HYBRID: A Thriller

by James Marshall Smith

  “Look over here,” Harlan said, as he moved to the far side of the room. The blinds on a narrow vertical window were pulled up and the window cranked open. The screen was lying on the ground outside.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The single-engine Cessna slowly climbed from the Little Bears’ landing strip. The higher it rose the more Dieter was astounded by the vast areas of the forest below that had burned. “I had no idea how destructive the fires were.”

  “All that you see is from the big one in ‘88,” Amy said. “A third of the Park’s two million acres burned back then.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  She piloted out over Yellowstone while Dieter held in his lap the signal detector the Judge had delivered: a TV-type antenna, more than two-feet wide, with a rod attached beneath it for a handle. A thin cable connected the antenna to a hand-held meter in a makeshift aluminum case with headphones attached. He could hold the antenna in one hand and the meter in the other.

  “If that contraption picks up a wolf signal, I’ll buy you lunch,” Amy said, hardly moving her lips as she spoke.

  “You’re on.”

  The Judge had given him a lesson on how to use the device. As Dieter dialed across the range the headphones squealed and a needle jumped about on the face of the meter. They rose and fell in sync with weak signals from distant short wave radio and TV broadcasts.

  They flew in wide swaths over the Park for twenty minutes before Amy twisted a knob on her instrument panel and called out. “We’re approaching the Lamar Valley. Are your electronics working?”

  He adjusted his headphones. “Just getting a lot of background noise.”

  “I’ll take us down and keep near the river.”

  Both focused intently on the ground below as they flew. A herd of pronghorn antelope raced across the rolling fields when Dieter suddenly held an index finger to his lips. He fiddled with the dial. “Can you move lower? I’m picking up something.”

  “You’re just trying to get a free lunch.” She did a smooth turn and descended, passing close to the tallest evergreens below.

  A signal came in over his headphones and a red light on the meter blinked. He shoved open his window and peered below. “Look! Directly under us.”

  She eased the aircraft around and banked to the right. He picked up more spikes on the frequency scan. The light blinked faster. “I’m counting eight, maybe nine wolves in single file.”

  “That’s gotta be the Rose Creek pack, just like Dad said.”

  Spooked by the low-flying aircraft, the wolves loped away into the trees. Dieter laughed and shook the antenna like a trophy. “I told you the Judge knew what he was doing! A genius, that man.”

  “Amy stretched her neck to look out her window to the rear. “Oh, no.”

  They were words he didn’t like to hear from a pilot.

  “We’ve got a plane coming at us,” she said. “Appears to be a Super Cub with colors of the Park Service.” She quickly pulled away and climbed. “We don’t want to look like we’re harassing wildlife. They can get our tail number and investigate us up the wazoo.”

  Dieter watched as they gained distance on the advancing plane.

  “Let’s head over to the Gardiner Airport for a while,” Amy said. “You settle for a tuna fish sandwich?”

  “What will come with it?”

  “They make their own special mayo. Don’t push me.”

  ***

  While they waited on their food in the terminal sandwich shop, Dieter glanced around the room at a smattering of pilots of other light planes parked in the field near the hangar. Some wore cowboy hats and ate in a slap-dash manner, trading jokes.

  When the sandwiches were delivered, Amy picked hers up for a quick bite before yanking from her hip pocket a map and spreading it out on the table. “When we take off, I’ll give you on a quick tour of park highlights.” She circled areas of interest with a ballpoint pen. “This is the Black Sands Geyser Basin, a natural plumbing system. It actually connects the earth’s superhot core to the surface. I’m told that ten thousand thermal features spew up all over the Park. Not only more geysers than any place on earth but the most magnificent hot springs found anywhere. They’re boiling throughout the year.”

  “Where’s Old Faithful?”

  Amy pointed on the map. “Not very likely we’ll see her in action. She only lasts a couple of minutes when she blows.” She moved her pen to the area for their search, indicating creeks and small rivers flowing from the Park down into the area around Colter. As she spoke, Dieter marveled at her enthusiasm. The argument at the lake they’d had earlier seemed distant—they were now working as a team. She was in control at the moment and he was comfortable with that. But there was something he had to get off his chest.

  “I want you to know,” he said, “that I don’t blame your dad or the Blackfeet for the wolf problem. They were doing what they believed in.”

  She swallowed her last bite and wiped her lips. “At least it was what they believed in at the time.” She winked and tossed down her napkin. “Let’s go exploring.”

  ***

  While they flew, Dieter stared out on the snow that clung to the ragged crown of the Beartooth Mountains to the north. He tracked their progress on Amy’s map. After passing Specimen Ridge, she followed the river south along the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone and soared over the rim. The panorama seemed a holy shrine. Ripples of ivory-like stone carved out over eons, the canyon walls tinged red by the morning sun. All of it contrasted with the lime green river meandering through the grandest of canyons.

  The altimeter rose to 9100 feet as they headed out across the vast expanse of Hayden Valley at the center of the Park. She dipped the Cessna’s wing so he could get a look at a herd of bison swimming across the Yellowstone River. When they crossed the Gibbon River near Paintpot Hill, veils of steam arose from a cluster of geysers that dotted the forest below.

  The search began in the Madison Valley near the Park’s western boundary along Cougar Creek as they flew north over dense woodlands and across a series of mountain creeks—Maple, Richards, Gneiss, Campanula, Grayling. When they reached the Gallatin River, she took a wide turn and flew south along a path parallel to the one they had flown. Cruising at only five hundred feet, he listened intently for a signal on his headphones. After half an hour of flying the north-south corridors that had been penned on the map, his arm was aching from holding onto the antenna. He placed it down at his feet and at the same instant a beep rang out in his headphones. The needle on the meter began to dance.

  “Quick, bring her around!” he shouted and adjusted the dial. He mashed one headphone against his ear as the plane banked. There was now a steady beep with the meter’s red light flashing. He stretched to look out the window.

  As if sunning itself, a gigantic black wolf lay on a boulder in the middle of a swift stream. The animal appeared undaunted by the roar of the plane.

  “What you got?” Amy asked.

  “I don’t know. I mean, it’s a wolf, but look at the size of that thing.”

  She did a clockwise turn and maneuvered back along the river. When the plane approached, the wolf dived in and swam toward shore. After scurrying up the bank, it shook and sprayed water from its dark fur and then darted into a meadow.

  “Hold on!” Amy cried out as she pulled back on the stick and shot the nose skyward.

  Dieter jerked up.

  A towering tree rocketed toward them. He grabbed the sides of his seat with both hands to brace himself and jammed his feet into the floor, mashing the antenna.

  The plane grazed the top of a lodge pole pine, sounding as if the underbelly was crushed like a tin can. The single engine sputtered and the entire cabin shook.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The Cessna had stalled in midair. “Now what?” Dieter asked, trying to hide his panic.

  Amy brought the nose down and attempted to restart the engine. An unsettling silence filled the cockpit. “We need to find a place to land,” she s
aid in a manner much too relaxed for Dieter.

  “Please get the engine running, Amy.”

  “The prop snagged on the tree.”

  “Can you get it started?”

  “Must’ve damaged the engine.”

  “What in the hell does that mean?”

  “Keep calm.”

  Keep calm? The plane rapidly descended toward a blanket of pine trees below.

  “There it is!” she cried out. “Salvation asphalt.”

  He spotted the highway running north of Colter. The plane banked toward it as the road disappeared over a hill. They were approaching the ground too damned fast.

  “We’ll keep following the highway,” she blurted. “It’s our best hope. This could be rough.”

  Isn’t that frigging normal for crash landings?

  On the other side of the hill the road straightened out. A motorcycle was speeding south, directly at them.

  “Here we go,” she shouted.

  “The motorcycle . . .”

  “He’ll figure it out. Brace yourself.”

  The plane glided just above the pavement, then the landing gear slammed into the highway and the brakes squealed. The plane skidded and spun a quarter turn into the heavy brush by the roadside.

  “Jump out!” Amy shouted.

  He unbuckled and bolted out the door before she finished her order. The startled motorcyclist in jeans and a yellow tank-top jogged toward them. Amy ran around to Dieter’s side, holding her head in disbelief as they walked into the field away from the aircraft. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It was idiotic of me.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he said and hoped that she couldn’t pick up the tremor in his voice. “You got us out of it. We’re safe.”

  She flung her arms around his neck while he took hold of the small of her back with both hands and pulled her to him. His cheek brushed hers and he stole a deep breath of her fragrance before she let go.

  “Next time,” he whispered, “how about if I do the searching and you do the flying?”

  “Deal.”

  ***

  Michael Harmon felt out of place after school in the basement of Colter Baptist Church—his first troop meeting as a Boy Scout and he still didn’t have a uniform. His disappointment was overshadowed by thoughts of his dad letting him go to the Yellowstone Camporee. That was a big win and big wins were hard to come by.

  Megan and another girl her age who wore a frilly skirt instead of shorts, were kept busy by the Scoutmaster’s wife during the meeting. Scoutmaster Farmington introduced Michael to the boys of Colter Troop 173 as they sat on folding chairs in a circle. Michael felt the stares like he was naked or something. They were curious stares except for the scoutmaster’s son, one of the older guys who was an overweight smartass. Fat Kenny snickered whenever Michael was around him as if the new kid was too young and dumb to be in the Scouts.

  The scoutmaster announced that the first order of business was to get prepared for the Labor Day Camporee coming up that weekend. He said he would be leading an overnight camping trip in the wilderness and the scoutmaster from another troop would lead an all-day canoeing trip. In either case, the boys could sign up for only one event and, for Michael, it was an easy choice.

  After the talk, everyone followed the scoutmaster down the wooded path behind the church to the Tranquility Garden picnic area reserved for family get-togethers. Those who were taller and older made a point of moving faster than he could, sometimes brushing an arm or elbow against him whenever they passed. Michael fell behind. When Fat Kenny got close enough, he bumped hard against his shoulder. “Hey, kid,” he teased. “The Cubs are back at the church playing with dolls. You’re in the wrong Troop.”

  Michael tried to ignore him, but it wasn’t easy. He wanted to bash in his face with a pine branch. When they arrived at the shelter, Mr. Farmington met each boy with a big grin and a pat on the back. Michael was last.

  “I’m afraid,” the scoutmaster whispered, “that you’ll have to walk a little faster if you intend to go hiking this weekend. There’s some pretty steep ground in the Park. I think you’d do better on the canoe trip.”

  Michael took a seat at a back table at the end of the bench beside a redheaded boy no taller than he was and who looked harmless. Mr. Farmington explained how they needed three hikes to earn their Leave No Trace Awareness patch. He jabbered about the importance of nature and the environment and about respecting the rights of others to use the outdoors. Even those who weren’t born yet. Then he switched to the overnight hike that would begin on Sunday. He spoke about carrying backpacks, setting up tents, wearing the right clothes, and weather forecasts. He reminded them that the hike was only for the boys who had a signed permission slip from a parent.

  Michael held up his hand. “I didn’t get a slip.”

  “I gave one to your nanny, Michael. Please ask her about it. Now, how many of you have the list of essential items for the hike?”

  As soon as Mr. Farmington said “nanny” the boys around him giggled and his face felt hot. Maybe his dad was right. Maybe he should have stayed with the Cub Scouts another year. On the walk back to the church, Fat Kenny sneaked up on him from behind. “Hey, Mikey! Going home to your nanny?” He spoke loud enough so the boys around him could hear his laugh. “Does your nanny give you milk from her titty?”

  More laughter. Michael stopped and stared back at him, curling his hands into fists. Fat Kenny moved in closer and lowered his head, inches from his face. “What’s a matter? Are you gonna cry?”

  Michael held his breath and walked away. Fat Kenny followed, whispering behind him. “Little boys who’ve got a nanny should stay out of the woods. It’s a scary place. You never know what could—”

  Michael collapsed to the ground on his knees. As close as a shadow, Fat Kenny stumbled over him and slammed into the dirt.

  “Dammit!” cried the startled boy. He lay on his back while holding his knee in the air with both hands and a look of mortal pain.

  With the look of a sergeant, Mr. Farmington marched to the scene and glared down at his son. “Was that foul language coming from your mouth, Kenny?”

  “I tripped,” he mumbled back. All of the boys stared at Michael.

  “Shame on you for that kind of talk, Kenny. If I hear any more of that, you’re staying home this weekend. Move it out, boys!”

  It had been a risky thing to do. One of Fat Kenny’s friends might beat him up later, but it felt good at the moment. The redheaded boy from the picnic table caught up with him. He said his name was Randy Cunningham. “My mom says I won’t get to go on the overnighter.” Although he wasn’t any taller than Michael, he looked older. “If you can’t go, maybe we can hang out at the campground together.”

  “Who said I wasn’t going on the hike?” Michael replied.

  “How come you don’t got a uniform anyways?”

  Michael shrugged his shoulders, like it wasn’t important. Then Randy pointed at Fat Kenny limping and they both giggled. Michael had made a friend. Maybe it was going to be a fun weekend after all.

  ***

  Mrs. Farmington dropped Michael and Megan off at home after the Scout meeting. Michael lumbered toward the cabin as Megan ran ahead. She waited at the side door until he unlocked it, then dashed inside to grab Rusty and wrestle with him on the kitchen floor.

  He pulled a gallon jug of milk from the refrigerator. A note was stuck on the door:

  Michael,

  I’m sorry but we won’t be able to drive up to Bozeman this evening for your uniform. I’ll be home in time to fix dinner.

  Love,

  Dad

  Michael ripped the note from the door and wadded it up in his fist. He hurled it onto the kitchen floor and ran into the bedroom where he plopped down on his bed. When Megan strolled into his room, he covered his head with a pillow.

  “Remember,” she whispered, “you gotta take Rusty out.”

  “Just get out of my room.”

  “I don’t know what happen
ed, but whatever it was, I didn’t do it.” She scampered out and gently closed the door behind her, but not before whispering “Rusty” at him one more time.

  He threw the pillow to the floor and stood, then walked to the chest of drawers and stooped to open the bottom one. Underneath his winter long johns, he reached for a Boy Scout form:

  BOY SCOUT TROOP 173 PERMISSION SLIP AND WAIVER OF CLAIMS

  Please read this form. It must be signed and returned to the Gallatin District Scoutmaster before each activity.

  Indian Creek Camporee at Yellowstone National Park

  Circle ONE only: Overnight / Hike / Canoe Trip

  Parent/Guardian for himself/herself and for his/her child or ward by signature herein below waives any and all claims against Boy Scout Troop 173, its leaders and parent volunteers for injury, accident, illness or death occurring during the hike or excursion.

  Parent’s/Guardian’s Signature _____________________________

  Date ________________

  With the folded piece of paper behind his back, he crept toward the kitchen and stopped to peek around the corner. Megan sat on her knees in a chair at the table. With an opened jar and lid beside her elbow, she was painting a slice of bread with a glob of peanut butter. For her, it was more than a snack, it was a party. He tiptoed down the hall and entered his dad’s bedroom, where he pushed open the roll-top desk and stared at the mess. Searching through the stacks on top, he was careful to keep every piece of paper in place. When he thought he saw the bank checks, he reached too fast for them and knocked a stack of papers lying near the edge to the floor. He quickly plunged to his hands and knees and collected the scattered papers, hoping they were back in order, more or less. Gently placing the pile on the desk, he twisted and shoved it back and forth into the exact position that he remembered.

  He reached for the group of cancelled checks and pulled one out. In one hand he held the check and in the other he picked up the Scout permission slip. He rushed to the window and mashed both pieces of paper against the glass pane, then arranged the check’s signature line under the blank line of the permission slip. With a ballpoint pen clutched between his thumb and forefinger and his teeth clamping down on his tongue, he carefully began to trace.