Deadly Harvest (Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Series Book 5) Page 2

  The last three ventures in the States had yielded a princely sum of money from their illicit undertakings in the illegal wildlife trade. With only eighteen U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service inspectors nationwide to search millions of shipments that arrived at international airports each year, there was little concern of being caught.

  Their poaching operation was one tentacle of a larger crime syndicate headquartered in Hong Kong, but it represented a fourth of their illicit dealings next to those in racketeering, diamonds, and human smuggling. That’s why Tung had been entrusted with running the business in the Western U.S. He had been schooled from an early age by his uncle when he began smuggling the endangered golden monkeys to buyers in Shanghai. By sixteen, he had graduated to running a small group of poachers aimed at procuring the rare Yangtze River dolphin, whose tangy pink meat fetched a high price in upscale restaurants. Later, when wildlife protection agencies began cracking down on poaching on mainland China, he left for the verdant foothills of Southeast Asia, ensnaring bears for traditionally minded doctors who required the creatures’ gallbladder for its medicinal properties, used for treating Hepatitis C.

  It was in Vietnam that his bear-poaching exploits reached their pinnacle, with over two hundred bears sniped in three months. Vietnam was also the place where he met his current hunting partner, Lloyd Nieman. The U.S. expat had enlisted Tung’s guiding skills on a jungle hunt for a rare tiger and the two men quickly became accomplices. Tung found that such men were the same the world over—they were keen predators who hunted as much for the thrill as for the payoff at the end, with little regard for overbearing conservation laws. A few years later, he returned home a rich man and had been offered a place in his uncle’s business. Over the next decade, the declining bear population in Asia caused Tung to extend his reach further out. He and his small crew of poachers began low-scale operations in national parks around the U.S. and Canada. The vast wilderness areas in those countries, lack of sufficient law-enforcement officers, and poorly managed customs inspections at smaller airports, enabled Tung to expand his bear-poaching endeavors and corner the traditional medical market in Hong Kong.

  Nieman, with his Idaho roots, provided the perfect inroad for Tung’s operations in the rugged state. They usually poached bears each spring after the creatures had emerged from their dens, and took only a handful of animals so as not to elicit suspicion from state officials. The last thing they needed was a backpacker or hunter to alert the authorities about a string of eviscerated bears. However, this year Tung had plans to up their quota as the price of bear gallbladders had increased in China in recent months. With Nieman’s knowledge of the remote valleys in the Sawtooth Range, Tung was certain they could complete their quest within a week.

  They timed their poaching efforts for early May as the nearby elk antler auction in Jackson Hole provided an ideal cover for shipping the gallbladders via their numerous couriers posing as businessmen bent on purchasing antlers for their legal medical uses abroad.

  Chapter 4

  The helos lifted off from the narrow airfield adjacent to their training camp at 0800, both Blackhawks carrying six men, with the senior personnel in the lead chopper with Waline. While the sergeant major was going to have his men engaged in survival training, the 160th SOAR pilots and crew members had their own plans for areal training maneuvers to justify their time away from HQ.

  As they flew north, the snow-capped Sawtooth Mountains came into view along with the creamy jade color of numerous alpine lakes peppered throughout the vast expanse of endless conifers that only had a few roads penetrating their depths.

  Waline turned away from the open door as the helo descended slightly then hovered above a large lake surrounded by old-growth spruce trees. He shouted back to his men, who sat hunched, pensively staring at the terrain.

  “Now, if I just drop you off on the shoreline and send you on your merry way, that’d be like a weekend camping trip.” He paused to swirl some tobacco juice in his mouth then swallowed without flinching. “So, you lads are gonna have a little extra challenge added to this scenario just to make sure your brass balls haven’t shrunk during the past few months of bein’ stateside.”

  He motioned with his thumb. “Down, you go—into the lake. The water’s only around 68 degrees so you’ll wanna swim the quarter mile to shore as if there was a ravenous shark on your ass.” He pointed his furrowed hand to the first reluctant soldier to move towards the door. “And don’t worry, I already personally tested the depth of the lake when I went through this course a while back, so you won’t break your little girl legs on any rocks.”

  He nodded to the wiry operator who was clutching an overhead handle at the door. As each man stepped forward and crested the side entrance, some hesitated before jumping while others simply leapt while cussing into the wind created by the rotors. As Mitch and Marco approached, the sergeant major raised his hand up, blocking Mitch’s movement. “This is probably gonna be like a fun sixth-grade fieldtrip for you, Kearns.” He held his outstretched palm out. “Your firestarters—let’s have ’em.”

  “Are you jokin’, Sergeant Major?”

  Marco cackled slightly then grew stolid when Waline glared at him.

  “Since I know you’re so shit-hot at the bow drill, you can use that for startin’ all your fires. This wouldn’t be a real test for you if you had all your gear, and you know it, especially given how you grew up. Now hand ’em over before I add all those knives I know you carry everywhere.”

  Mitch clenched his jaw and forcefully reached into his pockets, yanking out his spark rod, lighter, and waterproof matches, then thrust them into Waline’s hand. Then Mitch pulled the camo ball cap off his head and tucked it into his BDU pocket while looking at the angry waters below.

  Waline shoved the firemaking tools into his pocket then stepped aside, waving his hand for both men to pass. “One day, this’ll be a great story for you to tell and you’re gonna be thanking me.” He glanced down to the whitecaps on the lake. “Now, not so much,” he said with a grin.

  Mitch was very competent at the bow drill method of firemaking but that was under non-survival conditions when he wasn’t hypothermic and soaked. And even then, it sometimes required all the stars to be in alignment. He was dreading what lay ahead, but not as much as the icy plunge into the depths below. He narrowed his eyes at Waline and silently cursed the man, then tightly gripped the shoulder bag around his frame as he leapt off the cabin platform into the frigid waters.

  He sucked in a deep breath, knowing his chest would violently constrict upon plunging into the cold grip of the lake. He thought he heard Marco following behind him but the wind shear blotted out any further noise as he plunged below the inky surface. Sonofabitch, Waline.

  He used his anger to push through the immeasurable discomfort, his body feeling like it was contained in a gelatinous wrapper as the arctic water encapsulated him. His scalp and facial muscles felt brittle, like they’d been injected with liquid nitrogen and were about to splinter. As he flutter-kicked his way back to the surface, it seemed like his body had gained another hundred pounds of weight from his wet garments and boots, which conspired to pull him back under. He gasped, sucking in a mouthful of grit and what felt like algae. He spit it out as he arched his head up for a clear gulp of air while his eyes tried to focus on the distant shore. Mitch flung his arms out and began swimming as each muscle in his body fought against the violent spasms from the cold. His biceps felt like they were knotted into tennis balls that wouldn’t unfurl and he forced himself through the misery. Ahead, he saw several other drenched figures scrambling from the grip of the waves and onto the beach.

  Despite the misery, he knew he would make it—this was just going to have a high suck factor, like most of their training. Like his fellow operators, he prided himself on the fact that a Green Beret brimmed with grit and determination that could conquer anything in their way. Being comfortable with discomfort and pushing through torment while fostering an attitude of
success in everything they undertook is what separated them from the civilian world. With each painful stroke forward, he thought only of getting to the beach and making a fire. There was no other sliver of reality in the landscape of his mind.

  He reached the pebble-strewn shoreline and sprinted for the trees ahead, the numerous branches seeming to hang lower as if to impede his movement. The wind was slicing through him, making every step forward a test of willpower. His numb legs gave out as he tumbled onto the leaf-littered ground; he picked himself up and continued trotting. Entering the forest, he ground his teeth together and felt the adrenalized blood pumping through his veins, which seemed to help abate the shivering momentarily. Mitch began searching for the right type of wood for his bow drill tools. His hands were already numb and he knew he’d only have about ten minutes of dexterity left to perform the carving necessary to fashion his friction fire tools. In the back of his mind, he knew that if he was truly succumbing to severe hypothermia he could shout out to the others for help but there was no way in hell he was going to be “that guy.” He’d die first.

  Mitch ran into the treeline for twenty yards, stopping to scan the trees. He needed soft, non-resinous wood to make a friction fire. Conifers like spruce and pine, with their gummy sap, would inhibit the development of the all-important coal. Pausing to catch his breath, he spied a grove of aspens a hundred feet to his right. Beelining in that direction, he gathered the tiny seed pods of bull thistle plants that brushed against his knees as he rushed through the forest.

  Arriving at the grove, he unslung his shoulder bag and dropped it on the ground. He removed his trusty Mora knife from the pack and attached the leather rung on the sheath to his belt. Next, Mitch removed a handful of 550 paracord and cut off a two-foot-long section then thrust it into his pants pocket. He studied the aspens, finally selecting a fallen branch that was leaning upright against the other trees. This would be drier compared to any wood on the ground.

  Removing his tarnished blade, he began sectioning the wood into the critical components that would ensure a quick fire. First, he carved pencil points onto the ends of the nine-inch drill. Next, he took a larger section of the branch and shaved it flat on both sides then pecked out a small depression in the middle to receive the drill. He used the remaining portion of the branch to make an arm-length bow, then quickly cut notches into either end to secure the paracord. One knotty section that he had cut away earlier became the handhold and he lowered the fist-sized chunk to the ground to slice out a depression in the center with the tip of his knife.

  He was so numb he felt like he was watching someone else do the work, his icy fingers barely able to hold the blade firmly at times. His chest was furiously pumping out each breath, partly from the cold but also from the adrenaline-soaked predicament. On occasion, he heard snapping branches in the distance and hoped it was one of the other guys getting his fire going and not a moose or bear. He shoved away the idea that his friends were near because it gave him false hope—that if he failed at firestarting then he could just saunter over to one of them and get warm beside their fire. That would never be the case if he were on a mission and left alone to survive. The civy mindset of “I could do it if I had to” sickened him and he was determined to get this fire made by his own hands—there was no alternative.

  Mitch placed the four carved tools against a tree then swung his head around to look for some more tinder. Encircling the grove of aspens, he yanked a four-foot section of dangling bark free from its dead trunk, then began crushing the fibers. He took the flossy clump and formed it into a crude bird’s nest. Next, he removed the thistle seed heads and plucked out the downy plant fibers, stuffing the white fuzz into the center of the bark bundle. Near where he planned to have his fire, he gathered a few armloads of fine spruce twigs to toss on the flaming bundle once it was aglow.

  Everything was in place; now all he needed was a little help from Lady Luck, which often figured into a survival situation. Mitch gathered all his tools then shook his head. Fuckin’ Waline—probably back at basecamp already, sitting by the woodstove, having a swig of Jack Daniels.

  The cold was continuing its wraith-like grip on his body while his soul was on fire with rage. He placed a small strip of bark on the ground to act as a buffer between the damp soil and the fireboard then put his left foot on the edge to secure the board. Next, he twisted the aspen drill into the paracord on the bow. Leaning forward, he lowered the drill with his right hand until the tip was firmly in place atop the pre-carved hole in the fireboard. The knotty support in his left hand went atop the other end of the drill and then he began furiously cranking on the bow.

  After thirty seconds of cranking amidst a faint hint of smoke, he stopped to carve the notch in the fireboard that would allow the coal to form. Without a notch, there wasn’t a focal point for the hot dust to gather. Mitch glanced up at the sun, wanting to immerse himself inside its molten center as he marveled at the crude tools before him. How the hell our ancestors figured all this shit out is beyond me, but I sure am thankful to that primitive Einstein.

  Cutting a tipi-shaped notch through the side of the fireboard near the hole, Mitch smelled woodsmoke around him and quickly glanced up at the forest to his right. He could see the orange glow of two distant campfires from the other men in his unit. Bastards—probably took them a single stroke of their spark rods. He grimaced at the thought. Fuckin’ Waline!

  Resuming his carving, he saw a few ruby droplets on his fireboard and looked at the blood coming from his left index finger. His hands were so numb, he hadn’t even noticed the tip of the blade had sliced him open when he had looked away for a second. He silently scolded himself then refocused his thoughts. The cut wasn’t severe but any injury to his hands was going to affect his overall efficiency.

  If this gets any worse, I might have a bad day. He leaned back towards a spruce tree and peeled off a gooey ribbon of amber sap, then smeared the anti-microbial paste onto his cut. Resinous sap had been used the world over for bandages and he had learned this trick from the old Mexican cowboys on his uncle’s ranch.

  With the notch completed, he realigned his friction fire tools and began vigorously stroking the bow. With each revolution of the smoking drill, hot dust began coalescing in the notch. A few minutes later, Mitch stopped and studied the fireboard. A wisp of smoke rose independently from the cherry-red pile and he knew his hard-won coal was ready for the tinder bundle. In his haste, his trembling hands fumbled their grasp on the fireboard and the coal was scattered into the damp ground until it was extinguished.

  “Shit.” Mitch smashed his clenched fist against a stump but the lack of sensation only further served to remind him of his physical decline.

  He glanced ahead and saw the sleek figure of a coyote that had paused in mid-stride, staring curiously at the two-legged intruder genuflecting over a pile of wood and bark. Mitch both admired and resented the beast, who required nothing outside of itself to survive and wasn’t tethered to a world of devices. The coyote pricked its ears at a noise in the opposite direction and silently slunk off as quickly as it had appeared.

  Mitch robotically picked up the primitive firemaking implements again and repeated the motions, this time pacing himself through deep breathing and a laser focus on his technique. Within seconds, the fireboard was smoking again. A minute later, another coal was born of friction, sweat, and skill. Carefully setting his tools aside, he lifted the bark strip with the precious coal and tapped it into his tinder bundle. He used his breath to coax the tiny ember until it spread into the surrounding fibers—the tinder began smoldering, then ignited into a flame. He felt his heart punching through his chest at the sight and knew his night would be filled with warmth and rest instead of shivering and misery.

  “Crimony, the rest of this outing should be a breeze.”

  Mitch lowered the flaming tinder bundle into his makeshift firepit then piled a few handfuls of the resinous spruce branches on, followed a minute later by several finger-thic
k branches. Once the blaze was self-sustaining, he piled on forearm-thick logs and then began peeling off his soaked clothing. As the fire continued to grow, casting an orange hue upon the forest around him, Mitch took a deep breath and grinned as he stared at his handiwork. He treasured the flame and understood how native cultures considered it a living being. Mitch could feel the sensation returning to his limbs and he glanced over at the aspen grove, grateful for the presence of the tall trees. Then he looked skyward and his thoughts went back to Waline. Piss on you, Sarge.

  As he sat back against a stump and felt a wave of exhaustion creep over him, he reached a hand into the breast pocket of his jacket, which was hanging on an overhead branch, to remove the encased cigar. Hell, why wait for the end to celebrate? His mouth hung open as he felt his palm make contact with an empty pocket, its Velcroed top ajar. He quickly spun in circles, searching the immediate ground for the tobacco-laced talisman, but to no avail. Mitch hung his head and muttered another round of expletives. Damn, this just became a real survival situation.

  Chapter 5

  The sun was nearly overhead as Nieman brought his Ford Bronco to a halt at the end of the rutted dirt road. The clunky trailer behind it contained two weathered Yamaha 750 dirt bikes outfitted with heavy-duty panniers.

  Exiting his tan rig, he paused for a moment to wrestle his sagging belt back into position along the slight paunch that protruded from his unzipped jacket. Tung Lau stepped out from the other side and went around the back to open the hatch where their rifles, ghillie suits, and backpacks were stowed.

  Nieman heard a cluster of mountain chickadees scolding each other atop the rim of a hollow tree whose top half had been sheared in half by the wind in some past storm. He felt the chill of an east wind creeping over the back of his neck and his old bones told him there was unsettled weather coming in a few days. Having worked the region as a big-game hunting guide in younger days, he didn’t need to listen to a weather forecast to know what was heading his way.