Once upon a time, even a Special Response Team member wouldn't have had so much gear, but there had been some changes made after the shit back east. One change was that we actually have some decent gear. I was still in the Navy at the time, but I have been told that pre 9/11, we had next to nothing in the way of equipment. The second change is that with the advent of 'Homeland Security', the Park police are responsible for patrolling all non-military, non-Indian reservation, Federal lands. Before 9/11 there had been the Park police, which had reported to the Department of the Interior; the Bureau of Land Management police, which reported to a separate part of DI; the US Forest Service police which reported to the USDA; the fish and wildlife boys…and so on. One of the few good things to come out of the attacks was the reorganization of the Federal land law enforcement team. Everyone got rolled into the Park Police. This means about a third of Washington State became our jurisdiction. So, in addition to poachers, pot growers, and other pains-in-the-asses beginning with P, we now have terrorists, and gods only knows what else to deal with.
*****
I fired up the rig, and checked in with Cencom to clock onto shift, then drove out 2 miles past Gold Bar, towards the site. It was one of those crisp autumn days we get here in the Pac Norwest (when it isn't raining that is.) The sky was a perfect sapphire blue, and Mother Nature had pulled out all the stops in the autumn tree dept.: golds, reds, oranges, you name it. As I got higher up into the hills the trees changed to more pines and cedars, and the sky started to shift towards a deep blue with the sun setting behind me. It's amazing what a change in the scenery three weeks does around here. It also started to get a bit chilly. No frost yet, but give it another two weeks. The little shits behind the grow should be harvesting soon, unless they got lucky and figured out we found their little agricultural enterprise.
As I passed Index, I saw the logging road on the left, and turned in. This wasn't the road the grow was on, but then, we didn't want to spook the mutts. I drove in about 2.5 miles, and got on the radio to the team I was relieving
"4 X-ray 49, 4 X-ray 15, coming up your 6, should be at the parking area in 3." I called out.
"4 X-ray 15, 4 X-ray 49, received, we'll expect you at the rear area in 20."
Yeah, right, like it's going to take me 17 minutes, to walk a mile through relatively clear forest. HUMPH, I don't think so.
I found the area we had been parking in, pulled off, and pulled in beside two rigs just like mine, and a pair of Ford Explorers, all under gully netting. Tossed some over my rig, and started to trot towards the rear post. We had set up a rear command post about half a klick from the forward OP. It looked for all the world like a deer camp, and as this was National Forest land, that wasn't much of a stretch. As I started moving out, the smells of the forest hit me, pine, moss, springs, birds, pot, and that particularly acrid scent that was man. Then I caught a new scent in the wind and almost missed a step. A six point muley jumped up about 50 feet ahead of me, the local king of the forest, at least for the herbivores. (Of course I have another word for herbivore. Prey.)
He saw me and must have gotten a faint whiff, because the whites of his eyes showed all around, his tail went up and he was off. Damn it was tempting, the things you see when you have to work! However, as tempting as it was to go commit regicide on the local king and have a fine feast of it, I was on duty, and had bad guys to catch. Being a part time cougar means I have the urge and the skill, being a full time human means I can overcome it (with just a little whimper).
It was about 5 minutes later that I paced into camp, and about scared the two off-going back-up officers right out of their wits.
"Damn it John! Make some noise or something would you!" Richard said as he spilled coffee on himself. Richard Watson had been with the PSP for twelve years, and an MP for six before that. He was about my age, graying slightly, a big man, 6'3", 300 lbs, going slightly to gut, but not noticeable unless you looked. He was a good woodsman for a non-fuzzy, but even the best woodsman can't beat a Lycanthrope in the trees.
"What's the matter Dick, old age affecting your hearing? I stepped on a branch on the way in to warn you." Richard hated to be called Dick, but occasionally, I just couldn't help but bait him. He still had a bit of a problem with Lycanthropes being admitted to the force. I don't think he was an actual bigot, he didn't have an issue with the furry per se, the civil rights movements of the '60's and "Sotheby vs. the State of Missouri 1965" had let us 'come out-of-the-kennel'. Richard was big on upholding the law. It's just that he "wouldn't want his backup to go all hairy on him" I guess.
*****
After the civil rights movement started in Alabama, etc. and started overturning the Jim Crow laws, Chuck Heston and the rest of the crew started looking at the fact that in many parts of the US there was a bounty on human beings if the Chaney test proved that the corpse was a 'thrope. I guess they figured if we can acknowledge a man with a different color skin, how can we hunt and kill a man that (at least most of the time) looks just like us? Now, Vampirism and Lycanthropy are medical afflictions judged by the Supreme Court to be beyond the control of the afflicted, and therefore discrimination based on these medical afflictions was judged to be illegal in 1965. The Equal Rights Amendment made it a federal crime to discriminate based on race, color, creed, or disease (to include Vampirism and Lycanthropy). It took several more years, and lots of lawsuits to make it stick, but eventually the US became one of only thirteen places in the world where it was officially safe to grow fur or fangs.
Note, I said officially. During our training at Coronado, we learned a lot of things that were not in the official record. For instance during the Second World War, the Germans had units codenamed Werewolves that were trained to act as American G.I.s and go behind the lines creating hate and discontent. What is not common knowledge is that that wasn't just a code name. Oh, and some of our and England's night fighter aces and pathfinder bomber pilots during the war, yeah, they were on a liquid diet. Uncle Sam and John Bull promised to turn a blind eye to certain afflictions, and to provide cover, in return for service in the life or death struggle. Of course we had Lycanthropes too, usually working with the OSS, though there was one unit with the 101st AB, and a unit of mixed lycanthropes and others (like Kitsune) with the 442nd combat team. we weren't the only ones naturally, 8th directorate Spetznaz is the equivalent of our SEAL Team 12 (all furry) and it's rumored that the Mosad has a preternatural unit, though they keep it so damn quiet that we're not sure.
But it wasn't until 1978 that the US admitted that we had Furry soldiers, and oh, what a hue and cry that was. The Geneva Convention was reconvened and specifically outlawed it, at which point we told Geneva to go 'piss up a rope'. (Two years later they changed their minds, guess they didn't like having one of the two super powers not a signatory). Of course being a furry spec op type outed us in the public record, and with some of the best and brightest special forces types (who certain branches of the law enforcement community really loved to hire) being furry, the police community eventually accepted us, even if only grudgingly. Oh, there were still cracks about "Where's your leash and handler, K9 boy?" and such, but they were kept to a low roar, a 'hostile work environment' charge was one of the fastest ways off the force that didn't involve jail time. Shit, you might as well knock up the Captain's daughter as get caught showing prejudice.
*****
Still, Richard walked the edge as often as he could, and I could always smell fear around him whenever he knew I was in the area, and you know how fear is for cats, it's damn near an aphrodisiac, that, or a dinner bell.
So, occasionally I would take a dig at him. It was for his own good really. Getting him over his fear. Yeah. Right.
Jim, Richard's partner, was always good at breaking the tension, and tonight was no exception. "No John, it's not that we didn't hear you, it's just that we didn't expect you this soon, and there's been a critter out at the edge of hearing moving around all day," said Jim as he finished writing the turnover l
og.
"Yeah, I spotted your critter on the way in, beautiful 6 point mule deer. Looked about 7 years old, probably go 350 lbs dressed," I said with a grin at Jim. It's hard not to like the guy, he likes everyone, even when he's stuffing them in the back of a squad car. Man's a natural born social worker.
"Didn't know you furry types bothered with dressing game out, John, I figured you would just eat it, guts, asshole and all." Dick just wasn't going to let it go.
"No Dick, I don't eat assholes. You're safe," I said with a slight purr in my throat, (that always unnerved Dick, a cougar's purr is damn loud) "and the only parts of the guts that I really like are the heart, the liver, and the kidneys. Though you're right on one thing, I do like those raw."
"Oh Christ, John, that's gross," said Jim, looking a little green. Dick didn't say anything. He was too busy turning a very amusing shade of purple.
I decided that I didn't want to have to do CPR on a fellow officer tonight, so I changed the subject before Richard had a full CA right in front of me. "Who's on point right now?" I asked, looking at Jim. Jim was the senior officer for this shift, though only by about 6 months. Jim Morganson by name, a 6'5" product of the Greenie Beanies, (that's the Green Berets, if you aren't a member of the ancient and benevolent order of 'them what's been shot at') with red hair, and an almost painfully thin body type. Jim looks like an older version of Beaker from the Muppets.
"Mike Green's got it right now," Jim said. Mike was new to the Department, he'd been with us less than 2 years, and would have been still a probationary, except that he had been with Mason County Sheriff's Dept. for 10 years before transferring to us. I didn't know Mike very well yet, we just never seemed to be on the same shift, but I had seen him at line up. He was about six foot even, and so black that he practically had blue highlights. I don't think Mike had ever been in the military, he didn't have 'the look', he did however have the 'cop look', eyes that never settled on anything for too long, and a deadpan expression .
"Well, as soon as Pete or Bill get here, I'll get out and relieve him," I said. Just then Pete called in to let us know that he was inbound. Pete had been my swim buddy in the Teams, we met shortly after I finished BUDS, Jump school, and advanced courses. GM2 SW DV SEAL Peter Sims had been a SEAL for four years before he was transferred to Team 12. Now since you can only belong to Team 12 if you can grow fur on command, I knew he must have been infected while already a SEAL, and sure enough, I eventually heard the story.
*****
Seems Pete had been chasing some Muslim extremists in some Far-off-istan when one of them shifted right in front of him. Now this is rare enough, normally the more rabid followers of Allah don't have much use for the Furry, but I guess this group was 'enlightened', though they still had this major league desire to smuggle special weapons out of the old USSR and use them on the West. But what made it even weirder was that the guy became a caracal, a big cat with LONG legs, and HUGE ears. This thing's ears are so big, they qualify as part of the Anti Ballistic Missile system. Pete managed to kill the cat, (we get some really nice knives in the Teams,) but not before the cat scratched the piss out of him. So now Pete becomes a caracal once a month, and at will. When he's on two legs, Pete's a little guy, five foot, five inches, brown hair kept short, brown eyes, weighing in at about 150 lbs. He's very, very fast though, and he hits like a heavyweight. Pete retired two years after I did, and I called in a few debts to get him in our department. We had worked together for 14 years in some of the most intense shit possible outside of a declared war, and in two actual admitted wars. When the shit hit the fan, I knew exactly which way Pete would jump, and how far. Yeah, I liked having Pete on board.
*****
Pete called in and said he was 10 minutes out of the CP so I looked at Jim and said "OK, I have the Officer in Charge, I'll go relieve Mike, when Pete gets on site, you and Richard can go. When Bill gets on site, I'll send Mike home."
Then I started walking out to relieve Mike. When you're walking up to an observation post (OP), you move much quieter than when you're just walking through the woods, which for me was very quiet indeed. I probably took five minutes to move the 1000 yards up to the OP then tapped Mike on the shoe to let him know I was there. He turned and looked at me and whispered that all was quiet. I told him to go back to the CP and hang out until Bill gets in, then go home. After Mike left, I looked around the site to remind myself of where everything was before the last of the light went away. Our OP is just on the leading edge of a small hill, so you aren't sky lined, and consists of a small blind made out of gully net, with a camera (still and movie, with a fourth gen. night site integral to the front lens) and audio recording equipment, mounted in waterproof boxes. Here in the Cascades, there is a word for electronic devices that aren't weather sealed to at least 10' under water… Scrap.
In front of me I could see the little alpine meadow the mutts had used for their grow op., it was about 40 yards by 70 yards, with a couple trees in it, and enough shade from the trees around the edges that you would have to be straight over it to see it from the air. They had rigged a drip irrigation system from a freshet up the mountain that runs all year round, and had camouflaged the Siloflex pipe with paint so you had to be practically standing on it to see it. There were about 700 plants involved and all of them looked like BC bud. This thing was worth a half mil easy, five mil on the street. I could smell it on the wind, hell I could practically taste it, the smell was so strong. I was just starting to get my Blackberry out to type my initial relief observations for my shift report when I smelled something else, car exhaust.
A couple seconds later I heard it, sounded like a newer vehicle, probably a V8, and the radio was playing techno, not quite my choice in music. These guys weren't exactly trying to be in stealth mode. A few minutes later, I saw the vehicle. One of those new half truck, half sports utility type things. It didn't have enough bed to be a truck, but it didn't have enough seats to be a sports ute. Neither fish, nor fowl, nor good red meat. Typical yuppie mobile, painted red, pulling a box trailer. Out-fucking- standing! If these are our agricultural entrepreneurs, they were planning on harvesting! And since I couldn't come up with a single reason that a rig like this would come up this far into the boonies with a box trailer, and no hunting gear, I was fairly sure that we had a winner! I started the movie camera, and dictated in time, date, my name and badge number, and the case number, got a zoom on the license plate, and then as the boys started getting out of the vehicle, got good zooms of each face. There were four guys, all young white urban types, looked like college kids, not that much of a stretch, U.W. isn't that far away. Two carried pistols in hip holsters, not illegal in Washington, and not too unadvisable in normal times. Of course these weren't normal times for these guys, and the presence of a handgun means I could put them away for an extra 5 years for a felony with a gun involved. This was getting better and better. After they all got out of the thing (can't call it a car, and it sure as Hel doesn't rate the title of truck), two of them went over to disarm the booby traps they had set around the grow site, while the other two started pulling prunners out of the back. We knew about the booby traps, but left them intact, so as not to spoil the surprise.
One of the fellows that were at the back of their vehicle asked one of the guys checking and disarming the traps, "Any one else been here, George?"
"No, I don't see anything, and the traps are still loaded, at least on this side" was the reply.
"Well, check the rest of the plot, I don't want any more fucking surprises," said the guy who I dubbed 'boss man'.
"Alright Chuck, keep straight," replied George.
OK, we have George, who must be their weapons guy, he had one of the pistols as well, Chuck, the apparent brains of the outfit, and two unknowns. Wonder what he meant by "any more fucking surprises". The two that were at the edge of the plot started to walk around the perimeter stopping now and then to disarm traps, mostly improvised claymores. You would be amazed at what you could do with pi
pe, a shotgun shell, a nail and a spring. There are several good books on it, some of them published by Good Old Uncle Sam, and furnished to the outside world courtesy of the 'freedom of information act'. I had seen the traps, George was a good student, it looked like something someone straight out of BUDS might have worked up. It didn't look like something someone that had been in the field for a while might use, but, hey a punk's gotta learn somewhere.
George and his buddy finished clearing the perimeter, and came back to Chuck, with a smug grin.
"See, I told you no one else would wander in here, that spic was just a fluke," said George.
"Yeah, well, once is once too many," replied Chuck, "Come on, let's get the shit cut and into the trailer, and get out of here".
Harvest Of Evil Page 2
