The means were simple. He designed a crucial scientific experiment that would investigate and resolve, once and for all, the potentially lethal conflicts between bears and tourists.
As announced by ICER, the project was to be directed by a blue-ribbon task force of twelve internationally recognized experts who would clear the bear range of all non- participants for a period of no less than six months.
Government biologists who chose to grumble or question the expertise of these unknown experts were notified that they had suddenly become eligible for long-sought-after foreign travel, with all of the per-diem perks allowed by law. In effect, they were bought off in style.
To confirm that Whitehorse Cabin was absolutely secure, Dr. Wolfe asked Lisa Abercombie to use her White House connections to obtain the temporary services of a crack Special Forces reconnaissance team. Seven men arrived by helicopter the next morning and quickly demonstrated their professionalism by managing to sit through a one-hour briefing without once cracking a smile.
In fact, the only time that any member of the reconnaissance team ever did smile was when the team leader, a clean-cut lieutenant who looked more like an eighteen-year-old high-school quarterback than a twenty- four-year-old professional killer, walked up to Wolfe after the briefing, shook Wolfe's hand, grinned, and said: "Piece of cake, sir."
Eight hours later, after six failed attempts with varying types of electronic sweepers and camouflage gear, the frustrated recon team members were forced to admit that they couldn't get within a half-mile of the cabin without tripping at least a dozen of the five hundred and twelve computer-monitored sensors that dotted the hillside and clearings.
It was then that Wolfe explained to the soldiers that the detection system in question had been installed by another team of military experts, this one from the National Security Agency. He went on to describe the sensors as being so sensitive and discriminatory that the computers receiving the data could instantly trace the pathway and determine the biomass of any animal with a heartbeat greater than a field mouse's.
Although initially irritated by Wolfe's game-playing, the members of the Special Forces team felt better when they were shown blueprints that described the extent and sophistication of the intrusion system. And when questioned further, they quickly agreed that a covert approach on Whitehorse Cabin in the daytime was out of the question.
It just wasn't going to happen.
They did suggest, however, that they would like to try a night approach, despite the fact that they were in the middle of the largest wild grizzly bear habitat in the lower forty- eight states. If anything, the idea of having a real, live enemy out there seemed to give the aggressive young soldiers a heightened sense of purpose.
Five hours later, at precisely 0200 hours, the recon team made its first and only night attempt on the Whitehorse Cabin, using light assault weapons, third-generation night- vision goggles, and a considerable array of electronic sensing gear.
Aided by a predicted cloud cover, an unexpected fog, and the incredible sensitivity of some of their latest gadgets, the highly motivated reconnaissance team managed to get within a respectable quarter-mile of the cabin before one of them activated the biological sensors of a twelve-hundred- pound grizzly that happened to be both territorial and grouchy when disturbed.
The end result was the expenditure of fifty-seven rounds of. 223 military hardball; one dead female grizzly; one very large, slightly wounded and extremely annoyed male grizzly; two severely mauled soldiers; and one thoroughly shaken team leader, who politely but firmly declined to make a second attempt at night.
As a result of that trial run, Whitehorse Cabin was judged to be secure. All involved were quick to agree that Dr. Reston Wolfe, director of ICER and primary architect of Counter Wrench, had chosen well.
Chapter Six
"What do you mean, all flights are booked?" Henry Lightstone demanded.
"We can get you out on the first flight tomorrow morning," the reservations clerk offered. "You'd be landing at Bozeman at nine thirty-seven."
Henry, it is now or never. You know how our system works. This one-the one you have dreamed about all your life-is yours, but you must decide now.
They'd already failed to show up at two scheduled meets. Possibly because they had their own scheduling problems, but far more likely because they still didn't trust him. And he knew they had other hunters on their string, so he didn't dare push them too far or they'd be gone.
So he had to do exactly what Henry Allen Lightner, the wealthy Montana sportsman with an unsated lust for yet another record trophy kill, would do.
Either that or lose his first undercover investigation as a federal agent.
"No, I'm sorry," he said. "Tomorrow morning would be too late. What about another airline?"
"I'll be happy to check for you, sir, if you'd like."
"Yes, thank you."
As he waited, Lightstone tried to calculate moves. That was not easy, though, since Alex Chareaux was by far the least predictable individual Henry Lightstone had met in his life.
"I'm sorry, sir, but there are no other flights to Bozeman until tomorrow morning."
"Could you put me on stand-by?"
"Certainly, sir, but we already have a waiting list. You would be
… let me see, number eight."
"What about taking a couple of hops? A roundabout route?" Lightstone tried, anxious now because he knew what McNulty would suggest if he couldn't find himself a commercial flight.
Carl Scoby or Larry Paxton.
Both of the agents were licensed pilots, but only for Super Cubs: the small, slow, underpowered, but nonetheless reliable two-seater planes that the Fish and Wildlife Service biologists used for monitoring wildlife populations.
To Henry Lightstone, the small planes looked like something one of Paxton's teenage boys might have built in their garage over the weekend. Paxton had taken him up for a ride one day. Lightstone had wedged himself into the backseat of the Super Cub for a few claustrophobic moments before advising the black agent-pilot that he'd just as soon go jump off the roof of the airport tower. Get it over with quicker and save the government a couple of gallons of gas in the process.
But Paxton, Scoby, Dwight Stone, and Mike Takahara had been persistent, and Lightstone had finally agreed to go up for a short orientation flight. Two hours later, after receiving at least a dozen threats on his life from the backseat, Paxton had brought the plane back in a wing- swaying, multibounce landing that he later admitted was not one of his best because he'd been laughing so hard.
That had been on a nice, calm day, Henry Lightstone reminded himself, shuddering at the memory.
Lightstone reassured himself that MeNulty would never let them put a Super Cub up in this kind of weather. It would have to be a bigger plane. At least a 737.
The reservation clerk was back in less than two minutes. "Sir, I can route you through Missoula with a stopover at Butte."
"And that's on a seven-thirty-seven, correct?"
"Uh, yes sir. The flight out of Great Falls is on a seven-thirty-seven, but you'll have to change planes at Missoula, and we're experiencing weather advisories-"
"What kind of plane would I be changing to at Missoula?"
"Oh, let me see. That would be a Metro Three jet prop."
"You mean a small plane?"
"Oh, they're not really that small," the reservation clerk chuckled understandingly. "The Metro Three has eighteen seats and twin props."
A small plane, Lightstone thought. Jesus!