west, finding himself on the borders of Tsavo, some four hundred kilometers from home. The game park was a massive area the size of a small country, policed by the Wildlife Service, which was severely underfunded and corrupt. Lemasolai had hung around the tourist centers looking for some work, becoming a guide of sorts, talking to the visitors in his broken English, making tips here and there. One evening, he had met a fellow Maasai tribesman from the Mara. The two kindred spirits had spoken about their travels. The new friend offered him a job as a tracker. Lemasolai jumped at the chance. He enjoyed tracking, his father had trained him as a boy. When he has sufficient skills, his father had sent him out to follow the warthogs, buffalo, and wildebeest across the plains, then slyly creep up on the prey and kill it with his spear.

But now he was here. This was not what he had bargained for two weeks ago when this trip had started. As far as he was concerned, they were tracking and hunting large prey. All he had to do was follow the prints in the earth and the signs leading this group of ‘Muzungus’ to the beasts. Lemasolai had no idea about poaching. He had never been to the cities. He could not read or write. He was from the Mara on his pilgrimage to kill a lion. Then he would go home, build a Manyatta, and take a young wife. His life was simple.

The Muzungu was keen to move forward, but Lemasolai knew it was not a good idea. The small herd would get spooked and make off into the savannah. Although they were big, when an elephant wanted to, it could move faster than a man could run and for longer too.

As they crept through the sparse undergrowth, the Muzungu said between pants, “How much further?”

Lemasolai looked at the smelly heap of flesh with disgust. “Bwana. We have to move slowly. There’s a small clearing ahead. We must go around, staying in the bush for cover.”

The white, squat man said with frustration, “Look, I can’t see anything. The clearing is so small we can just cut across the center. It’s quicker.”

The warrior looked on in dismay. “No, Boss. I don’t know where the bull is. We can’t go for the females. They’re out of bounds. We never kill them. The bull we can find. He smells old. You can take him. There will be other young males around to take over the herd.”

The Muzungu just sneered, “You get me close to them, then I’ll find and take the bull.”

The bright sunlight beat the earth on the edge of the clearing. The space was no more than twenty feet across, a patch of brilliant light with shadows on either side. It looked like a torch beam shining from above on a dark night. The warrior knew that moving across this open space was foolish. They would have to run quickly, and it would expose them.

Against his better judgment, he stepped out into the clearing. There was silence. All the creatures were sheltering from the midday sun. Even the birds seemed to have had enough and crept off into the shadows for some respite. Lemasolai moved swiftly, taking long silent strides across the burnt earth to the far side. He cleared the edge and immediately settled down on one knee. The herd was about twenty yards ahead, easily seen through the thicket. The stinking Muzungu marched across the clearing. It sounded like twenty fat drunkards leaving a bar. The man must have stepped on every stick there was. Lemasolai was amazed the elephants had not heard the sound.

The two intrepid hunters settled in the gloom of the final acacia thorn bushes.

The white man panted. “Listen, you show me the bull. He must be close. We’ll take him before he knows we’re even here.”

Lemasolai looked down on the little man with the big gun. “OK. I think I can smell him to the east. We must move around the edge. Do not make any noise. If he hears us, he’ll charge. We’re so close to the females he’ll not hesitate.”

They edged slowly to the east, moving one foot at a time. The air was still. Even the small puffs had given up hope and stopped.

Finally, the air in the tracker’s sensitive nostrils could detect a faint putrid scent. This was an old man. His teeth were rotting in the gums, and there was a problem with his gut. Lemasolai had smelled old animals like this before. They had lived a long life. He guessed this bull was maybe sixty seasons old. Time to move on and let a young buck come in and take over the females.

The impressive old African bull elephant was about thirty yards in front of them under a small acacia tree, standing at over eighteen feet to his huge shoulders. Once he had been an impressive specimen of his species; now he was sick and old. But his huge white tusks still hung as a reminder of earlier times. The bull stood still with eyes closed, dozing in the afternoon heat. Patiently waiting, as he had for so many years, for the sun to pass its zenith. Then he could push the females out of the shade, and his harem could head for the watering hole, the best part of the day.

Lemasolai stood back in the shadows as the small fat Muzungu took his place for an easy shot to finish the bull. He strained to bring the Tropical Ruger rifle to his shoulder, then took careful aim. Close up, this beast was huge, but one shot with the Nitro 600 bullet could stop anything. The white man steadied himself. This was his fifth elephant. The trade was good. The weight of the tusks on this male would fetch a small fortune in the markets of Shanghai. Although the bull was old, he had bright white tusks, each one about six feet long, nothing broken or scarred. The hunter smiled to himself. The ivory on this beast must weigh over two hundred pounds. This was well worth the sweat and toil.

He breathed in deeply, the site on the barrel raised slightly above the elephant’s head. Then as he exhaled, the long round barrel slowly dropped through its return curve. As it reached the center of the bull’s head, he gently squeezed the trigger. The gun fired with an enormous kick, throwing the man backwards. The bullet left the end of the barrel faster than the speed of sound. The 600 Nitro Express was designed for this job: killing elephants. The 900-grain cartridge sent the half an inch lead bullet out of the barrel at 2400 feet per second. It took less than a tenth of a second to hit the animal just to the right of its left ear, causing massive damage to the old bull, but it was not an instant kill shot.

The bull knew he was going to die soon. The bullet had caused irreparable damage. But he was not dead yet. The old elephant lowered his head, letting out a guttural, primal roar as he charged at the small white human in front of him. The ground shook as the four tons of flesh covered the thirty yards in no time. Certainly not enough time to reload with another 600 Nitro Express. The white man threw his gun aside, pulling his revolver. It was a waste of time. The bullets hit the bull, but it didn’t even slow him down. The Muzungu turned to run, but as he did the gigantic old male speared him through the back with his right tusk. The bull’s eyes were going, but he could still just make out movements and colors. The end was near.

The six-foot-long tusk went straight through the center mass of the fat ‘Muzungu,’ then on as the elephant continued its death charge through the thicket. The white body was picked up and forced into the barbed acacia trees, ripping the safari jacket with all the pockets off the body, exposing and tearing the pale white flesh to pieces. The three-inch thorns tore huge gashes across the fat Muzungus’ face as he screamed in pain. The trees forced the body to slide further onto the long tusk. The hunter screamed one last time as his body was shredded. The huge bull stopped violently, swinging his head from side to side. The white man’s carcass was thrown through the air, landing in a bloody heap in the middle of the clearing he had crossed a few minutes before. The bull had his final moments. He reared and stamped on the body, crushing it into the red Tsavo dirt.

Lemasolai had stood in the darkness of the bush and watched with terror as the bullet had failed to achieve its goal. He was so glad he had covered himself in buffalo dung and was almost invisible to the huge angry beast. He could do nothing as the Muzungu was speared, ripped through the thorns, and finally thrown on the ground and trampled.

He now watched as the huge bull felt the damage of the bullet to his skull. He slowed and faltered, losing his step, no longer able to stamp his foot on all that was left of the human who had killed him. It was his end too. His movements slowed, then the majestic beast staggered to the left and the right, like a drunken man wandering home to his Manyatta. The bull had the final insult though. His legs crumpled, and he fell sideways onto the flattened remains of the white hunter.

This all happened in a few seconds. Suddenly, all hell broke loose. There were more huge bangs from the other side of the thicket. Then a smaller rat a tat tat of many small shots all firing at once. Lemasolai ran through the bushes only to witness the other five guys pouring round after round into the rest of the herd. The females desperately moved forward, trumpeting in distress, trying to protect the two small calves, but to no avail. The bullets kept coming. The poachers were hosing them with machine-gun fire, like a keeper in the zoo on a hot sunny day. One of the others loaded another Ruger Tropical and fired into the mass of animals. It took less than thirty seconds to slaughter all the elephants.

Then absolute silence.

The second in charge, a small, wiry Muzungu with slanted eyes like he looked into the sun all the time, came forward. He had done none of the shooting. Now Wai Chan Quai was all business. He shouted, “Quickly, that noise will be heard for twenty miles in all directions. We have to move fast!”

He walked over to Lemasolai. “Where is your guy, Johnson? Your man, where is he?”

Lemasolai just looked at him with a blank expression. He could not understand. Killing the old male, that was fine. But why kill the females? No one killed the females. They were the line. You never killed your lifeline. It was like killing yourself. He stared at the man with the slanted eyes.

He was shouting. “Where is Johnson? Show me, Johnson!”

Lemasolai just pointed behind him.

Two men were dispatched to the scene and returned in seconds with a report.

When Wai Chan Quai heard what had happened, he just shrugged. “Cut the tusks quickly and find the gun. Then we move. Fast now!”

The two guys ran back into the thicket carrying a long-handled axe to cave the old bull’s skull in.

The team were brutally efficient. After an hour they had four sets of grisly, bloody tusks on the ground in front of the Chinese man, combined with sixteen larger feet and eight tiny bloody ones from the calves. The Tsavo dust was covered in gore, and huge swarms of flies were greedily feasting on the fresh meat.

Lemasolai had taken the opportunity to move back into the bush. By the time the Chinese man had noticed his disappearance, he was already over three miles away, jogging under the burning sun. This was not the place for him. It was full of evil omens. You did not do what these mad white men had done.

The dollars in his robe felt heavy. When he had been given them, he could only think of going home and showing his father the things they could buy. Even better than the lion he had failed to find. But now, if he ever told his father what had happened, he would be disowned from the Manyatta, forever sent into the bush to die alone. The Maasai were warriors, not killers of female animals. That could only bring the wrath of Enkai on his head. She had sent all the cattle in the world down the bark rope from the sky to be cared for by his people. This was not caring, it was destruction. Enkai would curse him and his family for generations.

After another two miles, the moran slowed. The bundle of dollars was hot in his robe. Lemasolai took the cash out and stared at it. All he could see was the baby elephants dead and bleeding, with the mothers lying beside them dying. The warrior prayed quickly to his god, then dug a hole in the red Tsavo earth and stuffed the cash in as an offering. He stood with tears in his eyes, looking up into the clear blue sky begging Enkai for forgiveness and to look after the animals. Then with a heavy heart, he jogged off, hoping he could forget this terrible sin.

Chapter Two

 The water splashed, then the head disappeared into the depths. Gumbao stood watching where his friend and boss had just disappeared. There was now an hour to wait, with nothing to do but sit and stare at the ocean. Gumbao sat in the shade of the overhead canopy. Two 100hp Yamaha outboard engines behind him, silent now, but he knew with a click of the starter they could be moving at forty knots in a matter of seconds. The deep blue ocean stretched out all the way to the horizon. The ocean in all directions was empty; not another boat in sight. They were moored just off the coast of Kenya, some 160 miles north of Mombasa, and 25 miles south of Lamu. Three miles to the west was a small coral outcrop called Ziwayu. The place was occupied by seasonal shark fishermen. The island was just a tiny, barren rock sticking out of the ocean with reed huts for shelter. The boat was anchored above what his boss called a bomma, a massive mountain under the ocean.

Gumbao was proud of his boat. It was a 32-foot long fiberglass-hulled speed boat, with a beam of only six and a half feet. She sliced through the water like a knife through butter and could handle some of the worst weather the Indian Ocean could throw at her. He had taken ownership of the craft more by way of salvage than purchase. The original owners had been Somali pirates that Gumbao and his boss Brody had run into a year or so ago. The pirates had come to a sticky final end. Gumbao had been the lucky marine salvager on hand to relieve them of their property. He grinned his wide toothless smile as he thought of the day, then took a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his torn, grubby cut-off denim shorts and lit one with a paper match. Life had been good. Mr. Brody, his boss, always seemed to have some money and was generous with it.

Gumbao enjoyed the simple life. He was not exactly sure how old he was. Life had started in the back streets of Old Town Mombasa. His mother, a well-known local prostitute, had left him outside a mosque, wrapped in an old dirty blanket.

Life on the narrow, rubbish-strewn streets had started as soon as he could run. He begged and stole what he could to get by. A born athlete, he was faster on his feet than most with quick, nimble fingers, essential for this line of work. Then one lucky day, he had been stealing fish in the local market when a huge hand grabbed his shirt collar. The hand proceeded to wrap itself around his scrawny neck. The skinny, half-starved kid was picked up by the fisherman he had been attempting to relieve of some fish and thrown bodily onto a boat. Another guy grabbed him and chucked him below, slamming the hatch shut, leaving the street urchin in total darkness. Within minutes, an engine started and they were heading out to sea. Gumbao was then a member of the crew, fed and worked night and day for three weeks plying the coast. When the fisherman returned to Mombasa, he had been offered his freedom, but refused. This new life had a lot more excitement for a young lad than running the streets of Old Town.

Now he was here. His hair was white, and he had several teeth missing. But he was alive, had a full belly, and was the proud owner of a boat. As far as Gumbao was concerned, life was good.

Sixty-five feet below, William Brody was floating above the huge rock. After back rolling off the boat. he had finned quickly to the anchor line. The current racing north instantly seized him and tried to carry him away. On the surface, it was running at over seven knots. He grabbed the line, then emptied his Buoyancy Control Device (B.C.D.) of air. The lead weights around his waist started to slowly pull him below the surface. At six feet, he duck-dived, emptied his lungs, and pushed for the bottom. At around fifty feet, the large rock he was heading for diverted the current. The enormous block of limestone was clearly visible from forty yards away. The water along this coast was as clear as glass. It took about another two minutes to safely arrive at the top of the bomma.

A few days earlier, Brody had been out sailing in Shukran, the old wooden dhow he and his crew lived on. The depth sounder started bleeping like a mad robot as she passed over this coral outcrop. Hassan, another member of the crew, had noted it as a definite place to take a look at.

As Brody neared the coral, he blew some air into the B.C.D. to get neutral buoyancy. Now the exploration could begin. He felt like Speke or Lugard, the first Victorian Explorers to open up this country, seeing things for the first time, places no white man had ever set eyes on before. This area was not dived at all. A tingle went down his spine like a rush of cold water as a small burst of adrenaline hit his bloodstream. He was probably the only person on the planet that even knew this place existed.

The fish swirling above the corals did not bother with the newcomer. They had never seen a diver before, but his bright red wetsuit fit in with all of their garish colors. It was strange to be at this depth all alone. The only sound was the air leaving his mouthpiece as it created mushroom-shaped bubbles that headed for the surface. Although he was some seventy feet down, the four-millimeter full wetsuit did its job. The water was about 65 degrees, a comfortable temperature. Off to the left, the plateau spread out to about sixty feet, covered in a multitude of corals both hard and soft, even some lovely, rare, dark-green and golden-brown fans, stretching up towards the surface, slowly wafting in the gentle current moving over the top of his personal mountain.

This was a pleasure trip, just to enjoy the sights of a pristine coral reef. No fishing. The six-foot-long deadly spear gun was on the boat. Just looking at mother nature at her best. All around him was color. The brown thorn corals, full of damselfish, snaked across the top of the stone mountain. Large flat sandy areas sat in-between. Swimming above the outcrops were thousands of small fish. Each one seemed to be vying for attention with bright colors, stripes, and orange spots. All the fish big and small milled together, staying just close enough to the holes and crevices to be able to race back inside if a predator approached. Long-necked bright blue and gold ribbon eels, about as thick as his finger and up to four feet long, stretched out of holes in the rock, their mouths agape and black beady eyes staring. In the sandy patches oddly shaped and blandly colored crocodile fish lay partially covered. Three or four at a time in a line, as if waiting for the lights to change before they moved on, their long snouts, with large black spots, protruding and bulging eyes on top of bony heads swiveling as Brody floated above. This place felt like an alien landscape full of strange and wonderful creatures, with Brody hovering like a spaceman just above the planet’s surface.

He reached the edge of the plateau and peered into the abyss of blackness below. It seemed to go on forever. He knew it was at least another three hundred feet to the bottom. A fat shimmer of water raced up from the depths. He shivered as it washed through the wetsuit. The thermocline, like a cold breeze blew up from below. Larger fish idled in the up-welling, enjoying the day. The water surged from the ocean bottom, full of life-giving nutrients feeding the reef and its occupants. About twenty feet away slowly drifting in circles, six blacktip reef sharks lazed in the current. Their tails finned against the current, almost invisible against the gray ocean backdrop, with dead eyes and very sharp teeth, waiting for the evening when they would head to the reef to hunt.

Brody wandered back across the enormous bomma enjoying the sights. The computer on his arm beeped four times, telling him his total bottom time was up and to head for the surface. He lazily swam over to the anchor, checking it was not stuck too firmly in the rocks, then slowly started heading for the surface. From this depth, it would take another fifteen minutes to get back to the boat. But he was in no hurry. A flat-headed remora, looking for another large fish to attach its flat head too, followed him up the rope swimming around his waist, good company for the six-minute safety stop.

After handing his dive jacket and cylinder to Gumbao, Brody climbed the ladder onto the boat. Gumbao said, “All OK, Boss?”

Brody, as usual, said, “No worries, Gumbao. Let’s head for Shukran. I’m starving.”

Gumbao fired up the engines while Brody went forward to pull the anchor.

As they headed back towards the small island in the distance, where Shukran their old wooden dhow was moored, Gumbao said, “Boss, we should take the boat out tonight and find some swordfish.”

Brody replied, “Where do we find them?”

Gumbao pointed east. “Boss. We head out that way, about 25 miles, until we hit the North Kenya Banks.”

Brody said, “Shit, Gumbao, that’s a bloody long way, and we go at night!”

Gumbao smiled. “Hey, Boss, you gettin’ soft. If we leave around 4 this afternoon, we’ll get there before the sun goes down. Fish all night. When the sun comes up, we race back here for breakfast. Hakuna Matata,” ‘No problem’.

Brody nodded. “Sounds like a good plan. I haven’t caught swordfish before.”

Thirty minutes later they were nosing into the lee side of Ziwayu Island. Out of the wind was a huge golden sandy beach. Just off the island in deeper water, Shukran sat at anchor, gently rising and falling with the slight swell.

She was a 40-foot long, wooden, ocean-going fat-bellied dhow. Made from dark mahogany and mvule from the ancient forests of Tanzania. On deck, ropes were coiled neatly ready for use, spigots and pulleys made from the same hardwood were kept greased, and the brass and copper fittings shone in the early afternoon sun. Large colorful cushions festooned the fifteen-foot-wide bench seat at the stern. Below, dark stained lockers contained all the crew needed for day-to-day living in the open. In the centre of the stern, jutting out some six feet into the dhow, an intricately carved tiller sat silently, connected to the heavy wooden rudder deep in the water which in turn was hooked onto the last rib of the boat. Above was a wooden roof reaching forward some fourteen feet, offering shade from the sun and shelter from the rain.

The scoured, planked deck stretched out in front of them some fifteen feet wide and forty feet long. At midships, the lateen sailing boom was supported by the thick tree trunk mast, then laid on the roof of the rear cabin. Hassan had spread the triangular, patched sail to dry and offer some shade from the bright morning sun. The engine room, below the rear cabin, was spotless, not a drop of oil or grease out of place. The old Yanmar 120hp engine stood proudly in the centre, bolted through the floor to the fat mangrove ribs. This small piece of paradise was home for Brody and his crew: Gumbao and Hassan.

Brody jumped aboard Shukran and immediately shouted. “Hassan, Habari Gani?” a traditional greeting in Swahili.

Hassan replied from behind his cooking pot set in the shade. “Habari Boss, Karibu lunch na kahawa.” He then handed Brody a steaming cup of strong, sugary Arabic coffee, called ‘Kahawa Thungi,’ he had been brewing on the stove.

Brody said, “Asante,” Thank you in Kiswahili.

Hassan went on. “Boss. How was the dive? Did you see those lovely fish you keep telling us about? Allah put them there to eat not to be looked at. I hope you speared one for our supper?”

Brody replied, “Hassan, not this time. This was just for pleasure. No spears today. Anyway, you know I never spearfish with my tanks. That’s not fair!”

“Boss, those fish don’t know fair!”

“That’s true. But I do like an even fight, where I don’t have all the aces.”

Hassan wandered off back to his cooking pot, mumbling about Allah’s gifts and how fish were just food.

Brody grabbed a bucket of freshwater and tipped it over his head to get rid of some of the salt, then shouted down to Gumbao who was on the speed boat tying it off to the stern of Shukran. “Gumbao, bring the tanks up. We can refill them now before we leave for the night fishing.”

Hassan asked, “Where you going fishing at night Boss?”

“Gumbao says if we go out east for about twenty-five miles there are some rip currents where the swordfish live. I’ve never caught one before and want to give it a go. Meant to be a hell of a fight. Some of them get to over 1000 lbs.”

Hassan, unlike Gumbao, was the cautious one of the crew. He always saw the dangers. “Boss. You sure you want to go all the way out there in the nighttime? There’s only a small piece of the moon tonight. It will be black; you won’t see anything.”

Brody replied, “Ah, Hassan, we’ll be fine. You can stay here and watch Shukran. We’ll be back just after dawn.”

“I’ll pull Shukran out to deeper water and watch you on the radar, make sure you’re ok.”

Brody laughed, “OK, my friend, we’ll not get lost.”

Gumbao set the mini–Bauer Dive Mate compressor on the deck and checked the 1hp engine for oil and fuel. Once he was satisfied all was in working order, he jerked the long starter rope. The small engine spluttered, not sounding too happy. Gumbao adjusted the fuel and air mixture, making it spring into life. Once it was purring happily, the dive tanks were attached. The small compressor could fill the aluminum cylinders to 3000 psi in just over 14 minutes.

Hassan brought him a bowl of chili fish soup and ugali, a lump of maize meal mixed with boiling water, a staple from the coast of Kenya.

“Brother, you’re mad heading out at night. Why do you take our Muzungu to dangerous places?”

Gumbao laughed. “Hassan, you’re young and cautious. We need to keep this man happy. He loves adventure. We can’t cage him, or he’ll just leave and never come back.”

“Eh, Brother, you push too hard. One of these days I’ll not be there to save your ass.”

Gumbao slurped his soup. “Don’t worry. You’re like a wife I have back in Pemba, always nagging about how safe life has to be. That’s why I never go there anymore. I’ll bring him back.”

The afternoon passed swimming in the shallows off the beach and drinking cold Tusker, the local lager, it was about the only beer you could buy. At their last stop in Mombasa, before heading north to explore the Lamu Archipelago, Brody had fitted an electric fridge run off the alternator on the 120hp diesel engine. This had brought a whole new dimension to the dhow. Hassan, the self-elected first mate and cook, could now store food for longer, and Brody had ice-cold beer.

Just before 17:00, Gumbao climbed up from his work on the speed boat. “Boss. I’ve filled the fuel tanks, we have two rods and bait, plus some cold beers in the cooler box. I’m ready to go.”

Brody answered, “OK. Five minutes.” He then said, “Hassan, can you move Shukran to the outer edge of the sandbank and anchor her? You can watch us on the radar screen.”

“Will it reach that far Boss?”

“I think so. It said in the manual it could see for about 25 nautical miles. I want a backup. You never know what can happen out there.”

“OK, Boss, no problem. When it all goes wrong, I’ll come and collect you,” Hassan said with a broad grin.

Brody jumped aboard the smaller boat as Gumbao gunned the engines, eager to get moving. Immediately, the boat raced off into the distance, up on the plane moving through the slow evening swells at 35 knots.

Hassan stood on the deck and watched them go. He knew Gumbao well. They had been friends on Pemba Island back before Mr. Brody had arrived. Gumbao was an old fisherman who lived for the sea, any excuse and he was gone.

After starting the small diesel engine of Shukran, then pulling the old steel anchor from the sandy bottom, he maneuvered the dhow out into deeper water, where the island would not get in the way of the radar. Hassan was an accomplished mariner. The rules in his home village of Pemba had been: if the schoolmistress did not pass you at the age of ten, your father got you back to learn fishing. Hassan had been terrible at school, so fishing and boats had been his trade from a very early age. His smart sister Zainab was heading for the mainland in Dar-Es-Salaam for university. But he was restless and could never sit in those hot classrooms looking at dry, dusty books when the ocean was calling his name.

Shukran motored about 200 yards off the small rocky outcrop. Once clear, he knocked the engine into neutral and ran to the bow, releasing the anchor into the calm blue waters. It dragged along the sandy bottom for a few yards before the spade-shaped end dug into the soft bottom. The craft slowly swung herself on the anchor, finding the gentle current pushing to the north. Once all was settled, Hassan turned the Lowrance HDS10 navigation equipment on. The set-up sequence took a few minutes to run its course, finding satellites to pinpoint their location. When the machine was ready, he quickly found the only moving target on the green blinking screen and clicked on it to maintain monitoring. The boat was still moving at over 25 knots. Gumbao was mad! They would reach their destination before the sun went down. Why always the rush?

Just as the sun headed down in a golden, fiery ball behind the mainland, Hassan noticed two blips appear on the radar to the west. They seemed to suddenly arrive on his screen out of the large block of solid mass which was Africa. He watched with interest as the little green blobs floated onto the display. They were about four miles to his south, keeping a safe and wary distance from the small island he was moored near. After watching for a few moments, he realized they had come out of the Tana River delta system. This he knew was a massive, lawless, swampy area full of crocodiles, hippos, and big snakes, not a place for boats to be. The head of the Tana River ran through a small village called Kipini. Gumbao had taken him there a few days earlier for some supplies. Kipini was a dusty, frontier town. The old shopkeeper was fast asleep on his rickety porch when Hassan had arrived. The old Swahili man was very happy to open the small shop for them, probably his only customers of the day. Hassan had bought flour, chilies, and some whisky for Gumbao, along with his smokes. As they were leaving on the speed boat, some hippos had meandered along the beach in the early morning sun, heading back into the river system before the sun-cracked their skin.

The small green dots wandered across the screen, apparently heading for deeper water. As usual in the ocean around here, it was better to be missed than noticed. A light could easily be seen from eight miles away. You never knew who was going to arrive, so Hassan put all the lights out, then sat watching the screen as the boats passed him by in the darkness.

Brody and Gumbao were hammering across the flat ocean, weaving along the sides of the low swells trying to find a path which would not make the hull smack the waves. Gumbao was a fine seaman, so could adjust the boat’s speed and direction to give them as smooth a ride as possible. However, his wild side often got the better of him. There was no sitting down on the boat; one hand was always holding something. Brody was ready for the inevitable slap of the hull against the front of a wave, then the lurch forward as the powerful boat suddenly slowed down, like hitting a deep pothole in the road jarring up through your spine.

The fast speed boat reached the rips just before darkness. They were a little further out than Gumbao had expected, more like 30 miles offshore. As they approached, it was immediately apparent as the water changed. Large long waves seemed to move across the top of the ocean perpendicular to the rest. It created what looked like a wide freeway running north to south, with defined edges and rough tumbling waves in the center. It was an eerie sight with calm water either side.

Gumbao said, “Boss, you take the controls, I’ll run the lines out the back. We stay about this far off the side of the rips. The swordfish swim on the edge of these currents just below the surface.”

Brody took control and steered the boat to about fifteen feet from the edge of the waves, and cut the engine down until they were moving at six knots through the water.

Gumbao set the lines, attaching the brightly colored lures, with four razor-sharp barbed hooks hidden inside, to the six-foot-long teaser lines. Once he was satisfied everything was ready, he threw the lures in the wash from the engine, letting line off the back of the boat. When the shiny lures were bouncing along on the surface some eighty feet behind them, the brake and ratchet on the reel were set.

The only thing left to do now was watch and wait. The boat slowly trawled along the edge of the rip current, hoping to find a fish that was hungry, and a bit stupid. Brody cracked a bottle of Tusker and Gumbao lit a cigarette. This could be a long boring night doing nothing, or it could suddenly get very busy if a large fish took the lure.

The powerful craft easily cut through the water with only the dim lights from the instruments showing. Quiet, oily dark water on the starboard side and rough whitecaps on the port. The engines were humming, pushing them against the current at trawling speed. With no radar and only a hand-held G.P.S., they were committed to the night. The sun had dipped behind the horizon about two hours ago, then almost immediately the boat had been plunged into total darkness. The moon would not come up for a couple of hours, and even then, it would be a small sliver of light giving little or no benefit. Although it was still a sultry night, a shiver went down Brody’s back as the darkness descended. The boat was an insignificant speck, lost in the enormousness of the uncaring sea.

As the night wore on, they both fell into thought. This was the way of the fisherman: waiting and waiting, bobbing on the surface, hoping for something to find a tiny brightly colored float in a vast ocean, and then think it a good idea to swallow it! It was like gambling in a casino; the odds were stacked against you. At around midnight, the reel on the port side started whining as the line went out. There was immediate panic for a few moments, then Gumbao shouted, “Shit, Boss, its weed. Forget it, bloody stuff.”

They settled back down into their reverie. Brody was thinking of all the times he had sat on boats during his Special Boat Service days, usually cold and wet, with night vision binoculars searching a lost coastline for lights or hunched over the radar waiting to see the drug smugglers with their high-powered cigarette boats race onto the screen. It was the same as fishing, from zero to high alert in a second, everyone on an adrenaline high, rushing to their stations. The two S.B.S. semi-rigid ribs powered with two 250hp Mercury engines would race across the ocean to intercept the overpowered smuggler’s craft. When the S.B.S. were close to the fast-moving vessel, the gunner in the bow would put some 30 caliber rounds across their bow. A short gun battle usually ensued until the smugglers realized they were not just a rival gang trying to steal the contraband. Finally, they would board the boat and tear it to pieces looking for the magic white powder so many people would kill for.

Gumbao sat at the stern, ever watchful of the reels. He could not see the lures. They were lost in the darkness. But the reels and the rod tips were telling him what was going on out there. If a swordfish hit, they would scream at him. Then he would flick on the large flashlight above the canopy, and they would fight the fish to the boat.

Hassan had watched Brody and Gumbao until they had reached the outer limits of the radar. That had been around 18:30, the final glimpse of them speeding through the water. As the green blob had faded, he marked the spot out of habit and waited. The rips must be further than Gumbao thought. Mind you, his friend did not think in terms of miles or kilometers. It was usually time. A fisherman here said he would be back around nightfall or in a couple of days. They had no idea of the actual distance covered, so on Gumbao’s side it had been a guess.

He sat dozing with the screen on beside him. The night sky above was clear, the Milky Way like a bright cloud of sparks and light shining just overhead. He had loved the stars at night since he was a child. They offered a wonderful escape for his imagination. On Pemba Island where he was born, there were not many choices for a young lad: either study hard in school and try to get to the mainland for university or fishing. Hassan and books had not worked out well at all. Every day was just as hard as the last, with frequent beatings for not knowing the Koran as all the other pupils did. On his tenth birthday, the teacher came to the two-room family house in the village and explained to his father that education was just not working. The following day, Hassan was a fisherman, on the boats long before sunrise out in the forty-five mile Pemba channel between the island and the mainland, hunting for fish, not returning until after dark. This had been his life for over ten years. Then he had been given his own boat and guided occasional tourist trips for extra income. But he always found time in the slow rhythm of village life to head out to sea on a lovely evening and just sit in the pitch dark. A couple of baited hooks over the side, staring up at his beloved stars. A wave washed against the hull of Shukran bringing him back from his dreams. All that could be done now was to sleep. When the speed boat came back into the radar’s sights in the morning, he would watch its approach. When it arrived, he would give Gumbao a piece of his mind.

Brody looked at his watch as his last beer went down, it was going to 02:00. They had been chugging along for hours, with nothing happening. Now he had no beer and another three and a half hours before the sun would start to poke its head up in the east, giving enough light for them to head home. All around them it was pitch black. Nothing but the hum of the engines and the splash of the waves on the hull as they continued to trawl up and down the rip current. Every hour or so they would turn the boat 180 degrees and head back the way they had come, into the wind. They had fresh spray on their faces. Now they were heading north with the wind, so they washed along lifting and dropping with the waves. Gumbao had pulled the lures in a couple of times and then reset them. All they could do was wait and hope.

Suddenly, the starboard reel started screaming really loud. The rod almost bent double. This was one hell of a fish. Brody and Gumbao jumped to life.

Gumbao shouted, “Stop the boat, Boss. This is huge.”

Brody pulled the throttles to center, putting the boat in idle. Then shouted, “What’s happening Gumbao?”

He didn’t answer. He was busy pulling the other line in. As suddenly as it started, the reel stopped screaming and sat silently as the rod straightened up.

Brody said, “What the fuck is this, Gumbao?”

Gumbao looked up. “Boss. I’ve no idea. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

A few seconds later, a bright light lit the water about one hundred yards behind them.

Gumbao said, “Boss, we’ve hooked another boat. Those bastards went over our line, and it went into their prop.”

Brody said, “Shit, man, we’ll have to go over and sort this bloody mess out.”

Gumbao reeled in the line as Brody reversed the speed boat over towards the other craft. As they got closer and came into the light, the crew on the other boat started shouting. “Stop! Stop! You cannot come closer!”

Brody yelled back. “Look, we need to untangle the line. I want my lure back.”

The crew carried on shouting. “Stop, do not come any closer!”

Brody asked, “Why? Do you need help? We can assist in untangling your prop so you can get on your way.”

He turned to Gumbao and said, “Switch the light on.”

Suddenly, they could see the boat in front of them clearly. It was about 35 feet long, a shallow draft cargo boat, more for use on rivers than the ocean. As its bottom was so flat, it was wallowing in the water. The waves were picking and dropping it. The bow was dipping so low the splash back from the waves was washing over, letting water into the boat. There was a big green tarpaulin amidships, and the fiberglass hull sat heavy in the water, loaded to the maximum.

Brody shouted again, “Look. I can see you need help. We can come alongside and untangle your prop before you take on too much water.”

A guy appeared in the light. He was a small thin, wiry Chinese. He shouted back, “No, just cut your line and leave. Don’t come any closer.”

This pissed Brody off a bit. “Hey, I want my lure back. It cost money, and now it’s dangling off your boat, I’m coming over to get it. I can dive in and cut it free, then we can both go our separate ways. No harm no foul.”

One of the crew had been working on the prop, and another had untied one corner of the tarp to get a knife. Suddenly a small gust blew the tarpaulin back a good four feet. Brody looked in horror. The boat was full of tusks. He could see rhino and buffalo plus six massive elephant tusks.

The Chinese guy immediately saw the problem. This could not go on he reached behind him, pulling something from his belt. Brody’s senses were now on high alert: a strange encounter in the ocean and witnessing these smugglers’ crimes. He instantly knew they were in mortal danger.

Brody shouted, “Gumbao, cut the line!”

He rammed the engines into gear and the boat surged forward as Gumbao slashed at the remaining fishing line.

Then the bullets came. Brody strangely thought, “That’s a Heckler and Koch.” They raced away from the smuggler’s boat. Just as Brody was reaching for the light switch, the halogen bulb above his head smashed as a bullet went through it, showering them with glass. Then more peppered the rear of their craft. Brody slammed the throttles to the full and started weaving the boat across the ocean to escape the hail of bullets attacking them like a swarm of locusts.

They cleared the circle of light and raced off into the darkness as fast as the boat would go. After about another five minutes, the port engine stuttered, then stopped. Brody took it out of gear, lifting it up out of the water to create less drag and ploughed on at half the speed heading north. Then the second engine sputtered and stopped. They had no light and no engines, sat like ducks waiting to be shot in a bathtub.

Brody said in the silence, “Can you hear anything?”

“No, Boss.”

“You sure? nothing at all?”

“Hey, Boss, there is a noise from the south that way.”

Brody craned his ears, opening his mouth slightly to improve his hearing.

There was a faint humming coming from the south. They sat waiting to see if it would get louder. If they were found helplessly bobbing in the water, it would be a one-way fight, fast and furious. Brody looked around for a weapon. The only thing he had was his heavy stainless-steel dive knife. He figured if they came, he would dive into the water, then try to board the other boat. He knew it was useless. Whoever they were had automatic weapons. But he would not go down without a fight. He could probably get one or two of them. But after another ten minutes, it was silent. The smugglers had left.

Brody let out a sigh of relief. “Shit. That was close. They were ivory smugglers. Must be out here meeting a larger ship. There was at least a ton of ivory on that boat.”

“Hey, Boss, we were lucky. Those guys don’t take prisoners they treat everyone like a Tembo.”

“What’s a Tembo?”

“Ah, Boss, that’s elephant in Swahili.”

Brody sat for a minute in thought. “So, what do we do now?”

“Boss, we wait for the light, then fix the engine and go home.”

Gumbao relaxed in the seat, then dozed off within a couple of minutes. Nothing seemed to stress him. Brody looked at his watch. There would be no sleep for him. The sun would be up in about an hour, then they could get the engine running and head back to the mainland.