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

  Arriving at the junction of two old game trails, he took one last compass reading and then headed up the slight incline that led to the final grid point. He noticed a flurry of overturned aspen leaves and could see the faint outline of recent boot prints. He stopped to analyze the gait pattern, noting the shortened stride and wider straddle which was typical of someone carrying a load uphill. He could see that the tread pattern was typical of the desert boots that his teammates were issued but this one had a small wear pattern in the right heel that he had seen before. Continuing to walk up the hill, he crested the top and saw the outline of a man pointing a weapon at him, the figure’s silhouette backlit by the rising sun.

  Mitch took a step to the side to take advantage of the shadows and made out the hulking figure of Marco.

  “Thought I smelled something odd in this direction,” Mitch said.

  “Yeah, and I thought that was you at first but I didn’t see any unicorns trailing behind.”

  The two men approached each other and exchanged a hearty handshake, which Marco turned into a bear hug. “My man, how you been—good to see a friendly face.”

  “After that icy plunge into the lake and having to get a bow drill fire going, life’s been pretty good.” Mitch patted his chest pocket. “Except I lost my damn cigar, probably in the lake.”

  Marco scratched the scruff on his cheeks while looking away. “That’s a shame.”

  Mitch studied the layout of the camp Marco had begun putting together. “Looks like this’ll be home for a few days—good location, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” Marco said, walking back up the hill towards his ridgepole. He studied the bushes ahead, which were in full sunlight now.

  “What’s up?” said Mitch, following Marco’s line of sight.

  “Hmm, nothing. Must’ve been some animal over there or my mind’s playing tricks on me after not getting enough food.”

  “Well, let’s get our camp made and some traps set up so we can remedy that problem.”

  Mitch and Marco spent a few hours constructing two lean-tos with a central firepit nestled between their V-configuration. With their shoulder-high ridgepoles lashed to a single tree, the open mouths of their shelters absorbed the heat from the fire that Marco started with his spark rod and shredded cottonwood bark.

  As Mitch pulled out the roasted cattail roots and handed some to Marco, the two men eased back into their abodes while staring into the hypnotic dance of flames.

  “Wilderness TV—nothing like it,” said Mitch as he chewed on a stringy mass of cattail fibers.

  “And it’s free, though I wouldn’t mind if I were reclining in a luxury hotel beside a fireplace instead of sitting on damp pine needles.”

  Mitch leaned forward, spitting out a mass of fibers while swallowing the starchy flakes that had separated out.

  “You city boy—I remember you bein’ the first one to run for the showers after selection was over.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t grow up rollin’ in cowpies and cactus like you, tough guy.”

  Mitch grabbed a pile of finger-thick willow shoots he had cut earlier and began carving his deadfall traps. These would be baited and placed around the nearby boulder piles to catch squirrels and chipmunks.

  “You really hoping to snag dinner with those tonight?” said Marco. “I think the only one who could set them up correctly was Ulysses. He always made it look so easy.”

  “I used to make similar traps back at my uncle’s ranch when I was a kid. The Apaches used deadfalls on a daily basis to feed themselves and they’re a lot easier to set up than snares.”

  “You always been into this Tarzan stuff, eh?”

  “Tarzan was a jungle dude—sounds more like you.”

  Marco closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the ridgepole. “Ah, right now, I’m thinking of sippin’ rum next to a waterfall at this bungalow in Costa Rica I went to a few years back.”

  “Yeah, well, I think you’re gonna be stuck with desert missions for a few years so I’d snap the hell out of that fantasy.”

  “Anything to erase the memory of that last shithole in Africa. That was too long of a deployment.”

  “But we did some good there—those villagers got a lot of training in counter-insurgency methods and will be able to protect themselves better now, not to mention the medical care that their kids got.”

  “That’s the part of the job the public never hears about—all they see are the fuckin’ SEALs, the commandos who drop in silently, nab the target and disappear. Green Berets like us, the guerilla fighters who actually live within a culture for months, providing assistance and combat skills, never have to toot their fuckin’ horn like the squids do. ”

  “Ah, they just have different roots than we do. I always found it ironic that JFK created both the Peace Corps and the Green Berets—he knew the value of having warriors who were well-versed in relationship building and not just kickin’ in doors.” Mitch deftly carved out a depression in one of the trap components. “While I never met any Peace Corps types who can blow up bridges and fieldstrip an AK, I’m proud of the work we’ve done in other parts of the world teaching people to fight equally as well as we have shown them how to provide for their village. That’s what separates us from the commandos, my friend. I think the SEALs are awesome within their given skillset, but I wish they would just stick with their role as shock-and-awe commandos.”

  “Yep, we’re badasses alright,” Marco said with a wide grin. “Who else is good at nation-building, unconventional warfare, and being chick magnets?”

  Mitch finished carving the last of his dozen deadfalls then stashed the components in his pants cargo pocket. He tossed another log on the fire, the sap hissing in the conflagration. Standing up, he took a swig from his canteen, arching his head back to get the last of the fluid out. He grabbed his pack and stuffed the empty canteen inside.

  “I saw a spring listed on the map,” he said, pointing to the right towards the ridgeline. “Should be about a half mile below this camp. Gimme your canteen and I’ll fill us both up.”

  Marco tossed his canteen to Mitch then returned to fumbling with his deadfalls. “I should have these completed by next week,” he said ruefully, flinging the crudely carved attempt into the fire. “Think I’ll gather up more firewood for us and then radio the boss that we made it to our final coordinates.”

  “I’ll set my traps along the ridgeline—that should be a good area to nab a few rock squirrels. After that I’ll get some water.”

  “Why not set a hundred of those traps? With how fast you carve those things, we could each finish this course draped in squirrel robes.”

  “Nah, we’ll take just what we need—this course will be over soon. No need to strip the area.”

  “OK, Johnny Appleseed, but I still think it’d be cool as hell arriving at the final rally point cloaked in skins like a fuckin’ mountain man.”

  “I guess you’ve never tanned an animal hide before.” Mitch held his hand up and wriggled his fingers. “Besides, some squirrel shooting gloves—now that would knock the socks off the guys at the range when we get back.”

  “Hell yeah.” Marco nodded and grinned.

  Chapter 11

  “Sundown, do you copy?” said Tung into his Motorola radio as he squatted beside some gray boulders, his ghillie suit blending into the contours. A hundred yards distant was a freshwater spring that trickled from a seep in the bedrock beneath the hill. Tung had liberally scattered several helpings of sardines along with sprinkling anise seed around the leaf litter. The two aromas were certain to catch the attention of any bears in the region. Tung had seen fresh scat and tracks not far from the spring and figured the bruin often frequented this drinking source.

  He waited impatiently for Nieman to reply as he kept watch on the distant hillside that he’d just crept from. That location had been the perfect place to lie in wait above the bait pile. Tung shook his head in disgust at how his concealed location had nearly been compromised b
y some brutish figure clad in army fatigues.

  What the hell was that guy doing out here anyway? Tung thought, hoping the bear he planned to target was still in the region. He had seen fresh tracks all around the valley and tracked the animal to this location when he decided to lie in wait and rely on the allure of the bait to bring the creature to him. So it was with great surprise that Tung saw the hulking man wrestling with a log and then heard the voice of another figure in the distance. With the two men temporarily distracted by their conversation, he made his way below and slunk off to determine his next course of action. He would wait to hear how many bears Nieman had killed to see if they should continue harvesting the region or move on.

  Frankly, Tung was hoping to procure at least five gallbladders and then be on their way. Or at least be on his way, as Nieman had outlived his usefulness. Tung’s plan was to move operations further north across the Canadian border, where there was more unmonitored wilderness to exploit, and Nieman’s knowledge was limited to Idaho. He also felt like the American was constantly pushing for a larger cut of the profits and often neglected paying tribute to Tung’s uncle, who was the sole reason either of them were in business. Plus, Nieman was slowing down as he got older and the girth of his waist increased. For what he was being paid, Tung could afford to hire three younger hunters who were expendable and had no inside knowledge of his family business back home.

  Tung heard his earpiece crackle as Nieman’s voice came over the radio. “Polaris, this is Sundown, go ahead.”

  “I ran into some snags in the trail and may need to go for a hike elsewhere. How many items do you have now?”

  “Only two.”

  Tung bit his lower lip in frustration. He’d hoped for double that by now. Coupled with the single gallbladder that he had procured from an adult bear earlier in the day, his quota was lower than expected. Nieman had indicated they could spend a few days in the surrounding valleys and walk away with a half-dozen gallbladders. After that they would stow them in the freezer at Nieman’s cabin before focusing on another isolated pocket of bears northeast of the Sawtooth region. Now, with the presence of the army guys in the area, he was concerned his harvest numbers would be reduced.

  “I’ll send you my GPS coordinates,” snapped Tung as he texted the information. “Meet me here and then we’ll reconfigure our plans.”

  “Copy that,” said Nieman as the sound of a topo map crinkling filled Tung’s earpiece. “Looks like you’re about an hour away so sit still and I’ll be there shortly.”

  Tung clicked off the radio. He was going to lean back against a fallen log when he heard the distinct sound of a large creature shuffling along the forest floor. He eased up his rifle from its slung position, focusing the scope to the right, where he saw the approaching form of a black bear as an invisible line of scent magnetically pulled it towards the odiferous bait pile near the spring.

  That looks like a different one than I saw earlier this morning—a larger female. He licked his lips while steadying the rifle. Maybe there are two in the area. This could be a good morning after all. The other one’s probably not far off. He pressed his cheek against the stock of the rifle and slowly positioned his finger on the trigger as the front shoulder of the bear came into his sights.

  Chapter 12

  Mitch headed down to a series of boulders dotting the ledge to the east. The mile-long contoured ridge resembled a backbone jutting from the forest floor. This would be a perfect habitat for the numerous small game that he hoped to procure in his deadfalls. Along the way, he searched the ground for flat rocks that could be propped up under the trap components to deliver the crushing force.

  The first outcropping of granite boulders proved to have an abundance of rock squirrel tracks and scat. Mitch pulled out one set of carved traps and squatted down near a fist-sized hole in the ground under a dark gray rock. He skewered the bait stick with a marble-sized piece of cattail root then set that piece aside. Carefully propping up a flat sandstone slab, he centered it over the lever and post stick, which were carved to nestle into one another. Holding the two components in place under the lip of the hefty slab, he inserted the bait stick, which clasped onto the other two pieces, placing them under tension. Once he felt the entire trap mechanism wasn’t going to spring and crush his knuckles, he removed his hands then leaned back to inspect his work.

  The placement of the trap required the squirrel to grasp the succulent cattail bait and trip the device, thus smashing the unsuspecting critter’s skull. The deadfall had been used in the western U.S. for thousands of years and was a very humane way of harvesting wild game while requiring little energy expenditure by the maker compared with the calorie-intensive method of hunting for hours with a bow.

  Mitch stood up and walked twenty feet along the row of boulders to another track-rich area and commenced setting his remaining deadfalls.

  An hour later, he headed down the leaf-strewn hillside towards a fallen sycamore tree and sat down to study his map. He identified the contour lines and corresponding hillside where he was located then traced his hand towards the spring a quarter-mile distant. Some pure water will sure taste good after that iodine-treated brew I’ve had to drink.

  He tucked the map into his BDU pocket then stood up, arching his back before continuing on an angle down the slope to the forest floor. Five minutes later, he saw the tops of young aspen trees clustered in a deep, bowl-shaped depression. Aspens were often an indicator of springs and he picked up his pace at the pleasing sight. Mitch rounded the bend in the faint animal trail, walking over the damp leaves, which muffled his approach. Upon entering the small depression, Mitch came to an abrupt halt, raising his eyebrows at the figure hunched over a dead black bear, which he was hastily butchering.

  With only ten feet between them, Mitch’s stomach tightened at the gruesome sight of the poor animal, whose entrails were being removed. The figure was clad in a soiled ghillie suit and sliced his blade skillfully through the organs. The sun had crept out slightly from the clouds and cast Mitch’s shadow upon the man, who swiftly turned while clutching his bloody filet knife.

  The man appeared to be Asian, his eyes like razors as he stared in astonishment at Mitch. The man glanced to his right, where his rifle lay resting against a tree trunk. Mitch went to remove his pistol but the man threw his blade, the blood reeling in a fine stream along its path towards Mitch’s chest. He pivoted sideways but only enough to deflect the weapon off his shoulder, his pack catching the tip. The short figure dove towards Mitch’s waist, tackling him and sending him to the ground.

  Mitch’s combatives training quickly rushed to the forefront and he rolled sideways, using his momentum to slam an elbow into the enraged figure’s cheek. Mitch followed this up with a left hook to the jaw, which made a crunching sound. Mitch sprang to his feet, sending his left boot towards the ribs of the writhing man, who caught it and twisted Mitch’s foot with enough force to unbalance him again. Diving to the right, Mitch tucked and rolled, coming up a few feet away from the still-steaming bear carcass. The man spun to his right and bolted for his rifle but was yanked back by the thin streamers from his ghillie suit, which had snagged on a low shrub. Mitch grabbed a baseball-sized rock and hurled it at the man, striking him firmly in the left temple. The figure crumpled to the ground as if a power cord had just been removed from his frenetic body.

  Mitch removed his Beretta and steadied the barrel, focusing it upon the inanimate man who lay twisted amongst the fabric of his frayed ghillie suit. When he was sure the battle was over, he crept up to the man, keeping his pistol trained on him while yanking him by the back of the collar against a small elm tree. Mitch squatted behind the limp figure, hogtying his hands around the backside of the tree then searching for any other weapons on the body.

  When he finished, Mitch looked back at the spring, its placid surface unaltered by the macabre scene of the slaughtered bear and slumped poacher.

  Standing up, he retrieved the rifle, marveling at its custom
design and optics. Jeez, this would cost me a month’s paycheck. He checked the chamber, removing the .300 cartridge and popping out the magazine to inspect the remaining round count. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the grumble of what he thought was another black bear. Stepping forward with the rifle, he glanced over at the dead animal beside the spring, a rivulet of its blood creeping into the glistening water, and wondered if it was the spirit of the deceased creature before him whose bellow he had just heard or a different bear altogether. He shook his head at the thought, wondering if he was dehydrated, then bit his lower lip at the thought of having to bypass such a formerly appealing waterhole.

  He slid the magazine back into the rifle and chambered a round with a deft maneuver of the black bolt. He examined the bound figure again, whom he felt like putting a bullet through for the atrocities he had committed. Must’ve been the same bastard that killed the other bear yesterday. Wonder how many more he’s taken. He leaned over and inspected the boots. Hmm, different tread pattern altogether. So, there’s more than one of you out here. He craned his head around, searching the hillside for movement.

  Mitch squatted down and examined the camo backpack and found it filled with a tailor-made flexible cooler lined with dry ice. Inside it were two sausage-shaped objects wrapped in foil with blood seeping out. What’s going on?

  He thought of pulling out his radio and calling in his SIT-REP to Marco and then Waline but knew from the depression he was in that there wouldn’t be any reception off the repeater towers on the nearby mountains. Mitch figured he would head back to camp and notify Marco but first he knelt down beside the still-unconscious figure one more time and added another layer of lashing to his wrists and ankles.