“Cheyenne Bottoms must be about as far from any coastline as you can get in the continental United States, and yet it says here this place sees over half a million shorebirds during migration season. I suppose the reason I’ve never heard of it before is that I’m not a birder.”
Traz gazed around, taking in the building’s elegant architecture. Behind them, a bank of large windows followed a gentle curve around the edge of a small marsh. “I’m betting there’s a lot of birders who’ve never heard of this place, either,” said Traz. He was willing to indulge Verity’s interest in this vast freshwater wetland in the middle of Kansas’s agricultural landscape, and even credit it as being genuine. But he was aware, too, that while they were standing at the displays in the visitor centre, surrounded by people who were also marvelling over this natural phenomenon, she wouldn’t need to answer any questions about what had happened at the diner. She’d crawled into the back seat of the Buick as soon as they left Denzley’s Roadside Dinah, claiming tiredness and mumbling a promise about filling him in later. She’d feigned sleep, or otherwise, until he had pulled up in the visitor centre parking lot.
He joined Verity at a display of Whooping Cranes in a glass case. “You see them up close like this,” said Traz, shaking his head, “and you realize just what stunning birds they are.”
“Good job, too,” said Verity. “It’s charisma that attracts the cash. If they looked like the Attwater’s Prairie Chicken, no doubt all that conservation funding would have gone to other causes.”
She moved off and picked up a box holding what looked to be shell casings. Traz nestled in beside her. “Verry,” he said in a hushed tone, “we need to talk about what happened back there.”
She looked up at the wall map. “Let’s take this drive,” she said, tracing the route with her finger. She tapped the space at the end of the track significantly. “I think that’d make a dandy place for a talk.”
They trundled along the narrow dirt road in silence. On each side ran a narrow, water-filled ditch flanked by a stand of reeds. Traz pointed out a duck skulking in the shelter of the vegetation. “Cinnamon Teal,” he said. But before Verity could properly take in the bird’s handsome rusty plumage and bright red eye, Traz gunned the engine and began speeding over the uneven surface. “Something interesting down here.”
“Man, you birders have good eyes.”
“There’s a group of people gathered around a scope and they’re all pointing excitedly. For us birders, that’s sometimes a hint,” he said with an ironic grin. They pulled up at the edge of a large body of water glinting in the midday sunshine. A group of birders were gathered around two spotting scopes, murmuring between themselves animatedly. Even Verity could tell there was something different here. This wasn’t just the suppressed excitement that accompanied a normal bird sighting. There was real tension in the air. On the far side of the water she saw two Whooping Cranes, an adult and a juvenile. They were standing just above the waterline, the light on their plumage like a faint sheen of dust. But Traz was not playing his bins on the birds. Instead, he was concentrating on a dense stand of narrow-leaf cattails that fringed the water.
“See it, to the left?” asked one of the women, looking through the nearest scope. She spoke in hushed tones although the birds were nowhere near close enough to be disturbed by human voices.
Traz had already seen it, but he murmured his thanks anyway. His eyes stayed at his bins.
“What, what is it?” asked Verity. “What are you looking at?”
Traz handed her his binoculars and pointed to a stand of pale grass just beyond the reeds. “A bobcat. It’s stalking the birds.”
Through the veil of grass, Verity saw a tawny shape. The bobcat’s stare was focused on the young bird nearest the stand of reeds. The colt was still preening itself, utterly unaware of the danger that was approaching in such a deliberate, menacing fashion.
“We should call to see if there is a ranger nearby,” she said. “Somebody needs to stop this.”
“It’s kind of hard not to get emotional, isn’t it?” said the woman at the scope. “But it’s just nature taking its course.”
“It’s not about being emotional,” said Verity. “There’s some pretty good rational arguments to be made for saving that bird. Based on the costs of all the programmes involved in restoring the wild Whooping Crane population, each bird represents an investment of thousands of dollars. That’s a lot of money to spend on something to have it end up as bobcat food.”
“People can’t have it both ways, though,” said the woman. “Even though they’re a protected species, these cranes are wild. And that means they’re subject to natural predation.”
“But other prey species come from populations that already have viable genetic diversity. The world’s entire population of migratory Whooping Cranes derives from fifteen individuals. With such a narrow gene base, the loss of any one individual is potentially far more damaging to the prospects for survival of the species.” She looked at Traz. “We have to do something to save that bird.”
One or two of the group had momentarily turned from watching the bobcat to focus on the discussion. Traz suspected they were as conflicted over the spectacle unfolding before them as the two women were, but no one offered a comment in support of either position.
“Well, I’m sure there’s lots of differing points of view on these things,” said the woman uncertainly.
“Not so much,” said Verity, letting her frustration rise. “The importance of genetic diversity to species survival is pretty much agreed upon, as far as I know. I’m telling you, to allow the loss of such a valuable set of allele modifications when we could still do something about it would be a big mistake.”
The woman seemed to stiffen at Verity’s tone, but a momentary stirring among the other birders defused the standoff. The adult bird had wandered closer to the stand of reeds, but the watchers knew it was in no danger. The kick of a fully-grown crane was formidable, and it was something the bobcat would be keen to avoid. It was the smaller bird that the cat was concentrating on. It had crept slightly closer and now it was staring intently at the colt, frozen in position. The group watched in silence, but the bobcat showed no signs of moving.
“I’m sure the professional researchers all know a lot more about this than you or I,” resumed the woman pleasantly, still watching through her scope.
“I’m pretty sure they’d all say this species needs as much genetic diversity as it can get,” said Verity. “Each new generation represents one more round of genetic variance. To lose those advances, even for one breeding cycle, could be critical. There might be vital epigenetic changes being carried by those alleles. We can still stop this. Does anyone have the number for the visitor centre?”
“It’s moving.”
The announcement snatched the group’s attention away from Verity’s request. They watched as the bobcat made its stealthy, deliberate progress towards its prey. It seemed impossible the predator could approach so closely without being detected. But with each hesitant, hovering half-step it set softly down among the grasses, it closed the distance to the unsuspecting colt. A few more footfalls and it would be in range to spring, to embed its needle-like claws into the young crane’s neck and draw it in for a fatal bite from the powerful jaws.
“I can’t bear this,” said Verity desperately. “I can’t believe I just have to stand by and watch this happen.”
“I think it might be too late for any intervention now,” said Traz, his eyes firmly pressed against his bins. “That bobcat’s going to strike at any moment.”
The young crane had its head turned away from the danger, cropping at its wing feathers. There was a shimmer in the grass as the bobcat drew itself into a launch position. The action unfurled like a slow-motion explosion. As the bobcat burst from its cover, the adult reared back, wings flailing and calling loudly. The startled colt looked up in alarm, the action taking its neck fractionally out of reach of the bobcat’s outstretched paw. A claw made contact, but the cat couldn’t embed it into the bird’s flesh, instead spinning sideways and falling to the ground. It recovered and sprang again, but by now the adult had moved in, kicking wildly at the cat and allowing the colt to lift off into the air. The cat leapt once more, a valiant, spring-loaded effort that launched it high above the ground. But by now, both birds were airborne, twisting to distance themselves from the cat’s final lunges. Within seconds, the cranes had disappeared from view over the marshes and the bobcat had melted back into the cover of the grass. Stillness returned to the scene, only the ripples on the water whispering of the drama that had just unfolded on its shores.
There was a collective expulsion of pent-up breath and even a smattering of relieved applause. Traz watched as the contented group packed their equipment and moved off, the woman with whom Verity had exchanged views studiously avoiding eye contact now.
“And to think, there are people who say birdwatching isn’t exciting,” he said to Verity as the others left. “I can’t believe that woman didn’t pick up that you were an expert in this stuff, especially after you laid out your points so clearly.”
Verity shrugged. “She wouldn’t have paid no mind to me, no matter what I said, not delivered in this country twang,” she said, over-extending the last word derisively. “Maybe if I’d fed my lines to you, to say in that cute Canadian accent of yours.”
“Like a ventriloquist and her dummy, you mean?”
“Thought never crossed my mind.”
The casual way Verity had brushed off the woman’s dismissive attitude was in stark contrast to the passion with which she’d defended her position. There were a lot of layers to Verity Brown, thought Traz. It was time to start peeling away at least one of them. “Now we talk about the diner,” he said.
She nodded and pointed to an observation point on the northern rim of the reserve. “Up there.”
From their vantage point on the North Rim observation platform, the entire great basin of Cheyenne Bottoms spread out before them. The catchment area was a mosaic of grasslands and waterways, shimmering in the distance like a mirage.
“You think about what habitat restoration must cost in a place like this, and you weigh that against the thousands of dollars spent to preserve a single species.” Traz inclined his head. “It does make you wonder.”
“Priority-threat management versus eco-pragmatism. That’s the battle for the soul of the conservation movement, right there.” Verity shook her head doubtfully. “The greater good argument might work for human society, but I’m not sure it applies with endangered species. There’s a continuum of DNA variations down through the ages, vitally important information we can tap into. That would all be lost if we had let a species like the Whooping Crane go extinct.”
“Surely, in the case of Whooping Cranes, most of that information has already been irretrievably lost because the gene pool dipped so low.”
Verity hesitated, as if Traz’s objections had knocked her argument off track. “Seems to me, then, it’s even more vital that we don’t lose any more.” She tilted her head slightly, as if to listen to the silence out over the reserve. “Pretty quiet here now, huh? Guess it wasn’t always that way. During the war, B29 bombers used to fly practice runs over these lands. They’d drop bags of flour with detonators in them and fire off shells.”
Traz turned to look at her. “I thought you’d never heard of this place.”
“You should have paid more attention to the displays at the visitor centre. Those 50mm casings I was looking at were recovered from the reserve.” She nodded. “There were five air bases in central Kansas back in those days.” She paused and turned to look at Traz earnestly. “This area has always taken its military responsibilities seriously. Those coordinates we checked out this morning, Traz, up around Salina. They’re near the old Schilling Air Force Base. There is still a lot of military equipment up that way.”
He nodded. “I know. I saw the signs when we were getting close.”
“Those MPs at the diner were a little twitchy about what we were doing up there.”
“What business is it of theirs?” he asked sharply. “We weren’t on their land. They don’t have any right to question the actions of people just driving around the area.”
“Yeah,” said Verity, shaking her head dubiously, “the U.S. military isn’t all that crazy about people telling them what their rights are, especially when it comes to protecting their facilities.”
“I wasn’t interested in their facilities. I was looking for Whooping Crane stopover sites.”
“The thing is,” she said cautiously, “that compound we drove all the way around in Oklahoma, that was a military facility, too. Vance Air Force Base.” She looked at the tangerine Buick behind them, the metal flake paintwork glittering in the bright sunlight. “This is a pretty noticeable car, Traz, and it’s been spotted near three military facilities in the past four days. That first place we stopped, in Texas, that was near Fort Hood.”
“It’s just where the coordinates took me,” said Traz defensively. “It’s understandable, though. A lot of those military bases cover huge areas of open land. They’re well protected, and for security’s sake they aren’t going to be densely vegetated and overgrown. Cranes like that low, scrubby habitat, and if you throw in a couple of shallow ponds, you’ve got pretty much perfect habitat for a stopover.”
Verity shrugged. “All I’m saying is, the car is on the military’s radar now. If any more of those coordinates are going to take us close to other military establishments, I’d give them a miss.”
Traz looked out over the stands of honey-coloured grass in the vast basin, swaying like fields of wheat. Above them, two Northern Harriers danced across the sky in courtship. “Why didn’t you want me to talk to them at the diner?”
“I thought it was best if they believed it was an American who was driving around these places. You’re travelling on a Canadian passport. Our countries are supposed to be on friendly terms. I mean, I’m sure they spy on each other all the time, but they have to at least pretend they don’t.”
“I’m not a spy,” protested Traz. “This is crazy. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.” He turned away in frustration. Damian’s directive not to tell the authorities anything meant he couldn’t even tell them he was innocent. But that didn’t mean he was guilty. Of anything.
To the west, the sun was beginning to set, casting a pink blush over the sky above the wide-open farmland of central Kansas. Clouds were piled high on the horizon like layers of grey cotton. Perhaps they would bring rain. Traz wouldn’t be here to find out. They had to head north. And whether the next set of coordinates led him to a military base or not, he intended to check them out.