Hunting Savage

by Edlund, Dave;

  The air was still, and cold was seeping into Peter’s flesh with the lack of activity. It would only get worse as the night wore on. Diesel moved in closer, sharing body heat with his owner. Peter reached down and folded a portion of the sleeping bag over Diesel as well as his own legs. It just might be a three-dog night, Peter thought. He turned on the night-vision goggles and returned to watch.

  A-couple-thousand feet lower in elevation and miles to the north, a bevy of law enforcement officers was busy setting up their base of operations. Their vehicles were parked in a rough circular arrangement off the gravel road not far from the location where Deputy Hood had been found. His body had been removed a couple hours ago. Although an autopsy would be performed, the cause of death was obvious to the officers on the scene. It was also clear that he had been murdered elsewhere and his body positioned in the truck.

  A mobile communication center with state-of-the-art equipment was the nerve center. The heavy-duty truck frame housed a box-like shelter, patterned after military mobile command centers. From here, the State Police and the Deschutes County Sheriff’s Office would coordinate a search using dogs, ATVs, and an army of law enforcement officers—most of whom volunteered, eager to capture or shoot the cop killer. And everyone understood that the latter option was definitely preferred.

  The search had started out promisingly when the dogs quickly found a scent trail leading away from the deputy’s Ford truck. The trail headed north, and the handlers expected it would lead to a campground a few miles away. But unexpectedly the dogs either lost the scent trail or broke away from it. One handler suspected some cover scent had been laid down to mask the path—maybe cougar urine. Dogs were naturally fearful of the large feline predators, and unless they were specifically trained to hunt the cats, no dog would follow the trail.

  Opting to wait the night out and resume at first light, the senior officers put their time to good use laying out search grids and assigning personnel to each quadrant. Beginning in the morning, they would search in shifts, working outward from the base camp, until a fresh scent trail was picked up.

  Chapter 26

  Sacramento, California

  April 21

  Jim was still studying the satellite photos and topographic maps long after he dismissed his intelligence analysts, Lacey and Stephens. It was time to take action, even though he had no authorization to do so. He could contact Colonel Pierson, the Pentagon officer who oversaw SGIT, explain the situation, and request approval for the mission. But he also understood that the odds of permission being granted were very close to zero. We’ll just pass this off as a training exercise.

  He left the conference room on his way for the armory. Sergeant Jesper Mortensen had the shift rotation. A veteran of SGIT, Jesper had been recruited from the Navy SEALS. He was tall with nearly black hair, clean-shaven, and had cobalt blue eyes. He had the highest level of respect for his commander, having served under him during many missions. Normally, SGIT operations were organized around a team of six operators. So he immediately recognized the irregularity of his commander’s request.

  “Who’s filling out the team, sir?” Jesper ventured the question.

  “There is no team, Sergeant. This is a solo exercise. A training mission. I’ll check out an M27 and ten extra mags.” Jim preferred the M27 Infantry Automatic Rifle, based on the H&K 416 rifle and adopted by the U.S. Marine Corps, over other options, which included automatic shotguns and .50 caliber sniper rifles.

  “That’s double the normal load out of spare mags, sir.”

  Jim sensed where this was going. “Is there a problem, Sergeant? Because if there is, I advise you to follow standard procedure and state your concern in writing. You may register your written complaint in person in my office tomorrow morning. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” He glanced to the wall clock. “Sir, it’s almost 2400.”

  Jim ignored the comment. What he was about to do went beyond irregular, and could lead to his court martial and the end of his career.

  “I’ll take a light excursion pack, range-finding scope, NVGs, spare batteries, MREs for three days, standard med kit, and satellite phone.”

  Jesper left the counter to gather the requested items. The armory—or more correctly, the storeroom—was to the SGIT soldiers what a high-end outdoor gear store is to the hunter and fisherman. With row upon row of steel shelving running the length of the room, everything that might be needed for a mission was neatly organized here. Weapons, ammunition, medical kits, optics, GPS, NVGs, special clothing and packs, meal rations, and on and on. All laid out in groupings of like supplies.

  Sergeant Mortensen returned with everything his commander requested. “It’s all in the pack, sir.” Then he handed the rifle across the counter, bolt open and lacking a magazine.

  Jim accepted the rifle and was inspecting it as Jesper left, only to return in short order with a light pack on his shoulder and a second M27 in his grip. “I’m going with you, sir.”

  Jim didn’t even look up from his task. “The hell you are, Sergeant.”

  Jesper didn’t give in. “Look, sir. There’s a rumor going around that Peter Savage is in a tight spot. And I suspect you aim to help him out.”

  Without raising his head, Jim shifted his eyes to Jesper, noting his determined look, and then finished checking the bore and chamber. Spotless, as expected.

  “You know he saved my life in the Sudan,” Jesper said by way of explanation. “I won’t turn my back on him.”

  “You will follow orders, Sergeant.”

  “I know the flight crew is preparing the bird.” That was the nickname for their one-of-a-kind, specially modified HC-130J Combat King IIB aircraft. “You could use my help. Without backup, what are your odds?”

  Jim inserted the bolt back into the rifle and drew in a deep breath. He knew Jesper was right. It was borderline suicide to embark on the mission alone.

  “Alright, you win. But understand, this could end my career—yours, too.”

  Jesper nodded agreement.

  “And you still want to volunteer?”

  “You know the answer.”

  “Very well. Sign out a pair of comms. I’ll brief you during the flight. It will be a short one, so don’t count on any sleep time.” If it had been only Jim on the mission, the squad communication equipment would have been unnecessary. But with Jesper joining him, the prospect of needing encrypted communication between the two was a very real possibility.

  With a grin on his face Jesper Mortensen walked beside his commander to the waiting aircraft.

  They climbed onboard, and Jim instructed the pilot to taxi and takeoff. The Office was located within the old airbase complex that had been McClellan Field. A former SAC installation, it still maintained a long runway.

  Now that the two warriors were on a mission, they shifted to their call signs.

  “The plan is simple, Homer,” Jim began. He ran through the plan as best he had it worked out. The problem was that there were a lot of unknowns and variables. He also shared what he knew about the civilians killed in Bend and the Sheriff Deputy who was murdered not far from where they were going.

  “Any questions?”

  Homer shook his head. “It’ll be a piece of cake, Boss Man. We parachute into the wilderness, aiming for a meadow to avoid snagging a tree. Then we find Peter. What’s to go wrong?”

  “Just remember, you volunteered.”

  For the first 30 minutes of the hour-long flight, the men had little to say. But Homer had been thinking mostly about Peter Savage. He easily recalled how Peter had stayed by his side in the Sudan, fighting off the enemy against overwhelming odds. “May I ask you a question, sir?” he said.

  Boss Man shrugged as he looked at Homer, his expression inviting his sergeant to continue.

  “Peter is… unusual. He’s not like any other civilian I’ve met. But not really military either. I mean, he has a lack of respect for authority sometimes.”

  That last comment brought
a smile to Jim. “Sounds to me like you pegged him pretty well.” He paused, studying Homer’s face. In it he saw genuine interest and concern. “What’s on your mind, Sergeant? You may speak freely.”

  “I’m curious what makes him tick. He’s so different from anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “Where to begin…” Jim leaned back in the jump seat and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankle. “I met Peter in high school—we became the best of friends. After school, he went to college and I joined the Navy. Didn’t stay in contact much. I missed his wedding to the love of his life—a woman named Maggie. We exchanged Christmas cards and occasional phone calls, but it wasn’t until a few years ago that we reconnected.”

  “That’s right,” Homer recalled. “The mission to the Aleutian Islands.”

  Jim nodded. “You remember his father, too?”

  “Yeah, a professor right? Ian Savage.”

  “I reconnected with Peter just prior to that mission. I was trying to persuade the good professor not to travel to Alaska. Thought Peter could help me. But if there’s anyone more stubborn than Peter, it’s his father.”

  Homer laughed. He had first-hand experience with Peter’s dogged persistence. But then again, that character trait had saved Homer’s life in North Africa.

  “Anyway, at first Peter seemed like the same kid I knew in days past, except older and more mature. But when his back was pushed against the wall by the Ramirez brothers, he changed—it was like he snapped. I don’t really know how to describe it, other than it was as if another side of his personality was unleashed. Make no mistake, Peter can be as hard and cold and cunning as you or me.”

  “Hey, you don’t need to convince me of that. Remember, I’ve seen him in action.”

  “And there’s a lot you haven’t seen. Peter has worked with me on several missions. The Colonel considers him an honorary member of SGIT.”

  “So why this place?” Homer asked.

  “You mean our drop coordinates?”

  Homer nodded.

  “That part of the Cascade Range is spiritual to Peter. He and his wife—”

  “Maggie?”

  “Yeah, Maggie. They loved camping and hiking in that area around Todd Lake, Broken Top, and South Sister. Peter told me that he and Maggie came up with the name of their first child at Todd Lake. They’d often go there for picnics—the children loved it, too. And Peter has hunted that piece of forest for years—taught his son how to hunt there.”

  “So Peter knows the terrain well. I get it.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. You see, when Maggie died, Peter was heartbroken. A part of him died with her. On that forested land around Todd Lake and Broken Top, he feels a tangible connection to her—to some of the happiest moments of his life. He’s there now—to be close to her, to draw strength from that spiritual connection. He’s there because he feels he’s been backed into a corner. You think you’ve seen Peter in action—something tells me we’re about to be enlightened.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Homer replied grimly.

  “Check your gear again; we’ll be at the drop zone soon.”

  Again Homer ensured his weapons were functional and with full ammunition magazines, but no round chambered to avoid accidental discharge. For the fourth time he confirmed the number of spare magazines he was carrying, his medical kit, rations, water, knife, and other essential items. He would be wearing the NVG set, and he confirmed he had plenty of spare batteries.

  “So, once we’re on the ground,” Homer asked, “how do we locate Peter?”

  Jim had worried about exactly this question. It was by far the biggest gap in his plan, and his plan was full of gaps and shortcomings. First, they would parachute—high altitude, high opening, or HAHO—and glide to coordinates that were supposed to be open terrain. Hard enough in daylight, but they would accomplish this feat in darkness. Even so, would they even be close to Peter? An unanswerable question since they had no intelligence as to his exact location.

  “By sound,” Boss Man answered.

  Homer scrunched his mouth. “I don’t get it.”

  Jim looked at Homer. His eyebrows pinched together, eyes reflecting cold reality. “By sound. We follow the gunfire.”

  Any illusion that Homer might have had that this would be an easy mission immediately vanished.

  “Assuming I didn’t guess wrong, and we land somewhere in the neighborhood where Peter is hiding out, then we wait and listen. If he’s alive, and the bad guys are after him, there will be gunshots. We follow the sound, and we get him out. The sat phone is to contact Lacey. She can coordinate with the local badges once we have Peter in our custody.”

  “Law enforcement may not look kindly upon the military taking custody of their suspect.”

  Jim nodded. He’d already thought about that potential complication.

  “Lacey will work out authorization through Colonel Pierson. You have to trust the Colonel. He’ll do the right thing. Once we have Peter safe, and get his side of the story, it’ll all make sense. Right now, we have too many questions and not enough answers. But I tell you this: Peter did not execute a Deputy. That’s not him. It’s against every moral fiber in his body.”

  “I know, sir.”

  They synchronized their wrist-mounted GPS units with the plane’s navigational computer. Both men were wearing heavily-insulated jumpsuits to protect against the frigid outside temperature and 350-knot wind they would experience when they jumped out the back hatch.

  With guns and packs hanging low and in front, they checked each other’s straps. After final adjustments were made, it was simply a waiting game. But they didn’t have long to wait before they’d be at the jump location—an imaginary point in three-dimensional space where the two soldiers would leap into the sky.

  Homer had one more question nagging at his mind. “Sir. What if we don’t hear any gunfire?”

  “Then either I guessed the wrong location, or we arrived too late.”

  Chapter 27

  Eastern Drainage of Broken Top

  April 22

  Peter was finding it hard to keep his eyes open, not to mention actually focus on the expanse to the west. The night seemed to drag on, minutes passing with excruciating slowness. He looked at his watch again, only eight minutes since he last checked the time. Shaking his head and shifting his shoulders, he tried to stir from his lassitude.

  Diesel heard it first, pushing up from his warm cocoon against Peter where he had burrowed under the sleeping bag. Ears forward, Diesel stared across the opening to the scattered and stunted trees. Peter felt the motion, and the tense muscles in his dog. He looked to Diesel, and then in the direction he was fixated.

  Even with the electronics amplifying the ambient light, Peter could not see anything out of the ordinary. Yet he continued to search, trusting the dog.

  With quickened pulse and a jolt of Adrenalin, Peter no longer felt sleepy. Diesel had heard something—but what? It could be a harmless rodent, or maybe a coyote on the hunt.

  It could also be one of the enemy.

  Diesel was sitting upright, staring ahead into the darkness, as still as a stone statue.

  Peter’s hand rubbed the soft fur and thick flesh at Diesel’s neck, but even that didn’t disturb the canine’s concentration.

  And then… movement.

  Peter’s pulse raced and his right hand moved to the trigger of his rifle, anticipating an order not yet sent by his brain.

  He stole a quick glance at Diesel—the canine was still focused ahead. What did you hear?

  Slowly, it appeared. Emerging from behind a cluster of dwarf fir trees, moving at a deliberate pace. At first it appeared as a shadow. But eventually the shadow took form, and a small doe ambled into sight.

  Peter exhaled and relaxed. “It’s okay, boy.” He rubbed Diesel’s head and thick neck, pushing his fingertips against the dense muscles that surrounded the oversized head and lent immense power to the stocky jaws and large teeth. He kneaded the loose s
kin on the canine’s neck—a defensive feature bred into the dog for fighting.

  Diesel relaxed his limbs and let out a breath he’d been holding. Sensing the doe was not a threat, he lowered his head.

  The deep thundering bass of the rotors beating the air could be felt as much as heard. Against a black early-morning sky, Nadya and Marcus could barely see the helicopter hovering above the meadow with only instrument lights illuminated in the cockpit. If they had not worn light amplification goggles, the aircraft would have been completely invisible.

  The Sikorsky S-70 Battlehawk was squat and wide, reflecting its evolution from helicopter troop-transports. It was a prototype, one of several in testing. The matte black fuselage bore no markings.

  The pilot and passengers all wore NVGs. Still, what they were doing was a highly dangerous exercise.

  From open doors on both sides of the airframe, thick black ropes were dropped. Then, while hovering 50 feet above the wind-whipped bunch grass, as close to motionless as possible, nine armed men fast-roped down the lines. All were dressed in digital camouflage in shades of black and gray.

  At the same time the men were slipping away from the hovering Battlehawk, two creatures in slings were rapidly lowered. Through her night vision goggles, Nadya recognized them as some breed of dog.

  The men spread out in a circular pattern and took up defensive positions while their team leader made contact. The helicopter didn’t loiter—once the last man was down a crew member dropped the heavy lines and the helicopter departed, hugging the terrain as it did on the inbound flight, too low to be tracked on civilian air-traffic radar.

  Nadya’s satellite phone squawked. “We’re on the ground. Do you have a visual?”

  “Affirmative,” she replied. “We are a party of two, just inside the tree line northeast of you, maybe 400 meters. Entering the clearing now.”

  Richard Nyden watched Nadya and Marcus approach. Wisely, they left their weapons shouldered and held their hands out to the side, clearly visible. After entering far enough into the meadow to be seen, they stopped. Nyden quickly moved his team to join the two Mossad agents rather than remaining in the open any longer.