The Mackinac Incident

by Len McDougall

  They’d made excellent time, thanks to the advanced physical and mental training they’d received from their Al Qaeda handlers in Afghanistan. It had been rough going, especially after sunset, but they’d trained intensively for night navigation. Their Al Qaeda instructors had anticipated traveling through these jungles at night. Nightvision goggles weren’t practical for slogging cross-country through tangled undergrowth, but their LED headlamps were fitted with red lenses that allowed terrain features to be seen without causing their pupils to adjust. They could extinguish their lights at a moment’s notice without sacrificing their eyes’ natural night-vision.

  A little more than eight rugged and sweaty hours had passed since they’d left the bodies of their victims partially hidden along the Betsy River. Their route here had taken them across the river, south and west of the village of Paradise, on a mapped snowmobile trail that saw little use during the summer months, and virtually no traffic in any season between the hours of dusk and dawn. Tourists and residents alike avoided the forest itself, sticking only to roads and trails that they could view while sitting on, or inside, some form of motorized vehicle. As predicted, the trio had seen no one.

  They skirted the tiny village of Paradise when, in fact, they could have walked down the main street through town as the village was eerily quiet. All forty of the village’s residents were fast asleep. Five miles south of Paradise, they crossed the Tahquamenon River. The river was too wide and too deep to cross without using yet another boat, but they were able to stay out of sight along the riverbank until reaching the two-lane bridge that crossed it on highway M-123. The bridge was located immediately south of the entrance to Tahquamenon Falls State Park, but the park was unmanned by authorities at night. There was little traffic on the remote highway after dark.

  They made the fifty-yard dash across the bridge from cover to cover without incident. No traffic was in sight, and for the next seventeen miles they saw only a half-dozen vehicles. Wet, swampy terrain on both sides of the highway for miles at a time was impenetrable to almost any animal, except a long-legged moose. According to McBraden, this was moose and wolf country. They could hear coyotes yapping in the near distance, and the alien sounds sent chills down their spines.

  They traveled a muddy snowmobile trail on the east side of the road. A regular, flattened highway of snow kept passable by a grooming tractor in winter, it was a mucky mess in the non-snow months. The sucking mire was so difficult to walk through in many places that it forced them to travel the road, running for cover whenever they saw headlights bearing down on them from either direction. Once, a dark blue SUV with Michigan State Police markings went by, traveling at a moderate speed because there were a lot of deer, and a few, much larger, and darker-colored moose that crossed this road. As all Yoopers knew, no one drove away from crashing into a three-quarter ton adult moose at highway speed; not even an eighteen-wheeler.

  They hiked all night, and reached highway M-28 just as the first light of dawn was breaking over the forest. McBraden found the two-track where their car was parked by referring to the area maps on his iPad. Aziz confirmed the location of the vehicle on his GPS. They found the plain white Ford Econoline panel van right where it was supposed to be, parked on the side of the track a hundred yards from the highway. The license plate numbers matched his notes, and the fuel tank was full. This was the right car.

  The keys were behind the front tire on the driver’s side, as instructed. Aziz checked the inside; it held a new-looking spare tire, tire-changing tools, and a satchel shipped to McBraden’s friend from Canada by Brenda Waukonigon, containing the tracker transmitter and a fresh change of clothes for each of them. There were four clipboards in the satchel as well, with official-looking, made-up forms about the Mackinac Bridge, and matching pens that read JACKSONVILLE PAINTING on their barrels. Good. The outdoors-style clothes they all wore now had been functional for the trek here, but for this phase of the mission, it would be better if they looked more like tourists.

  McBraden’s friend had placed the padlocked duffel bag he’d been shipped by United Parcel Service into the van as well. Inside, there was a one-piece coverall for each of them, for when they needed to cover their clothes. Large Helvetica letters on the back of each jumpsuit proclaimed that the wearers were from JACKSONVILLE PAINTING, out of Jacksonville, Florida. Four white hard hats were labeled likewise. Completing the illusion were four tool belts, complete with tools.

  They cleaned up with disposable wet wipes as well as the mosquitoes would allow, then changed into their new sets of clothes. The clothes were off the rack from Wal-Mart, purchased for them by Brenda Waukonigon, and shipped in the satchel bag to the man who’d bought the van for them. They fit well enough. Aziz appraised his fellows. They’d pass for tourists all right. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a Hawaiian shirt, but in this case, it seemed appropriate camouflage.

  “Hang on a second,” McBraden said, “I really gotta take a dump.”

  Aziz grimaced at him. These Americans were such pigs. No couth at all. “All right,” he said, “but make it fast. We have a time frame.”

  Freed of the weight of his backpack, McBraden felt light enough to float off the ground. He hadn’t relieved his bowels in more than twenty-four hours. A steady diet of granola bars and MREs and stress had irritated his digestive tract, and now the need to empty his colon had become painfully urgent. McBraden stuffed a partially used roll of toilet tissue into the back pocket of his trousers.

  Dawn’s first light was breaking through the trees as McBraden retreated hurriedly into the woods, holding the belt buckle of his trousers in both hands. Aziz watched him disappear behind a stand of young spruces, about fifty yards distant. Then he turned away in disgust, not wanting to witness any more than he’d already seen.

  Aziz got into the van and inserted the key into its ignition. Its three-sixty cubic inch engine growled to life on the first attempt, and Aziz smiled dryly to himself. There had been enough unforeseen glitches on this mission. Everything was going to go smoothly from now on. He allowed himself a moment of utter satisfaction, imagining how much death and misery his plan was going to cause the Great Satan America.

  Grigovich got into the passenger side and closed the door. He turned on the radio and scanned the FM band until he found a song he liked. As Boy George sang about a Karma Chameleon, Aziz looked critically at him. He hated that song, and he hated Brits with almost the same intensity that he hated Americans. Aziz tuned the radio to a local news station. Grigovich scowled at him, because he’d always liked Culture Club, but he said nothing.

  After covering a few news items, the announcer proudly proclaimed that this year’s Labor Day Bridge Walk promised to be the busiest ever. In two days, the Mackinac Bridge would be cleared of the painters and maintenance workers who blocked two of the four lanes of this length of interstate freeway every other time of year. Two days later was Labor Day, and a record number of people were expected to walk the five-mile span from Mackinaw City at the southern end to Saint Ignace. The walkers would begin at 7 AM, and the governor of Michigan would be the first person across.

  After ten minutes, McBraden hadn’t returned. It was fully daylight now, and Aziz was getting impatient. He looked at his watch—how long did it take for him to shit? He knew that they were waiting for him. Against his better judgment, he blew a brief blast on the van’s horn. He waited a full minute. Nothing. Where the hell was he?

  “Okay,” Aziz said, his voice trembling with barely controlled anger, “let’s go find the son of a bitch.” He opened the door and slid to the ground. Grigovich sighed and followed him.

  They searched the area, but McBraden was nowhere to be seen. Then Aziz remembered the remark McBraden had made about his parents being participants on the Bridge Walk. Maybe he’d gotten cold feet and run away. McBraden wouldn’t have the guts to report their intentions to the police; he knew what would happen to him and every other person he’d ever cared about if he betrayed the
m.

  He would run away, though. That much had been made clear by this spineless excuse of a man. And he would invent a ruse to keep his parents away from the bridge. That alone might compromise the mission. Aziz regretted ever taking him on as a member of this team.

  They returned to the van. As Aziz got behind the wheel and started the engine, he fumed. He jerked the shift lever into drive, and pulled onto the highway while throwing a shower of gravel from the rear tires. Wherever he went, whatever he did, McBraden and his whole family would die for this betrayal.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE OLD TRACKER

  Rod had had little trouble following the trail left by the three murderers. He did have trouble catching up with them, though. They were moving at a fast pace—probably almost four miles an hour—and they took only one break, on the swampy stretch of highway that ran through the state forest, north of Paradise. There, they’d pulled off into the woods and dropped their backpacks. He could see where the long, coarse marsh grasses had been temporarily pressed flat by them and their packs.

  It seemed clear that they were making a run down the length of highway M-123, south of Tahquamenon River. They’d moved during the night, under cover of darkness, and they obviously wanted to avoid being seen by anyone. He could see several places where they’d left the shoulder of the road and pulled back into the woods for just a moment. They hadn’t dropped their packs during these brief recesses, which made it look like they were simply avoiding being seen by a passing vehicle.

  Rod was feeling his age. He didn’t know for how much longer he could keep up this pace. His hips and knee joints were already aching from the strain of hiking with all the speed he could muster for almost thirty miles. His calloused feet and well-worn hiking boots ensured that he didn’t get blisters, but both feet throbbed with the memory of every sprain and broken bone he’d ever suffered. He opened his first-aid kit and treated himself to three ibuprofen tablets. He’d been without sleep for almost twenty-four hours, and fatigue was settling onto him like a dark cloud.

  But he’d made better time than he’d realized. The night sky was lightening in the southeast when he approached the intersection of highways M-28 and M-123, where he spied the three men he’d been following jump onto the roadside from the ditch. They looked around furtively to be sure that no one had seen them, and then dashed across. At the woods’ edge on the other side, they paused to look around again, and Rod hid himself behind a gnarled, old apple tree at the side of the highway. When they seemed sure no one had seen them, they referenced a map and what looked like a GPS unit. Then, the trio trotted westward to an abandoned logging road, about seventy-five yards from the intersection, and disappeared into the forest.

  Rod felt exposed and more than a little afraid as he followed them, yet he was compelled to learn what the killers were up to. The woods were brightening with the coming of a new day as he dashed across highway M-28. He darted from tree to tree as he approached the still dark, dirt two-track the murderers had entered. He had butterflies in his stomach as he approached the shadowy woods. At any moment, he expected a well-placed pistol shot to ring out and end his life.

  He first saw the white van backed into a niche in the red pine forest. The men had the sliding panel door open and were loading their backpacks into it. He ducked behind a large hemlock tree and closed his eyes as he forced his ragged breathing to calm.

  When he’d regained his composure, he looked again. He was too far away to hear what they were saying to one another, but the baby-faced one of the bunch seemed anxious about something. Rod grinned in spite of himself when it became apparent that he was displaying a pressing need to evacuate his bowels. The man went off by himself into the woods. He was sort of dancing as he disappeared into the undergrowth, a hundred yards from his friends.

  Rod thought quickly. This guy was separating himself from the other two. He was the least dangerous looking of the three, and the one that Rod thought would be easiest to overpower. If he were to make any one of them tell him why they’d so viciously killed his survival students, it would probably be him.

  Rod went into predator mode then. Padding as softly as a cougar, he made a wide circle around the men at the van and followed their companion into the woods. The red pines that predominated this section of forest were spaced well apart, so the man had withdrawn well away from his comrades to have some privacy while he did his business. Rod spied him squatting behind a low juniper bush, grunting audibly as he strained to relieve his bowels. A burst of gas erupted loudly from his backside. Rod used the fact that the man was preoccupied with the task at hand to creep ever closer.

  When McBraden rose up to fasten his pants, he gasped in panic as a rough hand clamped hard over his mouth, and something cold and sharp pressed against his Adam’s apple. He struggled for a second, and felt a stinging pain as the honed blade of Rod’s survival knife cut through his skin. He stopped resisting then. Warm blood trickled down his neck. His pants were up, but his 9-millimeter pistol was lying on the ground nearby.

  A voice whispered harshly in his right ear, “Make any noise and I’ll cut your fucking throat, asshole.” McBraden didn’t move a muscle. Rod was terrified, but the fear in his voice took on a fearfully vicious tone when he spoke.

  Without removing the big blade from McBraden’s throat, Rod quickly knelt to pick up the Beretta pistol from the ground. He automatically checked the safety, and then stuck it into his own waistband. Although Rod hadn’t liked to hunt for sport for many years now, he’d grown up with guns of all kinds. While he’d never admit publicly to the hundreds of deer he’d killed for his family’s dinner table, or how he’d come by his extensive experience, there weren’t many firearms that he didn’t know how to use.

  Rod removed the blade from McBraden’s throat and placed it pointfirst into his lumbar area. “Start walking,” he said, pushing McBraden between the shoulder blades. McBraden obeyed, his initial objection silenced by a sharp poke in his lower back.

  When they’d gone about a quarter-mile, Rod shoved him hard between the shoulder blades. McBraden fell to the ground on his belly, and Rod sat heavily on top of him. As he straddled the stunned man, he pulled his right hand behind his back and slipped a noose made of old bootlaces taken from his pocket over McBraden’s wrist. Then he tied the left hand to the right.

  “Over here,” Rod said, “against this tree.” McBraden complied, his eyes fixed on the point of the big blade that hovered only a few inches in front of his face. Rod tied his hands to the trunk of the tree with another length of bootlace.

  Rod ripped open McBraden’s shirt, then unbuckled his belt. McBraden had a look of astonishment on his face as the woodsman tugged his trousers off over his boots.

  “Hey, what the hell are you doin’?” McBraden exclaimed.

  “I have some questions that you’re gonna answer, asswipe.”

  “I’m not tellin’ you a damn thing.”

  Rod grinned in his face, “Oh yes you will. Oh yes you will, you piece of shit.”

  McBraden understood what he meant almost immediately as mosquitoes began to cover his bare legs and chest. He squirmed and wriggled, trying to shake the biting insects from his body.

  “Oh God,” he cried, “get them off me! Get ’em off!” Rod shut him up by jamming a piece of his own torn shirt into his mouth.

  Rod squatted in front of McBraden and watched dispassionately as the biting insects tortured his captive. He might have felt compassion, but his mind brimmed with feelings of vengeance at the memory of Sue Morgan having her ear cut off. This man hadn’t committed that foul act, but he’d been an accomplice, and he was only slightly less guilty than the animal who’d wielded the knife.

  McBraden screamed into his gag. His eyes were wet with tears as he squirmed to dislodge the hordes of insects that stabbed him. The stinging and itching were horrible, but combined with the visual stimulus of seeing dozens of bloodthirsty insects crawling over his skin, filling themselves with his bl
ood, made it intolerable.

  Rod continued to watch McBraden with black, heartless eyes. He wasn’t a cold man, and ordinarily he hated to see any living thing suffer. But he couldn’t find it in himself to feel even a shred of pity for this murderous weasel who wriggled in agony before him. Far off through the woods, he heard the honk of the white van’s horn. A loud slamming of doors followed, and its engine started. The man’s partners had given up on finding him. McBraden heard it too, and he realized that he was being abandoned. He screamed even louder into his gag, his eyes wide with panic.

  The van pulled out onto the highway and left in a hurry. Rod grinned maliciously. “That’s it, Buddy. Your pals’ve just left you behind. You ready to talk to me yet?” He ripped the gag from McBraden’s mouth.

  “Y-yes,” McBraden answered. He looked at Rod, and kicked his mosquito-covered legs furiously. “Yes, you fucker. Yes, I’ll tell you what you want to know. Just give me back my pants.”

  “In a minute. Talk to me first. Why did your friends kill my clients? Tell me or I’ll leave you here till the skeeters drain you dry.”

  McBraden spilled his guts then, all the while wriggling to shake off the biting insects. Rod listened intently to the whole story of plutonium, dirty bombs, and the Bridge Walk. It was his turn to feel panicked.

  “Oh my God,” he said softly. “Oh my God. Do you know how many people you’ll kill?” He stopped, realizing that this was, of course, the object of the operation.

  “That’s the point, stupid.” McBraden confirmed.

  Rod went through the pockets of McBraden’s trousers. In his buttoned-down, right-side back pocket was a wallet containing $527 in US currency, and 130 Canadian dollars. The same back pocket also held a passport and a current Michigan-issued driver’s license that identified him as Timmons McBraden of Paradise. Rod knew that name. He was a local boy; the son of a retired sheriff who’d never liked Rod. If McBraden knew who Rod was, he gave no sign. There were a few coins from both countries in his right hip pocket, but nothing else.