But if Caldwell knew anything from an Army career spent fighting terrorism, it was this: There’s always more to be revealed.
Chapter 12
Anchorage
The rescue Otter taxied up to Land and Sea Aviation at Merrill Field in Anchorage. Built in 1930, the small airport lay to the south of Elmendorf Air Force base and served as a home base to many of Alaska’s bush pilots. Merrill was the first airport for Anchorage and served as the portal of aviation into the vast territory. The fixed-base operator had an ambulance waiting for Karen and Will by the time the aircraft’s engine stopped spinning.
“They’ll take you to the hospital to be checked out.” Will helped her out of the aircraft. She could stand but was somewhat wobbly.
“I’m okay.” Karen had gotten back much of her energy. The Otter had a thermos full of hot coffee loaded with sugar that she’d sipped from an aluminum cup on the flight back to Anchorage. Soon the thermos was drained.
“Sure, just let them check out some of those red spots on your nose and ears.” He was sure that the frostbite had been stopped early enough, but wanted to make sure there was no permanent damage. “I’m sure CDC wants to make sure their doctor came back in one piece.”
“I smell like a banana.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” He knew she was regaining her energy.
Will gave a nod to the man standing next to the open doors of the ambulance. He wore a parka that had the monogram of the CDC on it and had a large, pleasant smile, clearly happy to see that the missing scientist had returned from the wilderness.
“You know how cold it got?” the CDC man asked, referring to Snag.
“No.”
“You set a record out there. Eighty-seven degrees below zero yesterday. As best as we can tell, the coldest spot on the North American continent.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” Karen smiled shyly and unconsciously touched her healing nose. The color was quickly returning.
“I’m going to my cabin for a bit, but I’ll check on you soon.” Will stood at eye level with Karen as they put her on the stretcher and into the ambulance.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I’ll be fine.”
“Hey, I’m the one that crashed the plane.”
“No,” she said with a smile. “You landed the plane.”
* * * *
As the ambulance pulled away, Will turned to the pilot of the Otter.
“Can you do me a favor and fly me up to my cabin?”
“For a fifth of Jack Black,” the pilot said, “I’ll do about anything. No prob.”
As members of the brotherhood of bush pilots, both men knew that such favors tended to be repaid several times over in the Arctic. It was a brotherhood that no one wanted to upset.
Will agreed. Actually, he was tempted to send a half gallon, but that would be like tipping a hundred-dollar bill at a hamburger joint. A fifth would do as well, plus Will would be sure that the FBO topped off the pilot’s tanks on Will’s account.
His cabin stood on a rise above the Susitna River and well to the north of Anchorage. It had its own airstrip and near the end of the strip, just below the trees, was a hangar that appeared unusually large for a private compound. His ranch had another feature that was unique. Most of the airfields in the backcountry had, at best, dirt runways. Will’s little airfield had a concrete airstrip designed to endure the extreme cold. It was too short to accommodate a big jet, but it worked fine for the kind of aircraft that Alaskan pilots tended to fly. The concrete was scored so as to give better traction and drainage. He even had a plow that cleared it when the snowfall built up.
“Thanks again.” Will took off his glove and shook the man’s hand.
“No problem.”
The rule in Alaska was that if a pilot diverted from another job, the cost of the rescue included the money lost from what other job was missed. Many a hapless hunter found out the hard way that when another guide had to divert to do a rescue, the bill was significant. Guided hunts ran for thousands and thousands of dollars. However, the rule did not apply to a downed aircraft and especially not for Will Parker. The other bush pilots knew that if there was another downed aircraft, he would be one of the first in the sky for the search.
Nevertheless, Will was grateful.
“How bad was the solar flare?”
“It shut down a lot.”
“Well, I owe you one.”
The man just smiled.
Will’s pilot dropped him off near the hangar, then turned around, taxied a short distance, and lifted off. Will watched as the other Otter climbed out over the trees and banked to the east and north. The guttural, raspy sound soon disappeared and silence reigned supreme.
Will threw his backpack over his shoulder with the rifle and headed first to the hangar. The doors didn’t need locks this far away from the world. The dark green building stood out in the winter months, but would have been barely noticeable in the summer. It had been built with heavy foam-insulated walls that kept the interior above the freezing mark.
He turned on the lights that filled the vast space with a fluorescent glow. Instantly revealed was the empty space where his missing Otter was normally kept. Next to it was a small white and black HondaJet HA-420 jet aircraft. With the tail number of N883CS, the jet went by the call sign Coyote Six. It was a new-era aircraft that topped out at close to five hundred miles an hour and cost a mint. The US government had been kind to Parker. At least it had recognized, if reluctantly, what it owed him. For his efforts in taking out one of the most dangerous scientists in North Korea, Will Parker had received money under the RJP program that ensured his financial independence for life. The feds had a short list of those whose capture or killing warranted a payout of twenty-five million. Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi had been on that exclusive list, along with the North Korean scientist that Will brought to his end. The United States government had a short list of those it wanted so bad that the bounty was in the millions. The Rewards for Justice program rarely paid out but when it did bad men were removed.
“I’ll get the fellows at Whitehorse to help get her out,” he mumbled to himself, thinking of his downed Otter. He knew that as long as the ice held, there would be no rush in retrieving the airplane from the lake. And with temperatures hitting more than eighty-below, the ice would stay stable for some time.
Will turned off the light, closed up, and headed for the cabin. Although it was only 4:00 p.m., the day had turned dark and cold, night descending even more quickly than in Snag, because Will’s cabin was well north of Anchorage. The porch held a stack of cut firewood for the winter. It wouldn’t take long for a fire to heat up the cabin.
Soon it was pitch-black in the woods surrounding his property. Will got some comfort in the isolation. He heard the pack of wolves that he knew were his neighbors howling in a chorus. One would call to another, who would answer, and they would go on, back and forth, for some time. The wind began to pick up.
“When will rabies hit them?” he asked the crackling logs in the fireplace, thinking of the resident pack that crossed through his woods on a regular basis. He used an iron poker to push the logs and, as he did, they would flare up and light the room. Snag was far to the east and south, well into the interior and beyond the coastal mountain range. The cold triangle, as it was called, was not on a coastline. It was known as the place where temperatures would reach low. There was one in Siberia that also was famous for records. In the cold triangles, far from the warmth of the oceans, winters lasted a long time. And the triangle where Snag was located remained a deep freeze throughout the winter. But warmth would come, and during those higher temps, the infestation would again move north.
Karen would go back to Snag as soon as she possibly could. Of that, Will had no doubt. She would overcome any fear and complete her mission. That was another thing he liked about Dr. Stewart.
Chapt
er 13
The Hidden Casa on the Eastern Baja Coast
“Good god.” Todd’s mouth was dry when he woke up on his bed, still locked to the chains. This time they had doubled the locks and added one around his neck. Escape was hopeless. He could barely reach his hand to his face and feel the caked blood. Everything was sore, especially where they had hit him on his shins with some small club. He had, however, become used to the horrific smell of his cave, his senses having adapted to the days of captivity. But his thirst overwhelmed him.
They had left a small metal cup of water on the floor near the bed. He could only reach it by stretching his cuffed hand as far as the chain would go, and then the cup barely touched the tip of his fingers. It was a sophisticated form of torture. He concentrated on the cup, slowly stretching his arm against the restraint, pushing against the burning chain that cut into his wrist until he was able to nudge it close enough to get the cup in his grip.
The water was warm and it burned his cut lips, but it was exquisite. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a drink. This cup barely satisfied his thirst.
In all of his interrogation sessions so far, Todd hadn’t told his captors anything, not because he was particularly brave, but because he didn’t know anything. At least nothing new.
Back when CNN had reported that a cyber technician from the Defense Intelligence Agency had shown up in Moscow, Todd was brought into the commanding officer’s office at MarForCyBer.
“You were in class with Ridges?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you hear from him, you need to let us know.”
“Yes, sir.” Todd paused. “Sir? What happened?”
“No idea.” Todd’s commanding officer was rarely so brief.
After leaving the office, he called his classmate on his cell. She was still in the DC area. They met for a beer after duty.
“Any idea?”
“Not a one.”
They tried something very dangerous. With a computer borrowed from another Marine. they reached out to Ridges through the dark web. The only response was a cryptic Beware!
He pondered what Ridges knew that could be so dangerous. For that matter, what could Todd himself know or have done to cause these men to chain his friend and him to bunks in the cell of a Mexican cartel’s hacienda somewhere deep in the Baja.
Todd thought back to boot camp. It didn’t have anything to do with Ridges, but everything to do with his survival. His father hadn’t thought he’d make it through, and he’d made it clear that the Marines was the wrong choice. The colonel had told Todd in no uncertain terms that a kid who spent most of his life in a dark room playing video games would never make it. In boot camp, his drill instructor had quickly dubbed Todd “Private Geek.” But the boot-camp brass and his drill instructors knew how Todd’s enlistment scores had tested out; his designated military specialty had been set in stone before he first put his foot down on the famous markers at San Diego. Footprints were painted on the asphalt in a perfect formation so that the only thing the new recruit had to do was put his feet on the prints. Like basic primary colors for a kindergartner, it was the first introduction to military life. He would be a cyber operator. The drill instructors knew that the Marines needed 0651s, and while they offered no special treatment to Todd, they also didn’t want to lose him.
Todd Newton also had something else working for him. He wasn’t going to let his father win.
Boot camp taught him one thing: He had more inside him than he had ever realized. He excelled at the run, which caused the drill instructors to lighten up. It was a physical talent that he hadn’t expected to possess. While several recruits could barely make it to the finish line of a three-mile run, Todd gained respect when he crossed it at just under eighteen minutes. After that, he became progressively better during boot camp and came close to breaking seventeen minutes in the physical fitness test. He loved the runs that took place every day before sunup. The ones where they took off without waiting for the remainder of the platoon. Those runs gave him a brief sense of freedom from the rigors of the days of training. From the start, Todd quickly left most of the others behind with his fast pace; only a few weeks into the training, he ran alone in the front. He would feel the cold sweat on his face, his steps becoming lighter as he built up his endurance. And in the final test for the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor, Todd Newton surprised everyone. He handled the three days of exercise, lack of sleep, forced marches, and hunger with a resilience that caused his two drill instructors to shake his hand with sincere, meaningful grips. He held in his hand the small badge that signified he had become a Marine – a small black globe with its anchor and eagle.
“I can handle this.” He spoke the words aloud to himself despite the fact that two of his front teeth had been knocked out. The memory of those brutal runs gave him a barometer to gauge his pain. It hurt, but it was endurable. Todd glanced at the other side of the room.
“We’ve got this.” He stared into the darkness and repeated the line that his drill instructor used repeatedly. It took his eyes a minute or two to decipher the fact that there was no shape in the small bed where his fellow Marine had been. He was talking to no one.
The screams resumed upstairs.
“Bastards!” He pulled the chains, but to no avail.
He heard the same thuds of something hitting flesh, followed by a woman’s whimper. It seemed to go on endlessly.
And finally, there was silence.
Todd heard words spoken in what seemed to be Spanish. The thick walls muffled the sounds, but it was clear that the two men were shouting at each other. They seemed to be throwing the blame back and forth.
Todd heard a door open and the two struggling to drag a heavy weight across the upper floor. The men were still cussing, each blaming the other for what had happened. But there was no sound of remorse. Although Todd didn’t understand the Spanish, he did understand the inflection of the words. They were upset not by what they’d done, but by the prospect of explaining to their boss what had happened. The deeper voice belonged to the big man, Todd could tell that much. His words sounded much less remorseful.
The upstairs door closed with a slam and was followed by silence. It remained that way well into the night.
Chapter 14
William Parker’s Cabin Well North of Anchorage
Sleep overcame Will Parker as he sat in his chair before the fireplace. The warmth was a change from what they had endured for several nights. He heard a noise—what seemed like an engine—well off in the distance. Will swallowed some of his coffee from a cup. It had turned cold as a consequence of his dozing off, but the drink had as much cognac in it as coffee, and it burned as he swallowed.
The engine noise returned, coming closer. This was out of place for the cabin. Will lived well off of any road that might have been plowed. A vehicle that braved the ten or so miles of unplowed roadway that connected the cabin to civilization, and in the dark, was being driven by someone with a purpose. Will listened to the sound that could only be connected to man. Nature’s sounds tended to be softer and irregular. This rumble sounded like a vehicle well fitted for the backcountry and plowing through drifts of snow.
Will leaned forward in his chair. As he did, he felt the increased warmth of the fire as he got closer to the flames. He had an automatic pistol on a small table next to his chair. The HK VP40 felt cold in his grip as he picked it up. He pulled back the slide to see the brass round chambered. It was one of thirteen 180-grain Winchester PDX1 Defender brass bullets in the gun, the other twelve stored in the magazine. He knew these details, because it had long been his livelihood and job to know such things. Much like the military, living in the wilderness required a man to know his weapons down to the precise number of rounds left in the firearm. More than one warrior’s life had come to an end because he lost count of what remained in the magazine.
As he sat
up with the automatic pistol in his hand, lights crossed the wall through a crack in the shutters. At that same moment he heard a vehicle’s tires crush the snow and ice and come to a stop. Will crossed the room and stood to one side of the door behind a thick beam that formed the door’s jamb. The wood would stop any projectile. It would also give him that brief moment he needed in order to learn where the shot was coming from and aim and shoot back.
A truck door slammed shut. Will leaned near a window, careful to only glance through the edge. A motion-detector light shined on the dark shape of a vehicle and its former occupant. The truck had oversized snow tires and a winch on the front grille—made to handle the outback of Alaska. Will lifted the HK to his chest. It was an instinct that he had learned long ago. A well-aimed shot came from consistency. The pistol or rifle needed to be ready to move to the target with as little wasted motion as possible.
The man had his parka hood pulled up over his head. The rabbit-fur ruff all but sealed the face from view. He was large, easily over six feet tall, and moved slowly, like someone who spent his entire life sitting in a chair. He had on white rubber boots made for the extreme cold. He held his hands in his pockets, causing Will to tighten his grip on the HK. If a weapon came out of that pocket, the stranger would hear the door swing open and be dead before a second step had been taken.
The man seemed startled by the motion-detector light, but didn’t seem lost or out of place. He acted as if he knew where he was going and as if he had been here before. It wasn’t likely that one who made the trek down the road to this cabin was a wanderer. No one wandered in this wilderness in the winter in the dark and lived.
“Only one door,” Will murmured as he assessed the situation. Others could be approaching from the wings, but he was prepared to take it one step at a time. His cabin had limited access, a thick door to the front and one to the rear, near the kitchen. Both were well bolted and the windows were shuttered with aged hardwood, almost as if Will had known that an assault would come one day.
Misled Page 6