Chapter 1

It was a stupid bet, but then all drunk bets are stupid bets. It started with a jackalope, a jack rabbit with pronghorn antelope horns positioned behind the ears. There was a head mounted over the next to last cheap bar that John Tyler and Rod Williams visited that night. It was a friendly bet, score with the cute little bartender. Loser had to hunt down a jackalope. They both lost, so they looked for another bar.

As fate would have it, O'Brian's Bar had a moose head mounted on the wall and a good looking red headed bartender with wonderful freckles on her nose. They were soon in love as only obnoxious drunks can be and the bet was adjusted, with the same results. The bartender's husband was the co-owner of the bar.

But the two men believed in honor, especially drunken honor and another minor adjustment was made to the bet. After they both scored with some bartender (obviously it would be a female) or some bar maid, they would each shoot a moose. Whoever bagged the biggest rack (moose not female) would be the winner. They weren't all that that clear what the payoff would be.

John Tyler was 44 years old but would look older the next morning with his daily hangovers. Rod Williams was just under 1.85 meters and if you watched them when they were not drunk or hung over, it was clear that they were military, or at least had been. Military bearing, you can spot it a mile away. Rod was lean, almost skinny looking, his salt and pepper hair kept short. At night he didn't need camouflage, but don't call him brother unless you're special ops. He signed up when he was 18 years old and served for 25 years. Last year he got tired of the chicken shit and retired. He was an NCO and proud of it. In his opinion, most officers couldn't find their ass with both hands, not just REMF either. There were some special ops officers he respected, but they were only the exceptions that proved the rule.

John Tyler called him brother even though Tyler was a pasty white color. Ugly. The man should get a tan or something. John shared a similar background with Rod. They also shared a bitch of a problem. They were used up emotionally. They tried working jobs but felt like Jews in Sadr City. They joined a motorcycle gang but the adrenaline rush from a big bike didn't really measure up to being pinned down by heavy machine gun fire with mortars coming in. They got into some bar fights but it was just too easy. What the fuck, they were supposed to protect civilians, not beat the crap out of them.

So they got drunk every night. Rod was pretty sure he would start drinking early in the morning soon. Within a year he figured he'd be dead. The way he looked at it, he'd done more than his share of duty to his country. He deserved to rest.

Rod was desperate for coffee. Tyler was asleep so Rod started a pot, popped a few Tylenol s, and turned on the local hip hop station. Tyler hated hip hop.

Goddamn that's loud, Rod said to himself as his headache beat in time to the music. Oh god, I think I'm going to throw-up.

"Williams," John said from his bedroom. "You know I can handle a hang-over better than you can. Why do you torture yourself? We need to talk about this moose trip. It's a pretty good idea. You had arctic survival, didn't you?"

"I'll kill you before I tell you that." Rod said as he turned down the volume.

"I did too. What say we parachute into the Alaskan wilderness and hunt a fucking moose?"

"Sounds boring unless the moose are armed," Rod replied.

"You are missing the point dumb ass," John said. "We go in separately, maybe 150 or 200 klicks from our extraction point. We carry no food and minimum gear. It's just like a mission except we don't kill people."

"That would be a nice change of pace but I'm not sure I want to be alone with my thoughts for that long," Rod admitted.

"When I said minimum gear I was including several bottles of Jim Bean for medical emergencies."

"Sorry I never went on a mission with you. You're fucking A with logistics," Rod smiled.

"Williams you're too fucking dumb to have plans," John said. "So sit down and write this list."

Some things were easy to agree on. No food; catch food or go hungry. No bug spray; bug spray was for tourists. Making a fire was a pain in the ass - they had already proved they could do that in any weather; take a butane lighter. It was going to be cold and it was going to rain; take a sleeping bag, extra clothes, rain gear, a ground cloth, and a tarp. A canteen, small pot to cook in, a couple of snares, a big fucking knife that doubled as an axe, a small knife, a small med kit, a radio that neither would use unless he was dying, 4 to 6 bottles of Jim Bean, a week's worth of toilet paper, all were agreed on along with other small items.

"Williams," John said during a pause while he poured another mug of coffee. "An M-16 isn't going to cut it. Hit a moose at 200 meters and he will shrug it off. Hit a Grizzly at 200 and he's going to get mad. We need something with more humph."

"So what do you want, a .50 cal sniper rifle?"

"Too heavy," John said, missing the joke. "I've always wanted a Weatherby. When I was a kid I saw movies of safaris. One shot from a Weatherby would bring down a bull elephant. It was cool."

"How much do they cost?" Rod asked.

"A bunch, but we can afford it. I never spent much of my pay and in case you haven't noticed we don't pay shit for clothes, rent, and food. It's only our bar tab that hits our money."

"So we are playing great white hunter," Rod said. "Well fuck you Bawana. I may be black but I am not carrying your pack."

"Even a black man is smart enough to like this rifle," Rod said. "A Weatherby .375, muzzle velocity is 950 meter per second. It delivers almost 7000 joules. It may not take down a bull elephant but it will take down a Cape Buffalo."

"How much does it weigh?"

"Six kilos?" John's answer was almost a question.

"Jesus Christ, Tyler," Rod said. "How the hell do you expect us to carry that?"

"It's not that bad. This isn't paint gun. We don't have to carry 1000 rounds."

"How many rounds do you plan to carry?" Rod asked.

"They come twenty to a box so I figure twenty rounds," John said.

Even at 6 kilograms the rifle kicked like a mule. Fifteen grams at 950 meters per second (nearly three times the speed of sound) is a bunch of momentum, about twice as much as a Nolan Ryan fastball. That gives it a kick. The ability to stop a target comes from the kinetic energy and the bullet had 44 times the kinetic energy of Ryan's best fastball, 102 mph - the fastest ever recorded. The rifle was meant to deliver that kinetic energy in a vital place, not to a wooden bat. The rifle was also loud. By the time John and Rod were ready to sight in their pistols, quite a crowd had gathered.

The range master announced cease fire. Tyler looked around carefully, making sure that every idiot had heard and was complying with the announcement. Most of these dumb asses had no idea what muzzle discipline was. When it was clear that they were complying, he pulled the bolt back and started walking down range to get the two targets.

As Tyler was walking back, a man approached Rod. The man was white haired and stooped over. He said something. Rod realized he still had his ear muffs on. He pulled them down to his neck and said, "I'm sorry sir, I didn't catch that."

The old man held out his hand as they walked back to the firing range. "My name's Jim Hartwell," he said. "You're military, aren't you?"

"Yes sir. At least I was."

"Don't call me sir. I was an honest man, an enlisted man. I answer to Jim or Gunny."

"A pleasure to meet you Gunny. I'm Rod Williams. Call me Rod, or Shit-for-brains. I'll answer to either of those."

"Shit-for-brains?"

"I served twenty-five years."

"You do have shit for brains," Gunny laughed. "What are those cannons you two were shooting?"

"Come on over," Rod said. "I'll introduce you to my friend and we'll explain. If you want to take a couple of shots, you're welcome to."

Gunny fired the and told some stories of Vietnam. They ate dinner at his house and crashed in his extra bedrooms. John and Rod woke up almost without a hangover for the first time in almost six months.

A house keeper made breakfast for the three men. When the small talk died down Gunny said, "You two are still carrying decades of guilt, aren't you?"

Neither man answered.

"Do you think this Alaskan trip will help?" Gunny asked.

"I don't know," Rod said. "It can't hurt. Up until now nothing has helped."

"I've about used up all of my time," said Gunny, "and I've never even seen Alaska. Why don't you let me come with you?"

John and Rod exchanged a glance. "Gunny," Rod said, "you wouldn't make it in the brush."

"You do have shit for brains," Gunny said. "I don't want to be on the ground, dumb ass. I want to be in the airplane. So not only do I get to go in the plane, each of you mother fuckers has to have a radio beacon so I can track you as you move around, or laugh at your ass when you get stuck."