by Ken Goddard
“Rather than tell you, because you won’t believe me,” Hateley said as he reached for a remote lying on the table beside his plate, “I’m going to show you.”
As Hateley pressed buttons on the remote, the room darkened, a four-foot-by-eight-foot digital screen slid silently down from the ceiling in front of the trophy wall, and a bright blue Powerpoint™ slide suddenly appeared bearing the words: the hunt of an era
Then, as the room remained hushed, Hateley clicked the remote once more and the picture of a single animal standing in front of a concrete wall filled the huge screen.
“What the hell — ?” Caldreaux rasped hoarsely.
“That’s… that’s — ” Fogarty sputtered, trying to get the word out.
“A mammoth?” Kingman whispered the word in an incredulous voice.
“My God, it looks real,” Caldreaux said as he leaned forward to get a better view.
“That creature is as real — and as alive — as the four of us in this room,” Hateley said matter-of-factly.
“But how is that possible?” Fogarty demanded. “I thought — ?”
“That Jurassic Park was a fictional tale?” Hateley smiled. “Well, you’re right, Sam, it was — and still is — a fairy tale. That creature you see on the scene was not created from the reassembled DNA of a mammoth, but rather by the genetic manipulation of DNA within a like-creature.”
Hateley thumbed the remote and a new image of a single animal filled the screen.
“You manipulated the DNA of an elephant, and turned it into a mammoth? Is that actually possible?” Caldreaux whispered disbelievingly.
Hateley thumbed the remote again and the mammoth image filled the screen again, only this time the image was digital video; and for a stunning ten seconds, the four men in the hushed room watched the creature swing its thick trunk back and forth between its two curved tusks as it stared at the camera. The sound of Caldreaux’s brandy sniffer shattering on the floor was barely noticed.
The video stopped, and for a long moment, the room was deathly silent.
“One of us is actually going to be able to kill and mount a real mammoth? Is that what you’re saying?” Kingman could barely get the words out of his suddenly dry mouth.
“But how would we chose — a drawing of straws?” The desperate greed in Fogarty’s voice was apparent to all three of Hateley’s guests, because each and every one of them was thinking precisely the same thing.
That mammoth has to be mine.
“No, we’re not going to draw straws,” Hateley said. “We couldn’t do that; we’d end up shooting each other in the back.”
The other three men were silent, almost afraid to speak, knowing that their host was right.
“Fortunately,” Hateley went on calmly, “we won’t have to compete with each other for the privilege of being the first human hunter in twenty thousand years to take a mammoth; because I happen to have access to four of these wondrous creatures — one for each of us.”
The other three men sagged in their chairs as one, relief and joy spilling across their now-smiling faces.
“My God, Michael, you are a genius; the Merchant da Morte, without question,” Caldreaux rasped, raising his water glass toward the wall-mounted boar’s head in salute, a gesture immediately followed by the other two men.
“Don’t be so quick with your praise,” Hateley said somberly. “There’s a very serious problem we all have to deal with before we can have our hunt and mount these trophies on our walls.”
“What problem? Are you talking about the law?” Caldreaux demanded. “That’s preposterous! This is none of their business!”
“After all, it’s not illegal to shoot a mammoth, is it?” Fogarty said. “I mean, how could it be? They don’t exist.”
“Except that now they do,” Kingman reminded in a voice that could only be described as reverent.
“The law is not our problem, gentlemen; or, at least, not for the moment,” Hateley said. “As Sam correctly pointed out, it is not against the law to kill mammoths. Our problem is more of an emotional issue.”
Hateley thumbed the remote once more, and this time the two images of the elephant and mammoth appeared to have been merged into one; except that one of the animals was suddenly much bigger than the other.
“Oh my God, it’s a baby,” Kingman said in a hushed voice.
The three men sat mute in the darkened room as the magnitude of the problem struck home with a finality that tore at their hearts.
“I — can’t shoot a baby mammoth,” Fogarty finally said in a choked voice. “Jesus, I mean, if anyone ever found out — ”
“At this stage of my life, as you all know, I don’t have many scruples left; perhaps none at all,” Caldreaux said in a voice filled with anguish. “But I can tell you one thing that’s as certain as the passage of time: I am not going to sit down to dinner and stare at that little creature’s head on my wall; or on any of your walls either, for that matter.”
“Then we just have to wait, until they get older,” Kingman offered hesitantly.
“But, what if someone else — ?” Fogarty couldn’t finish the unthinkable question.
“They do belong to you, Michael; that is what you said, isn’t it?” Caldreaux demanded, turning his head sharply to stare at Hateley.
“I said I have access to them; but I don’t own them,” Hateley replied evenly. “They will have to be purchased.”
“Then we have to buy them now, immediately,” Kingman said, “at whatever the cost, before someone outbids us.”
“Or we could just steal them, if the price turns out to be unacceptable,” Fogarty pointed out.
“Either way, I don’t care; just as long as one of them ends up being mine,” Caldreaux said emphatically.
The solemn nodding of all three heads around his table told Hateley what he had desperately wanted to hear from the members of his club. It meant the plan was now thinkable, and perhaps even doable.
“Gentlemen,” he said after pausing a few moments for effect, “now that I have your full attention to the crucial matter at hand, I would like to introduce a fifth guest to our table this evening.”
“What?!” Caldreaux’s eyes bulged wide as he quickly looked around the darkened room. “You invited a stranger to our dinner?”
“Have you lost your mind?” Fogarty demanded as he and Kingman started up out of their chairs.
“Gentlemen, please stay seated,” Hateley said in a soothing voice. “And no, I have not lost my mind on this momentous evening, because the man I’m about to introduce is not a stranger to anyone in this room; or to the covert nature of our amusements.”
Hateley waited until all three of his guests had regained their chairs and at least some degree of their composure before thumbing the remote one last time.
In the far corner of the underground room, a single overhead light came on, revealing the figure of a man they all knew all too well.
“Gentlemen,” Marcus Wallis said, “thank you very much for inviting me to your annual dinner. The meal — which I had the honor of sharing with the chef, and as you’ve already noted — was superb. However, I came here tonight for more important reasons than food. First, to apologize for the unfortunate incident in Thailand; and, secondly, to offer a solution to what I see as a simple moral dilemma.”
Wallis paused for a moment, his cold eyes surveying the darkened room and the three men at the table, two of whom aappeared frozen in place.
“Every hunter has his limitations; shots they cannot or will not take. You four men seem to have discovered yours, and understandably so. But I would suggest to you that your revulsion to the idea of shooting an immature animal — especially one newly risen from extinction — and putting that creature’s head on your wall, is a perfectly rational response. I’m certain it’s not the act of shooting or killing that repels any of you; but, rather, the lack of a challenge.
“In essence,” Wallis concluded, “you would never be able to look
up at these mounts with any sense of pride or accomplishment; therefore, they would never be a true trophy in any of your eyes.”
Wallis paused again to survey the frozen expressions of his audience, and smiled.
“Unless,” he said, as he reached down to the floor and picked up a pair of objects,” you chose to do something, as a group, that hasn’t been done for twenty thousand years.”
He held up a flint-tipped wooden spear in one hand, and a hide-wrapped flint knife in the other.
“Hunt down your mammoths and kill them the old-fashioned way.”
CHAPTER 30
At the Khlong Preserve shooting site
The night rain in Khlong Saeng Wildlife Preserve had turned into a light mist, causing the resident Hornbills, Bamboo Rats, tree frogs and insects to shift slightly out of their protective niches; because interesting things were happening in their wetlands neighborhood.
All of these diverse creatures were aware, in their own ways, of the single human figure stretched out on the top a crudely-reconstructed bamboo hunting platform standing six feet and a half feet above the lush undergrowth, and the other human’s standing beside the platform; but none of them seemed to view this latest intrusion as threatening. Very possibly because Chief Narusan — who was quietly contemplating the logical actions of a midnight poacher from the top of the platform he’d carefully reconstructed from the chopped bamboo lengths collected from the hidden grave site — was clearly at home in this lush Thai rainforest.
That and possibly the fact that the Chief, who had hunted and fished for his dinner all of his adult life, had no intention of killing anything other than a fellow human on this particular night; and only then if it became absolutely necessary.
Tonight, the Chief was fully engaged and focused on the complexities of his latest professional interest: the reconstruction of events at a crime scene. The confrontation and killing would come later; after all of the clues and evidence items had fallen into place.
And, in fact, it had been Narusan, the amateur naturalist, who thought he recognized the four larger-diameter sections of bamboo he’d found at the grave site — the ones that turned out to be platform legs when he finally managed to reassemble the pieces — as being an almost extinct south Asian variety replanted at the Khlong Saeng Wildlife Preserve, with some ceremony, a few years earlier.
Captain Achara Kulawnit had then used her law enforcement authority to awaken and demand the immediate services of the Preserve’s senior horticulturalist, who — when he arrived at the Preserve headquarters, groggy and disheveled — took one horrified look at the sharpened and pounded seven-foot bamboo sections, and then immediately drove the investigative team to the specific area in the Preserve where the ceremonial planting had taken place.
Ten minutes after the enraged horticulturalist pointed his flashlight beam at the shattered-stump areas when the components of the platform had clearly been taken, Achara Kulawnit — searching through a nearby section of recently trampled tall grass with a long snake stick — found the four barely-discernable holes where the platform legs had been pounded into the ground.
But it was Narusan, on his hands and knees while in the process of putting the thick bamboo legs into their original hole positions, who discovered the single expended brass casing nestled under a clump of trampled grass.
The casing — now rattling around on the end of a small twig — was being examined carefully by Achara while Narusan lay on the platform and stared across the wetland clearing at the distant stretch of trees, ferns, bamboo, and massive limestone formations that lay in line with the angular direction of the platform.
They were waiting for the arrival of a laser-beam equipped transit so that Narusan, an amateur surveyor in addition to his other skills, could make a better estimate of the flight vector of a. 243 Remington Magnum bullet fired by a wealthy poacher resting comfortably on the protective platform; undoubtedly never imagining that his illicit actions might be re-enacted at some later time by a now very enthusiastic and persistent Thai Royal Navy crime scene investigator.
At the Draganov Center
“You’re going to let them kill all four of the little ones?” Aleksei Tsarovich stared at Sergei Draganov in disbelief. “No, you can’t be serious.”
They were off by themselves, in the Center’s small conference room; talking in hoarse whispers because they didn’t dare let word of Marcus Emerson’s latest order get out to everyone else at the Center.
“What choice do we have?” Draganov demanded, the anguish evident on his flushed face. “You know what these people are like. They killed my brother and his entire smuggling organization like they were pests… they as much as admitted it! Do you think they would hesitate for an instant to kill us too?”
“That’s just it, I really don’t think they would kill us,” Tsarovich argued. “Think about it; they need us — you especially. How else can they obtain more exotic creatures for their barbaric hunts?”
“They might not kill us,” Draganov said uneasily, “but they would certainly kill the others here; probably one by one, until we agree to their terms. Could you stand by and watch while they were all executed, over a few creatures that we know we can easily replicate?”
The logic was as clear to the two scientists as it was disheartening.
“No, I couldn’t,” Aleksei agreed with a deep sigh. “We have to do as they say; but how will we be able to explain it to the others — and especially to Borya?”
“Borya can’t know, at least not right away,” Sergei Draganov said emphatically. “He would never bow to such heresy, and they would certainly execute him as an example to the others — and to us.”
“But how do we keep it from him? You know our staff; once they find out what we’re going to do, they’ll get word to him somehow.”
“Not necessarily,” Aleksei said. “Not if we disable the wireless communication system and delay for a while repairing our phone line. And even if he should become suspicious, the snow must be at least ten feet deep up at MAX by now — and it is still falling — so digging his way out to where we release the little ones from MIN would be an impossible task, even for Borya.”
“And he has no reason to do so, anyway, because his primary job — which we know he takes very seriously — is to stay at MAX and care for those creatures.” Draganov smiled.
“Yes, it could work,” his brother agreed, “especially if no shots are fired during the hunt, and we release the animals far enough away from the Center so that no one here will know what’s happening.”
“Don’t forget, it has to be a place with at least four caves nearby,” Draganov went on, “so that Wallis’ hunters will have shelter at night; that was one of his requirements. But also, ideally, from our standpoint, it should be a place where the little ones have a least some chance to remain hidden from — ”
The two scientists looked at each other in sudden realization.
“The Maze,” Draganov whispered.
“What better place could we find? Thousands of big rocks and trees, dozens of caves, and a labyrinth of inter-connecting chasms and gorges with the obvious pathways all circling back on each other.” Tsarovich smiled. “What better place for these crazy fools to try to hunt and kill the little ones with their ancient knives and spears and cleverly-rigged traps? With luck — especially if the storms continue, as they likely will — the little ones will simply disappear within the Maze and never be found; at least not by any of them.”
“According to Emerson, the four intend to hunt only with the tools of early cavemen; flint knives, flint spears and lengths of crudely-woven rope. They will have thermal clothing, and backpacks with water, basic survival rations, sleeping bags, and some kind of emergency shelters, no doubt; but no firearms, no radios or other electronic means of communicating with the outside or each other. And no tracking devices either; which means no compasses or GPS units. Those were the rules they all agreed upon.”
“They are fools to a
ttempt such a thing in these mountains, and in this weather,” Tsarovich said flatly.
“Yes, but apparently wealthy fools, as well as avid hunters,” Draganov reminded. “I’m sure they all possess survival skills.”
“Yes, undoubtedly; but, even so, without GPS units or a compass, it will be easy for them to become lost and perhaps never find their way out.” Tsarovich smiled. “It’s happened to many others over the years who were far better equipped. And, in that case, perhaps our problem will be solved for good also; especially if Emerson and his two assistants take part in the hunt — which I believe they intend to do.”
“But how do we get the little ones all the way out to the Maze?” Draganov asked, suddenly looking concerned. “We can’t possibly transport them there. The access road is more of a bicycle path, at best; and the last mile to the south entrance is barely accessibly on foot, even in good weather.”
“Simple.” Tsarovich shrugged. “I will lay a trail of hay and fruit — using the Sno-Cat as far as it will go, and then the rest of the way on foot — from MIN to the southern entrance; and then go back and release the little ones with their mothers. If I don’t put any more food into the bins, the mothers will certainly follow the food trail.”
The burly veterinarian started to say something else, and then hesitated when he saw the uncertain look on his brother’s face. “What’s the matter?” he demanded.
“Emerson said he wanted the little ones released in an isolated hunting area,” Draganov said uneasily. “He didn’t say anything about releasing the mothers too. That could create a dangerous situation. It is one thing for these wealthy and influential men to fail in their hunt; but it would be something else, entirely, if one of them should be killed by — ”
“By a mother elephant trying to protect her young from the greatest predator that has ever lived on this planet; is that what we should be concerned about? That one of these arrogant men might be gored or crushed? So what if one of them dies?” Tsarovich scoffed. “They claim they want a fair hunt — using only their brains, their hands and their crude weapons — so they can be proud of their trophies; fine, they shall have one. But they should realize, also, that mammoths so young — no matter what the era — would always be in the company of their mothers. These men should be happy they won’t have to deal with the protective fathers, as well; like the real cavemen most certainly did.”
