by Rachel Lee
Tom hadn’t argued, except to toss her a look. He knew he needed sleep, but this wasn’t the time. He had driven himself harder for longer at Quantico, during his training. He had pulled countless all-nighters in L.A. But back then he hadn’t been recovering from a concussion and nursing an aching thigh bruise. A bruise that seemed to scream louder as the temperature dropped lower with each passing hour.
The daytime temperatures had neared fifty down in Polebridge, but when the sun slipped over the horizon the thin mountain air chilled almost immediately and kept on getting colder. Renate’s alpine experience seemed to include skiing on frozen lakes, because she had absolutely no doubt that, despite the warming springtime temperatures, the lake would still be frozen solid enough to support them.
Her plan was simple and direct. Dixon and his men had been forced to abandon their bus outside the park, and they had trudged uphill on foot all day. They’d reached the shores of Bowman Lake in the late afternoon, and by early evening they’d decided to set up camp rather than press on. Once they passed the lake, the land would begin to rise, and whatever advantage Tom and Renate had on skis would steadily vanish in a battle against gravity. But the lake, like all bodies of frozen water, offered level, smooth going. Seven miles of it. So they’d set out for the south bank and hugged it as closely as they dared, pushing into the night.
Still, the lake was less than a mile wide, and the same level, smooth going that he and Renate enjoyed also yielded wide-open sightlines. Even from the far bank, Tom wondered if they could be seen by alert eyes in Dixon’s camp, if there were any turned their way. By moonlight, even in their winter camouflage, they might be visible because of their movement. And if any of Dixon’s men had night vision equipment, Renate’s and his heat signatures would probably glow, plainly visible. All the more reason to press on, yet Tom couldn’t resist glancing over his shoulder for signs of activity.
After an hour, though, he began to relax. When he lifted his gaze from the terrain just ahead of him, he never failed to catch his breath at the sight of the jagged mountains looming all around them. It was clear that their bases continued down into the lake, that the ice he skied over now was nothing but a filler between rocky upthrusts. But what lay beneath him held no candle to what towered over him. The moonlight carved the craggy peaks in brilliant relief six thousand feet above him. In some places, mostly the bowl-like cirques carved so long ago by glaciers, snow clung and reflected the moonlight with eerie brilliance. In others the sides of the mountains were too steep to collect anything, and gray rock frowned down from nearly vertical walls.
Those mountains were not only beautiful, they were terrifying in their challenge, and it seemed to Tom that they must somehow be alive themselves. A brooding moodiness, a kind of watchfulness, seemed to emanate from them.
He shook his head, dismissing fancy, forcing himself to once again look directly ahead.
He couldn’t yet see the far end of the lake, but the mountains there seemed to be almost on top of them now. He guessed they’d covered five of the seven miles, and there was little chance, if any, of their being spotted at this point. He closed in on Renate and tried to fall into the easy, effortless rhythm that he had once known, and that she was obviously adept at. Instead, he found himself gasping for breath in the thin air, making it difficult to talk. The sound of his breath was nearly lost in the quiet, rhythmic shushing of their skis over the loose, fresh power from the day’s snowfall. Only occasionally did they hit wind-bared ice that scraped and crunched.
Under any other circumstances, Tom would have found this to be one of the most beautiful experiences of his life. He’d never skied in moonlight before, and reality took on a soft, otherworldly feeling. The steady sliding of their skis felt hypnotic. Gradually, even though he was panting from exertion, altitude and weakness brought on by his recent injuries, he almost felt as if he were in a dream, a lovely dream. He was even able to forget for a little while that they were carrying rifles on their backs and that some of the heaviest stuff in his pack was ammo.
Then his ski skidded on some unexpected ice, jolting him and jerking his injured leg. A grunt of pained surprise escaped him. Though it was soft, in the night’s stillness it seemed ominously loud.
“Almost there,” she said quietly.
“Then we grab a few hours sleep?” He knew it was a stupid question, but he was getting woozy enough to be stupid and not care.
“Hardly,” she said. “We push on up the trail. I want to stay a few hours ahead, and we’re going to lose time on the steepest slopes.”
“I don’t know how long my leg is going to hold up.”
Renate looked over at him. “It will be worse if we stop to sleep for a couple of hours. Right now you’re moving, so the blood is flowing and it’s warm.”
He didn’t need to hear the rest. The bottom line was that they needed to keep moving so Dixon couldn’t close the gap too much. Once they reached the head of the lake, they would be on the same trail Dixon would follow, and only time and the stiff mountain winds could hope to hide the tracks of their passage. Renate had estimated that Dixon and his men would need twenty hours to cover the fourteen miles from their campsite to the pass.
Tom glanced at his watch and saw that it was nearing midnight. Dixon was probably an early riser, and he would push his men hard. But would he try to negotiate the pass at night? Probably. He wanted to cross the border into Canada at night, and that would be an all-day hike from the pass. Stopping for the night before the pass would add two days to Dixon’s journey. He would push on.
Tom tried to work the numbers and finally shook his head.
“What’s wrong?” Renate asked.
“I can’t do simple math,” he said. “It’s just after midnight, and I figure Dixon will probably have them up and moving by six at the latest. You said twenty hours. What does that add up to?”
“Two tomorrow morning. But that’s a rough estimate.”
“Why couldn’t I figure that out?” Tom murmured.
“We need a rest break,” Renate said, a look of concern on her face. “Between the concussion and the altitude, you’re starting to get fuzzy. I need you sharp.”
“Let’s get off this ice first,” he said.
“The lake head isn’t far. Another half mile or so, I’d guess. Then we’ll get up into the trees a bit and let you get some fluids into your system. That will help with the altitude.”
“And then we figure out what we’re going to do when the cavalry arrives,” Tom said.
“The cavalry?”
“The FBI. They’ll send in a SWAT team. And that leaves us in a delicate situation. I assume you want to stay invisible. So what are we going to do?”
When they at last reached the trees, Renate shrugged off her pack and began to pull things from it. Bending with difficulty, Tom released his own skis and realized that walking felt awkward now that he was no longer gliding forward. Worse, even inside the snow pants and parka, he sensed he was growing chilled, at least at the surface.
Renate pulled out a small campstove of the kind hikers preferred, and in moments she had the single burner glowing.
“They’ll be able to see that,” he remarked.
“No, we’re far enough into the trees, and the moon is bright. But if you notice, there’s a fallen log there, and snow over it, blocking any direct view.”
The flame didn’t create a whole lot of light, anyway, he realized. It burned a pure blue, blending with the moonlight.
On it, she began to heat a pot of snow. “Soup,” she said. “We both need it.”
She helped him out of his pack and told him to sit on it. Then she pulled out a survival blanket and wrapped it around him. She sat on one herself, protecting herself from the damp cold ground as she pawed through her bag, passing him jerky and candy bars. Instant calories.
They munched while the snow melted and began to steam.
“Where will your cavalry arrive?” she asked him.
He
pulled the well-folded map out of his jacket pocket and used a hooded penlight to scan it.
“If it were me, I’d bring the team in at the Goat Haunt Ranger Station, then backtrack to Brown Pass for the ambush.”
She nodded, looking at the route with him.
“It wouldn’t make sense to try to follow them in. They couldn’t catch up.”
“No,” she agreed. She continued to study the map. “We need to block their retreat.”
“Yes.” He poured over the trails and contours for a few minutes longer. “At some point we need to get behind these guys. An avalanche would be great.”
She looked at him, an odd smile on her lips. “What, you will just clap your hands?”
In that moment she sounded foreign, a fact he’d nearly forgotten. Foreign and exotic. Something within him stirred in a way he didn’t need right now, most especially not with this woman.
“We have the rifles. Look, I don’t claim to know a whole lot about how to cause an avalanche, but it seems to me that if we see a snow overhang that looks likely, maybe we should try to set it off.”
“If we shoot our guns, they’ll know they’re not alone.”
“I’m not saying we should shoot before they reach the others. Maybe we won’t even try this. I’m just saying, if the opportunity arises, we might try it. Mainly I’m thinking we have to be a rearguard, so that if anyone tries to run back down the trail we can pin them down.”
“So we find a good blind to shoot from.” She nodded again. “Good plan. We’ll see what it’s like as we get closer to the pass. You think your team will attack there?”
“That would be the likeliest place to keep them from scattering every which way.”
“Right.” She leaned back and emptied packets of dried soup mix into the pot of now boiling water. Instantly a rich aroma filled the air around them.
“I’m glad,” he remarked, “that the grizzlies are hibernating. Otherwise they might join us for a midnight snack.”
A little chuckle escaped her. “I’ve heard about grizzly bears.”
“So have I. And I’d rather not meet one.”
The candy replaced lost calories quickly, but the soup made him start to feel warm again. She had made generous servings to drink out of aluminum mugs, and while they enjoyed the warmth, she melted more snow for drinking. Overhead, the wind tossed the treetops, sounding cold and lonely. At ground level, however, bodies were warming up again and feeling stoked for the next leg of the journey.
“Let’s go,” Renate said finally when she judged they had drunk enough warm water to replace what they were losing to the dry air as they breathed.
Tom rose and found he was stiffening up. He hobbled around the area, loosening his leg as Renate re-packed her knapsack.
“Ready?” she asked finally. He nodded and let her help him into his backpack again. Apparently, when he’d hit his head, he’d also done a little something to his neck. It wasn’t cooperating with some of his movements too well.
Then he slipped back into his skis and picked up his poles from where they leaned against a tree.
“This is going to be rougher,” Renate said when she, too, was ready to move. “Feel up to it?
“Actually, I do now.” In fact, he felt revitalized.
She passed him a few more candy bars. “Keep these in your pocket.”
As soon as they stepped out of the woods and back onto the trail, the wind hit them in the face, blowing down from the heights ahead of them. Tom was glad to see, however, that it was sifting the dry snow around. Behind them, their trail had already vanished.
He tightened up his snorkel hood, then skied after Renate on a slight upward slope that he didn’t doubt was going to become extremely difficult before long.
But she was right. As long as the moon gave them light, they had to keep going. He just hoped his leg was up to doing a herringbone, or they were going to lose a lot of the advantage they’d gained. Perish the thought.
Moonlight silvered the trail, and the wind snatched away any sound they made.
It was as if they were wraiths, lost, alone and unseen.
30
Watermill, Long Island
Fishing, Edward Morgan thought with disgust. His operation was in a critical phase, and he needed to be here, in his command center, to monitor events in Montana and offer guidance if Dixon contacted him by the encrypted satellite link Morgan had provided. He’d finally caught up with Kevin Willis, through another contact at the Bureau, and knew Willis would be meeting a SWAT team in Goat Haunt. Apparently the bastard had betrayed him. Well, so much the better. Morgan had him marked for death regardless.
Once Dixon checked in, Morgan would tell him about the impending ambush, and Dixon would take steps of his own. His well-trained Guatemalan soldiers, with state-of-the-art equipment, would be an easy match for the FBI’s SWAT team. He would instruct Dixon to make sure Willis died in the firefight, along with Miriam Anson, who was also on the scene. Dixon himself was expendable, and after the firefight, he would have outlived his usefulness. Katherine would blame him—she always did—but she wouldn’t be able to prove a damn thing, and neither would the FBI.
The official story would be that Grant Lawrence had been the target of a crazed, right-wing militia group. Harrison Rice would win the election. And the Frankfurt Brotherhood would have a malleable pawn in the White House, ready and eager to continue a very open and profitable war on terrorism. Any connection between Dixon and the civil war in Guatemala would be lost on the margins of the public outcry for justice in the Lawrence shooting, an outcry that Morgan’s allies were already stirring to a near frenzy.
The operation could still work, despite the setbacks. Despite Bookworm. Every operation had its share of twists and surprises. That was what management was for. And on this day of all days, Ed Morgan needed to be here to manage the situation through its endgame.
Instead, his father had called and summoned him for an early spring fishing trip. Just a day, out on Long Island Sound. Fresh air. Sunshine. Relaxation. Dad was tired of being cooped up in his Manhattan penthouse, as if that were a trial rather than a life of utter luxury in which his every need was cared for by the simple expedient of lifting his diamond-laden pinky finger.
But Dad was Dad, and he still had heavy pull at the bank, despite his public retirement. There were only a few ironclad rules in Ed Morgan’s life. “Don’t cross Dad” was one of them, and indulging the old coot had served him well over the years. Dixon wouldn’t be anywhere near the ambush site until the wee hours of tomorrow morning, and by then Ed would long since be back ashore and safely ensconced in his command center. So, okay, he would take a day with Dad and even pretend to enjoy himself while listening to the same old stories his father told every time they were together.
With a silent groan at the mere thought, Ed finished the brief message and hit the transmit button. Dixon would get it when he logged in, and by the time it mattered, Ed would be back in contact. In the meantime, he would drink his fill of fine German beer and work on his tan.
Everything would be fine.
Goat Haunt, Montana
“To the best of our knowledge,” Kevin Willis said, standing before a computer-projected photo, “we can expect to encounter at least a dozen well-armed and well-trained men. This man is the principal target. Wes Dixon. He’s a West Point graduate and a former classmate, so believe me when I tell you he knows what he’s doing and can adapt to changes in the tactical situation quickly. The men with him are all Guatemalan rebels, all of them with years of irregular combat experience, and all of them fresh out of Dixon’s training program in Idaho. Do not take Dixon, or them, lightly. They won’t go down easily.”
After some discussion, Miriam had agreed that Kevin should do most of the mission briefing and retain nominal tactical command. But she wasn’t about to let another Dos Ojos happen. She would be in the loop—and stay in the loop—all the way to the finish. She watched as Kevin tapped a remote control
, and the photo of Dixon was replaced by a magnified section from a United States Geological Survey topographic map.
“Our intercept point is here,” Kevin said, pointing at the screen, “on the east side of Brown Pass. It’s isolated and open, and the terrain will canalize and contain Dixon’s men for us.”
The park ranger stationed there, Adam Peltrowski, spoke. “That’s very steep terrain there, a quick descent of about a thousand feet from the pass to here. It’ll be very difficult getting down it through the snow, and impossible to get back up it with any speed at all.”
“Exactly. The important thing is that we let them herd themselves through the pass and start the descent. Then we’re all over them.”
“What are the rules of engagement?” the SWAT team leader asked.
“We’ll move in searchlights this afternoon,” Kevin said. “Once Dixon and his men have walked into position, we’ll light them up and bullhorn them once. I’ve spoken with the director of Homeland Security, who has spoken with the president. We are to consider them domestic terrorists and enemy combatants. If they don’t surrender after one warning, we’re to treat it as a combat situation.”
“Collateral targets?” the team leader asked.
“There shouldn’t be any,” Peltrowski said. “The park is closed, and that pass isn’t considered navigable until July.”
“So it’s a free-fire zone,” Kevin concluded.
Miriam squirmed in her seat. She knew Tom and Renate would be up on that mountain, but she couldn’t say a word about it. She would have to trust that they, too, would know the Bureau would treat it as a free-fire zone, and that they would stay out of the way.
Still, hearing phrases like “enemy combatants” and “free-fire zones” applied within American borders made her uneasy. It seemed more like a display of post-9/11 institutional gunslinging than law enforcement. This was the brave new world of the United States of America, and in this instance she understood the necessity. But she didn’t have to like it.