Deadly Harvest (Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Series Book 5)

by JT Sawyer

  Mitch inhaled the cold mountain air and felt a tinge of pleasure that came from the freedom of traveling through such pristine wilderness armed only with the knowledge in his hands and head. Though the trees and animals were vastly different than the rugged Arizona backcountry where he grew up, Idaho had enough untrammeled forest that he felt at home in a place that others viewed as hostile. Wish we were out here for another week. That’d be right fine with me.

  ***

  Four hours later, Mitch stopped along a teardrop-shaped pond to harvest some cattails. He could feel a hotspot developing along his right heel and knew it would be good to liberate his feet from the boots that had just carried him over the past nine miles of torturous landscape with its endless fallen trees and jagged rootlets. Plus, he didn’t want to soak his footwear again collecting the cattails.

  After removing his boots and rolling up his pants, he entered the mucky substrate and slid his hands down to the roots of several cattails clustered together. Gently pulling in a circular motion, he yanked up four of the plants and tossed the entire bundle on the ground behind him then moved on to another section and repeated the same procedure. Ten minutes later, he had a stack of twenty plants. He made sure to selectively harvest only what he needed and did so with the eye of a gardener, culling from the heavily clustered areas that might benefit from pruning and leaving the isolated plants alone.

  Returning to where his pack was, he realized his toes were numb from the bone-chilling waters. If he’d had his spark rod on him, he would’ve started a small fire to warm himself but instead he silently cursed Waline again; then he went about separating out the brown roots from the stalks. The latter he would roast up later at his next camp. These were high in starch and could be chewed on to extract the nutrient-rich carbs. The green stalks he peeled back until a finger-sized section of white material was revealed. He eagerly chomped on a few pieces of the raw stalk, its flavor reminding him of cucumber. Then he placed the rest in his pack along with the roots and sat down to brush off his mud-encrusted toes before putting on his boots. Sitting back against a stump, he studied the wispy high cirrus clouds which indicated a change in the weather was coming in the next 24–36 hours. He hoped it was just a passing cold front and not a snowstorm. As he stood up, Mitch heard the distant honking of Canada geese and saw the tight V-formation of birds flying overhead a few seconds later. Now one of those would make a fine meal tonight.

  After re-examining his map, he continued on his route, veering to the north down into a rock-strewn gully. Arriving at the bottom, he was struck by a stench that brought back images of a slaughterhouse. The unpleasant odor of raw meat mingled with the methane-like smell of recently spilled entrails. He paused near a currant bush, his hand affixing on his holstered Beretta.

  Cougar kill—must be a cat just took down a deer. Then he realized that cougars didn’t eviscerate their prey. They were more surgical than that, opting for the tender meat along the neck and head while carefully removing the entrails and burying them. Coyotes and wolves on the other hand were notorious for ripping apart a carcass and bickering over the remains.

  Mitch held his chin up as he sniffed the air, the overpowering scent seeming to surround him. He took a few steps forward to locate the origin so he knew which way to avoid. Emerging into a small clearing along a game trail, he saw an immense black bear lying motionless on its side. Steam was still rising off the gutted carcass, its entrails spattered on the ground amidst a half-dozen empty sardine cans.

  Mitch removed his pistol, holding it in a low-ready as he examined the bruin’s midsection, where a comma-shaped cut had been made that ran from the left hip to the right edge of the sternum. He saw fresh bootprints in the mud along with a single line of narrow tire tracks, the knobby pattern indicating an offroad bike. He knelt down and examined the tread pattern of the boots while running through a catalog of information from his recent mantracking class. Mitch knew he was still a long way from being able to masterfully read the ground like his teacher but he looked at tracking as a lifetime study and planned to hone his skills in this complex subject matter no matter how long it took.

  The stride and straddle indicated an adult male, no surprise there. Mitch noted that the right stride was longer than the left, which revealed the hunter was most likely right-handed. He leaned over and inspected a peculiar microtear in the left rear heel. Such indicators were unique identifiers and present in all footwear and tire tracks if one had the time to gather such information. Judging by the crispness of detail in the tracks, which revealed considerable dwell time, and the lack of frost damage to the edges, he surmised the hunter had been waiting in this area for a few hours before killing the bear, which was evidently lured over by the smell of sardines.

  Mitch crept closer to the carcass and could see the cinnamon color along the back of the bear. He marveled at the beauty of the coat and wondered who could’ve brutally mutilated such a majestic animal and left it to rot here. Didn’t even take any of the choice cuts of meat. What was this guy after?

  He glanced at his watch and knew he had to push on to his coordinates. Standing up, he shook his head at the ghastly scene and then looked around at the dirt bike tracks, which headed in the opposite direction to the one in which he was headed. Shame, I would’ve liked to run across you in the act next time.

  Chapter 8

  “You gonna make that coffee with extra grounds in it like yesterday, Ulysses?” said Waline as he stood in the camp kitchen, observing the older man by the wood stove. “I’m still pickin’ that tarry grit out of my teeth.”

  “If you’re gonna complain, you can just run into town and get some of that pisswater coffee at the gas station,” said the bald-headed figure as he removed the boiling enamel pot from the stove. Retired Master Sergeant Robert Grant hailed from Virginia and was distantly related to the esteemed Civil War general Ulysses Grant, hence his nickname within the SF community. He and Waline had served together for eighteen years. Ulysses was now a civilian contractor teaching survival and bushcraft skills to special operations groups that sought his company’s training courses. The two men had been on countless missions together, served as godfathers at their kids’ baptisms, been best men at their assorted weddings, and still went fishing together whenever Waline was back home. Both of them bore a battlefield of hardships in their eyes that time hadn’t seemed to lessen.

  Waline thought about his men afield with envy, knowing how much they would glean from such hands-on training and the self-sufficiency that comes from relying on a minimum of gear. With the unsupported missions his men often undertook in remote regions, Waline wanted them to be able to take care of themselves with only a few critical tools coupled with plenty of improvisational skills. Special Forces selection and SERE school provided some of the basics but nothing on the level of what Ulysses could provide. He also wanted this to be a blend of training, camaraderie, and fun, the latter being a by-product of the first two but essential to a unit’s cohesiveness, especially given how much punishment he knew his men already endured while deployed.

  Ulysses finished filling their canteen cups with the black goop and heaped in several tablespoons of brown sugar, then handed one to Waline, who peered suspiciously into the murky depths.

  They stood under the parted flaps of the canvas entrance and stared out at the skyline above the forest. “Bet ya those boys out there are wishing they had a cup full of slop from the kitchen this morning,” said Ulysses.

  “Or hunkered against a stump shitting themselves from too much of those mystery spices you sprinkle into every goddamned meal.”

  Ulysses chuckled and then spit out a loose coffee grain from between his front teeth. “Didn’t see you complaining at dinner last night, sucking down that fourth cup of chow like a condemned man at his last meal.”

  “Wasn’t that the chicken dish your second wife used to grill up for us after we returned from those missions to Libya?”

  “Yep, sure was. Damn finest cook I e
ver met. If only she could’ve remembered her marriage vows like she did her recipes.”

  “That’s why I don’t put a lot of stock in gettin’ shacked up these days. You head overseas for a few months kicking in doors in some hellhole week after week then come home to find your ole lady banging some young corporal she met at the PX. Next thing you know, I’m getting written up by the CO for breaking that guy’s face—that isn’t right.”

  “Corporal? Thought you said it was a sergeant.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Well, either way it wasn’t me, because I was deployed with you that time, just so you know,” Ulysses said with a grin.

  Waline ignored the joke. “That was just before you got out, as I recall. The glory days when Bush was in and money was flowing like water into our training exercises.”

  “Yep, and just in time before things got squirrely in Africa, with you boys spending all that time in Sudan.” He ran a hand along his smooth head. “I sure don’t miss the desert. I’ll take a forest and snow any day over sweatin’ my ass off in another raghead oven.”

  “Amen. I’ve got one more year left and then I’ll be knocking on your door looking for a job.”

  “I may have some coffee mugs I need cleanin’ or trash bins to empty back in my office.”

  “I’m not applying for a civil service job.” He chuckled, craning his head to the right at the sound of splitting wood where two of Ulysses’ co-instructors were chopping aspen logs for the kitchen’s woodstove. The chilled moisture from their breathing spiraled upward in a fine mist with each rhythmic swing of their axes.

  “If I know you, within six months you’ll settle down and marry some sweet little senorita—be sitting on a rockin’ chair on your screened porch sipping iced tea while she gives you a neck rub and talks you into painting the family room or planting a garden or some shit.”

  “That’ll be the day—there’s no woman left on this planet with enough soul to interest me long-term.”

  Waline finished his coffee and placed the cup on a folding table then headed outside, his tarnished boots crunching upon the layer of frost coating the pine needle flooring.

  “Time for the morning radio check?” said Ulysses.

  “Nah, that can wait a few minutes,” he said, tugging on his belt. “I just gotta drop a Navy SEAL team in the latrine.”

  Ulysses laughed. “Damn, that expression never gets old.”

  A short time later, Waline strolled out of the woods and returned to a green canvas tent beside a sixty-foot aerial antenna. Over the next hour, his men all radioed in to confirm their whereabouts and physical wellbeing. Waline gave them their day’s envelope numbers for instructions while Ulysses sat on a stump whittling a spoon within earshot, occasionally nodding in empathy for the challenges he knew each man was about to undertake with their assigned tasks.

  When he was done, Waline exited the threadbare tent, hunching down to pass through the short entrance and groaning from his stiff back.

  “Sounds like everybody is doin’ good,” said Ulysses.

  “Yep, just can’t wait to hear Kearns’ stories about his firemaking exploits after this.”

  “That was a rough curveball you threw him at the dropzone. Thought I might be having to medevac that one if he succumbed to hypothermia.”

  “Nah, I knew he could handle it. Besides, you know how it goes with these guys—gotta keep throwing hurdles in their way if they’re gonna keep up their desire to be the top dog.”

  He was about to sit down on a stump and continue when they both swiveled their heads at the sight of an approaching Ford F-250 emblazoned with the Idaho Game and Fish logo on the sides.

  Pulling up slowly a few feet from the kitchen tent, the door of the truck swung open and out stepped a tan woman clad in brown law-enforcement garb. She looked around the camp, one hand resting on the side of her belt near a service weapon while the other hand casually slid the mirror sunglasses up onto her blonde hair.

  Waline cleared his throat, raising his eyebrows at the approaching woman then glancing down for a second at Ulysses, who had stopped whittling. Both men remained transfixed by her confident gait and sleek figure.

  Ulysses rubbed his fingers along the rough shape of the half-carved spoon while smirking at Waline. “So, you were saying something about soul in a woman, my friend.”

  Waline stepped forward, pulling his shoulders back while whispering, “That I was.”

  Ulysses flung the wooden spoon on the ground and folded up his knife while grinning. “Ah, the education of a man ain’t complete until he dies. And with women, even several lifetimes might not be enough.”

  Chapter 9

  Marco had just arrived at the final waypoint where he was supposed to link up with his teammate. He’d only had three miles to hike from yesterday’s camp and he left at first light. The last two nights had seen him sleeping restlessly despite his fatigue and the sooner he saw another friendly face the better. His attempts to pass the time around the evening campfire ranged from half-hearted attempts at carving traps to humming old songs to reminiscing about nights of debauchery in far-flung locales.

  Having grown up on the streets of Riverside, California, he knew how to survive in the urban jungle but the monotonous silence of the indifferent forest coupled with his isolation grated upon his soul. He couldn’t wait for the course to be over, so he could get a shower then hit a bar.

  The only environment Marco enjoyed frequenting in their training operations around the globe was the tropics. With the abundance of wildlife, endless water, fishing, and indigenous cultures, he had grown at ease in that setting. Particularly in Thailand, where his jungle stints often ended with a weeklong furlough amongst the many brothels dotting the white beaches around Pattaya. The thought of going to a steakhouse in the largely conservative Mormon city of Boise just didn’t have the same appeal and was one more thing that detracted from his enjoyment of this course.

  He had already radioed in to Waline and gotten his instructions for the day. Feeling the need to keep busy, he went about preparing a new lean-to shelter not far from a boulder-strewn ridge. There was no indication of who amongst his twelve teammates he’d be meeting up with and he hoped it was someone with more experience afield than him since the constant rumblings of his stomach were almost as great as his disdain for his surroundings.

  As he went about gathering a stout ridgepole for his shelter, he scanned the low ground below him. He had selected this location out of habit as it provided him with the tactical advantage of seeing anyone coming from at least three directions. The area behind him to the north was choked in a doghair thicket of young spruce trees and he knew anyone traveling through that torturous terrain was sure to make noise.

  Hoisting up a ten-foot-long branch from the ground, he thought he saw movement fifty yards to his right. The early morning light was still filtering through the canopy of conifers and he squinted at a cluster of low shrubs overlooking the ridge. Suspecting it was just a flock of birds that must have hastily departed, he held the stout branch in both hands, the pungent odor of moss and moldy wood on the underside filling his nostrils. Dragging the end of the log free from its earthy grip, he noticed movement from the same area again. It was subtle but his well-trained eye, honed from years of combat, drew his attention to the shrubs. He lowered the log and turned to scan the ridgeline where his senses told him something was off. Staring intently at the entire shrub for a minute, he panned his head around towards the rest of the adjacent terrain to avoid focus lock. Marco wondered if it might be a fellow teammate, but thought it unlikely since they were all dropped off at the same location in the opposite direction.

  Marco heard a crackle of twigs behind him as he steadied his hand over the Beretta on his leg holster. The sound of crunching leaves increased, causing his senses to further prickle. Taking a half step back, he prepared to swiftly pivot around to face the approaching sound of what was clearly someone or something headed his way.

  Ch
apter 10

  Mitch could feel the miles on his knees from the rugged terrain coupled with the accumulation of too many airborne jumps over the years. Carrying hundred-pound packs on missions in Afghanistan hadn’t helped either. His pain sensors weren’t in the red yet and he knew he could pound out ten more miles if needed but he was looking forward to being in a static location for the duration of the course. An attitude of success was built into everything he did. No matter how hard, how far, or how painful it was to complete an objective, it would be completed. The trendy, mainstream term ‘failure is not an option’ was something that he thought must have had its origins in the special operations community long before it became propagated by every spandex-wearing civilian gym-goer. One time on a long-range mission in sub-Saharan Africa, he had sustained a grazing bullet wound on his leg from an AK round after a skirmish with Al-Shabaab rebels and he still managed to hump out overland for three days to the extraction point. Compared to that grueling ordeal, this trek was like a casual dayhike.