The Congo Affair
Norman Shakespeare
Copyright 2014 Norman Shakespeare,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-2419-4
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Disclaimer
This book is pure fiction. None of the characters represent anyone in real life and none of the content is intended to be historically, culturally, naturally, or geographically factual.
Chapter 1
Although nothing seemed out of the ordinary, James woke earlier than usual with a subtle, inexplicable feeling of foreboding. Through the bug screen he watched the resident troop of vervet monkeys scamper across dewy lawns to forage in the giant banana trees behind the bungalows. Tendrils of early-morning mist seeped from the shadows and disappeared with the squawking cries of gaudy parrots echoing under the dense, gloomy canopy.
He decided to take a walk along the river; on weekends he spent many hours exploring the primeval tranquility of the mighty Congo. He donned cargo shorts, sneakers, and bush hat: more than enough for the climate. On workdays he added a short-sleeved cotton shirt, to look a little more businesslike.
With an old canvas satchel containing water bottle, dried nuts and assorted gear, and a fishing rod in hand, he stepped into the pre-dawn humidity. The screen door banged behind him.
The sound of distant tom-toms floated across the river from the wall of vegetation on the far side. It wasunusual to hear drums so early in the morning; they fuelled his sense of unease.
A thirty-yard walk through a partially concealed side-gate and across a sloping, grassy flood plain led to the banks of the river. As far as he knew, James was the only person in the compound who used this gate: it was probably used during construction five years earlier. Most inhabitants lived for the day when they would return to ‘civilization’: few aware of or interested in the ‘real’ Africa outside the fence.
On a baking-hot afternoon six months earlier, while observing a butcher-bird hanging its insect prey on the fence to dry, he had found the gate-key dangling innocently on the razor wire near the gate. It was coated in a thin layer of spider web; and an insect had built a cocoon on the side. Assuming no one else knew of the key, he had moved it to a more private location.
The gate was nearly a mile upstream of the main entrance and the wharf which were obscured by a wide bend in the river.
The plaintive, haunting cry of a fish eagle greeted him as he waded through soft, waist-high grass on the slope down to the flood plain. It reminded him of the Bald Eagles back home. He cautiously approached the top of the sandy, fifteen-foot cliff above the deep, silently-moving water.
Early morning forays were often rewarded with magnificent views of elephant, buffalo, and other animals at the water's edge. Today the river was deserted, mostly shrouded in low mist that concealed the far side.
It was a spectacular sight. A mile-wide swathe of swirling, brilliant white vapor gleamed snow-like in the first rays of sunlight. The huge red ball lifting over distant mountains dusted fluffy pink tints on its surface.
As he strolled quietly along the bank, James felt at one with nature. Behind him, the tall grey support-structures of the launch site contrasted with the jungle. An Orion rocket, after which the base was named, stood patiently waiting for launch day, now delayed indefinitely. The supply route by river from the coast was often closed due to civil unrest and the grass airstrip, unused since the Hercules transports stopped coming a month before, was already overgrown with grass and small bushes; on the equator everything grew faster.
The aircraft had been shot at by rebels in the jungle, effectively closing the only viable supply link to the coast. The ferry route was much longer but slightly safer. Most of the passengers on the ancient vessels were poverty-stricken natives who posed little threat to warring parties. It was a tenuous supply-line at best; more than one thousand four hundred miles of often turbulent, bush-flanked river, serviced by a few dilapidated ferries: when they weren’t under repair.
As if by magic the mist evaporated and the full splendor of Africa’s mightiest river unfolded; the silent, shifting expanse broken only by small clumps of drifting salvinia weed. A skein of Egyptian geese skimmed nose-to-tail a foot above the water, honking in turn.
Although infested with crocodiles, hippopotamuses and numerous undocumented threats, described by the natives in terrifying detail, nothing broke the surface. James had grown up in Africa and discounted most of the tales as pure superstition exaggerated by primitive fears and fuelled by the ever-present jungle, mysterious and brooding, even to his skeptical western eyes. The cradle of life was a catalyst for fertile imaginations.
There were huge eels, catfish, and tiger fish, all fearsome and some capable of eating a grown man, but he doubted the stories of two-hundred foot monsters, three feet thick, that swallowed whole boats full of people. Selfishly perhaps, it suited him to add credibility to the accounts of the wide-eyed natives; fewer residents of the compound would be inclined to venture into his personal domain. A private, million-square-mile park appealed to him.
The water was clear and fresh but ran so deep it was difficult to see the bottom, except in shallower areas where sunlight reflected off the white sand below. Sometimes dark shapes loomed under passing boats; submerged logs or hippopotamuses trying to escape the relentless equatorial sun.
‘Mboka’ and ‘Congo Queen,’ the ferries that plied the hundred-mile stretch from Ubundu, had eight-foot drafts, but rarely touched bottom. Massive, floating logs, some more than eighty feet long and four in diameter, were much more of a danger than shoal water.
A rustling in the gully ahead brought James to a silent crouch. All along the bank, small, perennial streams cut steeply to the river, forming short ramps in the sandy alluvial soil and providing wildlife with easy access to drinking water. Dense thickets of reeds up to fifteen feet tall filled these mini-gorges and obscured all manner of dangerous occupants. He waited patiently.
Another loud rustle, followed by the wrenching sound of vegetation being torn from the ground gave a clue. Amongst the reed beds, patches of lush green grass grew thick in the rich silt. Hippopotamuses, the second largest animal in Africa, and nocturnal by nature, spend nights grazing the flood-plains and grassy slopes right up to the perimeter fence. In the day they usually return to the coolness of the river to rest. Occasionally one needed a 'midnight snack' and ventured into the reeds during daylight.
Although ‘hippos’ are vegetarian, James was well aware of the danger of surprising a two-ton wild animal when it was out of its natural daytime retreat. He backed off very slowly and quietly, choosing to fish further away.
This section of river was on the outside of a wide bend; the current eroded the bank over the years as it gradually changed course like a huge, twisting snake, When large trees were undermined they fell into the river, providing shelter for small fish and a food-source for larger ones.
James stripped twenty yards of line from his reel onto the sand at his feet. The dark brown sinking-line and ten foot leader was tipped with two feet of fine, nylon-coated steel wire, and a number sixteen Mrs. Simpson fly. Without the steel tippet the razor-sharp interlocking teeth of the notorious tiger fish would bite through the line and steal the fly in an instant. James tried to avoid the larger tigers and catfish; hooking a hundred-pounder from the bank, in the strong current, was useless and could result in the loss of line, tippet, and fly.
Three