by John O'Brien
I quickly look over their gear, verifying that everyone has their harnesses. We have on our dry suits to minimize odor and any thermal signature, pads taped to our armpits, our clothing smudged clear of scent. Gear is taped to minimize sound, sleeves and pant legs cinched. Phosphorous grenades hang from vests, full magazines tucked firmly into pouches. We hover around rearview mirrors or produce our own as we apply grease paint, the darker colors flattening ridges with shades of green and brown in the recessed facial areas. The idea is to present a different 3D picture, turning our faces as 2D as possible to allow us to blend in more with our surroundings. In a forest, much of the greenery is horizontal at slight downward angles, so we keep to that scheme. A deciduous forest in the winter is vertical, as are parts of the jungle and forest areas where there are little to no bushes. A camo scheme must not only follow the colorations, blending the ridges and depressions of the face, but also attempt to match the angles. Vertical striping will stand out in a mostly horizontal green area.
We circle the area, McCafferty searching the ground. Before long, we come across the giant prints leading away from the scene. The strides aren’t as long as the running ones we found on the upper slopes, but they’re still some distance apart. Cautiously, we follow the tracks, walking a little to the side so we don’t disturb them. Rain has washed away much of the trail, but there’s enough of them left to shadow; mostly puddle-filled depressions. McCafferty leads and we follow.
Even though we’re on American soil, we consider ourselves in hostile territory and proceed accordingly. As I warily eye the shadows under the trees, I doubt I’ll ever again enjoy the complete peace and solitude I used to find in the woods.
Every few steps, McCafferty pauses to listen and watch, searching the surrounding terrain for any sight or sound of movement. The trail initially heads into the woods along the road, the tracks of the smaller Lycans of the pack in near proximity. The Alpha tracks are on top of the others, signaling that it is following instead of leading. It’s the opposite of normal wolf packs, almost as if the Alpha were using the others as scouts.
The trail turns toward the river, the bushes growing thick along its banks. We can’t see more than a couple of feet, so we proceed slowly even though there aren’t any fresh tracks. We’ve been ambushed once and have no intention of entering another one just because we want to cover more ground. We should be safe, being in the new moon phase, but if we’re wrong, this could be a short foray.
We come to the river, emerging from the underbrush onto a small beach of solid stone. The waterway beyond is wide, the swiftly flowing water rippling as it runs over submerged rocks. The trail ends at the water’s edge.
“We’ll cross here and pick it up on the far side. McCafferty and Gonzalez will traverse first, the rest of us covering from shore. Denton and I will go next once those two are set up on the other side, with Greg and Henderson following.”
The two women enter the river, the current whipping around their legs. The river looks shallow enough, but water can be tricky. They wade out, their eyes searching the far banks as they struggle to find secure footing. Around midstream, the water rises to midthigh, the strong current forming a bow wave against their legs. But it gets no deeper, and they arrive without incident.
On the other side, they move into the bushes and are lost from sight. I start into the water, the cold instantly felt. Moving deeper into the stream, I have to concentrate on each foot placement as the smooth stones under the surface shift with each step, the grinding of rock on rock felt through my boots.
“Sir, there isn’t any sign of their exit,” McCafferty radios.
“Standby. Denton and I will be across shortly,” I reply.
I know that the two women have formed a perimeter on the far side, keeping an eye on the woods. Greg and Henderson will watch our back, but Denton and I will have to watch up and downstream. Rivers are a mess to cross as they’re usually open and the current locks us in place with no cover. It’s not like we can just sprint should we run into trouble in the stream.
At least the Lycans don’t carry long-range weapons, I think, moving my foot forward to find the next placement.
Deeper in, the current threatens to pull me into its embrace each time I move my foot. It’s a fight just to stay upright. The subdued murmur of the river is in contrast to the force it exerts, the current pushing against my legs and splashing loudly. Finally, the water shallows and I’m on the other side, Denton following a moment later. We remain in the shallow water at the very edge, allowing the water to drain from our pants and boots.
Searching a short distance up and down the river doesn’t reveal any tracks coming out from it. Although I hate to separate the team, especially by a river that takes time to cross, I don’t really see much choice if we’re to find the trail again. The Lycans obviously took to the river but didn’t cross immediately over. That means they left the banks either up or downstream. Telling Greg and Henderson to wait in place, I send Denton back across to join them. On opposite sides of the river, we’ll prowl the shorelines in search of tracks emerging from the water.
Cautiously, we start upstream, doing our best to remain in tandem with the three on the opposite bank. The going is slow as we have to both keep an eye on our surroundings and carefully search for the sign of a trail, which could be mostly washed away. Greg calls after a while, having found where the pack exited the river. While crossing back over, I revise my estimate of their intelligence, or at least that of the Alpha. It’s pretty apparent that they used the river to cover their tracks, wading through the fast-moving, shallower water and swimming through the intervening, deeper pools.
As we move again through the trees, the murmuring of the river takes on a deeper rumble ahead. We’ve been ascending higher into the hills, the slope gradual, but as we approach the roar, the grade steepens. The trail turns toward the river again and ends at a shelf of stone that extends out of sight upstream.
Here, the river is narrower, the current swift. Rapids froth in a furious tumult, slamming into rocks protruding above the surface before plunging over the edge. Spray lifts from the churning surface, forming rainbows in the mist. After dropping down a series of shelves that would grind anything to a pulp, it crashes into a pool.
Not seeing how anything could cross the frothing rapids, we move up the rocky shelves, keeping close enough to the banks to identify an exit trail. I’m not entirely comfortable staying so close to the bushes with their limited visibility. Anything could leap out from within without much warning. Greg, Henderson, and Denton stay further out to get a better view ahead and to provide covering fire should we be attacked. Of course, I know it won’t do much good without our specialized gear, and my thoughts contemplate jumping in the rapids rather than attempting to fight off a pack of Lycans. Either option has limited hope of success. But the way I figure it, we’d have a better chance surviving in the plunging waters. However, even if we survived the rapids to be dumped into the pools below, we’d still have to contend with the Lycans. But by then, maybe our ride would have arrived and we could exfil from within the cold waters.
The sun passes the zenith and beyond. Rocky bluffs extend upward on both sides. We pass into a small canyon, the stone cliffs rising even higher. At fourteen hundred, I call a halt. Our bingo time has arrived without finding another single trace. For all intents and purposes, we’ve lost the trail. I’m again struck by the ingenuity of the pack using the water and stone to cover their tracks, if that’s what they intended. It implies a higher intelligence, and that worries me.
We turn around, heading back into the woods once we pass out of the canyon. Perhaps we missed the exit trail—not that we could follow it now even if we did find it. I do not want to be in these woods once darkness falls. We arrive back at the vehicles in the late afternoon. Lynn has flown up the river, searching past our turnaround point without seeing any sign. The Lycans took to the river and essentially vanished.
* * * * * *
&n
bsp; The next day, we’re choppered into a remote area to set up the trap for the next full moon cycle. The rugged terrain of ridge lines and deep ravines pass underneath our ride, valleys opening between tall forested slopes. The smell of unburned jet fuel flows past the open door, the floor vibrating in sync to the noise of the engines and the whump of rotors spinning overhead. A short distance away, another helicopter laden with supplies beats the air into submission.
Descending, we land in a clearing next to a small lake nestled in a pocket of land. Steep cliffs rise on two sides of the water. Near the bottom, rocky slides extend down to the lake. On a third side is a medium-sized meadow of short grass, lichen, and moss-covered stones, with a few remote stands of trees lifting gently from the shores. Bright yellow and white wildflowers add splashes of color. Thick stands of fir trees surround the meadow and extend to the rock faces. A thick forest crowds the shores of the lake on the fourth side.
The bluff overlooking the lake joins with two ridges running perpendicular to one another, the lake itself nestled in the crook where they come together. In the distance, chains of ridge lines rise one after the other, each a progressive shade lighter than the one before it, changing from green to blue with the farthest bluish-white.
Downwash flattens the short grass and wildflowers. The engines wind down as the fuel is cut off, the rotors spinning slower and slower. We have a while before the next full moon, but setting up the location will take time. The fencing alone seems daunting, not to mention planting sensors and cameras around the area. A couple of days before the full moon, we’ll return with the cattle and place our claymores before positioning ourselves atop the rocky bluff. Once the full moon hits, we’ll sprinkle blood down in the enclosure and hope the Lycans catch the scent.
Supplies are offloaded from the other helicopter and a team immediately starts working on the fence. We circle the perimeter, setting sensors and cameras in the woods. With nearly two weeks to go until the full moon, any scent we create should be out of the area by then. Lynn calls out with each device placed, verifying its functionality. Placing the supplies takes a couple of days, flying in on the mornings and out when the sun nears the top of the ridges.
On the last day of work, the full moon still a while away, we finish placing the equipment and hike up to the overlooking stone bluffs. Several boulders sit atop the cliff with overhangs and crannies, making a number of ideal overwatch sites. Below, the waters of the lake are glass smooth, the skies mirrored on its reflective surface. It’s difficult to tell if the trees on the far shore are growing up from the shore or down.
The site gives a good overall view of the meadow. When we settle into place, we’ll be able to access the same images and readouts as Lynn, although only one at a time instead of the array Lynn can access. We scout the perimeter around our cozy little retreat to register the terrain in our minds as we plant additional sensors. As the afternoon settles into dusk, we walk the entire perimeter, turning off devices as we go. No use wasting battery life.
We climb into the Blackhawk. The engine whines to life and the rotors start their slow spin, each revolution faster than the one previous until they’re a blur overhead. Lifting off, we rotate and slide out of the little nook, saying goodbye to the serene location.
The sun settles just atop the hills, rays of sunshine streaming outward. The eastern side of the ridges and deep ravines are cast in shadow, the western slopes lit with an orange glow. Somewhere among those cliff, ridges, and ravines, Lycans will be hunting come the next full moon.
The sun dips below the highest ridge, silhouetting it in a fiery show of orange and red. The eastern skies darken and the first stars appear. When we return, life and stress will amp up, but for now, I enjoy the display of nature to the music of the thumping rotors and wind whipping by the open doorway.
* * * * * *
Moonlight frosts the tips of the trees, the surface of the lake below glimmering under the light of the full moon. Stars twinkle across an expanse of dark velvet with the higher elevations still hosting mantles of brightly gleaming snow. A gentle wind caresses the boughs, the forest whispering. The faint croaks of frogs rise up the cliffs, echoing off the stony walls. Encompassing it all is the clean scent of evergreens.
As I lie on a finger of land extending from the bluff, the chill of night and altitude wraps around me like a blanket, the cold stone penetrating through my dry suit. Below, the meadow is bathed in a silver glow, a patchwork of light and shadow. Cattle stand in a dark clump near the middle, their backs highlighted in the moonbeams.
Our silver-jacketed rounds and knives came four days prior, along with the claymores containing silver-plated BBs. The day of their arrival had been spent trying the new rounds and aligning sights, the claymores tested for spread and functionality. Three days ago, we airlifted into the area to begin our final preparations. A veritable train of helicopters delivered cattle slung underneath while we set about placing claymores and activating the equipment.
In the late afternoon, as the sun crept down near the line of ridges, we sprinkled blood within the fenced area. If our data was indeed correct, the Lycans should spawn with the full moon and hopefully be drawn to our location by the scent of blood. Once in the open fields below, Henderson and Denton will both attempt to implant trackers. Lynn and the Spooky will then set to work, delivering a rain of firepower into their midst.
The plan hinges on the Lycans being unable to heal sufficiently from the damage dealt. Continued pummeling will hopefully either decapitate them or tear their hearts out. At the very least, it should render them immobile and we’ll be able to finish them off. Although, the idea of stepping into the field to do so sends shivers up my spine every time I contemplate it.
I turn my gaze to the night sky, searching for the dark outline of the 130 as it blots out the stars. There’s no sign of the shape circling overhead, nor the drone of its engines. There’s only a streak of orangish-red that appears momentarily, carving across the heavens before winking out just as quickly as it arrived.
Gonzalez lies beside me, her eyes glued to a pair of binoculars. Henderson and Denton are near the tree line, keeping a watch over our six and monitoring the sensors placed around our bivouac. Greg and McCafferty are resting in the middle—although I’m not sure how anyone can “rest” knowing that Lycans could now be on the prowl.
It’s a couple of hours until we rotate shifts, but for now, I’m left to the quiet of my own mind, which is a dangerous place to be. As I look over the wilderness, scrutinizing the dark shadows in the trees, the images of the Alpha circulate in my thoughts. It’s not a matter of belief at this point. I’ve looked the creature in the eye at a range much closer than I’d ever like to encounter again. And somewhere out there, a pack of them are running loose…hunting.
“Anything?” I whisper to Gonzalez.
She takes her eyes away from glassing over the area and shakes her head. “When one of the sensors went off earlier, I saw some heat source near the edge of the trees, but it turned out to be an elk.”
“Waiting is the worst,” I comment.
“Yeah, no kidding…sir. It’s worse than actually being in the shit. It allows the mind far too much time to wander,” Gonzalez replies.
“For me, it’s the ungodly anticipation…knowing what’s coming and the anxiety associated with it. It’s like being left to stew in a soup of dread.”
“Too true. You know what’s coming; having to wait for it seems like torture. It was that way with every operation I’ve been on. Every. Single. One.”
“While we were on the chopper and the aircraft, at least we were heading toward it and I could mentally prepare. But this waiting thing can take a flying leap,” I state.
“Of course, saying that here and now means we want to bring on the Lycans…actually want them to show.”
“Yeah, there’s that to think about. But we’ll have to face them eventually and I’d prefer it be sooner than later.”
“I’m sure we’
ll get the chance, but I’m with you on the waiting, sir.”
The moon slowly wheels across the night sky, its stark white contrasting with the lighter gray of canyons and craters on its surface. Far off, I hear faint echoing howls, drifting periodically across the night air. Each time, I wonder if I’m hearing the Lycans on the prowl or the distant packs of normal wolves. Very occasionally, the cry from a barred owl rises from within the shadowed trees, asking “who cooks for me?” And every so often, individual sensors are tripped as nighttime creatures prowl the forest floor—but nothing that indicates a large pack is heading toward the meadow.
The moon finally says its goodbye, sinking below the line of mountains one slow inch at a time, like butter slowly melting in a warm pan. The once frosted tips of the trees lose their luminosity, the land turned dark. Snowfields change to subdued whites, the silhouettes of the mountains but a shade darker than the surrounding skies. The lake below transforms from a glimmering pool of light into a dark mirror.
Dawn isn’t far off, but that doesn’t mean we can relax our vigilance. They’re currently at their strongest, and when we first encountered them, it was before night had set. Plus, the picture taken from the wildlife photographer showed them running around in daylight. The only relaxation that we’ll experience will come from being able to see better, and the fact that nighttime invokes a greater danger. Whereas the night and dark places are usually my friends on missions, that’s definitely not the case here.
Lynn will have to refuel before long, but will return shortly afterward. The multiple aircrews aboard will be able to keep the aircraft aloft without losing crew rest. Like us, our exfil helicopter will remain in place. We won’t be moving around much; for one, to discourage any vestige of our scent being spread through the area and to minimize movement. If we’re found on the ridge, we’ll turn from hunter into hunted.
