Operation Tropical Affair: A Poppy McVie Adventure (Poppy McVie Series Book 1)
Read Operation Tropical Affair: A Poppy McVie Adventure (Poppy McVie Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Kimberli Bindschatel
Tags: #Wildlife trafficking
C
HAPTER
1
I knew they’d come for her. The poor thing. Wandering in unknown territory trying to shake a disorienting drugged-out haze. She was easy prey for a couple of two-bit rednecks. Goes to show how things are bass ackwards in this world.
Well, they weren’t going to get away with it. Not on my watch.
Honey Bear—as she’d been christened by Sally Newberry, the second grader who’d won the naming contest run by
The Mining Gazette
—had been caught rummaging through the trash cans of some downstater who didn’t know any better than to throw her chicken bones into a black plastic bag and set it right out on her back porch. Might as well hang a neon welcome sign. It was the bear, of course, who needed to be
rehabilitated
. Dubbed a “trouble” bear, she’d been trapped, tranquilized, poked and prodded, then released yesterday afternoon here on the north side of the refuge. Now she was an easy target.
The sun hadn’t poked up over the horizon yet and there they were. Just as I thought. The Lawson boys. Coming down the two-track in their souped up purple Geo Tracker. It was outfitted with a state-of-the-art antennae mounted on the roof, makeshift kennels built into the back, and two greasy haired, grinning idiots inside. The true genius of their bear poaching contraption was the blue tick hound dog straddling the hood, his collar chained to an eye hook mounted where a hood ornament would go, his long ears flapping in the wind. This way, his nose was right out front to catch bear scent. I shook my head. Rednecks. I aimed the video camera and pushed the record button.
The dog’s name was Brutus. I’d met him a few weeks ago when I’d pulled them over and demanded they take him off the hood. They were just outside the refuge and claimed they were training the dogs for the legal season. Not my jurisdiction, but I couldn’t help it. The heat from the engine could burn his paws and being chained to a moving vehicle was dangerous, not to mention absurd. They promised to glue some carpeting up there, give ‘im something to grip, they’d said. Assured me that’d do the trick. Jackasses.
Roy, my SAC, (that’s special-agent-in-charge), told me to choose my battles. Hell, it’s not illegal and besides, we have bigger fish to fry, he’d said after he’d eased out of his pickup and went through his usual routine of tugging at his belt, pulling up his pants, first on one side, then the other, then sauntered over to stand beside me and ask what was the matter.
At first, I didn’t know what to think of Roy. Michigan’s Upper Peninsula was my first duty station and Roy the experienced officer I was assigned to do field training under for my first forty-four weeks on duty. Soon enough I’d realized Roy’s kinda lovable in a grandpappy kind of way, what with the green flannel jacket he wears everyday and the old red plaid Stormy Kromer hat covering his bare head, ear flaps up in the summer, down over his ears in the winter. He’s got that easy, laid back disposition that makes you feel like time’s an illusion and tomorrow’s just as good a day as ever to do whatever it is you might be pondering doing.
I got him some snazzy suspenders for his birthday. He gave me a half-grin and a genuine confused look, asked whatever in the world I’d done that for, the belt he had worked just fine. I wasn’t sure if I’d made a serious faux pas, or as they say in
da
U.P., if I’d
stepped in it
. There was a long, awkward moment, the kind which I’ve come to accept as a common reaction to me, before he’d chuckled and snapped on the new suspenders. Course he still adjusts the pants in the same old routine.
Brutus let out a yowl and the little Jeep-wannabe came to a halt. He’d caught Honey Bear’s scent.
I shoved the last of my granola bar in my mouth and hunkered down in my blind. I was sure the Lawson boys were planning to dart Honey Bear and sell her live to an illegal bear bile farmer where she’d spend the rest of her life barely conscious, crammed into a cage no larger than her outstretched body to restrict her movement, a metal catheter implanted into her gall bladder to withdraw a continuous supply of bile. The cruel practice causes excruciating misery for the bear. But poachers don’t care. Bear bile sells like liquid gold. 250ccs fetches around US $1000 in China to those who believe in traditional medicine. They say it’s a cure-all for hepatitis, hemorrhoids, hangovers, and chronic diarrhea. Maybe it is. But torturing a bear to get it, well, I’d take on the PLA to stop it if I could. Right now, in my corner of the world, I’d have given my right eye to see these bastards fry, but sending them to prison would have to do. I just had to bust them first.
And today, that’s just what I was going to do.
The boys got out of the car. The dogs were going ape shit, yipping with excitement. I had about ten seconds to call it in. Roy answered the phone right away. “What now, McVie?”
“Listen, I’m in the northwest unit, off the Old State Road. The Lawson boys just pulled up in their hound wagon.”
“What the hell are you up to?”
“They released Honey Bear yesterday.”
Roy sighed. I could tell he was rubbing his temples, like he always does. “You been out there all night?”
Roy had an annoying habit of asking the obvious.
“Listen to me now, girl. Don’t you go underestimating them boys. Out there alone in them woods, that badge ain’t gonna protect you.”
“What good is this badge if I can’t protect the animals?”
I tried to pull the phone from my ear to hang up, but it was stuck in my hair, all matted and tangled with a gob of pine sap. Roy was still yammering on the other end. “You wait for me to get out there.” I yanked it free, punched the end button, and put on my USFWS hat. At least I tried. Somebody had the bright idea to require us to wear these things. Whoever it was has never tried to tame my mop. I shoved my ponytail through the opening in the back and called it good. I was ready.
Bear hunting with dogs works like this. The dogs catch the scent. The hunter (if you call it hunting) sends his pack of dogs to chase down the bear, tree the poor thing, then the men track their prey using GPS to the location sent by the remote contraption on the dog’s collar. The dogs might run for several miles before they corner the bear. So the Lawson boys will tool along in the little Geo, watching a blip on a tiny screen until they get the signal that the lead dog has stopped. Then they’ll saunter over to the bear, all puffed up and proud of themselves, and shoot the helpless creature out of the tree.
Unfortunately, in Michigan, this is perfectly legal. In fact, letting your dogs chase a bear in the off-season, terrorizing it for training and practice, is also legal. Darting a bear and capturing it live isn’t.
As my grandpa always said, come hell or high water, I was going to catch them doing it.
The problem was, they had the advantage of a dedicated GPS unit. If I followed them, they’d see me and bail, claiming they were just out letting their dogs run. I had one choice. Do it the old-fashioned way: keep up with the dogs.
The good thing is a pack of hound dogs will yip and yap, making a ruckus as they race after a bear. When they close in on their prey, they start baying, a low bawling that can be heard from a distance. The bad thing is they can run about twenty miles per hour. Good thing I wore my wilderness running boots.
The kennel doors were flung open, Brutus was unchained, and the pack took off through the woods, yapping with excitement. I waited for the boys to latch the kennels closed and mosey to their seats then drive off before I left the blind. I strapped on my running pack and slipped my hand into the strap on the video camera. With a deep breath, I touched the bracelet at my wrist.
I know you’re with me, Dad.
And I took off after them.
The dogs headed southwest and kept a steady pace for about fifteen minutes, gaining distance ahead of me. Twice, I slipped in the mud on wet leaves, but for the most part I managed to keep upright and moving forward. Then their vocalizations changed. They were close to the bear now and had her on the run.
I slid down the edge of a ravine, sprinted up the other side, barreled through a patch of brambles, and tripped and fell flat on my stomach. The video camera went tumbling. I got up and shook it off. I needed a moment to regain my bearings.
The pack had headed into an old logging area where the pines grew in rows. I picked up the camera, made sure it was still working, and sprinted down a fairway until I ran out of steam. I bent over, my hands on my thighs, my chest heaving. These dogs were fit. After I caught my breath, I continued on. They weren’t far off. Must have her treed already, I realized.
I’m coming Honey Bear!
I approached with caution in case I was wrong; a terrified bear wasn’t someone I wanted to stumble upon.
I homed in on the yowls. They came from an open area covered with moss and grass that had been trampled by deer bedding down overnight. Sure enough, on the far side was Honey Bear. She’d shinnied up an old oak tree, all four paws clamped on. She was grunting and growling while the dogs whined and scratched at the base of the tree. Brutus had his head tilted back, howling for his masters.
I quickly scanned the area. I needed a place to hide. My own prey would be along soon. My best option was a small spruce pine on the edge of the clearing. I set the video camera in the crook of a branch, pointing toward Honey Bear, double checked it was recording—I didn’t want any mistakes on this one—then crawled beneath the pine boughs and checked my phone. No cell service here. Using the handheld radio was too risky; anyone could be listening in. I texted the GPS coordinates to Roy, hoping a text would make it through, then hunkered down to wait.
It seemed like an eternity. Poor Honey Bear was frothing at the mouth. For successful bear poachers, they sure were slow. There was no doubt, though, that’s what they were. Word around town was, last winter, they’d showed up at the Buckhorn Bar with brand new snowmobiles, acting like big shots, buying all their buddies Budweisers and running their mouths about hitting it big time. They were tight lipped about details, though. Come spring they had new four-runners and shiny new Remington shotguns. It didn’t take a seasoned Special Agent to figure out they were doing something illegal. Since they had no common sense and couldn’t hold a regular job, it wasn’t hard to surmise they were making money on the only thing they were good at. Poaching.
My father and I had run into poachers a few times over the years. Spend enough time in the wilderness and it’s bound to happen. I’d rather face down a tiger than an angry, gun-toting poacher. The image of my father, facing down a poacher was too much—I heard their voices. Then I caught sight of them ambling into the clearing. Jed, the longer haired one, held the GPS tracker in his left hand, and—
I knew it!—
a dart gun in his right. His cousin Larry was right behind him, a shotgun slung over his shoulder. They both wore Carhartt coats, blue jeans, and the requisite baseball caps, always sporting either some beer logo or a silhouette of a woman, the kind that commonly adorns the mud flaps of an eighteen wheeler. I’d seen them all.
I could arrest them right now for carrying a loaded shotgun with the dogs off-season, but the penalty was a slap on the wrist. No. I wanted them for poaching a live bear.
Jed nodded to his cousin, a shit-eating grin on his face.
Leaving Brutus on point, they called off the other five dogs and tied them to nearby trees. Then Jed took the shotgun from Larry, handed him the dart gun, and grumbled something I couldn’t quite make out.
Larry beamed with pride.
I looked up at Honey Bear. My heart clenched.
Sorry girl, I have to let them do it. It’s the only way. You’ll be all right.
Larry raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The dart flew wide and stuck in a tree limb low and to the right.
Jed yanked the dart gun from Larry’s hands. “Gimme that, you dumbass,” he said. “We don’t got none to waste.” He shoved the shotgun at him. “Hold that.”
Jed zeroed in and let the dart fly. It struck its target. Honey Bear flinched and dug in with her claws. Soon her head started to droop and she slid halfway down the tree trunk, ripping bark off in tiny strips, until her claws let loose and she flopped to the ground with a thud. Larry let out a hoot.