news from the year 2021

"EVER WONDER WHERE YOU'LL BE IN TEN YEARS?"

The last time I was asked this question was at a friend's barbecue, I think. I was half-drunk on bottled beer, stuffed to bursting with hot dogs, and feeling pretty mellow. There was a time when the question would've irritated me. I couldn't be bothered to look that far ahead. I didn't really care where I'd be, nor did I have the patience to try to plan it all out. Now I harbor more sanguine views. I spend most of my time these days idly speculating on where I'm going to be, since I'd rather be anywhere than where I am now.

And pursuant to this frame of mind, this post: it's a faux diary entry from my own personal journals, circa 2021 or so. Ten years down the line I should have made pretty concrete strides toward my goals. I'll be 33 years old, only just starting to think about settling down and getting a family started. I ought to have my commercial pilot's license by then, have five or six novels published, and maybe even begun that comic book. And, of course, I'll be a well-established journalist and travel writer. I'll have grown a beard, have a much wider selection of safari clothing than I do now, cigars and good Scotch always on hand, and a much less impatient demeanor. Premature? Maybe. Presumptious? Of course. Preposterous? Probably. But I'm going to write it like this anyway. Why not? It'd be fun. Plus it sounded like a pretty cool idea to ghost-write my own future. So here goes:

November 4, 2021 MAN, it's hot here in Botswana. Makes sense, I guess. We're within shouting distance of the Kalahari Desert. But still, it doesn't seem right. We're on the other side of the continent from the Sahara. We're about as close to Antarctica as we are to Tunisia. Seems like it ought to be cooler, even if we are on the same latitude as Rio de Janeiro and Australia's Simpson Desert.

It's eight o'clock at night and the temperature's still in the mid-80s. Not very hot to you, maybe, but I don't like it much above 70. I'm a cold freak, a cryophile. Plus it's humid out here. I'd almost rather be in the Kalahari than the Okavango Delta. The mosquitoes have been murder. Summer's just begun. The rains have been pouring down all day, and the cloud cover's been pretty thick at night. The run-off from the Angola highlands is going to cause some fine old flooding around here come July. There's a lot of standing water and swampy terrain here now, which is heaven for mosquitoes and a lot of other wildlife. I've seen giraffes, lions, rhinoceros, elephants, wildebeest and at least eight kinds of antelope since me and the crew got here last week. We had a hell of a time finding the airfield in this swamp. And that was the softest landing I've ever done—I'm not even sure we're going to be able to get the dang plane up again. Mr. Kgomotso assures me we will, and that he and his boys will dig us out and even push us off the ground if they have to.

I'm glad he's so confident. He's got to be confident, though: as the head park ranger for the Moremi Game Reserve, and he and his men fighting an all-out war with poachers (especially this this time of year), he can't afford to despair. That's why the gang and I are here. We're delivering fresh supplies of gasoline, medical supplies and ammunition from Gaborone. We just happened to be in the area on another delivery when the director of Botswana's national parks program got a hold of us and asked us to make the run. I was a bit leery; more than a few bush planes in this area have wound up with bullet holes or even spears in their wings. Those poachers don't kid around. If it was just myself I'd have leaped at the chance, but I've got a crew to look after. Martha, Jimmy and Boris were peachy-keen with the idea, though, so we borrowed one of the park department's Caravans and came down. Like I said, it was a sticky landing. The wheels just sank right into that muck. We squished to a halt in record time. It's a dang good thing I did all that extra soft field practice back in California or we might've wound up ass over teakettle in the middle of a swamp.

So far things have been pretty peaceful, except for two nights ago. The ranger squad mounted a night raid on a poacher camp about ten miles west. Seeing as I flew in the supplies that made the raid possible, Kgomotso offered us the chance to go along. Martha and Boris took a rain check (not surprising, Boris saw enough of war in Chechnya with the 3rd Vympel unit of Spetsnaz). Jimmy and I decided to go along, though. We'd asked the director of the parks program for some "special permissions" as a condition for delivering the supplies to the rangers, and the guy was so desperate to get that stuff out here that he said yes. So Jimmy had his 1873 Winchester rifle and I, of course, my trusty Beretta Centurion. Just for backup I took my Bowie knife, too. You can't be too sure. I didn't think I'd need it but I grabbed it just in case. Turned out to be a good thing.

It was a pretty textbook sting, up until the end. The rangers sneaked up on the poacher camp and hailed the poachers, telling them they were under arrest and whatnot. The poachers never said anything, they just opened up. Fortunately the rangers were used to these tactics by now, and were already behind cover. There were five poachers; four of 'em didn't even make it 30 yards. Jimmy got one of them. It was a hell of a shot, especially in the dark and with iron sights, but Jimmy's been popping squirrels and raccoons since he was a kid in Tennessee. The guy was dead before he hit the ground. The fifth poacher hopped in the Jeep and took off. He wasn't running on adrenaline; instead of heading in the other direction he whirled the Jeep around and headed right for us. He was trying to run us down. Kgomotso had warned us about this guy. Nobody knew his real name. The rangers just called him Mamba, after the black mamba, the most venemous snake in Botswana. Just like his namesake, Mamba would always turn and bite rather than run away. So even through a hail of bullets he turned that Jeep around and came at us. Two of the rangers just barely broke cover and got out of the way before he came crashing through the bushes. Then he was right in front of me. I was running on adrenaline at that point. Plus I was kind of pissed off. All I'd done so far is stand there and watch. And this Mamba bastard was getting under my skin. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? He was a lousy poacher, that's all. Must've thought he was the effing king of the world or something. What kind of arrogant sumbitch tries to kill a park ranger when he gets caught poaching? When he's the one in the wrong? So I said "screw it." As the Jeep tore by, kicking up gouts of grass and mud, I dodged aside and then lurched back and grabbed hold. I pulled myself on board (I don't know how, it was pitch black and Mamba didn't have his headlights on and the Jeep was swerving like crazy through the mud holes) and leaped at Mamba from behind. He heard me coming. I managed to lock an elbow around his neck, but he took his right hand off the gearshift and got me a good one right on the temple. I saw stars, but I didn't let go. I groped blindly with my right arm and managed to get a hold of his right wrist. He took his left hand off the wheel and started throwing punches over his right shoulder at my face. I managed to get my head behind his head and shield myself that way. His foot was still on the gas. It's a wonder the Jeep didn't hit a tree and explode. Mamba must've known where he was going. Every so often his left hand would shoot out, grab the wheel, make a correction and then come back and start trying to pry me loose again. I don't know what I was trying to do: wrench him out of the driver's seat or strangle him or what. I just wasn't going to let him have everything his way. Things went on like this for another minute, a minute that seemed like all the world's history bound up together. Sweat poured off us. It was getting harder and harder to hold onto him with sweat sliming up my arms, hands, and elbow; but fortunately the sweat on his hands made it hard for him to get a grip on me. We grunted and growled like animals. I couldn't get any purchase; I was sprawled awkwardly in the backseat and my muddy boots kept slipping whenever I tried to raise up. Finally Mamba got sick of me. With his right hand he reached over to the floor of the passenger side and I heard a metallic shink! I sensed more than saw the machete in his hand and without even thinking, without even trying to grab for his wrist again, I reached down to my belt and grabbed my knife and jammed it right into the side of his neck. It was a good thing I was behind him and his angle was bad or I might not be here writing about it. He gasped, and I felt something warm drench my left arm, still wrapped around Mamba's neck. He made a horrible rasping sound, like a mouse being stepped on, and went limp. Then the Jeep was slowing down. It wound down to a crawl, then stopped completely.

It wasn't hard for Kgomotso, Jimmy and the rangers to find me. They just followed the gashes and scars torn in the muddy earth by the Jeep's tires. I was still clutching Mamba. I'd kept tight hold of him until help arrived; I wasn't about to take any chances, not in the damn dark. He might've been "playing possum" as Jimmy would've said. But as soon as the ranger squad showed up with their halogen flashlights, the matter was settled. Mamba was dead as a doornail. My knife had completely severed his windpipe. His blood was all over me, all over my arm and down my torso, and all over the seat and floor of the Jeep. The rangers sort of stood back a little as I let go of Mamba's carcass and jumped down. Jimmy slung his rifle over his shoulder, gave me one of his big ol' Southern grins, and said "Doncha ever get tired o' pullin' crazy shit on me, boss?"
Kgomotso just shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. "You are quite brave, my friend," he said. "Now I know why Director Anaya sent you. No other man would have the courage to jump on a moving Jeep and engage Mamba hand-to-hand, not knowing how good he is."
"What's that?" I asked. I was a little weak in the knees. The battle-fire was wearing off, and so was the shock. My whole body was vibrating, shivering. I felt jumpy, nervous, fragile, like I'd collapse into a million pieces if somebody clapped me on the shoulder.
"Why, Mamba was the most feared machete fighter in Southern Africa," Kgomotso said, looking surprised that I didn't know. "He liked to chop his enemies up into little pieces and feed them to the hyenas."
"Is that so?" I asked. The bottom had dropped out of my stomach. I felt like I was about to faint. I suddenly realized what a monumentally stupid thing I'd just done. Now I had yet another entry for my list of things never to tell Mom.

Jimmy told Martha and Boris the whole story when we got back to camp. They reacted pretty much like I figured they would. Martha rolled her eyes and said "Oh, brother." Boris threw back his bald head and laughed and laughed. I didn't care. I was tired and sore all of a sudden and just wanted to sleep. We got about five hours of rest before morning, when we had to dig the plane out of the mud and make another run to the capital for more supplies. Typical night in the Botswana bush, I guess. We should have things wrapped up here in another day or two, which is good, because Kgomotso says that Mamba had a lot of friends and that I should be prepared for reprisals. Not that I care (bring 'em on, I say) but there are other reasons why we ought to be going. Ethel sent me a text message last night. Another commission came in. Some Japanese businessman (Kenji's former employer, I guess) wants fifty cases of Glenfiddich delivered to his penthouse by Saturday night. We can just make it if we leave Friday. Might as well just go straight to Scotland, buy the booze there and fly it out to Japan. It'd save us some gas, as long as it's not bootlegging. I also got a text from Aaron. He said he just sold the rights to my sixth novel to Knopf-Doubleday. Guess how much it went for? Give up? A cool five million. That's more than any book I've ever written (so far). I guess this series is turning out to be as popular as I hoped! I don't really care about the money, I guess. I'm doing okay with the airline. It's the fans. I remember two years ago when I went to the midnight premiere for my fifth book. The line was around the block. Everybody from high school kids to little old ladies, all of 'em with shining faces and eager expressions. You could just see the joy in their eyes. Their minds were getting set to digest another round of howling adventures. Man, that was rewarding to see. Reminds me of me, waiting impatiently for the next Harry Potter book all those years ago.

Well, Boris just started singing "Slavsya, Rossiya!" and it sounds like Martha and Kgomotso are trying to sing along, so I'd better get out there before I miss the party. I brought some cigars and Scotch along; that ought to shore up Boris's vodka selection quite nicely. Maybe when we get back to the States I'll sit down and pen a little article about me and my friend Mamba. I wonder if Travel & Leisure would buy it? Nah, probably not.