The Fox Hunter

By Geoffrey Ashton

pilot, geoffrey lincoln, mentally shattered after the death of his wife retires to the life of a recluse on his remote sheep farm - his only interest is the hunting of the foxes which not only destroy his lambs but most of the small wildlife around.
corrupt politicians and other learn of vast mineral wealth under his farm and use threats and physical violence to scare him away - this intimidation has the opposite effect and with the help of new friends and using his fox hunting skills he fights back, dragging himself out of his terminal reverie.
in the process of fight back he is forced to recognise his psychological demons when he meets Genevieve, the proprietor of the town coffee shop - His psyche is torn between a new female interest and the love of his dead wife.
- a gripping thriller with numerous sub plots

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoffrey Ashton
• Release date: Apr 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9780992283414

Geoffrey Ashton

A professional pilot for his entire career Geoffrey Ashton draws on a wealth of international scenarios to weave tales of action and romance in the thriller genre. His trilogy, Contrail, The Fox Hunter and The Ryan Saga weave stories of action and suspense around his lead character Geoffrey Lincoln

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@ Copywrite Geoffrey Ashton 2014 All rights Reserved

No part of this work may be produced in any form without prior permission of the author

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

This is Geoffrey Ashton’s second book. His first book, a thriller ‘Contrail’, traces the journey of corporate pilot Geoffrey Lincoln as he and his passengers try to survive the attack of an international espionage group intent on stealing the nuclear secrets of his passenger group.

Geoffrey Ashton, a professional pilot for all his working life weaves a complete different story in ‘The Fox Hunter’. A tale of big business, politics and corruption, a theme all too familiar in today’s society.

The warm sun reflected on the burnished orange of the fox’s pelt and warmed the animal. Escaping the cold and shadows of the creek bed as the sun rose, the dog fox had worked his way through the long waving dead grass towards the high point on the ridge, stopping frequently to sniff the air, and listen for any of the warning smells or sounds he had come to recognise as danger. He and his shadow, would have been invisible to all by not exposing himself, but using the tracks within the grass to navigate. Summer had been good with ample rain, and ample rain meant ample food as every animal in the food chain engaged in prolific breeding to maintain  the destiny that belongs to every living thing.

Rising above the grassy paddock, a grizzled landscape of razor cliffs, plummeting canyons and dark canopy  stretched for nearly a million wild acres. A flock of Galahs noisily echoed the fox’s presence as he briefly broke cover across a tractor mark in the grass. Luck had been with him in his five years of life. He had been well educated by experience. The close call with the car had left him with a healthy respect for lights that suddenly appear in the blackness of the night. The sound of the shot, the smell of man, and the neat hole in his left ear causing a perpetual droop had been a lesson he would never forget. But most of all, for some unknown genetic reason, he had escaped the mange which by now had taken all his siblings.

The animal positioned himself below the ridge of the high ground out of sight of all but the most observant in a sunny patch in the long grass. Twitching ears and nose were his main long range detection mechanisms. He knew that to see was also to be seen. The scent drifting on the wind reached him long before the sounds of movement in the distance. He recognised the scent and associated it with man and death.

The strident call of the peacocks strutting their way around the side of the old fibro house interrupted the man’s reverie; that call, and the bellowing of a calf-less cow in a far distant paddock, the only sounds around. Geoff knew what the peacocks were after. He had been away in the city for a few days on his motorbike and on his return the birds were hungry. The peacock pair had become lazy foragers owing to his frequent feeding and he knew he was doing them a disservice. With the current circumstances of his life he had come to believe that his life horizons were limited and maybe in the event of his death, they would eventually have to fend for themselves.

The sun, intermittently bursting through the scudding clouds, saw the plumage of the male bird vibrate its many colours. Geoff was still in his mid forties, even so, the old farmhouse would probably see him out, the white splotches of peeling paint like some gross disease, all too obvious. The ceiling in the workshop had partially fallen down whilst he was away and it would mean a trip into town for some masonite to hide the now exposed and torn sarking, rat droppings and partially rotten beams. The weather which had been unseasonably hot and dry after a rainy summer followed by descent into winter had browned off the pastures until they met the green of the tree line in the distance. At least his recent mowing meant the house paddock could now be navigated without tangling with the brown snakes which were usually attracted to the long grass. The mown yard meant he could safely go to the pile of wood in the old shed at the back. With winter half way through he would have to bring more logs down closer to the house as replenishing the fire at night by trekking across the soon to be frosted ground to the back shed was not to be contemplated. Brown snakes hunted at night during hot weather when the ground is cooler, and do not hibernate, but a warm winter day could get them briefly on the move, a gamble not worth taking.

Sitting on his favourite chair out the back of the house, the sun still warming through his blue shirt in the ever lengthening shade of the eucalypts, he looked at the two small blue wrens dancing on the wood pile. The peacocks had stopped their shrilling and the silence was now palpable, the ringing in his ears and the sighing of the afternoon breeze through the leaves along the distant tree border of the property was the only sound.

Looking to the south at the end of the kilometre of golden dried grassland, the wooded escarpment rose into view, splashed with eucalypt khaki green. The grey and amber rock faces were visible amongst the trees, while above, lazy white cumulous crowned the peaks. His sharp eyes picked out an eagle against the white of the cloud, slope soaring in search of an unwary rabbit.

The foxes liked to come to water down in the creek beds during the heat of the day provided there was a ready escape route. Mid winter, this years cubs would be young and silly without the benefit of experience. Their ignorance and curiosity probably would be their downfall.

They were so dumb. This thought crossed Julius’s mind as he wheeled the Bentley out through the automatic gates of his waterfront mansion, ignorantly pushing into the city traffic and earning a scowl from the bullied driver he had just intimidated. Just like lambs waiting to be fleeced.

The success of his latest float had surprised even him. Market timing, that’s what it was all about. Just like gamblers in front of a poker machine, the poor sods couldn’t help themselves. Mind you, he had put a good team together. Robert Fielding his geologist had managed to purchase for a song a number of virtually useless mining leases from some of the big boys. By the time the rest of his team had dressed up the prospectus the document looked so good he had decided to award himself more options. He would make a killing on the opening, and then of course the management fees would start to roll in until the money ran out.

John Redmond his banker friend had come up with the float finance at heavily discounted rates. The bank he worked for were not to know that their senior commercial loans manager had a slice of the action and had therefore bypassed some of the mandatory lending criteria. Anyway, all the bank would see was its loan returned at a healthy profit, once the float had gone through, they would be only too eager to lend again.

He should have got onto this mining float rort earlier. If only he had been born 50 years prior, stick four pegs in the ground and you own everything underneath regardless of what the landowner says. And then just sit on leases for years at peppercorn rentals levied by dumb governments until you could flip them for a multi million dollar profit. I wonder who thought that one up, he thought, surprised that the system had gone on for so long, obviously a case of political patronage for those politicians with snouts in the trough.

Of course all the big boys had taken the decent leases long ago and there were now only slim pickings to be had. No matter, these could be dressed up with the right people. The glossier the prospectus, the more the suckers contributed.

The growth of  Self Managed Superannuation funds had been a godsend for his style of entrepreneurship, uneducated money looking for a home for an old age nest egg that would be long plundered either by governments or people like himself. He was only too glad to open the front door and invite them in. Ah superannuation, a device to corral the sheep so the wolves don’t have to run so far, he laughed to himself, looking at his reflection in the rear view mirror to make sure his wavy reddish hair was still in place.

Must be mandatory for a tradesman to own a white ute, he mused, looking out at the throng of traffic around him but not hearing the noise or smelling the fumes, encased in his separate Bentley world which only the few could share. He was thinking, yes, he was indeed a master of the universe.

Julius was looking forward to his lunch meeting with Chantel Costigan. Chantel was his political insider, having won a seat in Parliament on the Government side at the last election. Some said she had slept her way into the nomination. This avenue to politics was certainly something that Julius thought profoundly plausible, as the two of them had been sleeping together for the last three months, and if Chantel was good at nothing else, she was red hot in bed. Probably one of the true nymphomaniacs he had met, she was insatiable, causing Julius to call time out on a few occasions with bits so sore it hurt every time he dressed or got an erection. Damned awkward at home sometimes, Dianne, when she wanted sex she wanted it now, and twice he had to backup while throbbing with pain from a Chantel encounter. Fortunately both those times had been in a darkened bedroom where his grimace of pain was unnoticed. One time however, he had deliberately flown interstate on an excuse to allow his injured member and the nail marks in his buttocks to recover before he could dare come home.

Just lunch today with Chantel, in fact he was somewhat relieved, he had business things planned for the afternoon, not another session with the moaning and screaming Chantel Costigan.

As usual the Sydney traffic was abominable, a legacy of years of ad hoc planning, rapacious developers  and politicians at all levels on the take, and of course a dearth of political foresight. No more Bradfield’s who built the ten lane Harbour Bridge in the 1920’s. Make a quick buck on cheek by jowl crap buildings, each one pouring more cars onto too few roads, and leave someone else to clean up the mess as you move to your luxury coastal apartment or overseas pad with views over Lake Como.

Make a fortune and then get out of the joint before it crumbles or chokes itself to death, good plan, he thought as the maroon Bentley sat like a queen bee in a hive in the heavy jam, the idling vehicles poisoning not only the other road users but those unlucky enough to live close to main roads, ten years off your life he had read.

The atmosphere in the vehicle was still quiet and comfortable. He had saved a fortune on the car by avoiding luxury vehicle tax. All he had to do was take out a dealers licence. There’s always an angle. The poor sods who were welded to the city by serfdom or ignorance must know that in their lifetime the traffic could only get worse, working all their lives for that super that was either going to be conned out of them by fees, some shyster, or a broke government. And if any money was left the insurance ambulance chasers would con the last dollars out of them for a funeral plan. They may as well just cut their own throats.

Chantel had suggested the lunch meeting which was unusual as he was usually the one who initiated contact. Most times she was only too happy to escape the glad-handing and political backstabbing. Strange system, we select people to run the country and manage billions of dollars in public funds and usually their only qualification is to be able to bullshit. If ever there was a requiem for a species, the Westminster political system was it. Even so Chantel had a good brain, although he would trust her as far as he could kick her.

Dominic’s was full of the glitterati as usual, of the seen and waiting to be seen. The tidal wave of noise and chatter bouncing off the walls assaulted him inside the front door. He had called ahead for a table and was lucky to get one. Only his history of generous tips swayed the day. Some other poor sucker would get an apologetic phone call about the terrible booking error and the discount for a coming dinner to compensate for their inconvenience. Actually the food was fairly ordinary, the joint was only popular because some past political luminaries on their big pensions and tame directorships had started to eat there, mainly that fact had enabled the venue to attract a clientele, in spite of the menu.

Looking around as he entered, he thought that for most of this lot their taste was in their boots anyway. Chantel was not there yet, as usual she would make her late grand entrance. Always trying to give the impression she was so, so, busy, when in fact she had spent the last hour getting a nail touchup.

There are no actual performance requirements for politicians.  Once every four years it’s just a question of who can desecrate a neighbourhood with as many toothy grins and empty promises from telegraph poles as possible, or knock on doors with vague undertakings that are soon overturned or forgotten by an electorate seduced by the cult of personality, A system that gave you a choice of voting for the sociopaths, the incompetent or the corrupt whom the system put forward. Meanwhile they do as they like, accountable to no one for their day to day activities, just hanging out for the next tax payer overseas jolly or their obscenely generous indexed super.

A week ago, before Geoff had gone to the city, the old fox had seen him first when he had been hiking through the hills. He was not looking for foxes this time, content to just enjoy the solitude that a walk in the bush could bring to his psyche. The fox had not been quick enough to go to ground on the ridge before Geoff had seen the telltale flash of red in the long grass. The animal was still out there and would not move far beyond the boundary of his home range; territorial and creatures of habit, just like us.

Being mid winter it may be one of last years pups feeling his oats, foxes reach sexual maturity in their first year, but Geoff had the feeling because of the animals size and the redness of its coat that it had to be his old adversary. He and the large dog fox were clearly evenly matched and had sparred ineffectually together for the last three years. Geoff had been upwind of the animal, which had obviously smelt his presence long before seeing him. The fox was along way from the gully and water, probably at the extremity of his range. Being a frosty morning, he guessed the animal was sunning himself on a warm sunlight bank when it had picked up the human scent on the breeze. Lambing season had come to the valley, so life for the fox was as easy as it gets, the fox was not hungry and did not need to hunt in the day as night would bring dinner and a full belly to the animal and his cohorts of the dark.

The English had done us a great disservice introducing foxes , cats and rabbits to this country, Geoff thought. Foxes were prolific killers of the small and rare native marsupials. Apart from dingo country they had spread across the length and breadth of this vast continent decimating the locals. If you weighed less than six kilograms you were on the menu. Fond of carrion and being omnivores they ate anything living or dead, and often Geoff had seen his new born lambs with their faces and tongues chewed off and left to die agonising and lingering deaths. Geoff reflected on the statistics that each fox ate thousands of mammals birds and reptiles in a normal lifespan.

Normally he adopted a policy of live and let live but the foxes, cats and rabbits were such prolific breeders if left unchecked they and kangaroos would be the dominant species. Some had said that the rabbit had saved thousands from starvation in the depression of the 1930’s but Geoff could see very few redeeming features of the fox except for helping to maintain rabbit numbers. Only one other group of Australians had done their part in keeping fox numbers down, the dingo. Where you had dingoes, foxes or cats could not survive.

Sitting out on the back porch in the morning sun was one of his favourite pastimes at this time of the year as he was usually sheltered from any cold prevailing south westerly breeze by the ageing house. He had an old table set up on the concrete slab which at the moment held his rifle and cleaning gear. One of his old peaked caps shielded his eyes from the sun rising over the easterly escarpment, with the black of the cap contrasting with the ever increasing grey in his dark hair. The air was cool and as usual for this time of year he was wearing his old black flying jacket; a jacket that could tell more stories than the average book. He looked down at his boots, the leather had become stiff and hard and would just last out the coming winter.

The peacocks were still pecking around the seed he had scattered on the grass. The female of the two giving short shrift to the couple of guinea fowl that were trying to horn in on the feeding ground. Adversaries by day when the food was around, the day time combatants huddled together at night on top of the power pole at the front of the house. Ancient instincts told them that being on the ground at night was certain death.

Cleaning the .17 Remington was a long and intricate process, but one that he enjoyed. He had put forty or so rounds through the weapon since the last cleaning, it was time again. Sitting in the mid winter sun on the back porch was the perfect spot to do this job. The 25 grain charge of IMR 4320 and the thirty grain projectile he was loading was at the maximum recommended for the case and at the moment he was getting about  seven shots before the case had to be discarded. The charge gave him nearly 3800 ft/sec on the miniscule round, but left a lot of barrel fouling. These small deposits were not good for extreme accuracy with the 12 to 40 power sniperscope as he calculated on a 20 cent piece sized group at 200 metres using the bipod support.

A hit in the animals muzzle was quick, clean, and instantaneous. With a round travelling 200 metres in three tenths of a second the animal was long dead before the sound of the shot reached it. Killing was not his thing, but as his Krag Marva trainer and friend Robert had always espoused, sometimes it was kill or be killed, except on this occasion, his flocks, his birds, his marsupials were the ones being killed and they needed some help

The Remington had done a lot of work and he had recently detected some barrel wear. Another few hundred rounds would require another trip to his favourite armorer in Sydney for a new rifle. May as well change out the scope as well. The weapon was looking a bit worn with the camouflage tape on the barrel loose at the end. The barrel bipod hanging down gave the weapon the appearance of a large praying mantis but he preferred to fire using this support for maximum accuracy. Just wounding the animal was not to be contemplated, requiring a hunt through the long grass for the coup de grace. Looking at the eyes of the cornered animal, on the fox’s behalf he cursed the idiots who had bought both the fox and himself to this final solution.

Krav Marga, the Israeli self defence technique which he had learnt from his friend Robert, was still a big part of his life. An escape to the moment; it was ninety minutes of complete concentration and hard physical exercise as he worked through the ritual and routines of some past life. The technique had stood him in good stead one snowy night in New York years ago. With Elizabeth in company, they had been mugged by two assailants, assailants who some years later were still healing from some of their injuries. The technique was designed to kill or seriously maim, no quarter asked or expected.

‘Gear Down’ , Geoff’s tan and white kelpie had become quite used to this ritual in the back shed among the unused farm machinery and other detritus of a farm on the decline. The dog was lying down on the warmth of a sun-lit patch on the concrete floor near the open door, head on paws, eyes looking up curiously at his masters antics.

Krav Marga, was simply based on the premise kill or be killed, and Geoff had developed into one of the more capable exponents of the sport after both a myriad of bruising sessions with his friend years ago in Israel and constant daily practice of the routines since then. His daily hour session of practice was both therapeutic from a mental point of view and hardening from a physical point of view. Just like a gym junkie, he was an addict. At the moment he suffered from lack of any sparring partners so he created them in his mind and sparred with both his imaginary opponents and farm dross shadows in an area of his dilapidated back machinery shed.

Also stored in the shed were all his publications, charts and flight manuals from his prior career as an international corporate pilot. The publications were now long out of date. Must get rid of that lot one day, he mused, as sweating, he put on his shirt after a particularly gruelling morning session.

Up to the death of his wife six years ago he had spent a lifetime in aviation. First in the military and then as an international corporate pilot.

It was on one of these corporate trips that he had met his wife Elizabeth. At the time she had been working for the US Government as a security operative. A combination of dangerous situations had developed on the trip and had brought them together. The crew and passengers had narrowly avoided death partly as a result of Elizabeths’s efforts, efforts which in turn had placed her in great danger from an espionage group intent on stealing nuclear secrets from his passengers, a small group who were members of a company developing the enrichment of uranium using lasers.

That was now long ago in another life, and Elizabeth, after avoiding those dangers, succumbed to a lazy, incompetent driver on a country road who cut a blind corner. An event that was to change his life forever.

Looking around the shed, at the now dilapidated, rusting machinery that he had once proudly maintained, he thought about the isolation in which he had immersed himself after Elizabeth’s death. At first he surrounded himself with people, now he sought solace. Theirs had been a tumultuous romance. Elizabeth, a New Zealander by birth, had been the one true love of his life. She had thrown in a promising career in the US to move to Australia to be the wife of an itinerant pilot who was away from home two thirds of the year. His away time had bombed previous relationships over the years and it was with great trepidation he had consented to her throwing her career in to come to Australia to live with him.

Years ago, after the first week that she had joined him in Sydney, every minute she was out of his sight was agony. He resolved to do whatever it took to keep her, to the point of giving up his itinerant wanderings and change jobs if necessary. He need not have worried, their lifestyle had morphed into something approaching perfection. His time overseas on a contract was not the barrier he had once first thought. Quite often she travelled to meet him at some overseas location and when at home she was kept busy on a new security business she had started in corporate security.

They had married after a year. A small wedding in Arosa Switzerland where