Prey sahl-1

by Ken Goddard

  "You mean our official budget?"

  "A seven-and-a-half-million-dollar increase. Isn't that nice?"

  "No, it's not," Abercombie said fervently, all thoughts of sex immediately forgotten. "For God's sake, Al, we've got commitments for at least five billion from the private sector. And more on top of that if we need it. At this stage, any kind of add-on from Congress, no matter how small, will just attract attention. And that's the last thing we need right now."

  "Yes, exactly," Bloom agreed. "But one thing we do need is more contingency support, and Talkins is just the man to handle some of the more sensitive inside maneuvers."

  "In exchange for a good-sized contribution to his campaign fund?"

  "Precisely," Bloom said.

  Lisa Abercombie hesitated, and the finally said: "I hate to say it, but I think it's worth it."

  "So do I, but not if it means taking on one of his people."

  "He's asking for that?"

  "Yes."

  "No way," Abercombie said firmly. "This one's too touchy to be run by committee. You know that. And besides, it's ours."

  "I'm glad you feel that way, because that's exactly what I planned to tell him," Bloom said. "But that's not really why I called. We may need to advance the start date for Counter Wrench."

  Lisa Abercombie blinked in surprise. "But I-"

  Bloom interrupted her. "We just received an interesting report from one of our internal sources. It seems that there may be an alliance forming among the primary opposition groups."

  "Earth First! and Greenpeace are linking up?" Lisa Abercombie whispered in a quiet, shocked voice.

  "As well as Headwaters, Wind/Rain/Storm, and Le Natur. It seems that the environmental terrorists are finally getting some professional advice."

  "We expected that," Lisa Abercombie said, forcing her voice to remain calm as her analytical mind raced.

  "Yes, of course we did," Bloom agreed. "But not this quickly. How soon can you be ready?"

  "The entire assault group is here now. It's just a matter of completing the briefing and determining the priority of the assignments," Abercombie said. "I would say two days at the outside."

  "Give yourself three, just to be sure. We are dealing with very emotional people who are suspicious of everyone. I think that a few judiciously placed rumors should keep them from forming their alliances too quickly."

  "Albert, you're malicious," Abercombie laughed. "Just my kind of guy-"

  Bloom chuckled. "What about the training situation?"

  "Training won't be a factor. Not with these people. All we have to do is get them coordinated, aim them at a target, and then turn them loose."

  "Intelligent, self-guided, counterterrorizing missiles. The ultimate weapon." Blood nodded in satisfaction. "They will go through those self-righteous bastards like a hot knife through butter."

  Lisa Abercombie shivered at the vivid memory of the bloodied and horribly sharp triangular blade sticking out of the back of the Bengal tiger's massive head.

  "And they won't even know they've been cut until it's much too late," she whispered.

  "No, they won't," Bloom agreed. "Tell me, does Wolfe still think that he made the final selections?"

  "I'm sure he does," Abercombie said confidently. "We spent several hours going over the lists, but the choices were pretty obvious since I yellow-highlighted the relevant points. I only had to make a couple of gentle suggestions to keep him on track."

  "Does he still think he's in charge?"

  "That was what you wanted, wasn't it?"

  "Reston Wolfe's a good man," Bloom said. "Right family background, good contacts, good political instincts, willing to be a hard ass when he has to be."

  "But not very smart, and therefore expendable as far as this project is concerned," Lisa Abercombie finished.

  "You must never forget, my dear, that we are all very expendable as far as this project is concerned," Bloom said. "But I think everyone on the committee agrees that Reston is a special case. If it weren't for his extremely useful connections… speaking of which, how is your, uh, side project coming along?"

  "It's progressing nicely. Do you want a full report?" Abercombie teased.

  "Good Lord, no," Bloom chuckled. "I don't think that I could stand to hear about it right now. Tell me later."

  "I'll do better than that," Abercombie promised.

  "Yes, I'm sure you will," Albert Bloom sighed, and then turned serious. "Listen, my dear young friend, please make sure that you never forget one thing. What we're doing is extremely dangerous. You must be firm in maintaining absolute control, but above all else, you must be careful. Do not make any mistakes."

  "Don't worry, Skipper," Lisa Abercombie said in a soft, seductive voice. "You taught me what to do. Anybody gets in our way, we go right over the top of them."

  "That's my girl. I'll call you soon," Bloom said, then hung up the phone.

  Dr. Reston Wolfe, newly appointed executive director of ICER, had thought long and hard about where the all- important first meeting of Operation Counter Wrench should be held. There could hardly have been a more ironic choice than the very jewel of protected lands, a site whose very name was synonymous with care and trust and hope for the future.

  Yellowstone National Park.

  Because the potential risks were enormous and the potential rewards beyond imagination, enemy surveillance had to be avoided at all costs. In this respect, Whitehorse Cabin was a good bet. Set off by itself on a high, wooded hillside, surrounded by huge clearings, the cabin was supposed to be impossible to approach in the daytime without being observed. It was further isolated within a two-and-a-quarter-million acres of federally protected wilderness. Dr. Wolfe was not one to take chances, however. He had the authority and the means to clear the grizzly bear range of any campers, hikers, biologists, and the like who mistakenly believed that they had a right to go out and enjoy their wilderness whenever they chose to do so.

  The means were simple. He designed a crucial scientific experiment that would investigate and resolve, once and for all, the potentially lethal conflicts between bears and tourists.

  As announced by ICER, the project was to be directed by a blue-ribbon task force of twelve internationally recognized experts who would clear the bear range of all non- participants for a period of no less than six months.

  Government biologists who chose to grumble or question the expertise of these unknown experts were notified that they had suddenly become eligible for long-sought-after foreign travel, with all of the per-diem perks allowed by law. In effect, they were bought off in style.

  To confirm that Whitehorse Cabin was absolutely secure, Dr. Wolfe asked Lisa Abercombie to use her White House connections to obtain the temporary services of a crack Special Forces reconnaissance team. Seven men arrived by helicopter the next morning and quickly demonstrated their professionalism by managing to sit through a one-hour briefing without once cracking a smile.

  In fact, the only time that any member of the reconnaissance team ever did smile was when the team leader, a clean-cut lieutenant who looked more like an eighteen-year-old high-school quarterback than a twenty- four-year-old professional killer, walked up to Wolfe after the briefing, shook Wolfe's hand, grinned, and said: "Piece of cake, sir."

  Eight hours later, after six failed attempts with varying types of electronic sweepers and camouflage gear, the frustrated recon team members were forced to admit that they couldn't get within a half-mile of the cabin without tripping at least a dozen of the five hundred and twelve computer-monitored sensors that dotted the hillside and clearings.

  It was then that Wolfe explained to the soldiers that the detection system in question had been installed by another team of military experts, this one from the National Security Agency. He went on to describe the sensors as being so sensitive and discriminatory that the computers receiving the data could instantly trace the pathway and determine the biomass of any animal with a heartbeat greater than a field mouse's.


  Although initially irritated by Wolfe's game-playing, the members of the Special Forces team felt better when they were shown blueprints that described the extent and sophistication of the intrusion system. And when questioned further, they quickly agreed that a covert approach on Whitehorse Cabin in the daytime was out of the question.

  It just wasn't going to happen.

  They did suggest, however, that they would like to try a night approach, despite the fact that they were in the middle of the largest wild grizzly bear habitat in the lower forty- eight states. If anything, the idea of having a real, live enemy out there seemed to give the aggressive young soldiers a heightened sense of purpose.

  Five hours later, at precisely 0200 hours, the recon team made its first and only night attempt on the Whitehorse Cabin, using light assault weapons, third-generation night- vision goggles, and a considerable array of electronic sensing gear.

  Aided by a predicted cloud cover, an unexpected fog, and the incredible sensitivity of some of their latest gadgets, the highly motivated reconnaissance team managed to get within a respectable quarter-mile of the cabin before one of them activated the biological sensors of a twelve-hundred- pound grizzly that happened to be both territorial and grouchy when disturbed.

  The end result was the expenditure of fifty-seven rounds of. 223 military hardball; one dead female grizzly; one very large, slightly wounded and extremely annoyed male grizzly; two severely mauled soldiers; and one thoroughly shaken team leader, who politely but firmly declined to make a second attempt at night.

  As a result of that trial run, Whitehorse Cabin was judged to be secure. All involved were quick to agree that Dr. Reston Wolfe, director of ICER and primary architect of Counter Wrench, had chosen well.

  Chapter Six

  "What do you mean, all flights are booked?" Henry Lightstone demanded.

  "We can get you out on the first flight tomorrow morning," the reservations clerk offered. "You'd be landing at Bozeman at nine thirty-seven."

  Henry, it is now or never. You know how our system works. This one-the one you have dreamed about all your life-is yours, but you must decide now.

  They'd already failed to show up at two scheduled meets. Possibly because they had their own scheduling problems, but far more likely because they still didn't trust him. And he knew they had other hunters on their string, so he didn't dare push them too far or they'd be gone.

  So he had to do exactly what Henry Allen Lightner, the wealthy Montana sportsman with an unsated lust for yet another record trophy kill, would do.

  Either that or lose his first undercover investigation as a federal agent.

  "No, I'm sorry," he said. "Tomorrow morning would be too late. What about another airline?"

  "I'll be happy to check for you, sir, if you'd like."

  "Yes, thank you."

  As he waited, Lightstone tried to calculate moves. That was not easy, though, since Alex Chareaux was by far the least predictable individual Henry Lightstone had met in his life.

  "I'm sorry, sir, but there are no other flights to Bozeman until tomorrow morning."

  "Could you put me on stand-by?"

  "Certainly, sir, but we already have a waiting list. You would be

  … let me see, number eight."

  "What about taking a couple of hops? A roundabout route?" Lightstone tried, anxious now because he knew what McNulty would suggest if he couldn't find himself a commercial flight.

  Carl Scoby or Larry Paxton.

  Both of the agents were licensed pilots, but only for Super Cubs: the small, slow, underpowered, but nonetheless reliable two-seater planes that the Fish and Wildlife Service biologists used for monitoring wildlife populations.

  To Henry Lightstone, the small planes looked like something one of Paxton's teenage boys might have built in their garage over the weekend. Paxton had taken him up for a ride one day. Lightstone had wedged himself into the backseat of the Super Cub for a few claustrophobic moments before advising the black agent-pilot that he'd just as soon go jump off the roof of the airport tower. Get it over with quicker and save the government a couple of gallons of gas in the process.

  But Paxton, Scoby, Dwight Stone, and Mike Takahara had been persistent, and Lightstone had finally agreed to go up for a short orientation flight. Two hours later, after receiving at least a dozen threats on his life from the backseat, Paxton had brought the plane back in a wing- swaying, multibounce landing that he later admitted was not one of his best because he'd been laughing so hard.

  That had been on a nice, calm day, Henry Lightstone reminded himself, shuddering at the memory.

  Lightstone reassured himself that MeNulty would never let them put a Super Cub up in this kind of weather. It would have to be a bigger plane. At least a 737.

  The reservation clerk was back in less than two minutes. "Sir, I can route you through Missoula with a stopover at Butte."

  "And that's on a seven-thirty-seven, correct?"

  "Uh, yes sir. The flight out of Great Falls is on a seven-thirty-seven, but you'll have to change planes at Missoula, and we're experiencing weather advisories-"

  "What kind of plane would I be changing to at Missoula?"

  "Oh, let me see. That would be a Metro Three jet prop."

  "You mean a small plane?"

  "Oh, they're not really that small," the reservation clerk chuckled understandingly. "The Metro Three has eighteen seats and twin props."

  A small plane, Lightstone thought. Jesus!

  "What time would I arrive in Bozeman?" he interrupted, not wanting to hear anything more about the Metro Three.

  "Approximately seven-thirty this evening."

  "I see. Thank you anyway."

  Henry Lightstone closed his eyes and shook his head slowly as he hung up. He waited for a few second, then dialed the familiar number and let it ring four times.

  "Hello?"

  "This is Henry. I've got a problem."

  He explained the situation to his field supervisor.

  "I could send Carl or Larry down in one of the Cubs, but they're both in Nebraska," McNulty said. "Never make it there in time."

  Henry Lightstone smiled.

  "So what do you think?" he asked, making an effort to sound disappointed. "Call Alex and try to reschedule?"

  "No, don't do that yet," McNulty said. "I think you're right. If you back away now, you'd probably lose him. Give me a few minutes. I'll call you back shortly."

  McNulty would arrange it, no problem, Lightstone knew. It was McNulty who had registered Lightstone into the federal government's Criminal Investigator's School and Special Agent Basic as a U.S. Custom's agent trainee. Sixteen long weeks in Glynco, Georgia, had taught Lightstone how federal officers enforced federal laws, handcuffed suspects and read them their rights (as he expected, pretty much the same as every other state and local cop).

  Along about week fifteen, it occurred to Lightstone that he had learned almost nothing about fish or wildlife.

  "Look at it this way," McNulty had suggested. "You'd know a duck if you saw one, wouldn't you? Let's say it's four o'clock in the morning and you're in a swamp, maybe waist- deep in water, and you're sneaking up on a couple of guys sitting in a duck blind."

  "Yeah, what are they doing, selling coke?"

  "No, just sitting there in the blind, wrapped up in blankets, drinking coffee, and waiting for daylight so they can start killing ducks."

  "And I'm standing in waist-deep water, freezing my nuts off and watching these assholes drink coffee? Am I out of my mind?" Lightstone had asked, incredulous.

  "No, you're a federal agent of the United States Fish and Wildlife Service, and you're looking to nail these guys for multiple violations of the Migratory Bird Treaty Act."

  "So what is it, a capital offense to shoot a duck at sunrise?"

  McNulty shook his head. "Actually, a misdemeanor, but only if they go over the limit. Which you won't be able to prove unless you count the number of ducks they shoot. So what you're go
ing to have to do is stay out there in the swamp until, oh, I'd say until about eight or nine in the morning, ideally behind some cover, and count drops."

  "Drops, as in dropping ducks?"

  McNulty nodded. "And while you're doing that, you're going to be keeping detailed notes on the approximate location where each duck falls, the time, the sex, the species involved… and on the apparent hunter."

  "With my waterproof pen and paper," Lightstone had smiled agreeably.

  "Which reminds me," McNulty had added as Lightstone's amused smile turned to laughter. "Assuming that you've searched all around the swamp in about a fifty-yard radius, and all through the blind, and you haven't been bitten by a snake or an alligator, and you haven't found anything that looks like a duck, what else are you going to be looking for in the way of evidence?"

  At that point, Henry Lightstone had stopped laughing because it suddenly occurred to him that his supervisor might be dead serious.

  "I don't know," he'd shrugged. "Feathers? Duck shit?"

  "Okay. And what are you going to do if you can't find any feathers or duck shit anywhere around the area?" McNulty pressed.

  "Then I'm probably going to figure that the stupid sons of bitches haven't the slightest idea of what a duck looks like either," Lightstone had replied with unrestrained sarcasm.

  "There you go." McNulty had shrugged in apparent satisfaction. "Sounds to me like you've got the basics down just fine. I'll have Mike send down a couple of ID books with pictures, get you a little better oriented to the critters. In the meantime, you just make sure you pass those final exams and get that badge. It's about time you started earning your keep around here."

  Those last words spoken by McNulty three months ago still echoed in Henry Lightstone's mind.

  It was those words, and pride, and a strong personal conviction that he really did need to earn his keep-by taking on homicidal idiots like Alex Chareaux and his brothers, even if it meant getting into a goddamned flimsy airplane-that kept Henry Lightstone waiting on the phone.

  Ten minutes later, McNulty was back.

  "I've got the man you need, close by with a plane all fueled up and ready to go. Name is Len Ruebottom. Nice fellow, family man, hell of a pilot."