Ken Goddard - Chimera

“Yes, transmitter makes flashers work. I confirm,” Chief Narusan said, momentarily looking up from his list and nodding happily.

“And, if I’m remembering all the details correctly,” Bulatt went on, “these flashers and the remote were probably manufactured by the same company that made the infrared ones. In any case, they shouldn’t be hard to find.”

“You think these men were involved with the tagged leopards found by our biologists; the ones that were killed by a cobra and a tiger? Why would that be?” Preithat blinked in disbelief.

“I have no idea why, or how, even if it is true,” Bulatt admitted. “But what I think I know is our friend in the dinghy set himself up in the cliffs, in a sniper position, against two of the pirate boats, and then — based on all the bullet impact marks on the surrounding rocks — turned on these flashers with the remote to distract their fire while he picked them off one by one with the rifle. I’m guessing on the flashers and the transmitter, but they all fit the scene.

“Based on the empty magazine,” Bulatt went on, “and the expended casings we found for the M-four carbine, and the rounds remaining in the weapon, he fired maybe forty shots, total, at night, and killed eight men; nine counting the air crew chief in your helicopter. That, from my perspective, is good shooting. The pirates, on the other hand, fired several hundred rounds in return; and, apparently, hit nothing but rocks and a few of the flashers. We put their AKs and the bags of expended casings we collected in the chief’s boat, along with the bodies.”

“And this is the weapon he used?” Preithat pointed down at the weapon lying on the tarp.

Bulatt shrugged. “We’ll see what your crime lab says.”

“Yes, rifle, one, American M-Four Carbine,” the chief added, looking up from his list again, “from water.” He pointed to the cove. “Many brass casings, from there.” He pointed to a specific spot on the rocky promontory. “Kuhn Ged say if we careful to put casings on tree branches, fingerprints not get damaged.” He smiled as if particularly proud of this bit of make-do CSI. “And eight dead bodies, Malaysian pirates, from there.” He pointed to a rocky section of the beach below the cliff. “Start to smell, so we put in bags right away, then put in boat. All done. Good CSI,” the chief finished, handing the notes to Preithat and coming to attention.

Preithat said something to Narusan that caused the chief petty officer to puff out his chest proudly and smile once more. Then he turned back to Bulatt.

“Military, or perhaps ex-military,” he added thoughtfully. “That would explain the cannon — or whatever it was — that they used to shoot down our Army helicopter.”

“Perhaps you’ll learn more about that when you recover the Blackhawk and examine the damage,” Bulatt suggested.

Preithat briefly turned and said something in Thai to the helicopter pilot — who nodded in acknowledgment and made a notation in a notebook — and then returned his attention to Bulatt.

“Did you find anything else?” he asked.

“A few more things,” Bulatt said as he reached down and retrieved his soup bowl. “My boots, which the chief recovered; and pieces of the dorsal and ventral fins of one large tiger shark, also collected by the chief, which he made into an excellent soup. If I understood him correctly, this is going to help my investigative spirit as well as my general health.”

Preithat smiled, nodded approvingly, and started to say something when the helicopter pilot standing beside him interrupted.

“Excuse me, major, may I say something?” the pilot asked in a distinctly feminine voice as she took off her helmet, shook out her long black hair, and stared into Bulatt’s startled eyes.

“Officer Achara?” Bulatt blinked in disbelief before he realized what he had said. “I mean — ”

“Actually, it’s Captain,” the pilot replied evenly. “I was deceitful about my rank as well as my occupation yesterday, Khun Ged; my apologies.” She brought her palms together in the familiar wai.

“Your brother… and your father,” Bulatt hesitated. “I’m so very sorry — ”

“I am grateful for your caring words, but there is nothing you need say,” she replied softly. “My brother and my mother were both gentle Buddhists who understood and accepted the unpredictable nature of life. My father and I are Buddhists, also; but perhaps less gentle and less accepting.”

“Ah.”

“You saved my father life last night, and I am deeply grateful for that as well,” Achara Kulawnit went on. “And I am also grateful to Chief Narusan — ” she bowed and wai’d in Narusan’s direction also, causing the sunburned face of the chief petty officer to turn an even deeper red — “for preparing a traditional Thai dish for your physical and spiritual nourishment,” she added as she stepped forward and gently took the soup bowl out of Bulatt’s hands. “If you are to help us hunt down these dangerous men who killed my brother and shot my father, it’s proper and fitting that you possess within your soul the spirit of the shark you defeated.”

As Bulatt watched, speechless, Achara brought the soup bowl up to her lips, sipped a portion of the liquid, and then handed the bowl to Preithat, who did the same.

“And it is equally fitting that we share in the fearsome spirit you have brought to us, Khun Ged,” Achara added, staring deep into Bulatt’s eyes. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Before Bulatt could respond, Chief Petty Officer Narusan laughed heartily and said something to his two gunner’s mates that caused them to laugh — and Preithat and Achara to glance at each other and then smile in agreement.

“Do I dare ask what he said?” Bulatt asked.

“There is a Thai children’s story very much like your Beauty and the Beast, which the chief seems to think you and I vaguely resemble,” Captain Achara Kulawnit said, her cheeks flushing slightly. “But there may be some confusion as to which one of us is the fearsome beast.”

“Ah,” Bulatt said, having no idea what else to say.

“But the chief also suggested,” Achara went on, her eyes glistening with some additional emotions beyond her embarrassment, “that perhaps all of us — different as we are from each other but still working together easily — make a very good team. And if that is truly the case, as I believe it is, then the killers of my brother have much to fear.”

The Graystone Fields Ranch, Jackson Hole, Wyoming

Michael Hateley was sitting in one of the four over-stuffed leather chairs in the center of his hidden, luxurious, underground trophy room — all carefully positioned so that the occupants could easily view the coveted boar’s head, as well as Hateley’s entire endangered species collection — sipping at a glass of rich Merlot, and staring at the empty section of wall that he’d set aside for his world record Clouded Leopard trophy, when the intercom beeped.

“Yes?”

“A Mr. Emerson for you, sir, line one.”

“Thank you,” Hateley said as he reached over to the receiver on the nearby lamp stand and punched the hands-free button. “Marcus? Is that you?”

“It is, Mr. Hateley.”

“Where are you?”

“In Singapore; I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

Hateley sat silently in his chair, staring at the blank space on the wall, the rich wine forgotten, as Wallis explained how his Clouded Leopard trophy had been lost in a gun battle with Malaysian pirates. When Wallis finished, Hateley continued to stare at the wall for a few moments, and then sighed heavily.

“Are Quince and Jack okay?”

“They’re fine, Mr. Hateley; good as new in a few days.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Hateley paused. “And I assume our options for more hunts in Thailand are still… limited?”