Stephen Leather - The Hunting

Falkner nodded and motioned for Van der Sandt to go forward. It was to be Van der Sandt’s kill so he was to take the lead, but Falkner had his gun at the ready just in case.

Van der Sandt felt his heart pounding in his chest – literally the thrill of the hunt. He breathed evenly as he moved slowly across the brush. Brambles scraped against his boots but he ignored them, totally focused on his quarry. They were a hundred feet away from the bull but it seemed to be unaware of their presence as it ripped away the bark.

There was another trumpeting from the lead female. Was she trying to warn the bull? Probably not. Her only concern was the females and the calves – the bulls came and went and were totally replaceable.

Falkner moved to the side, switching his attention back and forth between the herd and the trophy. Van der Sandt had his finger outside the trigger guard but had the barrels up. His heart was still beating fast and his hands began to shake as his body reacted to the adrenaline that was coursing through it. The elephant turned so that its back was full on to them and its tail twitched as it continued to attack the tree. The baobab tree had a long lifespan and there were examples that were more than two thousand years old, but by the time the elephant had finished, this tree wouldn’t last much longer. It wasn’t only the drought that was killing the habitat.

Van der Sandt began moving to the side. The best place, possibly the only place, for a quick kill was to shoot the elephant between the ears, four to six inches below the eyes. The instinctive reaction would be to shoot above the eyes but there was too much protection there and even the Nitro Express round would have difficulty penetrating the skull at that point.

He was now about fifty metres from his quarry. Falkner had moved with him so that he could keep the herd in view but could also shoot the trophy if it charged. Falkner nodded his encouragement. Van der Sandt swallowed. His mouth had gone dry and he licked his lips. He really wanted a drink from his canteen, but now was not the time to be sating his thirst. The elephant turned its head as if sensing their presence for the first time. It was upwind of them so it hadn’t smelt them, and they were moving quietly so Van der Sandt was pretty sure it hadn’t heard them either. There was another instinct at play, an animal sense that was warning the elephant there was danger nearby.

Van der Sandt kept walking. Forty metres. His right foot brushed a rock and a large snake slithered away into the bush. Botswana was home to more than seventy species of snakes, including venomous ones like the black mamba, the puff adder and the Mozambique spitting cobra, but he had disturbed a non-venomous rufous beaked snake so he ignored it.

The elephant was slowly turning now, shuffling its massive feet and raising its trunk. Thirty metres.

The elephant threw up its trunk and trumpeted at the two hunters, then flapped its ears menacingly.

Van der Sandt slid his finger over the front trigger. The elephant stamped on the ground raising clouds of dust. Then it threw its head up and down, snorting angrily, and flapped its ears even more. Van der Sandt’s mouth was completely dry now but his hands had stopped shaking.

The female was trumpeting again but he ignored it. Falkner was behind him to his left but Van der Sandt ignored the guide, too. The elephant was the centre of his universe. If it charged now he would have only seconds in which to react. Twenty-five metres.

The elephant stamped with both front feet, then pawed at the ground, still flapping its ears. Van der Sandt knew that the pawing was a prelude to a charge so he stopped where he was and raised the rifle. He took a breath, held it for a second, and then braced himself and squeezed the trigger. The round smacked into the bridge of the trunk. The perfect shot. The elephant blinked and then shook its head and flapped its ears. A dribble of blood ran from the wound. Van der Sandt fired again but this time his aim was slightly off and the shot hit the beast above the eyes.

Van der Sandt was already ejecting the two used cartridges as the elephant turned to its right. Falkner was at Van der Sandt’s shoulder now but the guide kept his gun down. He knew this was Van der Sandt’s kill and he wouldn’t interfere unless their lives were in danger. Van der Sandt slotted in two fresh cartridges and snapped the breeches shut.

The herd had scattered and were running away from the sound of the shots, the mothers helping their calves along.

The trophy elephant was walking away and looked as if it was straining to break into a run. Van der Sandt walked quickly, bringing the gun to bear on the animal’s left hip. The important thing to do now was to put the animal out of its misery. He stopped, took aim and fired at the animal’s rear leg. It buckled and the elephant sagged to the side, its ears still flapping.

Van der Sandt walked around the animal as it slowly sat back on its haunches, giving a wide berth to the trunk that could easily break his leg if the animal lashed out. The elephant’s massive chest was heaving now but the eyes were still clear and it watched Van der Sandt as he came to a halt close to its shoulder. The elephant’s left eye kept watching him as he pointed the gun at the beast’s ear and pulled the trigger. The shotgun exploded and the elephant keeled over. Its chest heaved twice and then went still.

‘Nice kill,’ said Falkner, clapping Van der Sandt on the shoulder. ‘Has to be seven tons at least. And look at the size of those tusks.’

Van der Sandt grinned. It was one hell of a trophy. It was just a pity that he couldn’t take the tusks back to the United States. He took his iPhone from his vest and gave it to Falkner. ‘Let’s have some pictures,’ he said.

He knelt down by the dead animal’s head and posed as the guide snapped away with the phone. Van der Sandt had stopped posting pictures of his kills on social media after seeing a number of hunters named and shamed by the public. These days he kept the photographs for personal use, or to show fellow hunters. Van der Sandt had given up trying to bring people around to his way of thinking. He enjoyed hunting and there was no way he was going to give up that enjoyment just because some ill-informed snowflakes didn’t like what he was doing.

Falkner took a dozen or so photographs and then gave the phone back to Van der Sandt. He took out his radio and called the support team who were waiting in Land Rovers a mile away. They would cut up the animal, distribute the meat to local villages and transport the tusks back to the lodge. They would also bring with them a chilled bottle of champagne and canapés to celebrate the kill. The two men would be driven back to the lodge to continue their celebrations.

Van der Sandt rested the gun on his shoulder and looked down at the dead beast. It had been a hell of a kill. One of his best.

CHAPTER 2

As Jon Van der Sandt nibbled on foie gras canapés and sipped chilled Bollinger, some six and a half thousand kilometres away eight men were also preparing to go hunting. They weren’t carrying handmade double-barrelled rifles that cost six figures; their weapons of choice were Kalashnikov AK-47s, chipped and scarred from years of use and costing an average of six hundred dollars each.

The eight men were in a hotel room, loading rounds in the distinctive curved magazines, each of which held forty rounds. Regular AK-47 magazines held thirty rounds but the men were using larger ones made of polymer that could hold forty. Each man had ten magazines, a total of four hundred rounds each. When they had finished loading them they used duct tape to bind them into pairs, nose to tail, so that reloading was simply a matter of pulling out the empty magazine, twisting it around and inserting the fresh one. Once all the magazines were loaded and taped together, they were placed in nylon backpacks. They worked quickly and efficiently, their movements well practised.