Authors: Ken Goddard
“Larry’s going to take you to the U.S. Attorney’s office tomorrow morning.
I’ve already called ahead and let them know that we’re amiable to a deal on your endangered species trophy collection, depending on how things go with this hunt,” Bulatt said.
“But you can’t blame me if things don’t work out.”
“It’s up to us to conduct the covert investigation properly,” Bulatt agreed.
“But I wouldn’t want to get out there and discover, in some unfortunate manner, that Emerson and his men — not to mention your CEO buddies — had been warned off.
That would turn out to be a much more serious issue.”
“Yes, I understand,” Fogarty acknowledged.
“Carolyn was booked into the hospital as a Jane Doe,” Bulatt went on.
“As soon as the both of you have received proper medical treatment, and talked with the local U.S. Attorney, you’ll both be moved to a secure location by the U.S. Marshall’s Service.”
“You mean witness protection?”
“The arrangement I set up isn’t as formal as witness protection,” Bulatt said, “but that program is available to you if you need it or want it.
Personally, I don’t think you will.
By the time you’re ready to make that decision, we’ll have dealt with Emerson and his men; and both you and Carolyn will be able to go back to living your normal lives, such as they are.”
“And what if you don’t manage to deal with them,” Fogarty demanded.
“What if they do manage to escape and ‘go to ground,’ as you put it?”
“In that unlikely event,” Mr. Fogarty, “Bulatt said calmly, “you can take some comfort in the fact that they’re going to be a lot more upset at us than they will be at you.”
CHAPTER 36
McAllister Field, Yakima, Washington
Gedimin Bulatt and Achara Kulawnit were parked on a side road in a rented pickup truck, wearing white cammo suits with drawn-back hoods over the cold weather gear they’d borrowed from the nearby U.S. Military Training Facility earlier that morning.
Now they were sitting silently and staring out across an open field at the tarmac where older men were standing next to a blue-and-white-painted helicopter; while two much younger men were helping unload equipment bags out of the rear cargo compartment of a Gulfstream-Four jet.
A light flurry of snow was falling around the truck, forcing Bulatt to use the wipers every minute or so to keep the windshield clear.
About ten minutes later, after the crew of the G-Five secured the cargo hatch, got back in the plane, and began taxiing out to the runway, Bulatt turned to Achara.
“Are you ready?” he asked, and then realized she was staring at him with a bemused expression on her face.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
Achara shook her head.
“It’s just … this is the first time I’ve seen you without the beard and long hair, that’s all; it takes some getting used to.”
“An improvement?”
Bulatt grinned.
“Definitely different,” Achara said noncommittally.
“Right now, I’ll settle for different,” Bulatt said, turning his attention back to the six figures now gathered around the helicopter that — from his vague knowledge of military helicopters — looked like a Blackhawk transport aircraft modified for civilian use.
“There’s a good chance that Emerson or one of his men saw me from a distance out at the electronics shop.
I doubt that they got a close or clear look; but there’s no sense in making our lives difficult from the onset.
And besides, I’m supposed to be a jarhead, remember?”
“You definitely … look the part,” Achara said.
He set the truck into gear and then reached down and released the emergency brake.
“Okay,” he said with a smile of anticipatory satisfaction, “one last time: everything that happened from the moment we stepped off the U.S. Marshall’s transport G-Four yesterday is a relevant part of our cover.
We flew into Yakima last night to pick up our field gear at the training center, stayed on base in separate NCO billets — because the U.S. Military’s got a thing about cohabitation — and had breakfast at the mess hall very early this morning, which gave me just enough time to get a ‘trim’ before driving out here.
You’re Carolyn Fogarty, the ornery bow-hunting daughter of Sam Fogarty; and I’m Marine Master Gunnery Sergeant Gediminas Bulattus, your indifferent-to-hunting-critters fiancé.
We first met when you were bow-hunting in southwestern Idaho — where you always hunt, and I was out hiking — and you damn near put an arrow through my head, which made it love at first sight, as far as I was concerned.
Anything that’s happened between then and now is none of their business.
Got it?”
“Apart from the fact that I don’t think I believe you about the cohabitation rules,” Achara said with a half-smile and a dangerous glint in her eyes, “yes, I’ve got it.”
“And you are going to be able to maintain your character, and a reasonably calm demeanor, even when we meet Marcus Emerson and his men, correct?
You do understand that we don’t have any direct evidence that puts any of them at the scenes with your brother or your father; and that we’re going to need Michael Hateley’s cooperation and testimony to take them down?”
“Yes, I understand that we need Mr. Hateley, and that I have to stay in character with Emerson and his men no matter what they say or do,” Achara acknowledged.
“But what if things get out of control, and they start shooting at us.”
“If that happens,” Bulatt said, “you’ll have a simple choice: either duck and run, or join me in fighting back.”
Achara smiled.
“Excellent,” she said, the dangerous glint still visible in her eyes, “because fighting back that is exactly what I intend to do.”
*
*
*
Bulatt drove the truck up to the chain-link fence separating a dirt parking lot from the make-shift helipad, and parked.
Then he and Achara got out, and started taking their equipment bags, a military rifle case, the spears, the bow and quiver of arrows, and other camping gear out of the back of the pick-up’s bed.
As they did so, four green-cammo-jacketed figures broke away from the group around the helicopter, walked thru the gate and came over to the truck.
One of the figures — the largest and tallest by at least fifty pounds and a good twelve inches — was carrying a kit bag.
The two figures wearing coveralls and down jackets with pilot insignias remained by the helicopter.
“Mike Hateley,” one of the green-camouflage-dressed figures said as he stopped in front of Achara and extended his hand.
“I assume you’re Carolyn, Sam’s daughter?”
“That’s right,” Achara said with an amiable nod as she took Hateley’s hand.
“Nice to meet you, finally, after all these years.
And this is my fiancé, Ged.”
As Bulatt and Hateley shook hands, the other three figures moved in closer.
“This fellow is Stuart Caldreaux, a name I’m sure you’ve also heard many times,” Hateley said, “although we all much prefer to be called by our first names.”
“Stuart, nice to meet you also,” Achara said as she shook both of their hands.
“And this is Quince,” Hateley went on, “the fellow who’s going to be leading us into the field today.”
Lanyard took Achara’s hand, cocked his head slightly as he casually examined the features of her face.
“Carolyn, I’m told you’re substituting for your father today.”
“Yes, I am,” she said, meeting his gaze calmly.
“It was my fault he was hurt; so, with all due respect to the other hunters here, I intend to bring him back the best mammoth of the lot as a fitting trophy for his wall.”
“Gentlemen, I think we’ve just had the gauntlet laid down,” Caldreaux said with a grin.
“I like your spirit, lass,” Lanyard said. “I’ll see to it you get a fair start against this scrummy lot.”
Then he turned to Bulatt, giving him the same once-over with probing eyes as they shook hands.
“Ged, it looks to me as if you and your lady-friend were planning on going out on maneuvers, instead of hunting,” he said, gesturing with his head at the white cammo tunics and pants, and the camping and survival gear with visible US ARMY markings.
“The advantage of knowing an amiable supply sergeant with a taste for Black Jack,” Bulatt said. “I’m not familiar with the weather in this part of Washington, so I figured military cold weather gear would be a good choice.
And I also assumed the whites would be helpful in tracking big game in a snow storm,” he added, looking around at the others who were dressed in green camouflage clothing, “although I might have misjudged that situation.”
“Probably depends on who’s tracking what ... or who,” Lanyard said with a grin, although his eyes remained wary and curious.
“I expect our quarry will know we’re coming from quite some distance away, but it never hurts to blend in a bit.
I gather you’ve got a military background?”
“Still on active duty, E-eight, Master Gunny, working on my fourth tour,” Bulatt said with deliberate vagueness as he calmly met Lanyard’s gaze.
“Haven’t found anything better to do with my life; although that may have changed recently,” he added with a nod toward Achara, who returned a dimpled grin as she took her home-made bow, quiver of arrows, and four spears out of the truck bed.
“I can only assume your prior military experiences pale in comparison,” Lanyard said with a wink at Achara, who responded with a dimpled grin.
“Did Mr. Fogarty fill you in on the rules of this hunt?”
“My understanding is that the three hunters will make their kills with old-fashioned spears; and possibly with a couple of home-made arrows,” Bulatt said, gesturing with his head at Achara’s quiver.
“The rest of us maintain camp, cook, wash the pots, cut wood, haul things from ‘A’ to ‘B’, and presumably stand by with the more-modern weapons to make sure no one gets hurt.”
“You’re not joining in on the hunt?”
Lanyard cocked his head, staring at Bulatt quizzically.
“No.”
Bulatt shook his head.
“Carolyn’s the one who wants to take over her father’s hunt; I’m just along to haul the gear, and to make sure she stays safe.
Game hunting’s not really my thing.”
“What, you mean to say tracking down a wild creature in the woods with a spear — and in the middle of a raging snowstorm — doesn’t appeal to your sporting blood?”
Lanyard was grinning widely now; but his dark eyes were still probing, making an assessment.
“Actually, I do like the way you evened the odds a bit,” Bulatt said.
“But I’ve spent the better part of my professional life hunting a species that shoots back, so that’s probably jaded my view of game-hunting.
Not quite the same adrenaline rush; although I’ll concede that Carolyn and the rest of you may prove me wrong today.”
“I believe your Mr. Hemingway felt the same way; a man after my own heart,” Lanyard said as he reached into his kit bag and brought out a hand-wand scanner.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he said, holding up the wand.
“One of the agreed-upon rules is that nobody brings along any tracking devices, transmitters, GPS units or other modern gadgetry that might give one hunter an unfair advantage over the others; and I get paid to see to it that the rules are followed.”
“Sounds reasonable to me, as long as we get to keep our compasses,” Bulatt said as he stuck out his arms, allowing Lanyard to scan first his entire body with the frequency-detection wand.
Then, as Lanyard moved over and scanned Achara, Bulatt pulled a green military compass out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Lanyard.
Moments later, Achara did the same.
“Basic survival gear is definitely allowed.
Personally, I wouldn’t walk outside the house without mine,” Lanyard said as he examined the small instruments briefly, handed them back, and then tapped the back of his hand against Bulatt’s upper left ribcage.
“Mind if I take a look at that?”
Bulatt unzipped his white cammo tunic, drew the four-inch stainless steel Smith & Wesson .44-caliber Magnum revolver from his shoulder holster and handed it to Lanyard.
“Mountain Gun model; nice weapon,” Lanyard said appraisingly as he opened the cylinder, checked the loads, and then handed it back to Bulatt.
“Not exactly military issue, though.”
“I didn’t think a nine-mil round was going to do much against whatever Carolyn manages to piss off with an arrow or spear; so I brought along an M14 and a couple hundred rounds of seven-six-two ball, with the forty-four as backup,” Bulatt said, gesturing with his head at the military issue rifle case.
“If that doesn’t do the job, you’ll find us up the nearest tree, waiting for the cavalry to arrive.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Lanyard said agreeably as he bent down, opened the rifle case, briefly examined the lethal Vietnam War era rifle, and then looked back up at Bulatt.
“No scope?”
Bulatt shrugged.
“Like I said, I’m planning on playing defense, not offense.
And besides, if we’ve got something closing in on us fast, I’d much prefer open sights.”
“Good on you, mate,” Lanyard said as he closed the case and stood up.
“Okay, let’s all gather around for a moment.”
As Hateley, Caldreaux, Bulatt and Achara all moved close, Lanyard reached into the kit bag again and brought out five plastic-sealed maps.
He handed four of the maps to the designated hunters.