by JT Sawyer
He scanned the dry ground around the vehicle, noting a lack of human signs but plenty of moose tracks along with the ubiquitous squirrel and raccoon prints typical of the area. Nieman brushed a hand along his cratered right cheek, remembering the time in his twenties when he poached a moose nearby. He had used three clumsy shots from his old Winchester 30/30 to drop the leviathan, only to realize that his excessive gunshots had alerted a game warden in the area, who was soon on his trail. After taking a circuitous route back to his dirt bike, he thought he had dodged the warden but soon found himself being pursued along the dirt roads during his exodus as the warden’s Dodge Ram sped menacingly towards him.
Peeling off on a small deer trail, he eluded the man but ended up driving into a barbed wire fence, which tore off half of his right cheek. Looking into the mirror over the years, he always reminded himself that his unsightly appearance was the cost for avoiding a third-degree felony and staying out of jail—something most poachers couldn’t boast over their lifetime. Nieman also learned from that experience to only take one shot at a target animal, as more than that enabled someone nearby to triangulate your whereabouts. Now, he always used a suppressed rifle and never hunted in the same spot twice during the spring when he and Tung came to Idaho. The rest of the year, Nieman found it far less risky hunting in third-world nations where the law’s prying eyes were seldom present. So far, Nieman had managed to garner only one game violation in Idaho for using a homemade electro-shock device on a creek to kill a few hundred trout.
He glanced down the rutted road they’d bounced along. “Federal land, pfft—what the hell do they know about managing anything.” This is my land—my tax dollars paid for these roads. I should be able to do what I want, just like my forebears.
He returned to the tailgate of his vehicle, where Tung was unloading the gear. After arriving in Idaho the day before, they drove to his old family cabin sixty miles north of Ketchum to procure his rifles, which were stored in an under-floor vault. For this occasion, he had chosen two customized .300 Winmag rifles that were collapsible and were equipped with FLIR scopes. When broken down, these could be concealed in their backpacks to avoid suspicion should they encounter anyone in these remote regions.
“How far in is the first den site?” said Tung, who didn’t look up from his weapon inspection.
“About six miles down, along the bottom of a gulch. After that, there are two more spread around the base of the mountain that I flagged in past scouting trips through here.”
“You sure they’re active sites with cubs? The juvenile gallbladders fetch a higher price so I sure wouldn’t mind nabbing some of them.”
Nieman’s voice crackled slightly as he responded. “Juveniles—we’ve never done that before. We start whackin’ them, that’s going to draw attention from the media. I can almost guarantee the animal rights freaks will be all over this area and it’ll affect future harvests.”
“Then I’ll move on to another region. I’ve got some leads in Canada already and their wildlife officers are stretched even more thin than here.” He adjusted his riding goggles then donned a camouflage helmet. “Besides, the traditional doctors back home have put a premium on the juvey organs as they are supposed to be more nutrient dense or some shit.”
“There should be bear cubs at each location. This year’s wildlife report put out by the feds indicates that south-central Idaho had a bounty of ursids last fall.” He smirked and glanced over at Tung. “Ursid is Latin for bear, ya know.”
“Yeah, thanks for the reminder, old boy. All fancy science terms aside, I think my kill list on bears around the world is a little higher than yours.”
“You got me there, though you’ll never approach the number of cats I’ve taken. Probably four out of five tiger pelts adorning the marbled floors of Asian royalty came from my hands.” Nieman thrust his chin upward then slowly nodded. “Those were some damn good paydays.”
“And this will be a good payday too if you stop flapping your lips. Besides, that disgusting crater on the side of your face always gets inflamed when you rattle on too long,” Tung said with a laugh while shaking his head.
Nieman emitted a faint chuckle, attempting to shrug off Tung’s harsh comment. He tried to convince himself that the Asian’s abrasive humor was part of the cost of doing business but he knew that Tung was even more soulless than he was. Tung was a ruthless poacher intent on securing not only his four-legged prize at any cost but further gaining his uncle’s approval in the family business. Nieman had wondered more than once during the past few months if he should cut ties with Tung before the man discarded him as he’d done with so many other partners over the years. Nieman didn’t want to end up as another employee whose knife-riddled corpse ended up being dredged out of the Yangtze River. Plus, the thought of harvesting cubs was bad for long-term business yields in the region. Maybe Tung is planning for this to be his last trip to Idaho—maybe even with me. Bastard better not try to swindle me out of my cut.
“You ready?” said Tung, stuffing a homemade ghillie suit into his already bulging backpack.
“Yeah, let me just get the rest of the sardine tins and the bear spray then we can be on our way,” he said, keeping an eye on his hunting partner.
A few minutes later, the Yamasaki’s noise-dampening mufflers were filling the crisp morning air with gray discharge as the two men sped off along the old moose trail that wound its way down into the gully below.
Chapter 6
Ketchum, Idaho
In her office in a two-story courthouse downtown, Game Warden Dana Miller had just settled into the swivel seat at her rectangular desk when a high-priority email notification appeared on her computer.
At thirty-one, Miller was the only female game warden in Idaho and her jurisdiction included the Sawtooth Mountains and much of south-central Idaho. Being the sole law-enforcement officer in charge of protecting the wildlife in an area the size of Vermont, she spent more time behind the wheel of her F-250 or hiking in the wilds than in her office. Having served as a wildlife biologist for four years before transitioning into the law-enforcement side of things, she’d seen both the good and bad side of how people interacted with the natural world. Miller had grown up hunting and fishing with her father and brothers in Montana and knew the wilderness like few others. When a position with Idaho Fish and Game opened up four months ago, she jumped at the opportunity to work in such a biodiverse region.
The romance of being a backcountry law-enforcement officer quickly faded as she realized that most of her days would be spent driving to campgrounds and fishing holes to check user permits. Usually this involved her slapping a fine on an inebriated fisherman while hearing their rant about catch limits coupled with an offhand misogynistic comment. In tan pants and an espresso-brown button-up shirt, she looked like more like a member of the sheriff’s department than a fish cop. Then it was more of the same during the crowded big-game hunts in the fall when the forest was inundated with RVs and quads owned by portly weekend warriors from Boise who seemed more interested in killing a twenty-four pack and expending ammo than in filling their freezers.
Miller leaned forward on her elbows and examined the email from the division headquarters in Boise. It was an Interpol bulletin with the face of a Chinese man named Tung Lau. He had been flagged entering the U.S. recently with false documents and was connected with a string of black market smuggling operations involving the lucrative areas of harvesting bird of prey feathers, wolf pelts, and black bear organs.
As she took a sip from a jade green coffee mug, her new secretary, Jennifer Perkins, entered the office and peered over her shoulder. The fifty-something, pear-shaped woman nosily pushed her face towards the computer screen while depositing some mail on the desk.
“Ooh, that looks like a rough fella.” She squinted her eyes at the last line. “Now what would he want with black bear parts?”
Miller gave the stout woman an irritated glance then leaned back in her chair. “Looks like he
’s connected with the illegal wildlife trade that smuggles animal parts back to China. Black bear gallbladders are highly prized in Asian traditional medicine; the bile in particular is used for treating seizures and liver disease. The last poacher my predecessor in Boise arrested had six gallbladders in a cooler as he tried to cross the state line, worth five thousand dollars apiece.”
“Where was he taking them? I mean, where would ya sell somethin’ like that?”
“Jackson Hole, Wyoming for starters—during the big elk antler auction that goes on there every year in May.” Miller glanced at a large wall calendar to her right. “In fact, it’s next weekend. Thousands of Asian businessmen fly in for the public event—all these guys in three-piece suits bidding on tons, and I mean tons, of elk antlers which they will then export back to their countries for the traditional medicine trade.”
“Oh, Jackson Hole, right,” said Perkins, pressing a finger to her chin. “That’s where that large elk refuge is, by the Tetons, where the Boy Scouts go out and collect all the antlers each spring. I remember hearin’ my cousin tell me about going to that a long time ago.”
Miller despised poachers of any kind and savored the stories of old about lawmen hanging such criminals after they were caught in the act. Now, most of the ones she arrested were issued a misdemeanor fine of $350 and were back at it the next day in another locale. She sympathized with some of the men who came from impoverished towns and were just trying to feed their families, but knew these men were marginal. The majority of big-game poachers were interested in having an animal’s head mounted on their wall or in selling the paws of predators or raptor feathers for a quick buck. Bear poaching however was big business often backed by a racketeering outfit in the U.S. with ties to Hong Kong. Bagging a poacher in possession of a bear’s gallbladder was a minimum $100K fine and four years of jail time; plus, it was also the kind of sting every game officer dreamed of. She had read in the agency’s case files about some unsolved cases of black bear poaching north of Ketchum in the past few years but the recent state budget cuts had slashed the seasonal hires the agency usually relied on for field investigations.
She could see a quizzical expression on Perkins’ face—the woman clearly wanted to continue their conversation.
“The event in Jackson is legal if you ever want to go to it,” Dana said. “Pretty neat to see too but there’s also a small current of illegal undertakings there connected with the sales of protected wildlife. Wyoming usually doubles the number of Fish and Game officers at that event so we don’t get the invite to help,” Miller said with a tinge of regret. She loved visiting Jackson Hole and had several friends there, so any excuse to pull away on days off from the ultra-touristy town of Ketchum was welcome.
She returned her gaze to the Interpol bulletin, studying the criminal’s slender but chiseled face again. She strummed her rough fingers on the desk, her short nails barely clattering against the surface as she pulled her eyes away to the mountains visible through the front window. “I hope I read about you being nailed to the wall one day—or better yet, found in a pile of bear scat.”
Chapter 7
The campfire smoke was roiling into the pine bough lean-to as Mitch awoke. He had slept fitfully most of the night, his back to the fire and his arms folded into his chest. He had spent much of the previous day drying out his clothing, gathering firewood, and constructing a seven-foot-long lean-to with copious amounts of pine needles for bedding.
His desert-style boots were mostly dry, having been filled repeatedly with warm sand from around the firepit, which enabled the material to steam off the interior moisture.
Mitch heard a cacophony of magpies that seemed intent on being his alarm clock. He had ten miles to cover today and he let out a big yawn while standing up to stretch. The cobalt-blue sky looked promising and he recalled the weather forecast on the camp radio indicating that there would be a few clear days followed by the potential for some snow. He stood in front of the fire with his hands outstretched, absorbing the heat as he contemplated the cross-country route ahead. Mitch had studied the laminated topographic map and coordinates that Waline had provided and knew that ten miles in this terrain was going to feel more like thirty. The rolling hills, numerous valleys, and tangle of rivers were going to prohibit straight-line travel. Even though it was going to be a tough march, he was still delighted to be training in some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. And, most importantly, there’d be no concerns about being downrange of the Taliban or local insurgents, unlike most of his time in the wilds in less hospitable regions.
Mitch knelt down and removed the remaining food rations from his shoulder bag. He choked down the chalky biscuits then took a swig of purified water from his canteen. He would save two of the calorie-dense biscuits for the trip ahead and then focus on setting handcarved traps and his wire snares tonight at his next camp. Such traps required at least four to eight hours to procure wild game and he saw no point in wasting valuable time and energy at this lakeside abode. He glanced down at his watch and knew he had better get moving as there were only twelve hours of light and much of that would be spent trekking. He glanced back at his shelter, dreading having to burn up his precious calories to make another one later. What I wouldn’t give for my old cowboy bedroll right now.
After dousing the campfire with some heaping piles of snow from under an overhanging spruce tree, he gathered his belongings and re-examined his compass azimuth, tying the route ahead with the geographic handrails on the topo map.
The sergeant major had provided each man with a large Ziploc bag filled with forty envelopes. At radio check with Waline each morning and evening, they were instructed which envelopes to open. Then they had to complete the assigned tasks, such as carving traps, collecting specific edible plants, fashioning a crude bow, or slinging one arm to simulate an injury. They worked on an honor system and Mitch knew that, like himself, every one of his colleagues would not only complete the objective but perform it the hard way first, since that was the mindset the sergeant major had instilled in them when practicing. If you could be successful executing a skill with one hand then two hands would be a cinch.
The first envelope of the day instructed Mitch to head northeast for twelve miles to a pre-determined spot on his topo map. “What—Waline said it would be ten miles!” he grumbled as his finger traced the route along the numerous contour lines to his final destination. Given that the average hiker could cover two miles in an hour, Mitch figured he could do three to four, especially since he wasn’t carrying a heavy rucksack and he was in superb condition. Screw it—what’s two more miles!
Though it was just after dawn, the sun was obscured by a pallid blanket of gray that made the day seem as if it was ending. With the lack of wind, the ocean of spruce and pine trees was enshrined in a cool silence. Even the birds seemed to force out their shrill songs at daybreak as if in protest against the subtle gloom.
Mitch adjusted the tan shemagh around his neck, fighting off the morning chill, and then adjusted his shoulder pack. He steadied his compass and fixed in his first landmark, a jagged stump two hundred yards distant. This was in line with his azimuth, which headed northeast, and he would use these small features to break up his march and stay on a straight line. He knew there were two significant landscape features ahead that would require him to deviate slightly, one being a winding river and the other a series of finger-like gullies about a hundred feet deep. He was going to burn up more time trying to navigate around the latter than in these next five miles of flatland topography through the forest.
Mitch did one last visual sweep of his immediate camp, making sure he had all of his critical gear, then he took a swig of icy water from his canteen. Time to cover some ground. Wonder if I’ll run into any of the other guys? He would keep an eye out for the familiar tracks of his buddies but knew Marco was probably still snoring beside his campfire and would be the last one to make it to his campsite. Bastard should’ve had his firemaking tools y
anked from his pockets too.
Despite his glacial immersion into the lake along with the primitive fire challenge, he was hoping the solo phase would be longer than two days. He relished time alone. Such things were rare during training courses, where team members were paired up with each other 24/7 for the classroom and fieldwork portions along with sharing a hotel room. He wondered what his wife was doing back home in Washington. She was the beacon of light at the end of any trail he walked, although she wasn’t pleased he had to leave again on another training exercise. Returning from a deployment didn’t always equate to being at home. Most warriors in the special operations community were gone from their families three hundred days a year or more. If you weren’t overseas in a combat zone, you were stateside getting instructed in the latest gear, gadgets, or skills which often meant time spent at a civilian training school. Mitch had barely spent four days with Becky after their evasive driving course in Texas two weeks ago. And after this, they would only have a week off before heading to a combat diving course in Florida. Sometimes, the constant coming and going made him feel schizophrenic. His life at home was always centered on mundane activities, while not being able to talk about his last mission and its often unpleasant details with Becky. Her conversations about work often occupied the bulk of their evenings while his mind floated over another upcoming training event, his unpacked duffel bag sitting behind him in the corner by the door. Mitch always felt a pull drawing him back to Becky upon returning from a deployment but he rarely felt like the place they lived in was his home. She organized everything, paid the bills, and had her own daily routine in which he felt like a visitor at times. The only constant in his life was his fellow operators, but even many of them were slowly transitioning out of the military or to other units and Mitch had become very conscious of the fact that he was straddling the line between two precarious worlds. He’d grown tired of seeing the Special Forces used as a blunt instrument by the current administration and had no interest in staying if it meant watching his friends die and his own life put at risk for what only amounted to a flashy headline in the next news cycle to further someone’s agenda. The glory days of valor serving as a Green Beret seemed like an antiquated concept lost to the rest of the world and even within the upper echelons of the military. Mitch thought of the time in the American West when the automobile was first introduced and how the cowboy’s way of life changed drastically until there were only remnants of the old value system. With the United States’ failure to find supposed WMDs in Iraq and the corrosive effect on morality associated with the inability to locate Osama Bin Laden, it seemed like so many of the people he worked with were jaded, the bleary look in their eyes going beyond mere fatigue. He saw it in his own expression in the mirror and knew a part of his soul was being chipped away with so many seemingly futile deployments.
