Blue Wolf In Green Fire (34 page)

Everything was happening too fast for Service.

“The blue has joined the female,” he told Zambonet.

The biologist looked over at Allerdyce and frowned. “Opinion of the resident
expert?
”

Allerdyce laughed and said to Service. “I
like
dis one.”

Zambonet's expression suggested the sudden affection would remain unrequited.

“The wolfies're near where da Fish and da Mosquito gets tagedder,” Limpy said. “Boot two miles over to da sowt.” He pointed.

“We can drive the trucks in,” Service added.

Gus and Shark had already unhooked the trailer with Service's snowmobile and were transferring his gear to Gus Turnage's truck. Nantz's face was bright red, her skin shiny.

“Maridly?” he said. She did not look well.

“I'm fine,” she said with an edge to her voice. “After sitting on my ass all this time, I'm glad to be useful again. I'm sorry to steal your wheels,” she said.

“You fly only if Fulsik can't.”

“I know.”

He walked her to the truck and kissed her. She handed him his cell phone and charger. “I've got my own,” she said. “You'll need yours.” He watched her drive away, the truck fishtailing on the rutted road.

Bobber Canot was huddled with Allerdyce, who was using a stick to make a map in the snow. Canot was nodding, asking questions in hushed tones. They acted familiar with each other.

“Shall we put the show on the road?” Service asked.

Canot said, “Limpy's shown me the way. I'll lead and he'll ride with me.”

Kota would ride with Zambonet. Shark and Gus would follow. Service would bring up the tail on his sled.

Before the convoy headed out, Service pulled Canot aside. “Do you know Allerdyce?”

“People out in the woods as much as us tend to cross paths. I don't condone what he does for a living, but Limpy knows his way around out here. That's for sure.”

“Do you trust him?”

Bobber Canot grinned. “That old man always has an angle and from what I know, it somehow always reduces to money.”

Always reduces to money, Service repeated silently as he wriggled into his snowmobile suit, pushed down his helmet, got his machine off the trailer, and started it up. Where was the money for Limpy in this?

As the convoy began to move he pulled down his face shield and locked it. A biologist and his tracker, a fanatic fly fisherman, an Indian game warden, a straight-arrow CO, two generations of poachers, a Chippewa woman, Nantz, a pilot he didn't know, and him. One more and they'd be the dirty dozen.

29

Jesse Fulsik was grounded in Houghton by heavy lake-effect snow, and Nantz was being prepped by Yogi Zambonet via cell phone as she drove to Escanaba to meet Tucker Gates.

Service was antsy about her flying and listened to snippets of one side of the cell phone tutorial as he worked with the others to put up the tent and settle the camp. Shark Wetelainen, ever attuned to the weather and environment, had brought along a military-surplus wall tent, sixteen by twenty feet, and it took most of the group nearly thirty minutes just to scrape snow so that the canvas floor would be on relatively clear ground. It took another hour with all of them working together to erect the unwieldy frame and clumsy canvas shelter, staked and roped into place.

It was Limpy who pointed out the site for the tent, a suggestion that all but Service and Bobber Canot questioned, but after much discussion the group grudgingly agreed that Limpy's site was the best and set about to get it ready. The tent had a small woodstove in the corner and straight metal pipe to vent smoke. All of them but Limpy gathered dry wood and broke it or cut it into pieces to fit the stove. They started a woodpile inside the shelter while Limpy drank coffee and offered directions like a supervisor.

All the while, Yogi was on the phone with Nantz.

“Right, right,” Yogi said. “There's an H-style antenna on each strut. You have a radio monitor and the GPS. You have the collar freq, right? You fly volume and sound. You want to make course corrections to keep the sound steady and loud. Keep both antennae engaged until you establish a rough location—within a quarter mile. Then shut down one antenna and listen. If you have a weak signal, bank into a turn and fly the signal to maintain volume. If the signal fades, switch the first antenna off and turn on the other one. You may end up flying a corkscrew course. The bird has a stall package to let you go low and slow. Keep altering course until you get a steady, strong signal. Then you fly the heading that keeps the signal beeping like this:
click-click-click, zip.
When you get
nada,
hit your GPS to mark the spot. That means you just passed over the animal. Got it?
Click-click-click,
silence, fix the coordinates. When you think you've got the animal pinpointed, switch on both antennae and fly directly over the animal. Same deal:
click-click-click,
silence. Hit your GPS again and relay
these
coordinates to me. These are the numbers we need down here. Usually the pilot gives us visual landmarks to mark the spot, but with this cloud cover, you're not going to be able to do that.”

Zambonet paused to listen. “A couple of hundred yards, but don't worry about that. You find her and we'll take it from here. Make radio contact when you get to the area.”

The biologist grinned weakly and looked at Service. “She asks good questions. I hope they can do this. It isn't easy. Usually I test my pilots by putting a collar in the woods and seeing how close they can come. Two hundred yards is what we need. If a pilot can't pass the test, they don't fly for me. With the velocity of the plane, two hundred yards is about as close as they can get from the air. We usually want a clear sky to do this, but we won't have that in our favor today. It's really, really not easy,” Zambonet said, shaking his head.

Service grinned. Nantz could do it. He wondered how she was holding up. “What's the Escanaba weather?”

“Flyable, so far,” the biologist said.

It was just before 4 p.m. when Service heard the single-engine Cessna 182. He heard the pitch of the engine changing sharply, almost like it was sputtering, and instinctively looked skyward into the snow. He didn't like the sound, but got Zambonet's attention and jerked a thumb upward.

Zambonet got on the radio and began trying to raise the plane. “DNR Wolf Air One, this is Wolf Ground One.” He repeated the call several times.

Finally there was a garbled reply. “Wolf . . . Gr . . . Air, ov'r.”

“DNR Wolf Air One, you are breaking up. We've got poor atmospherics. Go to backup freq, copy?”

Service heard the biologist's receiver click twice, a signal that the aircraft had heard the instruction.

Then Nantz's voice came through clear and strong. “Wolf Ground One, Wolf Air One is on backup freq, how do you read me?”

“Five-by-five,” Yogi said. “We're gonna be out of light soon. You hearing anything up there?” To Service he said, “Not that the light we have down here is worth squat.” Service studied the sky. There was a faint glow backdropping the falling snow. He could make out the silhouette of treetops, but not easily. Official sunset would be in less than twenty minutes. At ground level it was already dark.

“That's a roger, Ground One.” Nantz sounded relaxed, confident, in control.

“Say altitude, Air One.”

“Angels are ground plus five hundred feet,” Nantz radioed.

“Careful,” Zambonet said, rubbing his hands together.

“Roger that,” Nantz said. “Our charts show no vertical obstacles in this area. We can drop a bit lower if you want us to.”

“Negative,” Zambonet said. “Negative descent, maintain current altitude. Let's play the cards we're dealt.”

“Tuck thinks he can get under the clouds,” Nantz said.

Zambonet's response was immediate and clipped. “Negative, negative.
Maintain
current altitude. Copy?”

“Wolf Air copies. It's a bit bumpy up here. It might be smoother lower down. Can you give us a short hold-down?” Nantz asked.

Service could hear Nantz pressing to get every edge she could. In her shoes, he'd do the same thing.

“
Maintain altitude,
transmitting now,” Zambonet said, depressing a switch on the radio, and looked at Service. “ADF. Their receiver will pick up on our signal, give them a heading to us.” He got back on the radio and read off the camp's coordinates from his GPS.

“Roger, Ground One, we've got you and we also have a collar signal and we are commencing runs.”

Nantz sounded calm. The biologist looked at Service and raised an eyebrow in admiration. Service felt a surge of pride.

“Wolf Ground One, DNR Air One, we have aural null.” Nantz read off the GPS coordinates. “She's a cool one,” Zambonet said to nobody in particular. Seeing Service's puzzled expression, he added, “Aural null, no sound, cone of silence. It means they're directly over the radio collar.”

Zambonet checked the chart in his lap and made a dot with his grease pencil. “I've got the position. Can you run a north–south check and then east–west? Let's get a cross-reference. Then do your two-antenna flyover.”

“Roger, Air One out.”

The bearded biologist took a small apple out of his coat pocket. It made a crisp popping sound when he bit into it.

Service smelled coffee brewing on the woodstove and tried to imagine Nantz in the cramped cockpit overhead. Less than half an hour later she called with a set of coordinates. The biologist made another mark on his chart and grinned. “Looks good, Air One. The plots are on top of each other. Great job. You can RTB. We'd like you back just after first light in the morning, copy?”

“We'll try,” Nantz said, “but the weather in Escanaba isn't looking good for morning.”

“Roger,” Zambonet said. “Bump us on the cell phone if you can't get up and keep us posted on the weather.”

“Roger,” Nantz said. “DNR Air Wolf One is clear.”

The biologist looked at Service. “She's a pilot,” he said perceptively. “Radio discipline always tells.”

“Do we need them in the morning?” he asked the biologist.

“Only if the animal moves tonight.”

Shark Wetelainen set up a gas grill and began cooking venison steaks.

Service hated waiting around and pulled Limpy Allerdyce aside. “How far away is Aldo?”

“Not too. Why?”

“Let's go see him.”

“Eats first,” Limpy said.

Service watched as the poacher took small portions, sampling salt and pepper on the palm of his hand before sprinkling his meat, which he cut a piece at a time, eating one before he cut the next, acting remarkably civilized. What was it about Limpy that had made his father trust him? Or was this all a lie from Limpy? Down deep he didn't trust Allerdyce. Probably never would, he told himself as he got a steak for himself and began shoveling it down.

“Should mebbe slow down, Sonny,” Limpy rasped. “Chew, not healty ta wolf down da eats.”

Gus Turnage snickered, trying to stifle a laugh. Service scowled at Gus.

They were plowing through ankle-deep snow. The wind was picking up, pushing the tumbling snow sideways.

“Have you been to Aldo's camp?”

“I smell da smoke,” Allerdyce said.

Service sniffed the air, but the wind prevented him from smelling anything. He had always considered himself Limpy's equal in fieldcraft, but maybe that was more ego and wishful thinking than reality. It was not a comforting thought.

Thirty minutes into the trek, Limpy began to mumble and Service craned to listen. Talking to himself? Service shone his small flashlight at the poacher and saw a thin wire curling down into his collar from an ear bud. The old bastard was using a radio.

“Not dat far now,” he muttered over his shoulder.

Limpy refused to have telephones at his camp, but he was using a radio, probably one that operated on Family Radio Service frequencies. FRS had a limited range but required no FCC license to operate. More and more poachers had electronics that matched their pursuers: police scanners, vehicle radars, night-vision scopes, motion detectors, radios of all kinds. Obviously Allerdyce was keeping up with the competition, an observation that suggested the old man had not abandoned his lawbreaking ways.

Depending on brand, terrain, and weather, FRS radios had a range of two to five miles. “What's your radio range?” Service asked. The forest was thick around them.

“Don't need no radio to talk Aldo,” Limpy said. Limpy might be along to help, but he wasn't going to willingly surrender professional secrets. If he wasn't talking to Aldo, then who?

The old man led them up a small hill, stopped, and urged Service to angle to the right.

“You want a light?” Service asked him.

“What for?” Limpy said with a chuckle. “I can see good.” Service didn't like the inference, but kept his mouth shut.

When they stopped walking Limpy said, “We're here.”

Service saw nothing. Limpy reached forward, his hand causing something plastic to crackle. He pulled a cover aside to reveal a flickering interior light. Service ducked inside and Limpy followed.

Aldo was sitting in front of a tiny fire ringed by blackened rocks the size of softballs. Two sleeping bags were in stuff sacks along a wall. The pit had seen lots of use, and Service wondered by whom. The shelter was a shallow cave. Service looked up. What little smoke there was curled up into an opening in the rocks above them, a natural chimney. The spot was well chosen.

They were in the northern reaches of the Mosquito and he had never seen the cave before. DNR scientists and techies were forever debating the half-life of knowledge, how long it took for half of what they knew to become obsolete, and Service wondered how long it would take before he lost half of what he knew about the Mosquito.

Service squatted. Limpy's grandson looked young, relaxed, at home in his cave.

“Where's da squaw?” Limpy asked his grandson.

“With her brother and sister,” Aldo said.

“We got a radio signal on the female today,” Service said.

“She's not far from here,” Aldo said. “The male's with her.”

“You've seen them?”

“Daysi's with them.”

“Injun hokum-pokum,” Limpy muttered. “Buildin' casinos to fleece da white man.”

“The wolves aren't afraid of her,” Aldo said, ignoring his grandfather's muted complaint. He held up a black FRS radio. “She's got one of these. If they move, she'll let us know and leave signs to help us follow.”

Had Limpy radioed ahead to Aldo?

“The weather's getting bad in Escanaba,” Service said. “We may not have air cover in the morning.”

The boy shrugged and said confidently, “Daysi can follow them.”

Service said, “Your grandfather can call you on the radio when we're ready to move in. Tomorrow at first light if the snow lets up. If not, later.” Aldo didn't answer, but Service saw him sneak a puzzled side glance at Limpy.

They were on their way back to the main camp. “How old is Aldo?” Service asked.

The poacher shrugged. “Eighteen mebbe. Da squaw's older, I tink. Claims she can talk to da wolves, but Injuns claim all sorts a stuff, eh?”

Back in the tent Limpy zipped his coat, lay down on the frigid canvas floor, and immediately went off to sleep, no sleeping bag, no blanket, no pillow, nothing but the clothes and boots
he
wore. The group stared at him like he was an animal, but Service understood. Limpy was focused on what they were doing—or what
he
was doing—and nothing else mattered. You slept when it was time to sleep, or when there was opportunity, and you ate when you needed fuel, hungry or not. Life in the bush always reduced to basics.