BOOK DESCRIPTION
Biologist and wildlife photographer Clayton Porter witnesses what appears to be a routine drug-smuggling flight across the Arizona-Mexico border. Instead, he uncovers a sophisticated operation involving a secret lodge high in the Sierra Madre, canned hunts for endangered jaguars, a ring of opioid-dealing doctors in the U.S., and a string of cartel victims partially consumed by a large predator. After he unwittingly throws a wrench into the works, Porter becomes a target of revenge, and resorts to skills from his military service to save himself and those close to him.
I’ve chosen for this excerpt a scene that occurs toward the end of Trail of the Jaguar, when the protagonist, Clayton Porter, has lured the leaders of a criminal syndicate to a remote island in the Sea of Cortez, where he hopes to outmaneuver and defeat them. His strategy requires keeping them on his trail until he can lead them to the spot he has chosen in advance, where he has a chance to defeat them with a risky move involving a sea kayak and a fast-moving storm.
A man appeared. From 2,000 meters and at 10x the figure was ant-sized, but I could discern that in his arms he cradled a long-barreled rifle topped by a long, fat scope, while over his shoulder peeked the silhouette of a carbine. I nudged the binoculars to the right, and several seconds later another man appeared, this one with just an assault rifle at port arms, about 200 meters west of the first man. I moved the binoculars to the space between the two contractors, and first one, then the other of the principals appeared. About fifty meters behind the point guards. A broad U-shaped formation. I smiled again.
They were all now in desert-pattern camouflage and matching boonie hats. Very stylish—and effective; when any of them stopped moving they blended in well with the scrub. However, it seemed that only the sniper rifle had a decent camo wrap; the black assault rifles revealed themselves with any movement at all. It’s surprising how sharply sunlight will glint off a barrel and receiver, even from a mile away.
I was sitting under a small ironwood tree on an otherwise exposed slope. It was about 120 meters to cover over the top. I had chosen this spot on purpose, as well as that 2,000-meter separation between me and them.
I needed to trick them—convincingly—into thinking I had unwittingly exposed myself. I wanted them chasing me, but they needed to believe I was really on the run rather than baiting them deliberately toward some trap.
And to do that, I needed to let their sniper take a shot at me. And just hope he missed.
It was the only way to be convincing, because no matter how I might have fooled them before and no matter how much they would be on their guard for more tricks, they would know that no one would be stupid enough to deliberately expose himself to a sniper.
I know what you’re thinking. But stay with me.
The craft and technology of sniping had advanced considerably since 1967, when a Marine sergeant named Carlos Hathcock mounted a two-foot-long Unertl scope atop a tripod-mounted Browning .50-caliber machine gun, set the fire selector to single, and killed a Vietcong soldier 2,250 meters—1.4 miles—away. It was a record that would stand for 35 years, until a Canadian soldier named Aaron Perry, on duty in the Middle East, beat it in 2002—with a highly specialized .50-caliber rifle—at 2,310 meters. That record was extended by another Canadian, Rob Furlong, just days later, to 2,430 meters. (Someone once asked me why the Canadians were so good at killing people from so far away. I replied, “They’re Canadians. They’re polite. They don’t want to bother anyone with the noise.”)
For several years the record stood at 2,475 meters, courtesy of a British soldier wielding a rifle made by Accuracy International, in .338 Lapua. Then in in 2017 that number was obliterated by an unnamed, yes, Canadian shooter, who dropped an ISIS militant at an unbelievable 3,540 meters—over two miles.
Consider the physics of that shot, made with another .50-caliber rifle. At that distance the bullet’s flight time was almost ten seconds. Since bullets do not travel in a straight line, but in an arc due to gravity, the sight line has to be adjusted accordingly. For a .50-caliber bullet to be on target at 3,450 meters, the top of its trajectory would have been 140 meters—450 feet—above the ground. No scope can compensate for that much drop; it would have been entirely up to the shooter to put his crosshairs over the correct spot in mid air in order to make the hit.
That’s not all. Besides wind drift, the shooter actually has to compensate for the spin of the earth, which continues to rotate under the flying bullet. Shoot eastward at those distances and your shot will impact slightly higher; shoot westward and it will impact slightly lower. Then there is earth curvature, bullet spin, temperature, humidity . . .
Sorry—where was I? Oh, right. Shit.
Such stupendously long shots are mind-blowing, but those shooters were, first, in the top .001 percentile of their craft, second, they were all in solid emplacements with solid rests, and, finally, they had spotters who could accurately laser the exact range and monitor crosswinds. Under hasty and impromptu field conditions, a 2,000-meter shot was stupendously long—but, I hoped, one that would be tempting enough for my man to try.
I couldn’t tell what brand of rifle he was carrying, but it was almost certainly some high-end model from Accuracy International or the like. It would be heavy, at least 15 or 16 pounds with a scope, and he’d been humping it up from the coast, along with a carbine and, no doubt, a pack filled with water and food. The exertion would affect his accuracy no matter how fit and good he was, as would the fact that he’d have no time to range me. I would also be moving, although slowly so as to appear unconcerned.
All in all I figured I had about a 90 to 95 percent chance of escaping un-holed.
It was now or never. I cinched the shoulder straps of the pack, stood, and began striding briskly uphill, a man on a mission but not rushing
Author Bio –
He has since written for a score of outdoor and adventure magazines including Outside, National Geographic Adventure, Nature Conservancy, and Global Adventure, and has authored a dozen books on subjects including natural history, sea kayaking, wildlife tracking, and expedition travel.
Jonathan’s exploration experience encompasses land- and sea-scapes on six continents, from the Atacama Desert to the Beaufort Sea, from the Rift Valley to the Australian Outback, and modes of transportation from sea kayaks to sailboats to bicycles to Land Cruisers.
He has traveled among and worked with cultures as diverse as the Seri Indians and the Himba, the Inuit and the Maasai. Jonathan has taught tracking, natural history writing, four-wheel-driving techniques, and other subjects for many conservation and government organizations.
He is an elected fellow of the Explorers Club and the Royal Geographical Society, and a charter member of Backcountry Hunters and Anglers, and lives in Southern Arizona with his wife of 37 years, Roseann Beggy Hanson.
You can follow Jonathan’s Overland Tech and Travel blog and order signed books at ExploringOverland.com.
Social Media Links –
www.facebook.com/authorjonathanhanson
https://www.instagram.com/jonathanhansonauthor/
PUBLICATION DATE: 1st March 2021
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