by Mark Parragh
Have to kick those out when you’re done.
More work. Great.
Let’s stop thinking for a while. It’s not helping.
Deal.
The dock creaked and shifted below him as he hauled the stretcher out over the water. The poles clicked loudly as they fell into the narrow gaps between each board, and he had to drag them back up again. Board by board, he hauled the body out across the lake’s flat black surface.
His breath was coming in hoarse gasps now, punctuating the harsh clicks and scrapes of the poles against the wood.
“Saving the world,” he reminded himself. “Almost there.”
Thunk.
Scrape.
“Big damn hero. Come on.”
Thunk.
Scrape.
Then Josh gasped at the sound of voices in the night. He dropped the stretcher, fell to the rough wood planks beside the body, and whipped out Hank David’s pistol. The voices were male, two of them talking to each other. The words were indistinct. He swept the shoreline with the pistol, trying to slow his breath.
They were across the lake, he realized at last, the sound carrying across the water. He shook his head, smiled at himself, and put the gun away.
Of course, if he could hear them, they could hear him. But if they’d heard the sounds of the tentpoles against the dock, they hadn’t considered them important, or couldn’t locate them. Sounds might travel anywhere along the lake. Josh guessed the voices had come from outside the Summer Pavilion. The lights were on inside, spilling out through the glass and across the water. It was the only light he could see apart from a few streetlights scattered around the grounds. Even the hotel itself was a dark, looming shape on the far side of the lake. But the pavilion was brightly lit. There were people there, and if they were that obvious, he guessed they weren’t people he wanted to meet.
“Get this done and get out of here,” he told himself.
The end of the dock was only a few more feet away now. Josh stayed low, planted his feet, placed his arms against the torso, and pushed. It took all his strength, but the body moved, sliding slowly toward the lip.
He stopped, took a breath, and pushed again. This time, he felt the resistance lessen as the front ends of the poles slid off the end into the air. The dock moved gently beneath him on its pontoons. The planks were only a few inches above the surface. He pushed the body forward again, and he felt the weight start to tip forward, saw the far ends of the poles dip into the lake.
Suddenly he stopped. It seemed as though he should say something. He hadn’t known Redpoll well, and he was pretty sure he’d spent his life making the world a worse place for his own misguided reasons. But even so, it seemed wrong to simply send him into the depths of the lake, probably forever, without…something.
“This probably isn’t the funeral you wanted,” he murmured to the body. “I’m sorry about that. Can’t be helped. And I’m sorry we couldn’t save you. It wasn’t for lack of trying.”
He looked out across the still, dark water, and shook his head.
“All I really know about you was what mattered most at the end, when nothing else mattered anymore. I’ll make sure Swift knows you were proud of her. And that thing you told me to remember. Here, so you’ll know I remember.”
He took a breath and then softly reeled off the syllables. “Makamaad katsay oh tula mehile hoba fetoho yo oh batlang ho ay bona lefat seng. I don’t know what it means. But you must have thought I could figure it out. So I’ll try.”
There was nothing else to say, really.
“I hope that’s a comfort to you,” he said, and then he let the stretcher tilt forward. The poles dipped into the water; the back end of the stretcher tipped up. The stretcher slid into the lake, and the black water swallowed it up. For a few moments, there were bubbles as air was displaced from the lungs and filtered through the blankets. Then there was no sign that anything had ever been there.
Josh knelt silently at the end of the dock and looked down into the water. He imagined Redpoll sinking into the depths, coming to rest at last in the cold, lightless ooze at the bottom of the lake. It wasn’t where he’d want to spend eternity. But Redpoll was dead and didn’t really have much to say about it anymore.
Besides, by being down there, he might save a whole lot of innocent lives. It was a start toward making up for all the things he’d done in life. Josh wasn’t going to waste too much time feeling sorry for him.
Finally, he stood up, turned around, and walked slowly back down the dock toward the shore.
Time to find Crane.
Chapter 35
Crane hurt.
He was cold, and he couldn’t see. One cheek was pressed hard against the ice. A line of pain ran up the back of his right leg. He was upside down, more or less. Blood was rushing to his head, and his organs were compressing his lungs, making it hard to breathe.
But he didn’t think he’d broken any bones. He was bruised and scraped, but that seemed to be the worst of it. His right arm was pinned against the ice, but he could move his left. He felt around and found a solid mass somewhere behind him. He pressed at it, and it didn’t give. It would give him some leverage. He took a few deep breaths and pushed up.
Suddenly he was tipping, his head hit something hard, and he tumbled deeper into the dark. He bounced off one wall and then felt ice scraping against him on either side. Finally, he jerked to a stop and lay still, breathing hard. His right arm was pinned beneath him. He reached out below his back and felt nothing. At least he was closer to prone, and he could see now. The lip was about fifty feet above. It might as well have been a mile. There was no way up. Any movement might send him plunging even deeper. There was no telling how deep the crevasse went. Fear washed over him. He had no way to get himself out, and no reason to expect rescue.
This wouldn’t be an easy death.
Above him, he saw the glow of lights shining across the mouth of the crevasse. He heard an engine. The mercenaries were coming to investigate. They could rescue him, if they chose. But more likely they’d finish him off or just leave him to the glacier, unless he did something clever.
Crane closed his eyes for a moment and fought back the fear, trying to focus his thoughts in some useful direction.
A flashlight beam shot down into the crevasse, and Crane made out a figure at the lip.
“Anyone down there?” the man shouted.
Crane tried to call back, but only a hoarse croak came from his mouth. He took a deep breath and this time shouted, “Here!”
The beam crept across the ice until it swept over him in a sudden, blinding glare.
“Now, who the hell are you?” the man called down.
What answer would make them haul him up? Who would they rescue instead of just leaving here to slowly freeze? Someone from the Protected List. He’d seen it on the ATAK before Swift had claimed it. He struggled to recall a name.
“Dauman!” he shouted at last. “Dauman! I’m on the list. Help me!”
The figure disappeared, and then someone else appeared and shouted down, “What was that name?”
“Scott Dauman! I’m on the Protected List. Check it! I’m Scott Dauman!”
The second man stepped back from the lip. Crane imagined them checking their list, a hurried discussion.
The second man reappeared. “Hang on.”
Crane almost cried with relief as he saw ropes soar over the lip. Then figures were rappelling down to him, carrying tools and spiking lights into the ice.
One of them hovered above Crane and secured a line to his belt. “Are you hurt?”
“My leg, I think. Nothing too bad.”
“Lucky bastard, whoever you are. We’ll sort that out up top. Be still, and we’ll get you out.”
There were three men around him in the end. They held him and kept him from falling deeper while they got a line around him. Then he lurched free of the ice, and they all glided smoothly up.
He had a fighting chance now. He didn�
��t know what had happened to Swift. He didn’t know what these men knew or didn’t know. He needed to keep them off balance, drop enough details to convince them that he might be who he claimed. He ran through what he’d learned, considered how to use each precious bit of information. And then he was being hauled up over the lip. They’d brought a snowmobile down, with a recovery winch and a set of ropes and rescue gear. They were well prepared, thankfully.
They patted him down and found nothing. His pants had been torn badly, and apparently he’d lost both his wallet and the Sig.
A medic gave him a quick check. “The leg’s not bad,” he said after a minute. “I know it hurts like shit, but it’s shallow. Ragged. Probably leave a scar, but you’ll be okay.”
Crane thanked him. Then the second man, the one who’d first shouted at him from above, reappeared. A handful of other soldiers stood nearby, weapons ready, but this one was in charge. What does this man know? Crane wondered. And what would convince him that Crane was not someone they should simply shoot?
“You’re Dauman?” the man said, and Crane could sense his doubt.
“That’s right. There was a woman… What happened to her?”
“She’s not your concern,” he snapped. “How’d you get up here? If you’re on the Protected List, what were you doing shooting at us?”
“You were shooting at us!” Crane said, letting a little indignation into his voice. “I didn’t know who the hell you were! The woman, she could explain it, maybe. She found me. I told her who I was, and she said she’d get me to safety. She told me she was with ACM.”
The soldier tried to conceal his reaction when Crane mentioned their company, but Crane knew he’d shaken him.
“She brought me up here. Next thing I know, we’re getting shot at! Have you got a satellite phone? Let me talk to Turnstone. He’ll clear it up.”
Another good bluff, he realized. They weren’t in any position to call Turnstone, but they knew the name.
“Want us to run him down to the pavilion, LT?” one of the soldiers asked.
The lieutenant considered for a moment and then shook his head. “Cuff him. If you’re who you say you are, sorry for the inconvenience,” he said as two of his men zip-tied Crane’s wrists behind his back. “But I’m not taking you to the commander until I’ve got some clarity.”
Then he turned to his men. “Jax, Kelly, you’re with me. The rest of you, back on perimeter. Styles, run the show until I get back. And stay sharp! Could be more of them out there.”
Two soldiers took either of Crane’s arms, and they broke off from the main group and headed back toward the tunnel.
Crane’s thoughts raced as they walked. His assumed identity could fall apart at any moment. He needed to be ready to make his move before that happened. But right now, he wasn’t even sure what that move should be. He didn’t know where Swift was, or if she was still alive. If he tried to take them on in the tunnel, he’d be facing three armed and trained men with his hands restrained. They were taking him to the ski lodge, and he wanted to know what was going on there. He decided to play it out for a while.
The funicular tunnel was still dark and silent when they returned. The lieutenant started up the stairs, and Crane and his two escorts followed. Crane sighed and started counting steps to pass the time.
His count was nearing nine hundred as they approached the top. Crane was pleased to note that his guards were breathing harder than he was. Ahead, the tunnel leveled out into another small waiting area like the one at the bottom. From there, a hallway shot off to one side. They went down about a hundred feet of empty corridor lined with winter sports artwork. At the end, a pair of glass doors gave off warm light from the ski lodge lobby area.
“Becker!” the lieutenant called out. There was no reply. The lieutenant sighed and shook his head. “Goddamn lucky he’s not under my command,” he muttered to himself.
The doors slid open, and they passed into the lobby with its coffee bar and souvenir shop and a model of the mountains displaying the different ski routes that fanned out from the lodge. They headed into a lounge with a sweeping glass wall that offered a panoramic view across the lake, the hotel, and the valley. Armchairs and end tables had been tossed into the corners to make room for a pair of large folding tables stacked with radio equipment and other gear. Screens flickered in the dim light, and a cigarette glowed dull red in an ashtray, but the lounge was empty.
“Where the hell is everybody?” the lieutenant shouted. “Come on!”
A figure appeared in a side door and looked Crane over. “Hey, you looking for Lymon or Cardoso?”
“I’ll take either goddamn one of them right now!” the lieutenant snapped. “Why is this station unmanned?”
“Hey,” said the man in the doorway, “I just watch the drones. They were here a minute ago. I think Becker wanted something.”
The lieutenant waved him off and then turned to one of his men. “Go find them,” he said quietly. “And get Becker back on station.”
“Yes, sir,” said the soldier, obviously not interested in being the target of the lieutenant’s anger. He released Crane’s arm and hurried out.
The lieutenant turned to the table and checked the gear. Then he picked up a mic. “Oracle, this is Akron. Come in, Oracle.”
The reply came almost immediately. “Oracle. Go ahead, Akron.” Crane recognized Shani Abera’s Israeli-accented voice.
“Oracle, I’ve got a civilian up here who claims he’s on our Protected List. Name given is Scott Dauman. Please advise.”
“Did you say Dauman?”
“That’s affirmative, Oracle.”
There was a long silence, and Crane realized he was holding his breath. Finally, the channel clicked open again.
“Detain him,” Abera said. “He’s not Scott Dauman.”
Crane tensed to move, but the soldier at his side jammed the muzzle of his weapon into the small of Crane’s back.
“I’ve got Scott Dauman down here,” Abera said. “Secure him and get him down here. I’m going to want to talk to him. And search him for an ATAK.”
“We did search him, Oracle. He’s clean.”
“Search him again!” Abera snapped.
“Roger that, Oracle,” said the lieutenant. He closed the channel and turned, about to speak.
Then a figure broke out of the darkness in a sudden blur of motion. Crane barely had time to recognize Swift and to wonder where she’d come from before she buried a wickedly pointed ice axe in the lieutenant’s skull.
The lieutenant dropped without a sound. The soldier guarding Crane gave an incoherent, startled shout and spun toward Swift. As soon as Crane felt the gun’s muzzle leave his back, he struck out with one foot and smashed the man’s knee. The mercenary fell hard against a metal-framed chair, and Crane turned and kicked him in the head.
Swift was already twisting, tossing an M4 on a sling around from her back. She spun toward the doorway, and as the man from the other room appeared, she cut him down with a quick burst.
Then she switched the M4’s selector to single fire and shot the man Crane had knocked out.
She let the gun hang from its sling and threw her arms around Crane. “I thought you were dead,” she said.
“Same here,” said Crane. “I’m glad to see you.
She flicked open a knife and sliced through the zip tie holding his wrists. Crane promptly knelt and took the dead soldier’s weapon. “We have anybody else to worry about?”
“Three men brought you up? These and one more?”
“That’s right.”
“Then no,” she said. “They’re down. The place is ours.”
“We should sweep and confirm that,” said Crane as he checked the ammo load in his new gun.
Swift nodded. “And there should be power controls for the funicular somewhere. Let’s find them and get the car up here.”
The ski lodge wasn’t a large building. There were guest areas in front, along with yet another shop with
everything someone would need to enjoy the glacier and the ski slopes. Crane assumed that was where Swift had found the ice axe. There was a staging area in the back leading out to the slopes themselves. Beyond that were some compact support facilities, including a kitchen, equipment storage, and utility controls. The place was quiet except for the howl of the wind around corners and the humming of the heating system. It was eerie enough without the random arcs of blood on the walls and the bodies that Swift had left where they fell. Again, Crane was reminded just how formidable she could be. She’d survived the glacier, made her way up here, and hunted half a dozen trained soldiers through this building, taking them down one by one, apparently without anyone firing a shot. He might have taken issue with Redpoll’s philosophy, but he had to admit the old man had honed his adoptive daughter into a very sharp instrument.
“Breakers back here,” she said, turning a corner in the support corridor. “Let’s get that car powered up.”
They found themselves in a bay lined with electrical panels labeled in English and French. “Here,” said Crane. He flipped switches to restore power to the rails and another that sent command data to the car.
“Controls are green,” said Swift from another panel. “Looks like it runs automatically on a timed schedule. It’s rebooting now. And there it goes.”
They headed back out and made their way down the hallway to the station. It was still dark. Crane had left the lights off so they wouldn’t draw attention. But the car itself was lit, and it came gliding up to the station as they reached the platform. A recorded announcement warned them to keep clear of the doors until arriving passengers had disembarked.
Then the car bumped gently against heavy rubber pads at the end of the rails and stopped. The doors slid open and spilled out light. Crane and Swift looked at each other.
The car was empty.
Chapter 36
Josh climbed up through the gloom, one hand on the cold metal railing, pulling himself up to take some of the strain off his thigh muscles, which were loudly complaining now. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath.