“Hi Daddy!” I shouted and gave him a big hug.
“How was your flight, sweetheart?” he asked.
“Long,” I said. “I’m so excited to get out there.”
I wasn’t lying. I was excited.
“Son,” he said to Dalton with a fatherly nod.
A man appeared from behind us on the path. “Mr. Pratt, are we ready to head out?”
Joe spun around. “Well, you must be Mr. Townsend. Pleasure to meet you.”
The man nodded, shook Joe’s hand.
He wasn’t at all what I’d expected. Mark Townsend, big-time poacher, the target of our investigation, was a gangly, thin man with a scruffy beard, kind eyes and a wad of chewing tobacco tucked in the side of his bottom lip. “Ma’am,” he said to me as he opened the door to the tiny shed. Inside was a large cargo scale. “Put all your bags on there,” he said to Dalton.
Once he jotted down the weight, he looked to me with a sheepish expression. “Now I need yours.”
“My what?” I asked. I knew what he meant, but I wasn’t sure a spoiled college student from Oklahoma would.
“Your weight.” He looked to Joe, then Dalton. “All of you.”
“Well, I’ll be,” I said and stepped onto the scale with a frown.
Mark gave me a tolerant grin.
After everyone and all our stuff was weighed and Mark was satisfied, we followed him onto the dock and loaded the plane—a de Havilland Beaver, the workhorse of the Alaskan bush. Bright yellow, her big floats level on top to walk on, she looked like an oversized bathtub toy.
“I want to ride up front, Daddy. Can I ride up front?”
“As long as it’s all right with the pilot, sweetheart.”
Mark shrugged.
Joe and Dalton squeezed into the tiny backseat and I got into the front passenger seat, opposite Mark, and pulled the door shut, ready to go.
Fascinating how a hunk of metal like this, probably five-thousand pounds, with what I guessed to be a fifty-foot wingspan, could lift off and fly. A commercial jet airliner had enough power to force it into the air. But these little planes were all about aerodynamics, weight versus lift, rudder trim, flaps, all that coming together. I’d always wanted to learn how to fly one.
The dash was a hodgepodge of levers and switches, gauges and buttons, each controlling some small, but no doubt vital part of the equation. On my side, as well as Mark’s, there was a yoke and foot pedals. I grabbed the steering apparatus and said, “Hey, I guess I’m the co-pilot, huh?”
Mark’s eyes locked on mine. He paused, shifted the lump of chew from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue before saying, “Don’t touch anything.”
Here's the thing. What if Mark had a heart attack or choked on his Beech-nut? My life was literally in his hands. At a minimum, I wanted to know how to put this bird back down on the ground. Or at least how to use the radio to call for help. Did that make me a control freak? Or a take-charge kind of person? How about brazen? Half-cocked?
I didn’t know what Mr. Martin expected of me. Shouldn’t an undercover agent have those qualities? Be a take-charge, grab-the-bull-by-the-horns kind of person?
Trust your team, Dalton would say. Rely on your partner. In this case, trust the expert. But was Townsend the kind of person who'd crumple under stress? What if we hit a flock of birds? What if the engines stalled? Was I supposed to sit back and do nothing? Go down with the plane shouting “See, I’m a good follower!”
Screw that. Mark might not want a co-pilot, but he was getting one.
I glanced around the dash, getting acquainted with what was where. Anything I recognized that is. A GPS locator was mounted in the left corner. The map pocket in my door had an operation manual. That was good.
Mark strapped on his seatbelt. I found mine and clicked it into place. He didn’t check to make sure I had my door shut tight, nor did he mention the location of the life vests. Cowboy-type. Good to know.
He flipped a red switch on the dash.
“What's that?” I asked.
He paused, raised one eyebrow, but gave no answer. So that's how it was going to be.
One thing I did know about bush planes: everything is manually operated. With many parts, many things can break or go wrong. In the bush, you want solid components, easy to repair in remote areas with tools that are typically available. No fancy, complicated electronics here.
He handed me a headset, then turned to the guys in the back and motioned for them to put theirs on as well.
Next to his seat, on the left, he pumped a lever or something that made a whoosh, whoosh noise as he pumped, while he simultaneously worked a lever, up and down, on the center console down by his right foot. None of the controls had labels.
“What’s that?” I tried again.
He gave me a half grin. “Wobble pump.”
“Wobble?” Very funny.
More knobs were pushed and levers moved, one labeled throttle, at least that made sense, and the engine turned over and the propeller started spinning.
“Woohoo!” I said. “Let's get going.”
Without looking at me, Mark said, “It takes about ten minutes to warm up.” He tapped a gauge. “Need forty degrees oil pressure temp, one hundred degrees cylinder head temp.”
The plane rattled and shook.
Mark clicked a button on the yoke and started talking on the radio to the control tower. The only part I understood was “requesting departure.” He eased the throttle lever forward and as the plane started to move, he pumped a lever on the floor, then some other lever on the dash. He fiddled with some tiny wheels on the ceiling. I was starting to think none of them did anything. Maybe he just had a nervous twitch. Then his eyes met mine. “You ready?” he said with an amused grin.
I nodded.
He reached over and stroked a ragged old rabbit’s foot that hung on a tarnished chain from the throttle lever.
Really? Part of a dead animal? Figures. “For good luck?” I said.
He grinned. “Out here, you’re at the mercy of the wilderness. Sometimes, all you’ve got is luck.”
He pushed the throttle lever all the way forward, the engine roared, and we moved across the water, the floats gliding beneath us. In moments, we were airborne, leaving me wondering how it was possible. We weren’t going fast enough to lift a plane into the air. I could have been waterskiing back there. But we were in the air nonetheless.
As soon as we cleared the treetops, Mark turned and winked at me. “You’re good luck.” He gestured toward the north. “The mountain. She’s showing her face today.”
I turned. Denali’s powerful peaks dominated the horizon, towering over the Alaska Range, dwarfing the surrounding mountains, most of which were as tall as the highest in the Rockies of the lower forty-eight. No wonder its Athabaskan name meant “the Great One.”
“Up here, we call it Denali. Crazy bastards come from around the globe to try to climb to the top,” Mark said, his voice crackling through the old headset. “It’s the fourth highest peak in the world, but I’m told it has the appeal of the highest base-to-summit elevation of any mountain on Earth, rising 18,000 feet from its base. Everest is only a 12,000-foot-climb from its base.”
“Really?” I said. “I had no idea.”
Mark nodded. “She makes her own weather. The mountain has such mass, she sucks moisture from the Bering Sea and the Gulf of Alaska, stirring up storms year round. Winds average eighty miles per hour on the slope. Add the extreme weather conditions of this arctic climate, which makes for thinner air and a summit temperature commonly at forty degrees below zero.” He shook his head. “Not the way I want to meet my maker.”
I agreed.
He banked the plane south, along the edge of the Cook Inlet. We were heading for the Alaska peninsula, to a lodge tucked in somewhere near the edge of the Katmai National Park and Preserve.
Below, for miles and miles, vast swaths of nothing but green and white and blue stretched across the landscape.
No man-made squares here.
Glacier-covered peaks along the shoreline, dotted with alpine lakes, offered streams that meandered downward, through the patchwork of green, toward the satiny blue sea. Beautiful, untouched, the way it was meant to be. Alaska was truly the last frontier. I held my breath, taking it in.
I glanced at Dalton. He had his head back, sound asleep. I suppose it’s the SEAL training. Get sleep when you can. I eased into my seat and closed my eyes. Nope. I sat upright. Too much to see. I leaned on the glass window, so I could see as straight down below us as possible. The sun shimmered off the water, reminding me of a dazzling dinner gown.
After a while, I turned my attention back to Mark. Getting him talking about the hunt might give me some useful information.
“So, we’re doing a fly-in hunt, but we’ll have a guide, right?” I asked.
“For sure. We’ll see how the groups sort out. I’ve got more than one hunting party at the lodge this week. Full house.”
Excellent. We wanted to be put with other hunters, to witness the poaching act. The issue was that most wealthy trophy hunters wanted to hunt one-on-one with a guide. We had to walk the line. Act like we wanted a one-on-one, but then compromise to be put with others.
“But I was promised the best trophy opportunity there is. My daddy said—”
“Don’t you worry about that. You’ll get the hunt you want. I guarantee it.”
Good start.
His guide service was absolutely legit, on the surface. Joe had booked a legal hunt, applied for licenses, et cetera, but he had long suspected Townsend of taking hunters inside the boundaries of the refuge or luring the record-sized bears out, which is illegal.
Townsend had proved to be sly over the years. No doubt, he’d have done his homework before taking us on as clients. Joe had painstakingly created backgrounds for us, complete with references from other shady trophy hunters, but we assumed Townsend would still need to feel us out. He’d dance around the subject at first, gauge our intent, in person, where nothing could be recorded or copied, before discussing an illegal hunt.
Once he did, that was only the first step. To be sure we could get a decent conviction, we had to witness the kill, then, if possible, mark the location. I had a camera with built-in GPS, but DNA was an even stronger piece of evidence. If possible, we’d stash a piece of the carcass without the guide knowing. When the trophy got shipped to the lower forty-eight, crossing state lines, making it a clear violation of the Lacey Act (a federal law that prohibits trade in wildlife, fish, and plants that have been illegally taken, possessed, transported, or sold), then we’d have a solid case. We’d intercept at the change of hands and nail them both—guide and hunter.
“So we’ll be camping backcountry, right, in a tent?” I gave him a whimpery smile, giving the impression I was uncomfortable with being alone in the wilderness.
He fiddled with the little wheel thing on the ceiling, looked over the gauges before he answered. “Depends.”
“That’s where the big bears are though, right? Deep in the woods.”
“Honey,” Joe piped up from the back seat. “Stop pestering Mark. Let the man do his job. I know you’re excited, but we’ll be there soon enough.”
Joe’d been around long enough and had the confidence to know he didn’t have to play it to the hilt. It was the little things that made a cover believable. He was a pro. I took his lead and crossed my arms and pursed my lips into a pout.
“See Mount Douglas?” Townsend pointed out the windshield, to the left. “We head that way, then to the right a bit. Not long. Sit back and relax. Enjoy the flight.”
Right. I’d enjoy it a lot more if I knew how to fly this bird.
As we approached, I could see waves rippling across Iliamna Lake on the right, Mount Douglas up ahead, to the left. Townsend banked the plane and we started our descent. The lodge was somewhere to the southeast of Iliamna Lake, but north of the Katmai National Park and Preserve boundary, a swath of land larger than four million square acres.
Mark piped up again in his tour guide voice. “Katmai National Park was originally established because of the volcanic activity in the area known as The Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes.”
He didn’t mention that the protection of its brown bears has become equally vital. Most of the park is a designated wilderness area where hunting is banned. All wildlife is protected. Unfortunately, the bears don’t live by the rule of boundaries. Nor do poachers, if they can cross over without getting caught.
“Over that way,” he continued, gesturing out the window, “is the McNeil River. That’s where the big boys hang out.”
Famous among bear lovers, McNeil River Falls attracts the bruins in large numbers, the largest concentration of brown bears in the world, in fact. They gorge on the salmon that wiggle their way up from the sea, through the boulders and rocks, and try to jump the falls to continue upstream to their spawning grounds. Many of the bears have perfected catching the salmon in the air as they shoot out of the rapids. I’ve seen many pictures that were taken there. I’m told it’s something to witness. I wished it was part of the tour.
Mark took us lower and flew along the coast before turning inland. The trees below showed the colors of autumn. Dark green spires of spruce popped up amid patches of yellow and gold with an occasional blot of reddish-orange. Trails cut through the alders and thicket, bear paths leading to and from the streams.
“Bears,” came Joe’s voice in my headset. “Off to the right.”
I spun in my chair to see. A sow and her cub lumbered along a path, heading into the hills from the sea. I smiled. Wild and free. Beautiful.
“We’re at the edge of the McNeil area. The lodge is just to the north. We’ll be landing soon,” Mark said and pushed the throttle forward. He’d just been showing us the goods.
Yep. We so had to bust this guy.
“Well, look at that,” Mark said, leaning over to look out the side window.
I craned my neck on my side, trying to see what he saw.
He banked the plane to circle back. “The herd is moving.”
Below, on the edge of a rocky slope, hundreds of caribou moved in unison, a river of shaggy coats. Their enormous antlers rocked to and fro as they ran. Caribou have the largest antlers relative to their body size among all deer species, and both male and female grow them. Running across the landscape, they looked like Santa’s reindeer set free.
I watched them disappear over the hill as we flew onward.
Not ten minutes later, Mark turned the plane and lined up to touch down on a river. It felt like we were approaching at a pretty steep angle, but I didn’t feel a deep descent.
“What’s the trick to landing one of these?” I asked.
“No trick,” he said. “They pretty much land themselves.”
“How do you mean?”
He turned to me with a smirk. “What goes up must come down.”
Right.
With Mark’s experienced hand on the throttle, easing it back, the engine whir slowed and we simply glided right down to the water, smooth as can be.
I inhaled a deep breath. I love to fly, but there’s always a sense of relief when I’m back on the ground. In this case, on the water.
We skidded along on the river’s surface, then taxied to shore in front of the lodge, and pulled up next to another float plane. The propeller coughed and sputtered to a stop. We were here.
CHAPTER FOUR
After miles of pristine wilderness, the lodge stuck out like a festering scar on the face of the landscape. Tucked amid the pines, with the white mountains behind, its log walls and stone foundation matched the wilderness style, but its sheer size and modern shine seemed to spit at the idea of roughing it. I suppose it would appeal to an oil man from Oklahoma who was more interested in taking home a story than an actual wilderness experience.
A tall woman in a red flannel shirt waved from the porch, then came down to greet us, two Alaskan dogs at her heels. Close cousins
to wolves, usually a mixed breed combining the best traits for sledding, with blue eyes, sharp noses, and thick coats, they looked like they had no problem keeping the bears at bay before curling up into a ball in front of the fireplace.
Townsend was out of the plane and securing it to a line before the woman got there. I climbed out onto the pontoon and leaped to the rocky shore where the two dogs greeted me with wet noses. Mark started shoving our bags out of the plane and the men lined up like in a bucket brigade, tossing the bags along, from one to the other to a pile on dry ground where a raven hopped about, his eye on the new arrivals.
The sky was such a vibrant shade of blue, it seemed to glow. Tall spruce lined the river. I drew in a deep breath. The air was so clean and fresh, as though one inhalation could cleanse my soul.
Feeling revitalized already, I knew I could handle anything that came my way on this op. And Stan Martin was thousands of miles away. Once we brought Townsend in, with everything by the book, he’d have to give me some credit. Dalton was right. I wasn’t going to worry about it now. I’d focus on the op and deal with that later.
After the luggage was unloaded, Mark gestured toward the woman. “My wife, Irene.” She stood at least a head taller than me, with a tiny frame, yet had the stature of someone who could haul half a moose cross-country, keeping up with Mark without breaking a sweat.
She acknowledged us with a warm smile. “Welcome to Moosepine Lodge. C’mon in. You’re the last to arrive, so we’ll get you settled, then make introductions.” She glanced down at the pile of luggage, then me. “Which bag is yours, dear?”
I pointed to mine.
She hefted it over her shoulder and headed for the front door.
I let Dalton and Joe get the other bags. There were perks to playing the spoiled daughter.
Joe lumbered after Mark, but Dalton lingered, his eyes scanning the perimeter.
“Stop it,” I whispered.
“What?”
Poppy McVie Mysteries: Books 1-3 (The Poppy McVie Box Set Series) Page 40
