Harvest Of Evil
a novel
BY
William Lehman
Dedicated to my brothers and sisters at arms, whether in Navy blue, Army green, Air Force blue, Marine green or the tan, green, or blue of the various LEOs, thanks for standing the watch with me.
Copyright ©2014 William Lehman
Produced by: The Pymander Press LLC.
St. Paul Minnesota USA
No part of this document or the related files may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Cover Art by: Shawn Shay
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
1
I was doing the swing shift in my usual beat. Of course my beat covers two hundred and fifty square miles, most of which have no roads. It was a pretty day in late August, about five in the afternoon. Around here, the sun doesn't go down in the summer until almost ten, so it was still bright and sunny. The propaganda we spew to the rest of the world about the rain in Washington is just to scare away the Californians, actually we get very little rain in the summer, the winter on the other hand... Still it was late summer now, so the weather was beautiful. The road I was on is absolutely gorgeous, winding through the low point of the Cascade mountain chain.
"Four X-ray fifteen, Cencom, contact Sam five on Learn." Well, I guess I should find out what the Lieutenant wants. I switched my radio over to Learn, which is the channel we use to communicate 'off the record'. It's the only channel that isn't monitored and recorded for posterity, and as such is useful for making wise-ass comments, arranging for dinner, or just shooting the breeze. It's also the channel we use to bitch someone out, or to give an off the record assignment. I know she ain't arranging a dinner date, and I doubt she just wants to shoot the breeze.
"Sam Five, Four X-ray fifteen, on Learn. What's up Lieutenant?"
"John, I received a call from Snohomish county's finest a couple minutes ago. They received a poaching tip from an anonymous source fifteen minutes ago. They don't have anyone in the area, and it's our Jurisdiction anyway. You near Index?"
"Sure Boss," I replied. "I'm about five minutes east, on Two, coming back from Money Creek." Two, of course is WA. highway 2, and Money Creek is one of the campgrounds in my area. "But, L.T., why switch to Learn for this?"
"Because I think I know this mutt. If it's who I think it is, he's got a scanner, and he knows our main frequencies. I don't think he knows Learn yet." Replied Lieutenant Murphy.
"OK, Boss, what am I in for?" I asked. This smelled like an individual that was high on the L.T.'s 'I want his ass' list. I really wanted to know why, and get any intelligence available on the suspect before I went into the bush with him.
"I think it's Jim Crag. He's been making a seven figure income on the Asian pharmaceuticals market for longer than you've been out of the Navy. Bear gallbladders, powdered elk and unicorn horn, bald eagle feathers, you name it. He's armed, and will fight if caught with the goods. Black hair, brown eyes, six foot, medium build, about forty years old. John, make sure you watch your ass with this guy. Call for back up soon rather than late, huh? This isn't a SEAL mission you know."
"Got it Boss. Do we have a location?"
"The call from Snow said northeast of town someone saw a Unimog pulling into the woods off the Index-Galena road. Two men got out, and a little later the caller heard gunfire."
"Hell, L.T. that could just be someone getting in a little target practice."
"Yeah, it could, but be careful anyway."
"Received, Four X-ray fifteen back to primary." I switched the radio back to our primary operating frequency, and checked back in with Cencom. A couple minutes later I was in Index WA. And almost as soon, back out of it. I'm not saying Index is small, but you have to leave town to change your mind. About a mile out of town, I saw the Unimog. I remembered them from back in the Navy, the German answer to the Duce and a Half. I started to see them in civilian hands a few years ago. They're the perfect back-woods truck, if you can afford them.
I parked my patrol vehicle behind their rig, and opened my door slowly. I didn't see any movement, and I didn't smell anything either, but the Boss was antsy, so lets not take any chances. When I walked over to the Unimog, I could smell old death from inside, but I couldn't testify as to what, or how old, so that was no good. Hell, this could be a legitimate hunting truck who's owner got a bear during fall season, I couldn't prove otherwise.
As I walked past the truck, I caught a new smell, dead fish, lots of dead fish. So much for legitimate hunters, baiting bear isn't legal in this state. I took my thumb snap off the top of my holster, and moved in. The forest around here is deciduous and conifer mix, with heavy undergrowth. Most of it is vine maple, alder and pine with rhododendron and blackberry bushes thick in the clearings. About fifteen yards into the bush on the path from the truck , I found a casing. 30-06 freshly shot. I could smell the guys that had shot it, through the fish, but only because I was right on top of their trail.
Yeah, I rely on my nose and ears a lot in the bush. I have a reason.
*****
Fifteen years ago, I had been a spook boat rider, a Sonar Technician (Submarines), on a special operations submarine. My future career path was bright and straight forward, and, short of something really stupid happening, I was hooked up. Then…something really stupid happened.
I was on leave, hunting elk in the Cascades just east of Mt. Rainier, and had just sighted in on a beautiful 3x4 bull, squeezed the trigger, and POW, up in front of the bullet jumps a cougar. Seems Mr. Cat also had plans for that elk, and it didn't involve my freezer. I had time enough to think "OH SHIT, and I don't even have a cat tag." The bullet entered low on the cat's ribs and exited high on the other side, a sure lung shot and maybe the heart too. I was sure that I had killed that damn cougar, and to make it worse, I now had a wounded elk to track down, too. I had dropped the rifle from my shoulder to look for the blood trail when that damn cat got UP, and charged at me. He clawed me on the right forearm with his front claws, got my right thigh with his backs, leaped right the hell over my head, and was gone.
Everyone has heard of Lycanthropes, but no one I knew had ever run into one (or so I thought at the time) so I didn't even think of it, I just patched myself up as best I could and started crawling for my truck. I don't know how I drove into town, but the next thing I remember clearly was falling out of the truck at the E.R. in Yakima. I woke up again the next day with a grim-faced doctor talking about the results of a Chaney test, and that he is required to counsel me regarding state care facilities.
When I got back to the Boat, my Division Officer and the Weapons Officer were waiting to inform me that the C.O. would like to see me, "at my earliest convenience." Yeah, right. That's military speak for, "get your ass in the old man's state room right now." Well, the skipper laid it out for me.
I could accept a Medical Honorable which would mean a 100% disability pension, and go get a civilian job, or go stir crazy and swallow a pistol in three years.
Or, I could transfer to a boomer (an SSBN, or Ballistic Missile Sub) a fate worse than death for someone that loves 'the game'.
Or, there was a third option.
Seems the Teams are looking for a few good critters, and I just qualified. The Boomers were an option because you don't turn fuzzy if you're more
than 150' underwater. No one knew why, but you didn't. However, it's the most BORING job in the sub fleet. Being in the Teams, on the other hand, is a lot of things, but boring isn't one of them. All of this led me to here and now, a retired (sort of, Uncle can still call me back if he really needs me, or if he gets a wild hair up his ass) SEAL working as a patrol officer for the National Park Police.
Oh, I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is John Fisher, I'm 5'9", 210 lbs, blond hair kept short, with a red mustache, blue eyes, and look sort of like I just stepped out of a recruiting poster for the Vikings, you know, join the Norse Navy - see the world, and steal it!
*****
Right now, I wanted to find the guys that had pulled off the round a little bit ago. Lots of rounds, and a shot up can or something: target practice. One round, and no legitimate target in view: hunter, or poacher. Add the big pile of rotting salmon somewhere ahead, and you get poacher. Besides, there wasn't anything in season right now that you would want to use a 30-06 on, except Coyote, and they aren't really wild about rotten fish, so… I'm thinking Lieutenant Murphy was right.
The path led on about fifty yards, there I found the fish pile. Something had been eating at it. There was also a blood trail, and I picked up the target's scent. Bear. They had hit it, but from the look of it, not very well. Mister bruin had galloped off into the woods, with the poachers in hot pursuit. I had enough to call for backup, but if they had a scanner, all they had to do was not find the animal, and start holding target practice on a pop can. I still didn't have enough to bust them. I needed them over the body of the bear. That would place them with the weapon, and the poached animal. That would be enough for a conviction. So, I followed the trail. I might get a conviction with just the evidence I had in a TV forensics show, but here in real life, without a dead animal, prosecution on poaching isn't something the Federal Prosecutor is going to touch.
I had gotten about a half a mile into the woods, moving quickly when I noticed that the blood trail was dropping away. There wasn't enough blood for the bear to have bled out, they must not have gotten a good enough shot to stop him. I kept following in hopes that they would get another shot and I could get my bust.
That was when I smelled something that any Law enforcement officer would recognize. Marijuana. I was near a grow operation. Any cop who has ever smelled one can recognize a grow-op, but if you're a Lycanthrope, you can smell it from half a mile away, against the wind. Uncle Sam hates recreational pharmaceuticals anyway, and he REALLY hates it when they grow it on his land.
There was the sound of footsteps, coming toward me, as I tried to localize the scent. I ducked into cover, and waited. Soon, here came two guys with rifles over their shoulders, and disgusted looks on their faces. They were both with in an inch either way of six foot, medium build, one was brown haired and blue eyed, clean shaven. The other black hair, brown eyes, and a scruffy beard. They had no idea I was around.
As they walked by me, I stepped out of the bush, drew my pistol and said "Afternoon Gentlemen. Drop 'em, Federal Park Police." Now, I was sure I knew exactly what they were up to out here, and I was also fairly sure that I didn't have enough to bust them for it. I might get enough to get a search warrant for their houses though, and I wanted to talk to them, in the hopes that they would say something stupid. But, there was no way in hell I was going to do it while they had rifles in their hands.
Both guys froze instantly. Then slowly lowered their rifles to the ground. I said, "All right, now walk past the rifles five steps and stop." They did as they were told, and I walked up to the rifles. One had been shot recently, I could smell it before I touched it. I reached down and unloaded the rifles and set them back on the ground, pocketing the rounds. "Now, empty all the other ammo out."
Each one pulled an ammo belt off, with a knife on the side, and dropped it. "You boys have anything else in the way of weapons, get rid of them now. Slowly." Two pistols came out of holsters, held by two fingers each. They went to the ground, too.
The one with the black hair said "That's all we have officer. What's the problem?"
"Why don't you boys tell me what you were doing out here?"
"Shooting coyotes, sir." said the black haired one. The other guy started to say something then shut up as the black haired guy cleared his throat.
"That wasn't a coyote you shot at, that was a bear." I said softly.
"Bitch that you can't prove it, Huh, officer?" Said the guy I figured was Crag, with a sneer.
"Why don't you both turn around? Slowly. Then back away from the pistols."
They did as they were told, and I walked up and emptied the bullets out of the pistols. Each had been carrying a Super Blackhawk in .44 Magnum. Gun enough to drop just about anything on the North American continent.
"Coyote, huh? With 30-06s and .44s?"
"Yes, sir. You never can tell when one of those things will turn on you." said Black hair with a grin.
"Right." I said a bit incredulously. "OK, just for drill, lets see your hunting licenses."
Each of them had one, unfortunately. Black hair was indeed Jim Crag, brown hair was Edward Foster. I ran the names on cencom, but nothing came up. So, I told them to pick up their guns, and I would escort them back to their truck. They could pick up the ammo tomorrow during business hours at the Park Police office in Monroe. I walked back to their vehicle with them, and handed over their guns, pulled my vehicle out of the way and let them go. Then I got on the radio.
"Sam five, Four X-ray fifteen, go to Learn." I reached over to switch my own radio to learn.
"Go John, what do you have?" Lieutenant Murphy asked.
"Not enough I'm afraid, unless the prosecutor wants to spend a lot of money on either lots of lab time, or maybe a forensic Mage. I have a bait pile that I can't prove right now was set by our mutts. I have a single casing that I can probably prove came from Crag's gun. And I have a blood trail that a Mage or a Lab could prove came from a bear, and the Mage may be able to prove was wounded by the bullet I have the casing for. I'll take full pictures and write it up. Maybe we can at least get probable cause to search the houses. I'll tell you all about it later. Right now, I need backup, and I need you to kick upstairs a request for a stake-out."
"John, you don't think that Crag would be dumb enough to come back there?" Murphy asked incredulously. "Even if he did, I doubt the big bosses would cough for a stake-out for this."
"How do you think they would feel about giving it up for a marijuana grow?" I asked with a grin.
"WHAT?!"
"I'll tell you when you get out here. Four X-ray fifteen out." Then I started taking pictures of the evidence for the poacher case. When I finished that, I was going to have to follow my nose and find the grow operation.
2
Three weeks later.
After my morning stretches and calisthenics (you can take the cat out of the SEALs, but you can't get the SEALs out of the cat), and OK, it wasn't morning, I work swings, but it was my morning damn it. I got a cup of coffee, made a fried egg & cheese sandwich, and downloaded the surveillance report from the last two shifts.
God, I love computers. In the bad old days, I would have had to go to the station, read the reports, then drive back out to the site we are watching, and take up watch. Now, I type in an access code to a secure site, turn on an encryption protocol and find out what the hell has been going on at my site while I was off duty. Which is to say, Nada.
From the time I found it, we have had a three-man team on watch at all times, hoping for the owners to come by and check the crop. So far though, no one has come by to check on it, and we don't have enough manpower to sit on it indefinitely. The poacher case had been handed off to another officer, I got to take this one.
I finished reading the reports, climbed into my cammies, slapped together a couple sandwiches for lunch, put on my duty belt, and went out to the rig.
I don't wear body armor usually, most bad guys don't use silver bullets, and anything less is
just a minor irritation, sort of like a punch to the shoulder, it hurts but it isn't going to put you out of the fight. My issue truck is sweet, a one-year-old Durango with a hemi motor, shift-on-the-fly four wheel drive, a low profile light bar that looks like a ski rack until I light it up, all of the cop electronics including an on-board terminal, which was linked to a Blackberry in my pocket, and, because I am part of the Federal Special Response Team, it had a full weapons load in the back. Yes, if I want to I can shift, and claw the bad guys to ribbons. The courts tend to frown on that though. I generally prefer to use more conventional weapons. I carry a USP on my hip in .45 ACP, a pistol I have been carrying from the time I was in the Teams, a Taurus Millennium also in .45 cal. in a belly band holster inside my shirt, and a ASP, OC can, a Tazer II, a tactical radio, spare mags for the USP, and two sets of cuffs on my duty belt. I don't bother with a flashlight, being intermittently fuzzy does have an advantage or two. In the back of the rig, in a safe, is my MP5 also in .45, an M4 with a 3x scope, 100 rounds for each, OC, and flash grenades, my riot armor, gas mask, MOP gear, chemical sniffer, and a breaching shield. Most special response team members don't have to tote around this 15 lb piece of bulletproof steel and Plexiglas, but if I'm the only 'special' (read Furry) officer to respond, I get to be point, oh lucky me. Still, it beats having to see a brother officer die from something that would just put me in the ER for a few hours.
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