The Fault With The Spy

by Linda Mackay

  “Todd, Amanda.” I yelled, waving them over. How could the anticipation of a day of BBQ, corn-on-the-cob, cold beer and a relaxing soak in the hot tub turn into a nightmare of epic proportions so fast? Last night when I turned the light out and drifted to sleep to the sound of distant coyotes, the only plan I had was not to drink so much beer I missed the target again in the annual July fourth shooting contest. Every year Frank makes up some ridiculous target and after a day of food and beer we line up and each get one shot to hit the target. Last year the target was a fake stop sign. Closest one to the center of the “O” in the word stop won a hundred dollar bill. No one even hit the “O.” Grampa Nus at 90 years old hit the “P” and won, second year in a row. I think it’s rigged. However, since it’s the only day all year I consume large amounts of beer…who am I to cry foul.

  “We’re going for my dad.”

  “Sweet,” Todd chimed in. “Backcountry bandidos to the rescue.”

  I don’t think we’re bandits, however we are heading into some closed territory.

  “Frank says prep for five people.”

  Todd air-counted, himself, me, Amanda, Frank. “Okay, I give. Who is numero cinco?”

  I pointed to the tall stranger moving the broken fence.

  “Makes sense,” Todd replied.

  “On what planet does that make sense? He’s a city dude.”

  Todd looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “He’s retired from a government department with a bunch of initials. He was in the army, or was that navy? It was something with a uniform. And I heard he’s an expert in survival, and knows his way around a gun.”

  “Why didn’t I know that?”

  “Because, you never pay attention when something might infiltrate your cocoon.” Todd was blunt, and I usually needed that, but rarely appreciated it. I’d spent most of my life hiding. My first recollection as a child was hiding in a tiny cave just big enough to hold a four-year-old and her doll. It was also the first and only time I saw Dad cry when he found me. I was born in this valley, home-schooled and except for the years I spent at the University of Wyoming, I avoided society. People had been cruel to my mother and I didn’t want to suffer the same.

  “I guess that means he’s going.” I said as we started up our wheelers for the drive back to my house. “It still doesn’t mean he can ride a horse, and I bet he doesn’t know anything about bears.”

  Most natural disasters give you a little warning. Hurricanes, tornados, floods. Not earthquakes. They are nature’s big fat freaking surprise. Except to my dad and a few others. He is one of the weirdo’s who believe there are signs that scientists choose to ignore. Oh sure, many of my colleagues researching the Yellowstone Caldera, calm tourists by saying there will be plenty of warning if she decides to blow. And they love to cite precursors such as earthquakes. But when swarms of earthquakes rattle Yellowstone, those same scientists say “it’s a natural occurrence” and nothing to worry about. Basically, the USGS isn’t going to tell you anything. Just like the CIA, FBI or Homeland Security isn’t going to tell the public the operational plans to stop a terrorist attack. We are not on the need to know list. I’m not saying that’s wrong, because if we knew all the dangers facing us every day we’d be walking around in gas masks, HAZMAT suits, never drive a car, fly in an airplane or eat cauliflower.

  I doubled checked my saddle packs and decided to throw in my crampons. It may be July but snow can fall any time in the high-altitude mountains. I tried to raise Dad one last time on the radio. The same weird static the guy told me about earlier still cluttered the line. Darn it all, I wish I could figure out who that was and how he knew my Mom. I could clearly hear the rescue services in Jackson talking non-stop. What in the hell could be jamming the signals in Yellowstone without affecting Jackson? Wonder if Mr. Special Forces has any ideas. I was going to have to learn his name. That is the first step in acknowledging he was a member of our little community and so far I had avoided that possibility. As a kid, I even refused to name my horse. Till his dying breath, he was always just called horse.

  Today I’m not quite as crazy and my horses have names. I saddled Arikira and loaded the saddlebags and other gear on Chimayo. The two paints were anxious to move out and more than a little nervous of the continued aftershocks. Cowboy Frank had trained both my girls. They were great cattle herding horses, not skittish around wildlife, and both sure-footed. The only problem was Chimayo was extremely sensitive to ground movement. She would blow and paw at the ground when she sensed movement underfoot. I’d accepted her freaky ability to feel even the smallest quakes and she didn’t complain that I always knew what she was thinking. Arikira couldn’t predict when she was going to shit. But not once had my girl tossed me off or fought me crossing a river, so I wasn’t holding it against her that she was just a normal horse. Chimayo loved to buck and complain at river crossings so I was considering letting Special Forces ride her.

  “Saddle up, buttercup,” Todd said. “Time to hook-up with Cowboy Frank.”

  “My saddle doesn’t feel right,” Amanda complained.

  “What’s the matter, Princess? Can you feel a pea under it?”

  “This isn’t my saddle.”

  “Yours was rock n’ rolled under a bunch of hay dumped in the quake. Sorry, but you’re stuck with what we’ve got.” Todd moved out toward Frank’s.

  I climbed on Arikira and took one last look at the flowers blooming near the house undisturbed by the quake. The broken windows in my cabin would get temporary fixes by the cowboys in my absence. My kitty, Chaos, meowed goodbye to me from the relative safety of a patch of grass next to an overturned lawn chair. I’m not normally melancholy about leaving home, but nothing felt right today. All kinds of thoughts rattled around in my head. It was like listening to 20 radio stations at once and not understanding anything I heard. I tried to block out the most extraneous chatter, but to no avail. I was starting to get a giant headache from all the noise ringing in my brain.

  I had to do something to shut it out. I reached over and slapped Amanda’s horse on the rump. He took off like a stock car at the green flag in a NASCAR race, with Amanda cussing non-stop at me as she tried to regain control. As I laughed and listened to her verbal abuse my mind quieted. It’s not easy being telepathically connected to wildlife, but I sure hope it helps me find Dad.

  Chapter 3

  The ranch was eerily quiet with the cowboys out searching for horses and checking cattle on the range. The only sound was the occasional rumble of rockslides dislodged by the unstable ground created by the quake.

  “Darn quake knocked my favorite rifle off the mantle and broke the sight.” Frank could split an atom at a hundred yards with that rifle. “Now I’m pissed.”

  If a bear or mountain lion attacked us I wasn’t too worried. The 45-70 Henry lever action in the scabbard on his saddle would more than make up for any fraction he was off sight. I turned at the sound of a wheeler skidding to a stop like a base runner sliding into home plate. Climbing off the machine was Special Forces decked in full camo with what looked like a machine gun slung over his back, two side arms around his hips, and a machete attached to his pack. Now, I was worried!

  “We’re looking for my dad, not the Iraqi army,” I said.

  Frank tightened the cinch on his horse. “Got enough ammo for all that fire power, Mac?”

  “Enough for the Iraqi army, sir.”

  “No way I am riding into a national park with Rambo,” I said.

  “Frank said come prepared,” Mac shrugged his muscled shoulders at me.

  Frank smiled, and he rarely smiled. “Let’s get everything on the pack horses and look at the map before we ride.”

  Special Forces looked at the bow slung across my back. “Are you planning to shoot an apple off the head of a bear with that?”

  “I’ll have you know, I’m more accurate with my Takedown Recurve than you are with those guns.”

  “You know that bow is illegal in national parks?” He snic
kered and turned his back on me. He was definitely going to ride Chimayo now. Let’s see how he likes it when he finds his butt and all that firepower bucked off into the river.

  I handed him the reins to my horse. “Her name’s Chimayo.”

  I’d already saddled her, but he adjusted the stirrups as he whispered something in her ear.

  “We’ll ride to Lily Lake tonight.” Frank said checking the packs on the horses to be sure we hadn’t forgotten anything. It’s not like there’s a neighborhood grocery store every few miles if someone forgot the peanut butter. What we leave with is all we’ll have till we return. “Tomorrow we’ll ride as hard as the aftershocks and landslides allow. I decided not to try and raise Joe on the radio, I think Jorie’s given away enough over the radio about our plans to locate him.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I asked.

  “Mac and I agree we don’t want to alert anyone that we’re leaving the ranch on a search and rescue mission in the middle of a disaster.”

  “Dad may be in serious trouble, we need to keep trying to communicate with him. And since when is the dude in charge?”

  Frank chose not to whack me upside the head with his cowboy hat for questioning him. Instead, I could see his arms and legs stiffen as he controlled his frustration. “Jorie, if your dad could answer you, he would’ve.”

  Mac stepped forward. “The authorities will stop anyone attempting to enter the disaster area. We need to move carefully and act like we’ve been in the wilderness all along.”

  Don’t cry Jorie…not in front of Special Forces. Todd put his hand on my side and pinched. “Ow!” I gave him a thank you look.

  Special Forces turned his huge blue eyes on me, and in a voice so quiet I could barely hear said, “we’re not saying your dad is hurt and can’t answer you. We’re saying maybe he’s choosing not to answer.”

  “Why wouldn’t he want me to know he’s okay?”

  “He may not want anyone to know his location. Remember he may be in a closed area. And unfortunately, the price of that is silence.”

  “This is starting to sound more cloak and dagger, than search and rescue,” Amanda said.

  “More Rambo than hot fireman.” Todd chimed in as every pair of eyes around the map looked up at him. “What? Just saying.”

  An hour ago my life was centered on the biggest earthquake to hit Wyoming in recent history; now I felt like I needed advanced army training before embarking on a secret mission to rescue hostages.

  “Hold on. We’re rolling.” Todd said as the aftershock rattled the map off the picnic table and dumped it in the horse trough. Once the ground quieted Frank shook the waterproof map of excess water and horse spit. I was relegated to chasing down Chimayo who took personal offense at the ground movement and had relocated herself halfway back home.

  How had a simple holiday with a day-after hangover turned into a military operation? I’m a simple hydrothermal expert living in the backcountry of the Gros Ventre Mountains. I work with rocks, not rockets. This is all Special Forces fault! If he hadn’t inherited his grandfather’s cabin and moved in we’d have traveled up the southeast arm of Yellowstone Lake, and found Dad. Instead, Special Forces had Cowboy Frank all lathered up that something is wrong.

  Something is wrong, Jorie. The guy on the radio with the cryptic warning. The weird static only inhibiting communication in Yellowstone. Not even a garbled response from Dad before the static overwhelmed the satellite radios. Now the dude has me thinking crazy.

  I can’t be dragged into this lunacy like the rest of them. What’s happened is an earthquake. It’s a big quake, causing hysteria everywhere, and the communication problems are normal. Someone has to keep a level head instead of panicking and mounting a military operation. Maybe Special Forces has PTSD and thinks he’s still in Iraq?

  I took hold of Chimayo’s lead rope and rubbed her forehead. “I bet he didn’t retire like Todd said; I bet he was discharged for being crazy and his family sent him to the mountains to keep him away from people.” Chimayo nuzzled my chin in agreement.

  “Could just be gas.” Both Chimayo and I jumped at the interruption.

  “Geez, Grampa where did you come from?”

  “I was out looking for squirrels and marmots. I figure when the little fellers come out of hiding the worst is over.”

  “Seen any?”

  “Nary a one, sugar.” He scratched Chimayo, and then thumped my hat.

  “Take care of my kids while we’re gone.”

  “Sure thing. But that crazy dog, Spit, chews up one more pair of my underwear, he’s sleeping in the barn.”

  “I saw Chaos in the field after the quake, just keep the pet door clear so when he wants he can come in.”

  “I can’t promise no such thing, sugar, and you know it.” Grampa Nus is my mom’s father and to this day he’s terrified a bear or moose will break down the door and eat him for dinner. Every night he moves an old dresser in front of the door to keep them from getting in. The dresser is empty and easily handled by a 90-year-old and even easier to handle if you happen to be a bear or moose determined to eat the old fart.

  “Could you at least leave the kitchen window cracked open so he can squeeze in?”

  “Will do.”

  “And absolutely no dogs in the hot tub.”

  “Ah, sugar. Nukpana loves the bubbles, and Spit…well he just likes the water.” At the sound of their names the two loped out from behind a tree and rubbed up against Grampa. I think there’s more going on than shared hot-tubbing with that bunch. Last time he dog-sat I swear I smelled whiskey on all their breaths when I got home.

  Nukpana ran between Chimayo’s legs, and back to my side licking my hand. At eighteen months the yellow lab was still a big puppy, and lucky Chimayo had a high tolerance for her nonsense. I got her when she was six weeks old from my friend on the Wind River Reservation. He told me from the moment she was born she had a sixth sense when something evil was nearby and alerted him. He named her Nukpana Watcher. Nukpana is Hopi for Evil. He wanted me to have her since I was such a bad judge of human character. I wasn’t insulted; it’s the truth. But, I’m getting better, so maybe Nuk was doing her job. Till now!

  She ran from me to Special Forces and jumped all over him. “Good girl. You are so pretty. I bet all the boys swoon over you.” What a suck up.

  “Hey Grampa,” I said. “Keep an extra eye on Nuk, I think the quake rattled her brain.”

  “She’s just fine, sugar.” He walked up to Special Forces and shook his hand. “Glad you’re going along Mac. You keep an eye on my granddaughter. She has a habit of not knowing what’s good for her.”

  “Will do, Gramps.” He winked at me, and swatted my butt as he walked by. “Will do.”

  I gave Grampa the look. “Now don’t you go giving me that look your mother used on all of us. The stink eye is what she called it, and I don’t have to take none of that from you young lady.” He too winked at me, and slapped my butt as he walked toward his cabin calling the dogs with him.

  “I’d quit while I was ahead.” Todd said walking his horse next to me. “One more spank and this will be an S and M party. Not that I’d complain with that hunk over there, but if Grampa swats my ass, he’ll never see 91.”

  “You suck!”

  “Yes, Dr. Clark, I certainly do.”

  “He told you to quit.” There was that voice again: deep, resonant, commanding. I hated it. Sort of.

  “Geez, do you always go around sneaking up on people?” I asked.

  “You’d be amazed how much information you can ascertain by casually inserting yourself in other’s conversations.”

  “That’s eavesdropping, and rude.”

  “In my world, we call it covert operations, sugar.”

  “Don’t call me sugar!”

  “Don’t call me Special Forces.”

  “Do you have super human hearing?”

  “I have lots of super human things.” He checked Chimayo’s cinch, put his foot in the
stirrup, swung his long, muscled leg over her back and sat in the saddle. “Let’s go beautiful lady.”

  I’m pretty sure he was talking to the horse. I smacked my hat on my leg. Crap, I still didn’t know his name.

  I watched and waited till he was definitely out of hearing range, then walked over to Amanda who was brushing her hair. She was the combination of a Swedish mother and Italian father. Her hair was light blond and straight. It reached to the middle of her back and had a pink stripe running down one side. She was barely 5’2 and only topped a hundred pounds after a night of eating pasta and cheesecake. While her looks came from her mother, her temper and ability to talk with her hands was all her father’s Italian bloodline. I knew she had a bag full of make-up and nail polish in her saddle packs and I’d bet twenty bucks she also had at least one mirror. I just hope I remembered to pack my toothbrush.

  “Amanda, what’s his name?”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “I think Special Forces has super human hearing.”

  “You’re insane?”

  “Beside the point. Name please.”

  “Mac.”

  “Huh? I thought that was a nickname, like hey Bud how are you, or what’s up Mac.”

  “It is kinda.” Amanda tucked the hairbrush in her saddle pack next to a Smith and Wesson .44 mag, and a palette of eye shadow. “Name’s Don MacAlister. He was in the army and is now a retired secret agent from some government branch with a bunch of initials.”

  “Seriously, a secret agent? You’ve got to stop reading all those Jason Bourne novels.” I’m pretty sure she read them as porn, because she swears Bourne is hot in so many ways.

  “I’m just repeating what Todd told me.”

  “There’s a reliable source when it comes to hot guys.” I said.

  “Mac is like hot chocolate with peppermint Schnapps and slathered with melting marshmallows next to blazing campfire.” Was that drool coming out of the corner of Amanda’s mouth?

  “He’s too old for you.” Why did I feel the need to point that out?