I gave Lieutenant Murphy a call, and told her what I had found, and told her what my plan was from here. Specifically, I wanted to wait a couple days, until Pete was full-speed, and then he and I would go do a little recon and see if we could find these guys, or any trace of them. She was good with that, and told me to take the next couple days off, then pick up Pete and go looking. So I went back to the office, grabbed up the maps of where these guys had been hunting and called it a day. It was a little too late to take off on a crossing to Coon Island, especially since it was November, and the weather was turning shitty.
So, I thought I would go over to the VFW and get a steak and a couple beers, maybe talk to Dooley, and see if he had heard anything. When I got there, Dooley was at his usual table, so I walked on over.
"How are you doing John?" Dooley asked with a smile.
"Good, but I have some bad news for you."
"It ain't going to get any better by waiting..."
"Your buddy Johann is dead, County had him as a John Doe."
When he heard that, Dooley slammed back the shot he had, and threw the glass at the wall. The wall, being cinder block, shattered the shit out of the glass. The bartender started to get up, staring at Dooley, when Dooley stood up. "Gentlemen, I have just been told that another Brother of ours has gone to Final Muster. I give you, Johann, late of the First Cav."
The rest of the patrons, all ten or so of us, stood and raised our glasses. "To Brother Johann!" After the toast, everyone sat down and went back to their conversations.
Dooley looked at me and said "I thought you guys were damn hard to kill, what the Hell happened?"
"Well Dooley, anyone will die if you remove their head. Johann was involved in an accident with a logging truck. He was a pedestrian..."
Dooley looked a little green around the gills and said "Oh, yeah, I guess that would do it. Fuck."
"Yeah, fuck...say Dooley, I'm hearing some sort of rumor that Johann was part of a larger group up in the hills. Know anything about that?"
"Hell, there's been a rumor for as long as I've been alive of groups of Vets living up in the mountains. Boys that never really came back, if you know what I mean?"
"Well Dooley, let's pretend I don't...spell it out for me."
"Aw Hell, it's been called lots of things: "Seeing the Elephant", "Shell Shocked", "Battle Fatigue", "Cafard", "P.T.S.D." You could hear the sarcasm dripping off the last term. "Boys that have seen more war than they could handle, and couldn't fit back into 'polite society'. In the old days, they could go to the frontier, and slowly rejoin society at their own rate. Trouble is there isn't any frontier for them to go to anymore."
Just about then it hit me... (Hey, I never said I was the sharpest tool in the shed, just damn hard to kill.) Duh! The guys doing these raids were mixed species, and the only time that I had ever seen mixed species work well together in changed form was in the military. Holy shit, I had a whole set of PTSD'd war vet 'Thropes out there living off the land. Well, ain't that just fucking grand? I ordered a large bourbon and ice, I think I'm going to need it.
One of the small advantages of being a 'Thrope is that we're damn hard to sneak up on. So when I heard the soft footsteps behind my chair and caught Alex's scent on the breeze, I waited until she was almost directly behind me, and then said in a soft voice "Hi Alex, you know, it's never a good idea to try to sneak up on a Seal." Then I turned to her and grinned "You might succeed....that would be bad."
"Damn it John, you're no fun at all."
"Au contraire, I'm lots of fun. I just don't like surprises...or at least most surprises." I said, still grinning. "Pull up a seat, and commiserate. I was just going to order dinner and try to forget the latest bad news."
She sat down at the table with Dooley and me, and ordered a steak from the bartender/waiter. (Yeah, it was a small enough crowd that the bartender was waiting tables too.) Then she looked at me and asked "So, what's this bad news you're trying to forget?" So I explained about the findings of the last couple days, and my conclusions. Then I pointed out that I was going to have to go in after these guys, before they did something really stupid and/or dangerous, and someone got hurt.
She looked at me from under one brow, and said "You're not planning on doing this by yourself, I hope?"
"No, I have a partner that should be out of rehab in a couple days. I'll pick him up, and we'll go out and play in the woods for awhile.
"Two cops, against a dozen psycho war vets? Are you out of your little bitty kitty mind?" Her voice was getting louder by the second, and one or two guys turned to look. I was also getting a different smell out of her. I couldn't decide just what it was yet, but she didn't smell the same.
"Alex, keep your voice down. Please, I don't need to get in a bar fight because someone doesn't like cops, or doesn't like 'Thropes or whatever. You know, the old bounty laws are still a living memory for some of these guys. So let's not tempt them to do something stupid, huh? My partner is from my old Team. He was my swim buddy for years. And we're not going to try to apprehend these guys by ourselves, just find them."
"Uh huh, and this partner of yours. You say he's just out of rehab? What? Alcohol, drugs, or medical?"
"Well, medical." I said, somewhat sheepishly. I knew where this was going.
"And didn't I hear that you aren't long out of the hospital yourself?" Alex's voice was starting to come up again.
"Yeah, but I'm fully up to speed. Pete will be too by the time they let him back on duty."
Sometime during this conversation, the steaks came. Around a bite of steak, Alex continued "So, let me get this straight, you and your partner were both injured enough to hospitalize a 'Thrope. You are both fairly fresh out of the hospital, and now you're going to go climbing through some of the most unforgiving terrain in the United States, looking for a dozen emotionally disturbed, and probably violent, military trained Lycanthropes, with the end plan of arresting them? Does that about cover it?"
"Well, yeah." I had to admit, it did sound a little crazy when she put it that way. "But if I bring any more assets into this, I'm just going to freak them out. I don't have any more 'Thrope officers at my command, and a normal would be completely outclassed. The one thing I don't want to do is cause these guys to think they are being hunted by a military style block and sweep. I don't know what that would do to their mind set, and I don't want to take the chance."
"Ok," Alex nodded. "I can see the rationale. I still think it's the stupidest and ballsiest thing I've heard in a long time, but I can see why you want to do it that way."
With that statement, I figured out what had changed in her scent. This thing turned her on! Oh Hel. One of the differences to being intermittently furry, is that we have a really acute sense of smell, even in human form. Admittedly not as good as in animal form, but still about 20 times better than an un-enhanced human. One of the other differences is that we partake of some of the traits of our animal nature. I was trying desperately to fight that off right now. There was no doubt in my mind, or nose, that Alex was hot. All it would take is "do you wanna?" and we would be heading for her place or mine. To make it worse, she was damn good looking, and the age difference, while there (Hel, I could have been her father), wasn't enough to stop me. So, what was keeping me from doing what, by now, my body was all too ready to do? Mary. She and I had only been together for a couple months, but I was thinking this might be IT, the long-term thing, the big M. Jumping Alex's bones would be great, she looked like a real E-ticket ride, and was genuinely fun to be around, but somehow I doubted that Mary would appreciate the needs of the moment. I know I wouldn't if the problem were reversed, so I needed an escape route before my animal instincts overrode my good intentions.
This is where my cell phone should ring, thus giving me an out. I waited patiently while I chewed my steak...No phone, damn! Alex was saying something, I didn't quite hear what, I was so busy with the scent. I was also strongly reminding myself that "I am a human being; I am not an animal
at the mercy of my instincts." That voice was getting quieter by the second. Finally, I finished my dinner and stood up, saying "Well guys, I'm going to have to take off, I have a long tough sail in the morning. Single-handing Tanngnost up to the top of the San Juans in November is going to be a bear."
Alex looked up, and asked "Why are you sailing up to the San Juans?"
The look she was giving me said "What's in the San Juans that you can't get here?"
"The house that I just inherited and my girlfriend are up there, and I need to take a couple days off anyway to wait for Pete to get released from Harborview. I still haven't gotten a good look at the place, and I haven't seen Mary in almost two weeks."
"Oh." This was the most non-communicative "Oh." in the history of the English language. I'm not sure what Alex was thinking, but I could see the gears turning in her head. This is never good. Still, I would worry about it another day, right now I needed to clear out.
The next morning I was up before the sun. Not that that's much of a feat in this part of the country in winter, sunrise is about seven-thirty. As I got breakfast, I was looking over the weather map and listening to NOAA weather radio's marine forecast. It wasn't sounding good. Gale warnings for Cape Flattery to the Straits of Juan de Fuca, small craft advisory for Puget Sound and the inland waters. Ya-fucking-hoo.
By sun-up the dishes were done and stowed for sea, everything was battened down, and I was ready to put to sea. The only way you could tell it was sun-up was by the clock and a general lightening to the east. The marine layer was thick and heavy, with a strong wind from the east. I expected the wind to veer to the west as the day continued. It wasn't raining yet, but I was sure it would get around to it soon. I put a pot of coffee in a thermos and started another pot. Thank the gods that Lars had put in a real seagoing coffee pot, I was liable to need it. The fact that it was right next to the inboard helm just made it better. Then I turned on the VHF and thought to myself, "well enough puttering about, time to get this show on the road." I turned on the scavenging blower, fired up the diesel, let it warm up for a few moments, cast off lines and was underway.
As soon as I got free of the breakwaters it started getting choppy. Waves were running about a three-foot chop with five-foot swells, and this was in the harbor. Gosh, I just couldn't wait to get out into the open. I started putting out canvas as soon as I was out of the breakwater, both because "it's a sailboat...what part of sail, don't you understand?" And because she would actually handle better under sail. Both the mains and the jibs were power roller furling, so putting out sail was as easy as pushing a button and setting the sheets. Lars really had set her up for single-handed sailing, which was good. I was going to need as much help as I could get today. I only put out a partial sail set, half deployed the forward jib, to something about a storm sail size, half deployed the main and mizzen sails, and left the Yankee and the mizzen jib furled. Even with just that much canvas in the wind we immediately got to nine knots by log. I could have probably got away with putting twice that much sail out, Tanngnost was a sturdy old girl, but why take chances? If the weather turned to shit REAL fast, I didn't want to suddenly find myself with too much canvas out.
Once out in the straits proper, the wind freshened a bit. I was now seeing nothing but whitecaps, so the wind was up above thirty-five knots. Tanngnost was bucking a bit, about ten degrees or so, and healing over at a fifteen-degree angle. She was also just flat getting with the program, doing about thirteen knots by log. I shut down the diesel, feathered the prop, and remembered to fire up the radar. I wasn't going to man a full time radar watch, but it had a setting that would let me know if anything was inside a certain range, or if anything was CBDR (that's continuous bearing decreasing range for you non-Navy types, or in other words a collision course).
Now Tanngnost was handling pretty decently considering the weather, but she was over fifty foot, and in spite of that was reminding me why we used to call this body of water the Straits of Juan the Puker. As I was heading up the straits I heard a Mayday being passed, based on a cell phone call. Some stupid bastard had put out in a sixteen foot HiLaker in this shit. Now he was swamped, and drifting out to sea. The Coast Guard was looking for him, and "All vessels were to be on the lookout." Hel, as if anyone was going to be able to see him in this soup. They would end up using a Mage, like a location witch or such, if they could round one up before the guy died. Sorry, but stupidity kills; just not enough to matter. Oh sure, I would look for him too, but the odds of me seeing him in this shit were zilch.
I heard the Coast Guard continue the search for the next hour as I sucked down coffee and tried to keep a course with the wind shifting south and the waves going to a quartering sea. Now a quartering sea is just the most special way in the world for waves to strike a boat. First you heel over to port and the bow comes up, then you come back to center and then the stern comes up and you heel to starboard. It's sort of a corkscrewing motion. Guaranteed to make anyone that has any chance of seasickness do the Technicolor yawn. The only thing that kept me from feeling a bit queasy was the fact that many years ago I had the dubious pleasure of riding out a hurricane at periscope depth. After that, nothing compares. Oh, and to make it all better, the rain hit. Well technically it was rain; actually though, it was closer to sleet. It was about time to change course, and I was just about to throw the rudder over and shift the sails when the radar alarm went off. I looked over at the monitor and saw there was a large target coming up on my stern. This asshole was making twenty-five knots in this shit, and either didn't see me, or didn't care. The radar said he was on a collision course with me. Now technically I was planning to maneuver, but this guy didn't know that. As the privileged vessel, if I did maneuver, and then he changed course to avoid my original course and hit me, it was my bad, for maneuvering. Ok, time to open communications.
I picked up and keyed the mike. "Vessel in the inbound traffic lane making thirty-five knots on course 090 just north of Protection Island, this is the Sailing Vessel Tanngnost just ahead of you, over." I paused, no response. I repeated my call. Still no response. So I leaned on the fog horn, five short blasts. Nothing. So I turned the helm over to a northerly course and put out more sail. Kicking on the motor wouldn't have helped, with a northern course, because I was getting more out of the sails than I could out of the motor, and turning to the south would have put me straight into the wind. Sailboats don't move straight into the wind. Meanwhile I'm back on the radio. "Coast Guard station Seattle, Coast Guard station Seattle, this is the Sailing Vessel Tanngnost, Sailing Vessel Tanngnost. Over."
"Sailing Vessel Tanngnost, this is Coast Guard Station Seattle, Go."
"Coast Guard Station Seattle, Tanngnost, I am being overtaken by a large vessel, I do not have him on visual, radar only. He is CBDR at twenty-five knots, range five-thousand yards and will not answer a hail or horn signals. I am under sail only and maneuvering to a northerly course to avoid."
"Tanngnost, this is Coast Guard Station Seattle. Are you in immediate danger?"
"Negative Seattle, not unless this individual suddenly wakes up and zigs the wrong way once he realizes he's about to run me over. But I want this guy cited."
"Tanngnost, Coast Guard Seattle, are you willing to testify, and do you have any recording devices of the incident?"
"Affirmative Seattle, I will testify, no I have no recording devices on board. I am however a Federal Law Enforcement Officer."
"Thank you Tanngnost. Captain, may I have your name and contact information for the record?"
"Roger Seattle, John Fisher, reachable through the Federal Park Police Cascade district office, or at my home of record, which is attainable through my office. Tanngnost out."
"Seattle Coast Guard out."
The whole time this was going on, the guy behind me was closing. A couple minutes later he passed my stern, and I finally got a look at him as he got within about a thousand yards. It was a big ass merchant, still going balls to the wall. I couldn't make out the
name, but I did have a camera onboard, and got a picture. I'll look at it later and see what I can see. The rest of the voyage was uneventful other than the weather, which sucked the whole way. I never did hear if they found the dumb-shit in the rowboat.
Chapter Seven
By mid afternoon I was on the final approaches to Coon Island. That made me a very busy individual for a bit: pulling in sail, starting the motor, getting the fenders out, all the little things that need to be done before mooring. Mooring single-handed is even more of a challenge, and in this weather, well...then it occurred to me, DUH. I got on the cell phone to Mary, and asked her to come out and handle lines as I came in. Mooring was still a bit rough between the wind and rain, but having someone handle lines took it from an invitation to crunching the dock, to just difficult. After we got her moored, Mary came aboard to help me shut everything down. Eventually we got around to actually shutting everything down, some serious necking and groping came first. Once Mary and I came up for air, while we were stowing and cleaning up after that tossing around I had gotten on the way up, Mary caught me up on what she had found about the house.
"John, this place is huge. I found some odd things though."
"Yeah, like what?"
"For instance, the counters aren't normal height. I knew that Robyn was short, but I hadn't realized she had the counters made short for her until I started cooking and couldn't figure out why everything felt weird. Then I realized the counters were set at thirty-two instead of thirty-five inches. And what is an M-240?"
Well, that was an odd change of subject, I thought. "It's the latest version of an M-60 machine gun. 7.62 NATO, usually pintle or bipod mount, though you can shoot it from the hip if you have to...why?"
Keeping The Faith (John Fisher Chronicles Book 2) Page 7