Alaska?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am, we do,” replied the grinning Krisler, “And I must say, we work very well together, don’t we, Colonel?”
Sloan’s face drained of color. “Yes. Yes, we certainly do. Connie, this is Steven Krisler.” He looked back to Krisler, his eyes reduced to pleading slits. “One of my most trusted confidantes. Steven is a man I would trust with my life.”
“Wow,” said the girl, “imagine two friends so close, meeting each other so far away and not even knowing the other was going to be there.”
“Yeah,” said Krisler. “Go figure.” A mischievous smile spread across his face as he calculated how far he could go with the colonel.
The two men glared into each other’s eyes.
Krisler spoke. “Well, sir, I’ve got to be getting back to my seminar. Paid a lot of money to get here, you know, and they’re talking about a new technique for skinning and stuffing those little weasel-like creatures today.” He winked devilishly at the girl and added as he walked away, “Tell Louise I said hello. We’ll have to get together at your convenience once we get back.”
As he stepped down the hallway, he heard Connie speak to Sloan. “Who is Louise?”
“She’s my secretary. Let’s go get a drink.”
So Krisler had no problem getting, among other things, the most prime trap line in the interior of the state authorized for the rest of his final tour in the Air Force.
Marcus entered the snow-covered forest trail via an open space about six feet wide that was packed by regular snowmobile use. The trail snaked through the spruce, birch, alder, and willow in a meandering fashion. About a mile down the trail from Johnson Road, the first of the bright yellow ribbon trap markers hung loosely on a snow-laden branch of a low-slung spruce tree. Marcus halted his snowmobile and raised the bright beam of a large halogen spotlight to the base of the tree from which the ribbon drooped.
A roundish, medium-brown furry shape lay motionless in the snow beneath the canopy of branches. Marcus dismounted the idling vehicle and waded through a powdery sea of thigh-deep snow over to the creature.
It was a marmot, a species of large groundhog that normally hibernates through the winter. The animal had probably been fooled into waking up by the recent warmer temperatures, and it had gone out for a stretch. The dead creature’s mouth hung open, exposing yellow buckteeth and its tongue, which glittered with ice crystals. The body was frozen solid as stone.
“Well, my little friend,” muttered Marcus through the white neoprene Gator face-covering he wore to keep the chill air from freezing his lungs, “looks like you should’ve stayed in bed.”
Marcus tossed the stiff, frozen carcass into the back of the long sled, then took off for the next trap about a quarter of a mile down the trail. He arrived to find that it was empty. He remounted the snowmobile and kept going. The next several snares had various creatures in them, followed by a number of empty traps. The pattern continued throughout the morning as he moved along the trail collecting a variety of animals. The prizes consisted mainly of fox and rabbit, with the singular addition of the first marmot. There was also one fair-sized lynx that, unlike the relatively cheap fox and rabbit pelts, would make some good money for his friend Krisler.
Dawn rose gracefully over the arctic landscape. The snow-covered spruce trees pointed skyward, their branches laden with impossibly heavy looking mounds of drooping snow, like white icing on a thickly frosted cake. The scene looked like a surreal painting on a picture postcard. If seen in an image online or in a magazine, people outside Alaska would find it hard to believe that this was an actual place.
As Marcus moved along the trail, he passed a series of unnatural-looking mounds. The hexagonally shaped hills were a group of abandoned military ruins that had at one time been nuclear missile bunkers.
“Yes, ma’am, we do,” replied the grinning Krisler, “And I must say, we work very well together, don’t we, Colonel?”
Sloan’s face drained of color. “Yes. Yes, we certainly do. Connie, this is Steven Krisler.” He looked back to Krisler, his eyes reduced to pleading slits. “One of my most trusted confidantes. Steven is a man I would trust with my life.”
“Wow,” said the girl, “imagine two friends so close, meeting each other so far away and not even knowing the other was going to be there.”
“Yeah,” said Krisler. “Go figure.” A mischievous smile spread across his face as he calculated how far he could go with the colonel.
The two men glared into each other’s eyes.
Krisler spoke. “Well, sir, I’ve got to be getting back to my seminar. Paid a lot of money to get here, you know, and they’re talking about a new technique for skinning and stuffing those little weasel-like creatures today.” He winked devilishly at the girl and added as he walked away, “Tell Louise I said hello. We’ll have to get together at your convenience once we get back.”
As he stepped down the hallway, he heard Connie speak to Sloan. “Who is Louise?”
“She’s my secretary. Let’s go get a drink.”
So Krisler had no problem getting, among other things, the most prime trap line in the interior of the state authorized for the rest of his final tour in the Air Force.
Marcus entered the snow-covered forest trail via an open space about six feet wide that was packed by regular snowmobile use. The trail snaked through the spruce, birch, alder, and willow in a meandering fashion. About a mile down the trail from Johnson Road, the first of the bright yellow ribbon trap markers hung loosely on a snow-laden branch of a low-slung spruce tree. Marcus halted his snowmobile and raised the bright beam of a large halogen spotlight to the base of the tree from which the ribbon drooped.
A roundish, medium-brown furry shape lay motionless in the snow beneath the canopy of branches. Marcus dismounted the idling vehicle and waded through a powdery sea of thigh-deep snow over to the creature.
It was a marmot, a species of large groundhog that normally hibernates through the winter. The animal had probably been fooled into waking up by the recent warmer temperatures, and it had gone out for a stretch. The dead creature’s mouth hung open, exposing yellow buckteeth and its tongue, which glittered with ice crystals. The body was frozen solid as stone.
“Well, my little friend,” muttered Marcus through the white neoprene Gator face-covering he wore to keep the chill air from freezing his lungs, “looks like you should’ve stayed in bed.”
Marcus tossed the stiff, frozen carcass into the back of the long sled, then took off for the next trap about a quarter of a mile down the trail. He arrived to find that it was empty. He remounted the snowmobile and kept going. The next several snares had various creatures in them, followed by a number of empty traps. The pattern continued throughout the morning as he moved along the trail collecting a variety of animals. The prizes consisted mainly of fox and rabbit, with the singular addition of the first marmot. There was also one fair-sized lynx that, unlike the relatively cheap fox and rabbit pelts, would make some good money for his friend Krisler.
Dawn rose gracefully over the arctic landscape. The snow-covered spruce trees pointed skyward, their branches laden with impossibly heavy looking mounds of drooping snow, like white icing on a thickly frosted cake. The scene looked like a surreal painting on a picture postcard. If seen in an image online or in a magazine, people outside Alaska would find it hard to believe that this was an actual place.
As Marcus moved along the trail, he passed a series of unnatural-looking mounds. The hexagonally shaped hills were a group of abandoned military ruins that had at one time been nuclear missile bunkers.
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