Weekend of the Wolf

The darkness was interrupted only by two tiny lights, casting an eerie glow through the volumes of smoke from a bucket-sized citronella candle. Ignoring the sharp smelling haze, mosquitoes buzzed throughout the dark interior of the van, only visible when their silhouettes crossed one of the small patterns of light. The three-a.m. black outside was complete. There were no city lights for miles. The stars were obliterated by a moderate yet persistent rainfall, which rattled the old van just enough to occasionally drown out a rhythmic beeping originating from the work console. While the constant beeping could get annoying, the alternative was worse. Silence meant the subject had moved beyond radio contact, requiring the van to reposition with the hopes of catching up. Driving the dark, muddy, wooded roads in the rain was courting disaster. They had moved twice already during this shift. The subject’s position was monitored every fifteen minutes. Seated in the very back of the van, Paul rolled his chair forward and began to spin the antenna, which jutted up from the center of the van and peered out through the roof. It had a large, circular wheel, which could be turned in similar fashion to a periscope. And like a periscope, it kept the operator dry while the directional antenna above dealt with the elements and searched for the suspect. The subject had no idea of surveillance. She didn’t even know about the tiny transmitter she carried, which exposed her every movement. The high-band radio wave broadcast of beeps was good for several miles, even through the thick forest terrain of Northern Minnesota, and even for the cumbersome receiver in Paul’s van. The suspect also carried a GPS tracker, but satellite tracking through these ancient, majestic woods was iffy at best. The GPS was certainly monitored, but Paul and company were focusing more on tracking the old-fashioned way. Paul moved one of the tiny lights closer to the base of the antenna so he could read the compass for an accurate heading. Even with the light, he had to squint through the fuzzy blur of mosquito netting, which covered his head like a sack used to blindfold the condemned, complete with drawstring about his throat. Only his hands remained uncovered, yet even they were protected with enough Deet-enhanced repellant to sting. Paul half expected to find chemical burns on his fingers when the sun made it light enough to see. Paul began to turn the antenna away from its current position. The long, red arrow representing the antenna’s direction began to slowly move south. Paul checked his safety wire to make sure he didn’t turn too far which might damage the connection. Realizing he was well within specifications; he resumed the sweep. The beeps immediately began to fall off. The monitor offered only empty hiss with a turn of less than forty-five degrees. He swept back the other direction, hearing the beeps increase and then fade as he passed through the strongest point. Within moments he was back to the original position. The signal remained solid and without any fluctuations. Its lowest reading was at four on the gain control, which was within the realm of a moderate reading. It was good for another fifteen-minute reprieve. “Hasn’t moved,” said Paul. “Make the call,” said Allison. Paul reached for the microphone on the two-way radio. The other team was on a hill somewhere across the ravine, probably equally thrilled about not having to move. There was virtually no cell service this deep in the woods, so again, the old-fashioned way worked best. Two vans were used to chart different angles on the subject. By comparing coordinates, the trackers could draw a cross on the map, identifying a near exact location of the transmitter. “Green Scout this is White Fang,” said Paul. “We have the suspect at one hundred-twenty-two degrees, down, with a moderate signal.” “White Fang we have thirty-five degrees, down, and moderate,” Max Falkoski’s voice boomed through the speaker. Paul nodded and put down the microphone. The suspect hadn’t moved. She was probably tucked away in some dry holding, waiting out the rain. Not a bad idea, but Paul needed to relieve the four cups of coffee he had consumed since the shift began at midnight. He reached for his raincoat. “Be right back,” he said, reaching for the sliding side door. Allison only leaned back in the driver’s seat and closed her eyes. The nasty damp and chill hit him immediately. Lovely weather for July. Minnesota July. Paul hadn’t seen the sun once in the week since he’d left Los Angeles. He held his head down, snorted when he stepped into an enormous mud puddle, then walked into the trees. Paul had never been one for the great outdoors. Being raised in Southern California had left him far more comfortable with freeways than foliage. Still, this was turning out to be a fascinating—if not necessarily comfortable—assignment. In his six years since joining the Associated Press, Paul Westover had covered just about everything on the low end of the political scale. It was his beat, and it suited him just fine. The high-powered glitz of Washington politics or the fast-paced drama of cops kicking down the doors into d**g busts had never held much appeal. Paul was happy to pass those assignments onto some of the more dramatic characters in the business. Many of his colleagues scoffed at Paul’s assignments, calling them nothing less than mundane. Paul smiled to himself. There were far too many other words besides mundane to describe standing in the rain at three in the morning while taking a leak in the middle of the woods. As it was turning out, the environment—one of Paul’s beats—was becoming more volatile in politics every day. The current President of the United States appeared hell-bent on plundering the continent’s remaining resources, creating worldwide outcry and demonstrations. The Department of Interior was leading the president’s charge. The agency responsible for protecting the nation’s wildernesses had been doing the opposite, including everything possible to reverse a previous administration’s efforts to release wild timber wolves into the nation’s national park system. It was the timber wolves that brought Paul to the Superior National Forest near Ely, a small country town in northern Minnesota. The region boasted the largest population of timber wolves in the continental United States and was the perfect place to research the circumstances before diving into the politics of the story. Before Paul could question people about the merits or hazards of transplanting the large carnivores, he had to find out what they were all about. Volunteering to track and plot the daily movements of a female timber wolf who wore a transmitter around her neck was the perfect opportunity. His task complete, Paul turned around and began to walk back toward the van, several hundred yards away. He had taken a much longer walk than necessary, simply to stretch his legs and reinvigorate his system. He was not used to being up so late. He had barely taken two steps when the sound of movement in the branches off to the right caught his attention. He froze, immediately, hoping not to frighten whatever it might be. While the possibility of seeing a wolf was remote, there was always a good chance of spying a deer, or perhaps even a moose if he was lucky. He just hoped it would pass by close enough for him to see it in the misty darkness. The movement became louder. It was coming directly toward him. Carefully, Paul leaned to his left for the seclusion of a large cedar. The visitor might also be a black bear, who might become unpredictable with the surprise discovery of a journalist in its path. Paul took a deep breath and held it for several seconds before releasing it. He noticed his hands clenched in his pockets. The black bears in these woods were not supposed to be dangerous, but Paul couldn’t help but be nervous. He had grown up with too many fables about the creatures of the woods. The next sound Paul heard ruled out a bear. It was something smooth and slick, sounding exactly as Paul’s raincoat had when it rubbed against the brush. He instantly relaxed, but with a thread of disappointment. A bear would have been far more exciting, regardless of the outcome. He had never seen a bear in the wild before. He was about to call out to Allison but stopped when he heard the footfalls. They were distinctly heavier than those of the petite wolf researcher. They were not only heavier, but Paul realized they belonged to more than one person. Paul quietly moved to his left in order to place a wider tree between himself and the approaching footsteps. There was no telling who they might belong to, since there was no sane reason for anyone to be wandering through the woods at this hour, especially during a storm. Of course, he was out in the woods at this hour, during a storm, but Paul was always willing to acknowledge his questionable sanity. There was no way to vouch for the people who moved closer to him in the night. heHe ducked down into some bushes but instantly regretted it. His raincoat did not protect the lower legs of his jeans, so his knees were soaked through within moments. He grit down hard to prevent the accidental release of a sound, as the vision of damp, prune-fleshed knees for the remainder of the shift squished through his head. They were getting closer. Paul could hear the dull clumps of rugged boots on soggy leaves and sod. They might have been louder through the crisp forest of a dry night, but the moisture sucked away the edges, leaving a hollow, nearly invisible impression. But Paul could hear them, and they were becoming more distinct with every step. The footsteps abruptly stopped, leaving no sound other than the light rain dancing through the trees, the sickening whine of mosquitoes, and the pounding of Paul’s heart in his ears. He held his hand up to his face in an instinctive effort to cover his breathing, which was becoming labored in the silence. As much as there was no reason for anyone to be in the woods, there was no reason for Paul to be worried about it. They were probably just other people involved with the wolf research, or possibly someone associated with the property. Still, Paul couldn’t help but notice his hands shaking. After more than a minute, the footsteps resumed. Paul began to assess the situation. In the current direction, they would pass along the path, which was barely two yards from where he crouched. Unless he took a direct hit from a powerful flashlight, he would probably remain undetected. His dark jacket and the gray mosquito netting over his face would render him nearly invisible amidst the trees in the darkness. He also held the element of surprise. The others presumably did not know he was there. A thin beam of light passed through the higher branches of conifers, then swung to the path at Paul’s right. The steps became louder. There was the loud snap of a branch, followed by more slippery brushing against leaves. They would pass within moments. The first thing Paul could see was the source of the light. It was a medium sized flashlight, carried by the gloved left hand of the first man through. Barely a pace behind him was the second, a man taller but not quite as stout. Enough of the light reflected off of the glistening branches to illuminate a trace of detail. Both men wore dark rain gear. Their faces were nearly concealed by the hoods, but Paul could see dark beards on both men. As far as he knew, there was no one associated with the wolf research project who sported a beard of this magnitude.