True Believer

by Carr, Jack

  “So, you still have it?”

  “Of course; it looked expensive, but we didn’t have anyone to sell it to.”

  “Can we check it out?”

  “Sure, come with me.”

  Hastings led Reece out of the dining area and toward what looked like a small thatched storage building. The building was dark inside and it took a few moments for Reece’s eyes to adjust after being in the bright sunlight. Rich Hastings pointed to the back corner of the structure. Reece couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the dust-covered quadcopter-style video drone sitting on the concrete slab. It was an Inspire 2 drone, complete with a Forward-Looking InfraRed (FLIR) camera and an iPad Mini–equipped remote control. The instruction manual was still in the plastic wrap. Reece brought it back to his makeshift headquarters in the dining area.

  “Think you can fly this thing?” Rich asked.

  “Maybe. Where’s the night vision?”

  “I’ll get it.”

  According to the specs, the drone had a flight time of almost a half hour and could travel at 58 miles per hour. The maximum operating temperature was 102 degrees, which meant he couldn’t fly it in the heat of the day here. That wasn’t a problem, though, as Reece planned to use it at night. He began charging the batteries as he read over the instructions, hoping to give it a test flight once the air cooled down that evening. The misconception about drones was that you could have eyes in the sky everywhere at once. They had one drone and its range and flight time were fairly limited, meaning that they would still have to develop a plan as to where best to deploy it. The drone was a game-changing asset, but not a magic wand.

  That evening, Reece was ready to give the drone its maiden flight. All the PHs were back from the field and they gathered around, beers in hand, to watch Reece crash the expensive-looking flying machine. The camp staff weren’t exactly sure what was about to happen, but they soon joined the crowd to see the spectacle. Reece feigned confidence as he carried the drone down to the fire pit area overlooking the river. The camp staff murmured in a collection of languages at the sight of the alien contraption. Reece activated the motor and the drone rocketed skyward. The joyful reaction of the native camp staff drowned out the whir of the four small rotors and Reece couldn’t suppress his grin. As the device held a hover, the iPad displayed a bird’s-eye view of the camp and surrounding landscape. Carefully, Reece steered the drone over the river and eased up to its maximum speed. The flowing river and its banks were thick with animals at this hour, and the view from above was like something on a nature show as Reece steered the craft. He got the hang of flying it quickly and brought it around for a low pass over the camp. The staff cheered and the PHs raised their beers in a salute to their new friend’s flying skills.

  Reece toggled the display to activate the FLIR camera and the scene was converted instantly to blacks and grays highlighted by the heat displays of the wildlife below. Elephants, giraffes, impala, and even crocodiles showed up in fiery reds and oranges. The craft stopped and hovered over a lioness stalking through the riverine grasses in search of prey, invisible to the naked eye but clear as day on the screen. The camp staff were bewildered and amazed at what they saw, unsure whether this visitor in camp was a genius or some kind of magician. After twenty minutes of flying, Reece brought the drone in for a landing to the cheers of the staff and applause of the PHs, who were relieved that their new reconnaissance asset had not crashed. He smiled at the prospect of using it in operations against his new enemy.

  CHAPTER 27

  Niassa Game Reserve

  Mozambique, Africa

  April

  REECE HAD OUTLINED A basic campaign plan and was feeling increasingly confident in his ability to operate the drone, but he lacked a ground force to physically interdict the poachers. His research indicated that the poachers were part of a larger syndicate as vast and complex as the terrorist organizations he’d targeted in the military. Endemic corruption at all levels of government, low socioeconomic conditions, and high demand in Asia were fueling an illicit trade that generated more money than the illegal trafficking of small arms, gold, diamonds, or oil. There wasn’t much Reece could do about the demand, but he could impact the supply.

  Reece was in Mozambique to keep a low profile, not to end up in what he assumed would be one of the worst prisons on earth. That meant he couldn’t lead the antipoaching teams themselves, as doing so would require interaction with authorities, something that he intended to avoid. He ran the dilemma by Rich Hastings and the two of them came up with a plan. Rich would use the resources of the safari company to beef up the capability and number of their game scouts, and Reece would act as their eyes and ears. Rich would assign experienced trackers to work with Reece and, once they got “eyes on” the poachers, they’d call in the game scouts.

  The government-provided game scouts were mostly good men with the right intentions, but they lacked any real training or experience when it came to weapons and tactics. Rich and his PHs, most of them ex-military and all of them highly competent in the field, could act as advisors to the game scouts when it came to larger operations. They would scale up their antipoaching efforts during the off-season when the activity was at its peak and scale it back during the hunting season when the PHs and game scouts had traditional duties to attend to, the ones that actually paid the bills. Reece would focus most of his time on coordinating the antipoaching efforts while doing some general scouting for the safari operations as an apprentice or “appy” PH.

  Special Reconnaissance (SR) was a core SEAL mission during much of Reece’s time in the Teams. More recently, the SR role was spun off to specialized teams on each coast that performed highly technical surveillance operations in support of direct-action elements like Reece’s troop. Even though Reece hadn’t done an SR-only mission since his first deployment to Afghanistan shortly after 9/11, it was something that he and his men had trained to do for years. In his war against the poachers, Reece would shift back to the SR role full-time. It would take some adjustment not to be the one leading the strike force onto the objective, but it was the smart play. Instead of being the quarterback on the field, Reece would become the offensive coordinator calling the plays from the skybox.

  • • •

  The fisherman steered the dugout canoe carefully to avoid the boulders at the river’s bend. Without a moon the stars still gave the older man enough illumination to navigate the waters he knew so well. The light reflecting off the calm surface made steering the boat as easy as navigating a modern highway, not that he’d ever seen one. He used his hand-hewn steering pole to stop the craft, listening intently for any sign of movement on the nearby bank. All he could hear were the normal forest sounds: a steady hum of birds and insects interrupted by the occasional bark of a baboon. Satisfied that he was alone, he poled the canoe toward the shoreline.

  “Okay, he’s moving again,” Reece said quietly into the Motorola handheld radio, staring intently at the IR image on the iPad tethered to his drone’s controls. “He’s ten meters out from the bank, one hundred meters south of the scouts.”

  He heard Hastings’s radio break squelch twice, indicating that he’d understood.

  Reece was sitting on the tailgate of his Land Cruiser, on the opposite side of the river from the action, coordinating the events as they played out before him on the screen.

  “Land-based guys are moving toward the bank with the cargo. Let’s wait until he gets out of the boat to intercept. He’s five meters out. He’s beached. He’s out of the boat, time to move.”

  Reece could see the six game scouts move forward in a line formation with Hastings at their center, keeping them moving in the right direction. When the scouts were thirty yards from the bank, the two land-based poachers dropped their cargo and fled to the east.

  “Coming your way, Louie,” Reece advised.

  The PHs and their trackers were waiting in a blocking position directly in line with the poachers’ escape path. Louie waited until they
were ten yards out before he fired a round from his massive .500 Nitro over their heads. The fireball and concussion from the express rifle left the poachers in shock as they dove to the ground at the feet of the blocking force. Louie and the other PHs quickly pounced on the men and secured their hands with thin rope as they searched them for weapons. The main force of game scouts tackled the fisherman as he tried to climb back into his beached canoe.

  The lead game scout placed the three men under arrest, carefully inventorying their contraband from the scene, with everything cataloged and photographed for use during prosecution. All told, the men seized a .375 H&H magazine rifle along with ten rounds of ammunition, a Chinese-made single-shot shotgun with two shells, two axes, three pangas, and a tireless bicycle loaded down with 150 pounds of elephant ivory from what looked to be nine different elephants, all of whom were young bulls and cows. The three men were a sight to behold: barefoot and dressed in hand-me-down clothes from Western tourists, including, ironically, the Dartmouth Crew jersey worn by the getaway canoe driver. The men were separated and questioned, with audio recordings made of each interrogation. They had no idea that their apprehension had been guided by one of the most wanted men in the world, aided by technology they didn’t know existed.

  Reece sat back and smiled. This was their third interdiction operation in two weeks and the men were really getting the hang of it. They’d taken thirteen poachers into custody and seized guns, ammo, ivory, meat, hides, and a truckload of wire snares. In this little corner of Africa, they were beginning to make a difference. Reece shook hands with Muzi and Gona and thanked them for the great job they’d done in helping him track the poachers to their point of exfil. It was after midnight. Reece and his team would be back at it in the morning.

  • • •

  Without the wartime stress of preparing for and leading men into combat that had preoccupied him in the SEAL Teams, Reece’s mind was clear and calm. He rose with the sun, pushed himself hard all day, and slept soundly at night. He’d found peace here in the primal rhythm of the wild. He had a mission, an enemy, and was part of a team he trusted—he had purpose.

  His sun-streaked hair hung to his shoulders and his beard nearly touched his chest. His skin was burned to a shade of walnut from his time at sea and from the relentless African sun. The simple but nutritious diet of game meat and vegetables coupled with the nearly constant physical activity had made his body lean and hard. The chiseled separation between his muscles was visible, as were the thick veins on his arms; his body fat hadn’t been this low since he completed BUD/S nearly two decades earlier. He wore khaki shorts and an olive-green cotton safari-style shirt with the RH Safaris logo embroidered above his chest pocket. His boots were locally made buffalo hide veldskoen and he wore a wide-brimmed slouch hat. The old .404 rifle had become a trusted friend that was never more than an arm’s length away and he wore its thick cartridges on his belt like a gunfighter. He looked far less like a fugitive naval officer from California and more like an African-born professional hunter.

  • • •

  After two months of antipoaching operations, Reece and his team had taken a serious toll on the opposition. They’d arrested three dozen men, both local bush meat poachers as well as those working under professional poaching syndicates, burned numerous camps, and seized three pickup-truck loads of wire snares. Word had gotten out that this was no longer a good place to be if you weren’t respecting the game laws. Rich was confident that they would see game numbers rise sharply in the concession as a result.

  With the change in season, hunters from the United States and Europe had begun to arrive, and the PHs shifted their focus to the day-to-day operations of the safaris while Reece continued to scout for poaching activity. The bush pilot who brought the hunters into and out of the camp’s airstrip would sit idly in camp during safaris, keeping the plane ready in case of a medical emergency that would require an air evacuation. He was bored to death waiting for the call that never came, so Reece put him to work. For major operations, he became the drone pilot and Reece became the ground force commander for the game scouts. The antipoaching force was competent and capable, and Reece provided tactical leadership while staying in the shadows. All the poachers knew was that the game scouts had gotten really good at their jobs; none were aware of the trained commando leader quietly pulling the strings.

  CHAPTER 28

  Niassa Game Reserve

  Mozambique, Africa

  May

  FLAT TIRES WERE AN everyday occurrence, so common that Reece and his two trackers acted like a NASCAR pit crew as soon as they felt the tire go. The Land Cruiser pickup carried two spares mounted on each side of the tubular safari rack above the truck’s bed, and they were about to use the second spare of the day. Reece glanced at his watch and gave both men the “go.” They seemed to understand far more English than they spoke, and, though they’d probably never seen an auto race, they quickly caught on to the fact that Reece had turned this mundane exercise into a game.

  Reece retrieved the Hi-Lift farm jack from the front bumper while Solomon loosened the lug nuts on the flat and Gona wrestled the spare wheel down from the rack. Reece got the jack in place on top of a flat rock and began pumping the wounded pickup skyward. The tire had barely cleared the ground when the flat was removed and the fresh wheel was mounted. The three men labored swiftly and without words, teamwork born of several months working together closely in this remote wilderness.

  Reece lowered the jack and the tire hit the ground, calling out the time: “Two minutes, forty-five seconds. A new record.”

  Both trackers beamed as they all shook hands.

  Their celebration was broken by the sound of gunfire, a three-round burst that, to Reece, had the unmistakable report of an AKM. The only AKs in the block belonged to the government game scouts who accompanied the hunting parties, and they would be dozens of miles from Reece’s location according to their last radio call. The shots could have come from only one source—poachers. Reece reached into the rack behind the cab of the pickup and slid his rifle out of the soft zippered case that protected it from the elements. He retracted the bolt slightly and confirmed that a round was in the chamber before closing the bolt and checking the safety. He opened the flap on his leather belt pouch and was satisfied to see the five massive brass cartridges gleaming in the East African sunlight. He took the Motorola two-way radio from his belt and attempted to call back to base camp.

  “Base, this is James, over. Base, this is James, do you read me?” No response, just static. Shit.

  “Base, this is James. If you can hear me we’ve got full-auto gunfire just south of the Lugenda River near the boulders, moving to take a look.” Reece turned down the volume on his radio and took a deep breath.

  He nodded to his trackers and pointed toward the sound of the shots. Without hesitation, all three men moved at a light jog down the red dirt track. Even after working with them for months, Reece was constantly in awe of their tracking skills. Not only could they follow a track over hard ground, they could often do it at a running pace. Solomon’s finger pointed toward the ground, and he took a left turn into the miombo forest. As they entered the bush, they slowed to a walking pace and moved as stealthily as possible. No words were spoken. Reece could read the men’s body language at this point, and hand signals would cover any needed communication. They moved in single file down a narrow game path, Solomon in the lead, Gona behind him, and Reece taking up the rear.

  They worked just as they had when scouting game animals for their outfitter: each man had specific responsibilities. Solomon was the point man who led the way and kept an eye out for any sign on the ground; his eyes were primarily directed downward. Gona kept his head up and searched for any visual sign of life, animal or human. Reece supervised the tracking, provided cover, handled communications with their base camp, and made the command decisions when necessary. It was just like the old days back in the Teams.

  Solomon slowed the pace an
d all three men crouched as they walked to lower their profile. He stopped and squatted at the edge of a clearing, and Reece moved up quietly to kneel beside him. The tracker nodded toward the source of the gunfire: four poachers, two of them armed with AKs and the other two with small axes. All four were surrounding the blood-soaked carcass of an elephant on its side, a cow from the looks of it. The men were close to eighty yards away, too far away to hear any voices, but their body language told the tale. One of the men wielding a rifle was motioning toward the ax men, letting them know how he wanted the ivory cut loose. Reece’s plan was to observe the crime and keep track of the poachers while he worked to gain radio contact and wait for the game scouts. Getting into a gunfight in a third-world country as a wanted man was not part of the plan.

  Reece retrieved a small digital camera from the pocket of his shorts and extended the optical zoom as far as possible. He was too far away to get any good facial shots, but any photos would be better than nothing when it came to building a criminal case. He took a few pictures and was putting the camera back in his pocket when he heard a crashing sound to his left. He turned in time to see a gray blur coming toward them along with a loud screaming sound. Calf!

  The dead cow obviously had a young calf and the little guy was doing his best to avenge his mother’s death. The calf, which easily weighed five hundred pounds, was heading directly for Gona. The three men scattered to avoid the charging animal, their movement catching the attention of the poachers. Gunfire erupted across the clearing and Reece heard the unmistakable crack of high-velocity rifle rounds passing just over his head.

  “Get down!” he yelled, diving to the ground and flipping the safety catch on his .404 to FIRE. Lying on his side, he put the silver sight bead on the closest poacher and pressed the trigger without conscious thought. The big bullet found its mark with an audible slap and Reece rolled to his right while working the bolt to reload. He made his way to his feet and, in a crouch, ran to his right to flank the remaining gunman, who he could still hear firing in long bursts. Taking cover six feet behind the trunk of a large tree, Reece worked to get a visual angle on his next target. He saw a lone figure kneeling near the elephant’s head, struggling to change magazines on his rifle. Reece dropped down to one knee, took an extra second to be sure of his aim, and sent a 400-grain solid through the man’s chest. The man dropped instantly, his rifle and magazine falling into the dust in front of him. Reece saw no sign of the two men armed with axes but could see both AKs on the ground, so he was reasonably sure that they hadn’t armed themselves to mount a counterattack. Head count, he thought, racing back toward where he’d last seen his trackers.