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  “Override is eighty-nine point two hours,” Kangas said. “That’s a bit short of one-twelve by my math, and I’ve got two ex-wives and five kids to support.”

  “Try using rubbers,” Homes quipped, and all the men laughed, even Kangas.

  Service thought about the pay situation the men were talking about. Each man was paid for 89.2 hours, every two weeks. Some periods they might work 80 hours, others more than that, and the differential, in the officer’s favor, was designed to give them control over their schedules and make up for night calls, holiday work, and other disruptions, not to mention investigations that could eat a lot of an officer’s time. You couldn’t be effective in the woods with one eye on a clock. So far, Service decided, he was probably working close to ninety hours and he didn’t mind. He hadn’t joined the DNR for money; he’d made more as a Troop. And he liked being busy.

  “Fucking override,” Kangas said. “How long is that even gonna last?”

  Homes said, “Okay, enough jaw jockeying, let’s get down ta business. I’m takin’ seven this morning.”

  “Yer outta your mind, Homes. Gimme four,” Moody said.

  “Where’s Stone?” asked Stevenson, one of the officers from Menominee County.

  “In a vehicle. He’ll meet up with us at Fayette. Joe Flap’s been upstairs watching the rats put in a gang of nets over the past few days.”

  “How do we know it’s rats?” Kangas challenged.

  “We don’t,” Homes said. “It could be tribals, but we won’t know dat until we look.”

  Kangas pressed his point. “It’s legal for tribals to net north of Sac Bay after November first.”

  Homes grinned. “But rats can’t, and some of ’em are counterfeiting tribal permits an’ some are hiring on wit’ da Indians, taking pay or a percent of da haul, and all three of dese practices are illegal. Plus, da tribals have ta be using da proper-size mesh on dere nets—so we’ve gotta go look, get it?” Then he added, “I’ve got seven, Eddie’s got four. Who’s next?”

  Shaw, the officer from Mackinac County, whose first name Service couldn’t remember, said, “Give me six.”

  Stevenson chimed in, “Two.”

  “Jesus,” Homes said. “Are you trying ta shit on our patrol?”

  “These patrols turn to shit on their own, no matter what we do,” Budge Kangas piped up.

  Service asked, “What are we doing?”

  “Buck each, guessing how many of our machines will start,” Homes said.

  “I’ll pass,” Service said. Why would the men bet against themselves and the outcome of the mission?

  “You can’t pass,” Homes said. “We’ll give you five.”

  Bets made, Homes announced it was time to get the vehicles off the trailers and get them cranked up.

  Service’s snowmobile started up right away and Homes yelped that this was a good omen, because Service was driving the worst pile of shit in the entire Yoop.

  Stevenson and Shaw could not start their machines. Service and Moody had both taken turns pulling the starter rope for Shaw, but it was no use. Homes told the two men to reload their sleds and take their patrol units over to a location off US 2, just north of Garden Corners. They were to wait there until the mission was completed, or until they were called in as reserves, in which case they would dump their trailers and race down Garden Road in their trucks.

  “How far across?” Service shouted at Homes over the popping of the surging motors.

  “Eight miles, more or less, due east. It’ll take us about an hour.”

  “On flat ice?” Service asked. He had limited snowmobile experience.

  Homes laughed. “Since when is Bay de Noc ice flat?”

  Service pulled a black balaclava down over his face, jammed his helmet over it, and pulled his goggles into place. He looked around. None of the helmets or machines were the same. A couple of men had newer model Rupps. There was a Ski-Doo and an elderly Polaris, none of them the top of the line power-wise, but all of them with better suspension than his machine.

  The patrol pulled out with Homes immediately gunning his throttle and surging ahead, bouncing and yawing across the ragged ice of Big Bay de Noc. Service was last in line and struggling to maintain a steady speed, even with the others pulling ahead of him. Most of the time he rode standing on the machine, bending down to the handlebars and keeping his eyes glued ahead as he steered around moguls and ice chunks the size of refrigerators, popping tentatively over various pressure ridges created by alternate freezing and thawing. His posture was like riding a horse English-style, letting his knees rather than his back take the pounding from the ice as they surged eastward, their machines screaming and straining, leaving blue plumes of oil fumes hanging in their wakes. The ice ahead of him looked like a boulder-strewn wasteland rendered in white and gray, with hints of dirty blue and pale green.

  Homes halted a mile west of Snail Shell Harbor and scanned ahead with his binoculars, waiting for the others to catch up.

  “Stone said he’d mark net stakes wit’ red patches,” he yelled at them over idling engines as he continued to look at the area ahead. “He come out here on foot before first light. Spread out, an’ when you find a stake, yell so we can figure out the layout.”

  Service had no idea what what was going on, but puttered slowly eastward with the other officers.

  Moody found the first stake, and by then Homes announced he could see a lifting shack that was eight feet or so long, and two or three feet wide—shaped like a big Popsicle. Inside it the rats would place a space heater to protect the men pulling the nets from beneath the ice while they harvested their take. It took a while for Service to see what Homes was pointing to. The shed had been painted white and pale blue-gray to make it less visible. It was damn effective camouflage, Service noted, not the work of an amateur.

  Homes sent Kangas north to try to locate the northernmost stake, and when that was found they reconvened at the first stake where Homes used an ice spud to clear the hole in the ice and hook the net line. The net line was connected to a crude wooden superstructure made of two-by-fours that the fishermen slid under the ice through a series of holes. The nets were attached to the superstructure, with weights to hold them down on the rocky bottom where the fish schooled. Homes probed in the hole with a long pole tipped with a hook until he caught something and pulled it up. The net was green nylon and began to ice as soon as it hit the open air, making it heavier and harder to move and manipulate. A few fish were stuck in the net. Homes took one look and said, “Large mesh. Let’s look for net registrations. Dis one is naked,” he added.

  Kangas said, “The one on the north end said SSM one-twenty-two. It’s red.”

  “Sault Saint Marie tribe,” Homes said. “One of dem might be licensed for large mesh—if it’s theirs. But are we dealing with tribals, or rats trying to act like tribals?”

  Homes used the radio to contact Stone. He explained the situation, and Stone said he would make a call and find out who held license SSM 122.

  The men used the time to find the rest of the marker stakes and to clear holes. An hour later Stone called back and said no license number 122 was assigned to the Soo Tribe, and told Homes he and the men should commence pulling the nets.

  They eventually located nine nets connected in a series called a gang, and began the process of pulling them, taking turns in the lifting shack. While some men hauled, others removed illegal whitefish from the nets and stacked them on the ice like firewood.

  They had been at it for more than three hours and had six of the nine nets piled on the ice. Stone came driving out in an unmarked green Ford pickup just as they were loading the unwieldy nets into a sled to be hauled back to the Stonington by one of the snowmobiles. They immediately transferred the icy, stinky nets and illegal fish into the bed of Stone’s truck. Later they would move the ne
ts into the evidence locker in the Escanaba office across from the U.P. State Fairgrounds, and let the legal process work. The fish would be frozen for later distribution to the needy.

  “Dis will hurt da rats,” Stone said, appraising the day’s work. “Each net costs dose bastards eight grand new.” Service blinked several times: The value of the gang was more than fifty thousand dollars? Suddenly the economic underpinnings of the seizure strategy made sense to him. Hobby fishermen didn’t invest fifty grand in equipment. The rats who told reporters they fished illegally to stay off welfare were bullshitting; this was about money, big money by U.P. standards.

  “Surprised we haven’t had visitors,” Homes said to Stone.

  “I expect we will,” the acting lieutenant said, staring south toward Burn’t Bluff. “Air Four’s got his eyes on da Port Bar up near da park. Dere’s a heap a machines dere, an’ if da rats get liquored up and come lookin’ for trouble, Pranger will give us a call.” Stone turned to Service. “You want to help Moody in da lift shack?”

  Service went inside and found a perspiring, red-faced Moody. “I’ll take over,” Service said after watching for a minute or so. Moody stepped back and lit a cigar. He crossed his arms and pulled on his elbows to stretch his muscles. “Be nice to have a winch,” Moody said wistfully.

  Service, who lifted weights and ran every day to stay in condition, soon found his neck, back, and arms burning from the effort of pulling the net, but he eventually got into a rhythm. He was paying attention only to what he was doing when there was a loud crunch and he was bounced off the wall of the shack and dropped hard to one knee, dazed but still clutching the net he had been recovering.

  Moody grunted, “Fuck!” and shouldered the door open.

  Service heard someone screaming, “Youse Nazi bastards have pulled your last fuckin’ nets!” and Moody was yelling something about a truck.

  Service tried to get out the door, but someone came crashing in and began punching and clubbing him. Service ducked, slid on wet ice, and sank a leg into the hole in the ice as the man landed on top, flailing at him with a board or a stick, an attack that was more emotion and testosterone than effect. Outside Service heard men shouting and the roar of unmuffled snowmobiles and knew that whatever was happening was larger than his attacker in the shack. He wrestled the man to the side, got a hand free, and jabbed him in the throat with the heel of his hand. The attacker immediately rolled off and started gagging. Service got to his feet, but the man was persistent, and although still gagging audibly, he clawed fruitlessly and furiously at Service’s legs, trying to tackle him. Service took a half step, pivoted, and drove a fist into the man’s temple, stopping him where he was.

  Service shouldered his way through the door looking for Moody, but found the hood of a truck against the shack. All around him snowmobiles were racing around, and men in twos and threes were fighting and wrestling and swearing and grunting, and as he tried to figure it all out, his attacker again came at him from behind and tried to put him in a bear hug. Service pivoted away and smashed the man’s collarbone with a short, hard chop. The assailant bellowed in pain and dropped to his knees as Service drove his hand into the man’s throat again, and looked up to see another pickup truck coming directly at the lift shack.

  He was too tired to think clearly, and before he could decide how to evade, the truck slid sideways and stopped about five feet away from him. Stone, hanging out the driver’s window, shouted, “Jump in!”

  “My machine!” Service protested.

  “Da rats got it!” Stone said. “Get your ass in!”

  Service got a foot on the back bumper and rolled into the bed of the truck, landing on a pile of slimy, icy green nylon that reeked of fish.

  A man with a black ski mask was trying to run toward Stone’s truck, a rifle in hand, but the truck began to fishtail and bounce wildly, its tires burning the ice as Stone tried to get purchase and accelerate. As soon as he had a little momentum he headed west, away from shore onto the bay ice.

  From the rear of the truck Service watched snowmobiles turning to pursue, but it was hard to stay focused as the truck bounced and slid and yawed over the ice. Service managed to find a strip of metal welded to the side of the bed and took hold, feeling the cold sear his bare hand.

  The wind blowing against him was freezing the leg he had dunked to mid-thigh and his face and hands, but he had no choice but to hold on. He managed to wrap some net mesh around his hand to keep his skin from direct contact with metal.

  Eventually most of the snowmobiles broke off the chase and turned back to the east. Only a few continued to follow; Service counted four. It took several seconds to realize these were the other officers, and the machine that was missing was his. It also dawned on him that both thermoses, his helmet, goggles, gauntlets, binoculars, and flashlight were still on the Rupp.

  As they approached the Stonington, Stone slowed considerably and began a deliberate and careful meandering course to the southwest, paralleling an eight-foot-high pressure ridge built up between the shore and the water’s edge. After a while Stone stopped the truck and told Service to get out and walk. As soon as he was over the side Stone gunned the engine and the nose of the truck shot up the pressure ridge like a sounding whale, and crashed down hard on the other side, still on four wheels, but leaving the confiscated fishing nets draped over the cab and tailgate. Service scrambled over the ice berm, pushed the nets back into the bed, and got into the passenger seat.

  “Okay?” Stone asked, driving north and weaving between icy boulders sculpted by wind on the snow-covered barrens.

  Service put his hands on the heater. “My stuff’s on my machine.”

  “We’ll get you more. You see da boys?”

  “They’re coming. The rats ran with them for a while.”

  “Dat’s typical. Dey had dere attack. Typically dey chase for a bit, an’ den retreat.”

  The marines had used similar tactics in Vietnam, Service remembered; only when they chased their enemies, they meant to kill them.

  The other officers were still a couple of hundred yards out on the ice when Stone found a relatively clear path through the barrier cedars and followed it to the unplowed two-track road that led into the area where the squads and trailers were parked at the cemetery. He left the engine running, and handed Service his thermos. He groped under his seat and pulled out a flat pint of brandy, uncapped it, and set it between them. “Drink.”

  The officers pulled up on their snowmobiles as Stone got on the radio. He called Air Four several times, got no response, and finally reached Shaw on the radio.

  “Where are youse?” Shaw asked.

  “Back where you guys started dis morning,” Stone said.

  “On our way.”

  “You guys hear what happened out dere?” Stone asked.

  “Sort of. Air Four called us and said you needed backup. We ran hard but got only to the parking lot before we got pelted with rocks and bottles.”

  “Air Four called you?”

  “He said he couldn’t raise any of youse.”

  “Okay, see you in a few.”

  Service got out. All the men were wide-eyed. Moody had a nasty cut on his ear. Homes had a cheek that was swelling fast, and Kangas was carrying his left arm like it had been broken.

  “What happened?” Service asked.

  “Asshole with an ice spud,” Kangas said. “Fuckers were on us before we could react.”

  Service lit a cigarette and watched Homes scoop snow to hold against his face. Air Four had reached backup, but not the group under assault. Had their radios failed? Communications failures had been a way of life and had cost lives in Vietnam.

  Stone got out of his truck and handed Service another cup of coffee.

  “Who won?” Homes asked with a stupid grin.

  “We got six of dere nine
nets,” Stone said. “Right now dat’s da only score we care about, boys. Budge, I’m gonna follow youse over ta da hospital in Escanaba.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” Kangas complained.

  “Dat shoulder needs attention.”

  Homes grinned. “It was like a joust out dere.”

  “What that was,” Kangas said, “was a clusterfuck.”

  Moody joined in. “Why didn’t somebody warn us we were about to get rammed?”

  “She happened too fast,” Stone said. “Air Four called Shaw and Stevenson for backup, but Joe couldn’t reach us.”

  “Our equipment is shit,” Kangas said. “We can’t chase when we need to, and we were damn lucky to get outta there with the rats hot on our asses.”

  Shaw and Stevenson pulled in and got out. Shaw’s windshield was broken out; he had jammed cardboard in the opening to help disrupt the wind flow. Stone walked around the two patrol cars and stopped behind Stevenson’s. “You got a bullet hole back here—small caliber. You see da shooter?”

  “Never knew anything was fired until now,” Stevenson said, looking shaky.

  The eight men slowly began to relax and exchange bits and pieces of the action, but Stone cut them off, insisting that Kangas and Moody get to the hospital, and the others pack it in and write their action reports.

  Service and Homes were the last to leave. “What forms do I use for lost equipment?” Service asked.

  Homes poked around in his Plymouth, but came up empty-handed. “Stop at the office in Escanaba tomorrow and draw what you need. Connie will handle it.”

  As a marine, Service had been accustomed to debriefings fairly soon after actions; the informality and apparent disorder of this aftermath left him confused and shaking his head. You couldn’t learn from mistakes if you didn’t catalog and dissect them.

  “If we don’t get our shit together,” Service said, “somebody’s gonna get killed.”

  Homes grinned and patted the larger man on the back. “Three patrols and you’re already bitchin’ like an old-timer. Do you realize dat’s da first time we ever run a truck all da way across da ice from Garden ta Stonington?”