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July, 1960 - Spanish Morocco
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Mariano Rajoy held his breath as he crawled slowly up the sand dune. His fellow hunters and the three guides who had come with them were spread out on either side of him, their faces likewise focused on the ridgeline above them. He contemplated, not for the first time, how well the gudies blended into the desert with their faded brown camouflage and how utterly unprepared he and the other tourists were in their brand new gear. Still, he had paid good money for this hunt and he was damned if he was going to not try and look the part. They had a photographer along anyway and the black and white photos would make the crisp edges of his new equipment look sharp indeed.
The lead guide hissed and they all froze. They could hear sounds drifting down from above them. They were close. They could smell their prey as well. It was faint but you couldn't miss it. The guide had pulled the rifle from his shoulder and Mariano hurried to do the same. It was the latest Spanish hunting rifle, monstrously expensive, and incredibly deadly in trained hands. He was certainly anything but trained, though he had been shooting since he was a young boy on his fathers estate in Catalan.
The sound of frantic barking suddenly broke the still morning air and the men in the shadows of the dune did not move save for their eyes. There was a burst of unintelligible sound, then the sound of their prey moving quickly away toward the south. Mariano was about to blow out his cheeks in frustration when then guide suddenly began to crawl forward again.
Mariano's heart began to pound now, so loud he was sure others would hear it. Sweat stung his brow and sand was sliding down the inside of his sleeves. He could feel the heat of the desert beginning to rise now as the sun climbed into the sky. They were still in the shadow of the dune but not for long and once they were exposed, that would be it for the day. They had left camp in the small hours of the morning and made their way across the sands on foot toward a spot one of the guides had seen prey sign.
The lead guide raised a hand and once again no one moved. They had a simple set of hand signals worked out that had taken the rich guests the better part of a day to remember. The guides, all former soldiers, had been patient and took their time as they instructed their charges. Mariano had been very impressed by them.
Sand shifted beneath the guide as he inched closer to the crest of the dune, his head barely peering over the top. The guides had chosen their spot well, the small dune they approached from was shadowed by an even larger one behind them so that his head would not be silhouetted against the sky. He waved them forward, motioning that they should wait just below the crest of the dune.
Mariano found himself taking big breathes of desert air as he waited, eyes fixed on the guides hand where it waited, flat against his leg. He checked, for the hundredth time, that his rifle was clear of the sand and ready to fire. He would look such a fool if the barrel dug into the dune when the time came.
Then the guides hand suddenly shot into the air. Mariano, and the rest of the guests, seemed unsure what to do for a moment and the guide rolled his eyes fired a shot into the air. It seemed to startle the men out of immobility and they surged to the top of the dune with shouts of glee.
Their prey had already began to scatter at the initial gunshot, most fleeing away into the desert as a few brave males charged the attackers. The guides put them well enough with deadly skill and Mariano felt the blood surge in his veins as he tracked a female. She was running along the edge of a dune and he felt the rifle slam into his shoulder as he fired. The bullet tore her knee off and she went down with a scream.
More shots sounded and more screams mingled with the shouts of the hunters. Mariano shot a male, the bullet slamming into his chest, flipping him backward into the sand. More shots. More screams and yells. They could not run fast enough to escape the bullets and all were cut down before they had gone far. One had fallen into the fire and screamed as the smell of burnt flesh cut through the air. A gunshot from the guards brought silence.
Mariano's heart was still pounding as he and his fellow hunters congratulated each other on their kills. Nine in total, all that had been crouched around the little fire. Two killed by their guides, but the rest could certainly be counted as trophies. One of the guides had fired a flare now that the shooting was done and a small convoy of vehicles had appeared from the dead ground in the distance.
They traversed the desert quickly and, following the signals of their guide, found the firm ground that would bring them up to the site. The vehicles parked carefully away from the scene while a photographer, brought along just for this purpose, set up his tripod and camera. The hunters, six in total, stood in the middle of the carnage in what they assumed were poses of epic proportion while the guides stood to one side.
Initial photograph taken, the hunters tucked into a cold lunch brought from the vehicles while the guides dragged the dead into the centre of the camp and stacked them like cordwood. One wasn't quite dead and a guide finished her off with a rifle butt to the forehead.
The stacking complete and the fire kicked over, the hunters took up their weapons once again and moved to pose with their prizes. Mariano was elated. When he had learned for the Berber Hunt, as it was known in Morocco, he had jumped at the opportunity. He had hunted all over the world and shot some of the most dangerous animals known to man but nothing had given him the rush he felt now. And this wasn't even the pinnacle of the hunt.
This small family group they had found was considered a "starter" hunt. If a guest felt they wanted more they could pay even greater sums to venture further into the desert where they would hunt proper tribal warriors. Some guests and guides had been killed a year ago on one such hunt and that had only increased their popularity.
"Serious faces please Gentlemen." The photographer called from his position. Mariano dropped his smile and assumed the same look he did when dealing with one of the filthy local peasants. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and pulled the brim of his hat a bit lower. The photographs would be rushed back to Tangier and be framed for the hunters before they returned to Spain.
"And victorious smiles!" He smiled and the camera flashed again. He would have to bring his son next time he came down. Or, better yet, take the, what did they call it, "The Most Dangerous Game". He was aware his own life might be lost in that version. A captured Berber Tribesman would be released into the desert with a knife, some rope, and a spear, and then given a six hour head start before a single hunter, two guides, and a pair of dogs, would go after him. The prey always died. The hunters to sometimes. The guides very rarely.
Pictures taken, they piled into the vehicles and sped away toward Tangier. The bodies of the dead would be left to rot in the desert.
July, 1960 - Spanish Morocco
--------------------------------------------
Mariano Rajoy held his breath as he crawled slowly up the sand dune. His fellow hunters and the three guides who had come with them were spread out on either side of him, their faces likewise focused on the ridgeline above them. He contemplated, not for the first time, how well the gudies blended into the desert with their faded brown camouflage and how utterly unprepared he and the other tourists were in their brand new gear. Still, he had paid good money for this hunt and he was damned if he was going to not try and look the part. They had a photographer along anyway and the black and white photos would make the crisp edges of his new equipment look sharp indeed.
The lead guide hissed and they all froze. They could hear sounds drifting down from above them. They were close. They could smell their prey as well. It was faint but you couldn't miss it. The guide had pulled the rifle from his shoulder and Mariano hurried to do the same. It was the latest Spanish hunting rifle, monstrously expensive, and incredibly deadly in trained hands. He was certainly anything but trained, though he had been shooting since he was a young boy on his fathers estate in Catalan.
The sound of frantic barking suddenly broke the still morning air and the men in the shadows of the dune did not move save for their eyes. There was a burst of unintelligible sound, then the sound of their prey moving quickly away toward the south. Mariano was about to blow out his cheeks in frustration when then guide suddenly began to crawl forward again.
Mariano's heart began to pound now, so loud he was sure others would hear it. Sweat stung his brow and sand was sliding down the inside of his sleeves. He could feel the heat of the desert beginning to rise now as the sun climbed into the sky. They were still in the shadow of the dune but not for long and once they were exposed, that would be it for the day. They had left camp in the small hours of the morning and made their way across the sands on foot toward a spot one of the guides had seen prey sign.
The lead guide raised a hand and once again no one moved. They had a simple set of hand signals worked out that had taken the rich guests the better part of a day to remember. The guides, all former soldiers, had been patient and took their time as they instructed their charges. Mariano had been very impressed by them.
Sand shifted beneath the guide as he inched closer to the crest of the dune, his head barely peering over the top. The guides had chosen their spot well, the small dune they approached from was shadowed by an even larger one behind them so that his head would not be silhouetted against the sky. He waved them forward, motioning that they should wait just below the crest of the dune.
Mariano found himself taking big breathes of desert air as he waited, eyes fixed on the guides hand where it waited, flat against his leg. He checked, for the hundredth time, that his rifle was clear of the sand and ready to fire. He would look such a fool if the barrel dug into the dune when the time came.
Then the guides hand suddenly shot into the air. Mariano, and the rest of the guests, seemed unsure what to do for a moment and the guide rolled his eyes fired a shot into the air. It seemed to startle the men out of immobility and they surged to the top of the dune with shouts of glee.
Their prey had already began to scatter at the initial gunshot, most fleeing away into the desert as a few brave males charged the attackers. The guides put them well enough with deadly skill and Mariano felt the blood surge in his veins as he tracked a female. She was running along the edge of a dune and he felt the rifle slam into his shoulder as he fired. The bullet tore her knee off and she went down with a scream.
More shots sounded and more screams mingled with the shouts of the hunters. Mariano shot a male, the bullet slamming into his chest, flipping him backward into the sand. More shots. More screams and yells. They could not run fast enough to escape the bullets and all were cut down before they had gone far. One had fallen into the fire and screamed as the smell of burnt flesh cut through the air. A gunshot from the guards brought silence.
Mariano's heart was still pounding as he and his fellow hunters congratulated each other on their kills. Nine in total, all that had been crouched around the little fire. Two killed by their guides, but the rest could certainly be counted as trophies. One of the guides had fired a flare now that the shooting was done and a small convoy of vehicles had appeared from the dead ground in the distance.
They traversed the desert quickly and, following the signals of their guide, found the firm ground that would bring them up to the site. The vehicles parked carefully away from the scene while a photographer, brought along just for this purpose, set up his tripod and camera. The hunters, six in total, stood in the middle of the carnage in what they assumed were poses of epic proportion while the guides stood to one side.
Initial photograph taken, the hunters tucked into a cold lunch brought from the vehicles while the guides dragged the dead into the centre of the camp and stacked them like cordwood. One wasn't quite dead and a guide finished her off with a rifle butt to the forehead.
The stacking complete and the fire kicked over, the hunters took up their weapons once again and moved to pose with their prizes. Mariano was elated. When he had learned for the Berber Hunt, as it was known in Morocco, he had jumped at the opportunity. He had hunted all over the world and shot some of the most dangerous animals known to man but nothing had given him the rush he felt now. And this wasn't even the pinnacle of the hunt.
This small family group they had found was considered a "starter" hunt. If a guest felt they wanted more they could pay even greater sums to venture further into the desert where they would hunt proper tribal warriors. Some guests and guides had been killed a year ago on one such hunt and that had only increased their popularity.
"Serious faces please Gentlemen." The photographer called from his position. Mariano dropped his smile and assumed the same look he did when dealing with one of the filthy local peasants. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and pulled the brim of his hat a bit lower. The photographs would be rushed back to Tangier and be framed for the hunters before they returned to Spain.
"And victorious smiles!" He smiled and the camera flashed again. He would have to bring his son next time he came down. Or, better yet, take the, what did they call it, "The Most Dangerous Game". He was aware his own life might be lost in that version. A captured Berber Tribesman would be released into the desert with a knife, some rope, and a spear, and then given a six hour head start before a single hunter, two guides, and a pair of dogs, would go after him. The prey always died. The hunters to sometimes. The guides very rarely.
Pictures taken, they piled into the vehicles and sped away toward Tangier. The bodies of the dead would be left to rot in the desert.
