by Rhona Weaver
A snowplow operator and his assistant also reported a brief sighting at mid-afternoon on Monday, less than forty-eight hours earlier. No photos were obtained, but they counted fifteen individuals with military-type equipment about six miles northeast of the bear researchers’ position, in an area of mountain roads they plowed every other day.
In no case had the unidentified men acknowledged the witnesses or confronted anyone.
Lomax asked the group if they had questions for the trail technician. There were several general questions, then Win asked the ones he saw as obvious.
“How often in April do you hike that particular trail, Ms. McCoy?” he asked.
“Once a week, normally Friday if the weather’s okay. The snow is still deep in that area, so we snowshoe in three miles and then backtrack to the road.”
“You said ‘we.’ Were you alone when you saw those individuals?”
“No, this time of year we always travel in teams. Ben Okahio was with me.”
“What did you carry with you that Friday—anything noisy?” Win saw Chief Randall’s face and the U.S. Marshal’s eyes. They both knew where he was going with this.
“Yes, we take a light chainsaw to clear any fallen timber or limbs off the trails. That’s why we go up there.”
“Did you use the chainsaw near the time you saw those guys? If so, when?”
McCoy thought for a second. “Yes, sir, maybe ten or fifteen minutes before we saw them.”
“Those are all the questions I have. Oh, and I probably wouldn’t have called out to them either. You were seriously outgunned. Good job getting the photos.” Win gave her an approving nod.
SAC Lomax quickly dismissed the trail technician and assured her he was “ninety-nine percent sure” the armed men she’d seen were U.S. Army Special Forces on a training exercise. “Nothing to worry about at all,” he said. “Just let someone in Park Service law enforcement know if you see anything else out of the ordinary. Nothing to be concerned about,” he repeated as he escorted her from the room.
A moment later, Lomax leaned against the closed door and looked back at the photos on the screen. “Well, folks, we’re one hundred percent sure they’re not our military. We have several high-level dignitaries scheduled to visit the park soon, and the Secret Service is the lead agency for their protection. Of special concern is the mid-May dedication of the Saul Benjamin Cohn Monument by the Israeli Ambassador. Our Ambassador to Israel will also be in attendance, along with several Senators and cabinet-level folks. As you may know, the Cohn Monument is to be dedicated to one of the earliest Jewish explorers in Yellowstone. The dedication site is in the general area of the park where the sightings of armed men have occurred. Several of the white nationalist and separatist groups are strongly anti-Semitic. There’s already been considerable online chatter from right-wing extremist groups about soiling an American park with a Zionist monument.” He paused for a bit of dramatic effect. “Any one of those visiting VIPs would be a high-value target. We may have a real problem, folks.”
Lomax took a chair and kept talking. “We’ll hand out enhanced copies of the photos and our initial analysis of the armed men. Locational maps are in the handouts.” He scanned the group. “Any thoughts?”
Chief Randall pointed out that the lead man in the enhanced photos appeared to be the same individual, and that he resembled a suspected poacher named Luke Bordeaux. “No way to be absolutely certain because of the distance and the masks, but the person in the photos has the same build as Bordeaux. Bordeaux also knows the northern part of the park and its surrounding national forests like the back of his hand,” the Chief concluded.
The U.S. Marshal spoke next. “Agent Tyler, you asked the young lady some interesting questions. What were you getting at?”
“Well, it seems to me that whoever they are, they’re moving in remote locations, yet in areas where they expect to be seen. And not just be seen, but seen by two credible witnesses in each instance,” Win said. “They would have heard Ms. McCoy’s chainsaw and could have avoided detection. The trail technicians were in a predictable location, and so were the snowplow operator and his spotter. An approaching snowplow could have been heard from a mile away and easily avoided. I assume the bear researchers also make their locations known to someone. In each instance there were two witnesses in locations that, while remote, could be predicted.”
“What significance does two witnesses have?” one of the ATF agents asked.
“It’s scriptural. It’s in the Bible. If they’re part of a domestic militia having a religious foundation, such as God’s Sword or the Righteous Brotherhood, they’d base everything on scriptural dogma. If their mission was to be seen, they’d want it grounded in Scripture, so there would need to be at least two witnesses to each occurrence. There would also need to be three sightings, because the number three signifies completeness—a completed mission.”
There was a very long pause after Win completed his analysis. SAC Lomax sighed. “Or it’s a coincidence there were two witnesses to each of three sightings. It makes no sense they’d want to be spotted.”
After hashing it out for an hour, the group agreed that there was a very real possibility some domestic terrorist group, or at the very least militia wannabes, were in a position to cause damage to the interests of the United States. Something had to be done about it without causing panic among the thousands of tourists who’d be descending on Yellowstone in the near future. It was decided that ATF and the U.S. Marshals Service would run their traps and see if any of their informants had intel on a new threat moving into the area. The Secret Service would work to get drones and other intelligence assets into the park to better assess the danger. Since it was possible one of the armed men was Bordeaux, the Park Service and FBI would focus on him, since they’d recently filed charges against him.
Chief Randall summarized their problem. “Bordeaux is out on bail on poaching and firearms violations, but we honestly don’t have much of a case. A bear ate the evidence before we could get a slug for ballistics to work with on the poaching charge, and we can’t make the case he was shooting at us unless we can prove he was targeting someone. With our evidence so weak on those charges, I don’t think we could get a search warrant to go on his property.”
“We need to move on this now.” Lomax was anxious and it showed. “Is there no way we can get to him?”
“I could drop in on him for a visit. I just moved here.” Every head in the room turned toward Win. It seemed so simple to him, just drop by; people back home wouldn’t be surprised. Apparently not so out West.
“Do you know what you’re saying?” It was one of the ATF guys. “This guy may be crazy. He could be harboring a group of heavily armed whackos. And it’s almost impossible to run effective backup for anyone out here in the sticks.”
Lomax stared hard at Win. “You’ve been on duty here less than a week? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m guessing you have no specialized training in this type of work.”
“Hold on there, Lomax.” It was Chief Randall coming to Win’s defense. “I’m not so sure this is a bad idea. Agent Tyler handled himself extremely well against Bordeaux last week; it could have easily gotten ugly. Bordeaux had me pinned with a rifle and Agent Tyler talked him down. He’s about the same age as Bordeaux, and they’re both from the same part of the country. Bordeaux wasn’t threatening toward him.” He looked at the others around the long table. “I wish there was another way, but I don’t see any other good options—we need some intel and quick. We have nearly four million people coming to this park in the next four months, and we have to know if we really do have a problem.”
The Chief paused to let the group digest that, then he continued. “Bordeaux lives about three and a half miles northeast of Mammoth on an inholding within the park boundary. Our agency can help with backup, but there’s no way to conduct surveillance on his house without being seen.
Not with this time crunch. It would be blind going in there, but it may be worth the risk. I say we go in this afternoon, if Agent Tyler is volunteering.”
So much for Win’s orders to lay low in the meeting—it appeared that Special Agent Winston Tyler had volunteered.
Chapter Five
Win changed from suit and tie into jeans, flannel shirt, boots, and parka, and was in Chief Randall’s conference room at the Park Service’s huge stone Administration Building within thirty minutes. Win’s supervisor, Jim West, came on the video feed and Chief Randall briefly explained the situation to him. Jim West was not a happy camper. He was furious the Bureau was being placed in a highly unpredictable situation without time to plan—no way to jump through the hoops to get formal approval from the field office in Denver. Jim said he’d call their bosses, but without more information they’d likely defer to the agent on the ground. That meant if Win was willing, it was a go.
I need to prove myself, a small voice whispered in Win’s head. Another voice cautioned him not to be stupid, not to be reckless. He ignored the internal warning and nodded to Chief Randall. “I’ll do it.”
There was no way to wear a wire because of the distances involved, nor was there time to position a support team near the Bordeaux house without being seen. Those were the conclusions of the group of green-and-gray-clad rangers who were huddled together at the rear of the conference room. Aerial maps of the forty acres the Bordeaux owned showed a house, a barn, and a couple of mobile homes, all sitting on a plateau surrounded by dense woods. The gravel access road dead-ended at the house after meandering for over two miles from the highway. It was three miles to the nearest neighbor. The Yellowstone River was one-quarter mile north of the house, in a deep ravine. One of the rangers pointed out the obstacles to Win on the aerials. He remarked that if Win had to get away from the house on foot and Bordeaux pursued, Win would be toast. Great confidence builder, Win thought.
The rangers who were most familiar with Bordeaux were in Grand Teton National Park doing search-and-rescue training, but the folks who were briefing Win said Bordeaux had lived on the land for about five years with his wife and one or two kids. He drove a late-model Ford F-150 twin-cab pickup, and his wife drove a smaller truck. He’d worked as a commercial hunting and backcountry guide, and although he’d lost his guide license about a year ago, he had no criminal record. He was an expert marksman and was known to have a quick temper. Terrible combination, Win was thinking.
There were nearly fifty permanent law enforcement park rangers stationed in Yellowstone, and it seemed like a good number of them were milling around outside as Gus, Chief Randall, and Win walked out of the building to Win’s SUV. The Chief patted Win on the shoulder and told him not to take any chances. “Turn around and drive out if it doesn’t feel right.”
“If you need backup and can’t get to your truck’s satellite phone, dial 911 on your cell phone. The call will go directly to the park’s call center,” Gus Jordon remarked as Win climbed into his new SUV.
“Cell service out there?”
“Naw, probably not, but I thought it might make you feel better,” the seasoned ranger quipped. “We’ll sit along the highway. There’ll be two other units near Gardiner and some of our Special Response Team here with the helicopter. I don’t know how long you southern boys like to visit, but you should be getting to his place about 1700 hours, and if you aren’t out of there in four hours, at 2100, we will come in. Follow my rig on the highway, I’ll pass the road to his house and hit my signal. Buy you a drink later?”
“Sure, thanks.” Win felt the comfortable rumble of the SUV’s big engine come to life as he nodded back at the ranger. He was certain the guy knew he was working hard to put up a good front. Putting up a good front—story of my life. He tried to counter the insecurity he suddenly felt with logic: They have confidence in you, you’re well trained for this. You are ready. The thing was, he didn’t feel ready. He’d spent most of his short career with the Bureau shuffling papers and solving bank and securities fraud. Yes, he’d helped solve some important cases, and yes, he’d saved the citizens from some scumbags, but those scumbags weren’t terribly dangerous—those criminals didn’t carry guns. As he followed Gus’s Park Service Tahoe down the mountain toward Gardiner, he quoted Scripture under his breath: “The wicked flee when no one pursues, but the righteous are bold as a lion.” Problem was, he didn’t feel particularly righteous either.
The nicer weather was holding for the moment. The temperature must have been near fifty, and the low clouds were showing signs of breaking up. Win tried to keep his mind on the weather, the landscape, or the road. He told himself he needed to be calm and focused when he got to the house. Just drop in on him. It had sounded like such a good idea at the time. His second thoughts were tying his stomach in knots.
At the bottom of the long mountain, the ranger’s Tahoe hit a straight stretch of highway and its right signal briefly flickered. Win turned and crossed a short wooden bridge. The winding dirt and gravel road to Bordeaux’s house was in bad shape from the spring thaw. The first mile was barren scrub grass and low shrubs that were the same gray-brown color as the muddy road. The narrow track then disappeared into a dense forest. Lodgepole pine, maybe? He made a mental note to learn the names of a few western trees. The climb up the hill was not steep, just steady, and the road improved once he reached an upland plateau.
He came upon the house quicker than he expected. The ranch-style frame house was sitting at the edge of a stand of towering evergreen trees. It looked older and needed paint, but it wasn’t shabby. A thin cloud of smoke was coming from a stone chimney, and the lights were on in the deep shade of the trees. The yard wasn’t much and there was no landscaping, but it was tidy. He could see covered porches on the front and south sides. The top of a barn was visible to the rear of the house, but trees blocked the view of the mobile homes. There was no sign of a person or animal. Surely the man has a dog.
He pulled up beside a small dirty pickup of some type; the larger truck was not in sight. Maybe Bordeaux isn’t home. He turned off the ignition and scanned the yard as he let the occupants prepare for company, since he’d arrived unannounced. No one came to the door. He reached under his coat to his right side for the comforting feel of his Glock as he opened the door to step out of the truck. Every sense was focused on sounds, movement, anything out of the ordinary. He heard only a squirrel in the trees to his left and the sharp popping of the SUV’s hot engine; he smelled only the pine and the woodsmoke from the chimney. He stepped off the running board and closed the truck’s door loudly so that anyone inside the house would hear.
A large woodpile was to the left of the house, and a chopping block with a chunk of wood sat on top. A heavy ax was embedded in the larger block of firewood; several pieces of split wood had fallen to the side. Only a lazy man would leave his wood scattered with the ax out. Judging from the appearance of the house and yard, Luke Bordeaux wasn’t a lazy man. A sick feeling swept through Win’s stomach as he realized someone had to have been chopping wood in the last few minutes, and someone was now standing less than twenty feet behind him.
He froze in place. He still had one hand on the side of the truck, and he kept it there. He could see Bordeaux in his side mirror. The man was directly behind him with a rifle pointed at his back. Win moved his left hand slowly away from his body and reminded himself to breathe.
“Not very neighborly to be holding a gun on company, Luke.” He didn’t move as he said it, and he tried again to remember to breathe. He was surprised his voice was steady despite his fear. “Just came by for a friendly visit, I don’t know many folks out here yet.” The gun behind him didn’t move. For some reason, it occurred to Win that he’d served nearly three years in the FBI in Charlotte and he’d never seen a gun pulled in a hostile situation. He’d been in Yellowstone a little more than a week and it had already happened twice.
“I don’t have ma
ny friendly visits from Federals out here,” Luke softly replied.
Well, that’s probably true, Win supposed.
“Friendly visit?” Luke’s tone was biting. “I don’t reckon that’s right. I figure you come snooping around to see what you can get on me since you’ve got nothin’ with that last foolishness up at Mammoth.”
“That could be it, I’m not gonna lie to you, but apparently that ain’t working for me, so how ’bout you put the gun down and we talk.”
“I’m talking just fine. . . . Don’t you move those hands, boy.”
Win had always been able to talk with anybody—he’d prided himself on that ability. He was afraid this was gonna put that to the test. “Luke, has anyone ever told you it’s a federal offense to point a loaded gun at an FBI agent?”
“You wanna find out if it’s loaded! Out here, it don’t make nobody any difference iffen you shoot trespassers! You see the ‘No Trespassing’ sign comin’ in?” The man’s voice was louder now.
“C’mon, you can’t shoot someone for driving to your house! No place has laws like that!” Man, I hope I’m right—could the law be that skewed out West?
“You’d better be coming up with a real good reason why you’re standing in my driveway, boy!”
Win’s palms were starting to sweat and Bordeaux’s tone was getting harsher. Win needed to stay calm, but fear was fighting him for control. He could taste the bitterness in his mouth. “Quit calling me ‘boy’! I’ve heard that once too many times today! Put down the gun and I’ll go back where I came from!”
“Might be a bit late fer that, Win Tyler!” Luke was advancing from behind him, quick as a cat. Win whispered a silent prayer.