Chimera

by Ken Goddard

  “Ged, do you see anything?” he demanded, speaking softly into the radio.

  “Negative, Captain, no contact,” Gedimin Bulatt — a lanky muscular man in his late thirties, dressed in rubber-soled boots, faded levis, a worn flannel shirt and stained windbreaker — replied into his radio as he stared out across the water from his position on the bow into the wispy darkness.

  Bulatt had a Vietnam War vintage M16 rifle slung over his shoulder; and four 30-round rifle magazines, two 15-round pistol magazines, and a loaded 40-caliber Sig-Sauer semi-auto pistol in the ammo pouches and holster of his assault vest. With his scraggly white beard and short white ponytail just barely visible from the bridge in the wispy fog now surrounding the boat, Bulatt provided a very appealing and soothing image to Huang: that of a tough and able seaman on bow watch, keeping an eye out trouble or treachery as well as imminent collisions.

  “This damnable radar is useless! We must be getting close. Keep your eyes opened,” Huang Kat-so ordered as he dropped the speed of the Muluku down another notch.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Under anything resembling normal operating conditions, the linking-up of two ocean-going vessels in the middle of the night, thirty miles off shore in deep water, and under reasonably calm weather conditions, would have been an easy thing to accomplish, fog or no. But both ships were purposefully operating ‘black’ — without any bridge, navigation or running lights — and Muluku’s long-outdated radar system was intermittently reliable at best; which meant the trawler might well be five hundred yards off the Muluku’s port beam… or fifty… or perhaps not even there at all.

  Must be out of my mind, trusting these idiots to know what they’re doing at night out on the open water, Bulatt thought as he strained to listen for some distant creak or clank of rusted steel that might reveal the trawler’s presence.

  He’d already stored an inflated life vest near his bow station; and he was ready to strip off his armament, dive overboard with the inflated vest, and swim for his life the moment he spotted the bow of the big trawler coming out of the fog on a collision course.

  It was a perfectly reasonable precaution on Bulatt’s part. Huang Kat-so had a well-earned reputation among the Maui fishing boat community for his indifferent seamanship, casual maintenance schedules, and reluctance to spend much — if any — of his profits on his boat and bare-minimum crew; the outward impression being that the south-east Asian immigrant was just barely eking out a living off his occasional deep sea fishing clients.

  Which probably isn’t far from the actual truth, Bulatt reminded himself, wondering — with some vague degree of curiosity — how many clients in their right minds had ever chartered a second trip on the Muluku after spending an uneasy night on the leaky sports fisher; putting up with the erratically functioning galley, heads and bilge pumps, while the Captain and his two deck hands took turns steering their more-or-less seaworthy craft not too far offshore in a mostly fruitless effort to find a place where fish might actually be biting.

  But Bulatt was also well aware that the disgruntled clients were only a cover for the high-six-figure incomes that Huang Kat-so was making off his illicit business ventures; the latest of which had caused him to go looking for a reasonably trustworthy bodyguard who could also function as a number two deck hand when the previous holder of that job suddenly found himself in serious trouble with the law.

  A sudden screech of heavy rusted objects rubbing against each other out in the foggy darkness snapped Bulatt’s head around to the right.

  “Audio contact, off the starboard bow!” Bulatt hissed into his radio, and then braced himself as Huang Kat-so quickly reversed both engines; bringing the Muluku around in a sweeping arc to starboard while the first deckhand — a small, wiry and darkly tanned man of indeterminate age and ethnic origin — ran forward to the bow with a grappling-iron gun.

  Slowing, the hulking structure of the big fishing trawler — resting at anchor, Bulatt quickly noted with a sigh of relief — became visible in the surrounding fog.

  Demonstrating an unexpected degree of professional seamanship, Huang Kat-so brought the Muluku alongside the larger ship, and then held her steady against the current while Bulatt and the first deckhand quickly rigged protective booms on the port side of the yacht. Then the first deckhand brought the brass butt stock of the grappling-iron gun up against his shoulder, aimed it over the bow of the trawler, pulled the trigger, watched the metal hook arc up into the darkness — dragging a thin nylon line in its wake — and then heard the heavy hook clang against the trawler’s steel deck.

  Three minutes later, after the first deckhand and Bulatt managed to get a drooping nylon-rope pulley system hauled back from the trawler connected to the yacht’s bridge, the first man-sized, weighted and net-wrapped burlap bag slid down the pulley-rope and then — aided by some extra pulling by Bulatt — landed on the deck of the Muluku with a loud thump.

  As Bulatt worked quickly in the darkness to unsnap the hundred-and-twenty-pound bag from the pulley line and drag it over to the opened top of the bait tank that was actually a hidden storage hold, a second net-wrapped bag swooped down onto the deck; followed by a third, fourth and fifth. The acrid smell of ammonia and decomposed fish tissue filled the air.

  As soon as Bulatt had the fifth bag unsnapped, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small flashlight, twisted the head ninety degrees until it clicked, and then pressed what normally would have been the ON button.

  Moments later, the roar of diesel engines echoed across the water; and the darkness suddenly exploded into blinding daylight as the searchlights from three ocean-going speedboats centered on the trawler and the Muluku, immediately followed by the booming sound of a ship’s loudspeaker:

  “AHOY ALL SHIPS! THIS IS THE NEW ZEALAND FRIGATE OTAGO! STAND BY TO BE BOARDED!”

  Off in the distance, the running lights of two helicopters were suddenly visible, both aircraft clearly vectoring in on the two ships.

  “Quick, the bags! Throw them overboard, now!” Captain Huang Kay-so yelled from the bridge.

  The first deckhand ran toward the bait tank; and then yelped in surprise when he felt his wrist being grabbed and then suddenly found himself tumbling head-over-heels to the wet deck.

  “Leave the evidence alone, mate. You’re about to be arrested — ” Bulatt advised.

  “By who… you?!” the first deckhand exclaimed, looking confused.

  “No, the cavalry.”

  The first deckhand leaped up with a knife in his hand, lunged at Bulatt, then gasped in pain — the knife clattering to the deck — as he felt his wrist snap. The impact of a flashlight butt behind his ear dropped him to the deck unconscious.

  Up on the bridge of the Muluku, Captain Huang Kat-so watched his first deckhand go down, blinked in shock, and then lunged for a wall-mounted shark rifle… just as a SEAL-suited figure leaped over the bow of the Muluku next to Bulatt and fired a stream of assault rifle rounds several inches above the Captain’s head. Chunks of shredded fiberglass flew in all directions.

  The Captain dropped the rifle, yelling frantically, “No, don’t shoot! I surrender!”

  “About time you got here,” Bulatt commented to the SEAL-suited figure.

  Interpol Agent Pete Younger winked at Bulatt, and then glared up at the Muluku’s bridge. “Captain Huang Kat-so, be advised you are under arrest for violation of the New Zealand Endangered Species Act. United States Special Agent Gedimin Bulatt is my witness.”

  The Muluku Captain stared down at Bulatt in disbelief as the U.S. Fish amp; Wildlife Special Agent glanced down at his watch.

  “Don’t ham it up too much, bud,” he whispered to Younger. “You’ve still got paperwork to do and we’ve got a plane to catch.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Khlong Saeng Wildlife Preserve, Thailand

  The rain in Khlong Saeng Wildlife Preserve of southern Thailand was starting to fall heavier now, muting the night sounds of the uneasy Hornbills, Bamboo Rats, tree frogs an
d insects. All of these creatures were aware, in their own ways, of the single human figure stretched out on a thick pad laid across the top of a crude bamboo hunting platform standing six feet above the lush undergrowth.

  He hadn’t done anything to scare them off, yet; but the subliminal threat that he might, at any moment, radiated from the platform like a radio distress signal.

  Conversely, the man — almost invisible in the hooded and darkly-camouflaged rain poncho that covered everything except his boots and gloves — wasn’t the least bit concerned about their presence.

  Michael Hateley had no interest in honking birds, croaking frogs, chirping insects, the rain or any other aspect of his surroundings. Just as long as the cobras — the Asians and Kings — that also inhabited this lush mountain rainforest stayed far away.

  That was the primary responsibility of Marcus Emerson and his team: to keep the truly dangerous predators at bay — or, at the very least, away from the platform — until Hateley could take his shot.

  This was Hateley’s fifth hunt in the southern peninsula of Thailand, and it promised to be the best one yet; assuming the creature Emerson had described in such incredible detail was still alive and actively roaming his territory.

  At least a hundred and twenty kilos, Emerson had claimed. Maybe more if he’s been feeding well. World record class, in any case. And very possibly the last of the big ones, Hateley knew, because the species as a whole was disappearing fast, and there wouldn’t be many left of any size in another year or so.

  A worthy centerpiece for your next club dinner, the international safari guide had reminded Hateley on the plane ride in, and Hateley knew Emerson was right. No one else in his exclusive club of extremely wealthy and dedicated hunters — four in total, to be precise, all in their mid-to-late fifties — would ever have anything like it in the carefully concealed chambers that housed their endangered species collections, no matter how much they were willing to pay.

  Hateley kept his attention focused on the distant fluorescent green images of trees, ferns, bamboo, and massive limestone formations that came into view as he slowly shifted the aim-point of his night-vision-scoped. 243 Remington Magnum rifle. As he did so, he imagined the covetous expressions on the faces of his peers when they saw his latest — and perhaps most magnificent — kill, and smiled.

  There was no doubt in his mind that when the accounting took place at the club’s annual dinner, he would maintain possession of the coveted trophy that symbolized dominance in their highly competitive game: the fearsomely-tusked boar’s head mounted above a glistening brass plate inscribed with three chilling words.

  MERCHANT OF DEATH

  It’s mine, again, gentlemen, Hateley thought with a sense of anticipation that was almost orgasmic, irrefutably and unconditionally mine.

  Something splashed nearby in the darkness, causing the murmuring fauna to go silent for a few seconds. But the sound was familiar — probably a tree frog making a sudden lunge at a momentarily careless insect — and Hateley paid it no attention at all. He was waiting for the appearance of something smaller, but far more significant.

  A fire-fly.

  Five minutes passed, and nothing of interest appeared in the viewer of his night-scope. Then, finally, a deep voice rumbled in Hateley’s electronic ear-protectors.

  “He’s coming.”

  Hateley scanned the distant trees with a fast sweep of his scoped rifle, using the stacked pair of lead-shot-filled bags as a swivel, but saw nothing.

  “Where — ?” he started to whisper into the small microphone attached to his left ear-protector. But at the moment he saw it too: a tiny flashpoint of bright light that suddenly appeared — far away, deep in the trees, high off the ground — and then vanished.

  As he watched, barely breathing now, the pinpoint of infra-red light — intermittently visible now at four-second intervals — grew bigger as it approached the clearing, and the platform. The stealthy movements portrayed an attitude of aggression as well as innate caution.

  The inference was clear. High up in the trees, in his element, this on-coming creature feared no other species. Not even man.

  Big Bastard. Fearless. Probably come right at you, Emerson had said, and Hateley knew that this would be his moment, his trophy: the biggest Clouded Leopard that had ever lived, and almost certainly the last of a kind.

  Feeling his heart starting to pound deep in his chest, Hateley shifted the aim-point of his rifle until the intermittent flashings were centered in the cross-hairs of his transmitter-equipped night-scope. Then he gently slid his gloved forefinger across the smooth, cross-hatched surface of the Remington Mag’s trigger.

  As the flashing light grew closer, still high up in the trees, the night sounds in the clearing grew quiet, as if all of the birds, frogs and insects were collectively holding their breath.

  Unlike Hateley, they had never seen an apparition like this before, and they didn’t like it at all.

  About a hundred yards from the platform, the pinpoint light-source flashed behind the central trunk of a widely-branching tree — its presence signaled by a brief glow of dimly-reflected light off the surrounding vegetation.

  Hateley began to count silently.

  Thousand-and-one.

  Thousand-and-two.

  Thousand-and-three.

  Thousand-and…

  At that instant, the fire-fly flashed again.

  Expecting to see the reflected glow again, Hateley was caught off guard when the Clouded Leopard’s face — with its incredibly blank wide-open eyes — suddenly filled a considerable portion of the night-scope viewer, and then immediately disappeared when the infra-red Fire-fly™ tracking device secured to the cat’s neck flashed off.

  Hateley cursed silently, but a subconscious portion of his brain had already begun the metronomic flasher count.

  Thousand-and-one.

  Thousand-and-two.

  Thousand-and-three.

  Hateley’s gloved forefinger tightened against the trigger.

  One thousand-and The cat’s highlighted rosette spots and the distinctive black line running from eyes to ears — characteristics that had long made it one of the most coveted and endangered of the thirty-seven cat species — reappeared in the reflected glow of the Fire-fly™; and then vanished in an explosion of bright green light as a billowing streak of fire erupted from Hateley’s rifle.

  In something less than a tenth of a second, a spinning 85-grain, full-jacketed bullet arced across the clearing, tore through the furry chest of the famously agile cat, and embedded itself deep into the wood trunk of an adjacent tree.

  Heart shattered and torn from its chest, the grey-spotted creature was dead before its limp body finished crashing through tree limbs, branches and brush to the ground. But Hateley instinctively worked the bolt of his rifle anyway, ejecting the still-smoking brass cartridge and smoothly feeding another live round into the polished chamber of the lethal weapon; just in case.

  Then the voice in his ear-protectors confirmed what he already knew to be true.

  “Excellent shot, sir, but it’s time we departed. We may have some unwelcome visitors in the area.”

  In a series of movements made routine by many replications in many foreign lands, Hateley thumbed the safety of his rifle to the ON position; sat up on the platform; turned; handed the expensive rifle down to the dark, barely-visible figure of a man now standing beside a crude bamboo ladder braced against the platform; and then quickly climbed down the ladder.

  As soon as Hateley’s boots were on the ground, Marcus Wallis shifted the rifle to his left hand, stepped forward, shook Hateley’s gloved hand, and slapped the wealthy chief executive on the shoulder.

  “About time you got that fellow in your sights,” Wallis said cheerfully.

  “You and your team provided the perfect opportunity, as usual; I couldn’t possibly miss,” Hateley replied.

  Then, after a pause: “what kind of visitors were you talking about?”

  �
�Jack spotted a Thai Forestry Ranger jeep on patrol about an hour ago. They should be about five clicks north of us by now, but they could be heading back this way if someone heard and reported the shot.”

  “Is that going to be a problem?”

  “Not likely, but why take the chance? Be a lot less complicated if I take you directly back to the airport while Quince and the lads sort things out around here,” Wallis said.

  “Then let’s get going,” Hateley agreed. “Is the helicopter ready?

  “Yes, but as a precaution, I had them relocate to a nearby clearing — a bit more of a drive for us, but worth the effort. You never know where these damned Rangers are going to pop up next.”

  Wallis paused for a second, turned away from Hateley, pressed a forefinger against a switch on his throat mike, and then whispered softly: “Gecko-One to Gecko-Two.”

  “Gecko-Two, go.” The deep calm voice of Quince Lanyard rumbled in Wallis’ earphones.

  “Gecko-Two, be advised we’re moving out now. Collect the target, secure the scene, relocate your team to rendezvous point Checkers, and then stand-by for link-up with Gecko-Three. Repeat, rendezvous point Checkers. I’m taking the Fireman to Alpha-Tango now.”

  “Gecko-Two, copy.”

  Wallis turned back to Hateley and motioned with his gloved hand. The two men began walking quickly in the darkness toward a pair of Land Rovers parked on a dirt road about fifty feet away.

  Behind them, two small darkened figures moved in and quickly began to disassemble the shooting platform, cutting the lashing ropes with sharp knives and tossing the freed lengths of bamboo into the brush, while a third much larger figure ran toward the distant tree where the cat lay motionless. Wallis, Lanyard, and their two Thai helpers were all outfitted with night-vision goggles and infra-red filtered flashlights, the beams of which were invisible to anyone not equipped with night-vision gear.

  As the two men reached the Land Rovers, Wallis turned back to Hateley. “What’s the status of your plane?”

  “Sitting on the tarmac at Phuket International, fully fueled and re-stocked, flight plan filed,” Hateley replied. “I told the pilots we might be leaving tonight. They’re ready to taxi out as soon as we’re on board.”