by Rusty Ellis
“I could go down to the Jones’. I’m sure they have a couple spare bags.”
“And get Frank and Alice involved? They’ll try to intervene and tell you you’re crazy. On the other hand, I at least think your plan has a chance of working.”
Chase stood his ground and raised an eyebrow, “I could always just take them from you.”
“You and what army?”
“Me. A product of the United States Army,” Chase smiled.
Henry shook his head, “That would be a strategically bad move, soldier. This old dog still has some fight left in him. Plus, if we learned anything in war, it’s the importance of having allies. And right now, I’m the only ally you’ve got.”
The point was well taken. Though he could minimize Henry’s exposure by keeping him on the safe-side of the sensor-lined perimeter, there was something about knowing someone was cheering for you, about knowing you weren’t just doing this on a crazy whim, on an island, alone. Chase could control the variables. He would just need to be subtle about his reasons for Henry staying back from the property line. He needed to provide tactical reasons for Henry’s distance from the heat of it all.
Chase conceded and took one of the bags from Henry. The two men prepared for their trek to the mid-way point of the east side where Chase would cross the sensors.
Chase waited for the night to take hold and looked down at his watch—10:45 p.m. Sunset had rolled in at 9:30 p.m. A three-quarter moon hung in the sky, the natural light giving off just enough glow to aid in their hike. That same light would also expose their presence, if security was paying attention from inside the HLC property. Chase would need to make sure he and Henry stayed near the tree-line, to break up their shadows and outline. He would need to keep their pace steady, but unhurried, battling the anxious feeling to move quickly toward his target and goal.
Be the elk, take your time, graze, Chase grinned at the thought.
Chase’s backpack was light—for now—the only item inside was a weight scale from Henry’s master bathroom. Henry’s bag was even lighter, with only a roll of black para-cord he’d grabbed from the front room closet. The light weight would be temporary, at least until they reached the east side of the property where Chase would make his entry.
Chase and Henry would have to scavenge for the weight to fill the bags after they reached the spot. Chase would prefer to take the time now to make sure and have the necessary weight in rocks to weigh down the bags, versus scrounging around near the permitter and possibly drawing attention to themselves. But there was no use in loading up 275-pounds of rocks and carrying them a mile before slipping across the border. Not that the challenge didn’t intrigue Chase. But his ego and the challenge was no reason to zap his energy. They would find a cache of rocks nearer the crossover point.
“Ready,” Henry announced.
Chase looked up to see Henry standing in front of him, a deflated backpack slung over one shoulder and wearing dark camouflage hat and matching camouflage coat. Chase could see Henry’s rifle dangling at his side.
Chase raised an eyebrow at the site of the Henry’s rifle. He had no intentions of getting involved in a gun battle. Carrying a rifle turned Henry from a spotter into a target. Henry traced Chase’s eyes to his rifle and stared back at him. Chase knew better than to question him about bringing his rifle. The discussion would quickly turn into Henry’s right to carry his rifle on his property. This was not a battle Chase would win. The rifle was coming along.
“Ready,” Chase declared back and headed for the door.
The two men stepped onto the porch and took in the night air. The three-quarter moon gave off a comfortable glow.
Henry rambled down the wooden stairs and led out, “Let’s go get your sister.”
The moon’s glow cast ghost-like shadows through the brush and trees. Henry led the way across his property, at least a quarter-mile from the HLC border. His acreage stopped at the eastern corner of the HLC property. He hesitated and looked at Chase. Chase took the lead and the two men stepped off Henry’s property and headed in a southeast direction. The entire hike itself was just shy of a mile. The moonlight was helpful, but the shadows through the trees and brush and made their foot placement a challenge as they walked. The last thing either needed was to step into a prairie dog hole and twist an ankle.
The thought of Henry being sidelined by a twisted ankle didn’t seem like such a bad alternative. But Chase knew it wouldn’t keep Henry from loping along, refusing to stop and tend to his injury. Henry would have slowed them down, but he wouldn’t have abandoned their mission.
Chase turned their hike from southeast to due south. After a half-mile, he slowed to unload the weight scale from his bag and begin scouring the ground for rocks. Henry caught up and set his rifle against a tree near the scale and did the same.
“You need about one-hundred and fifty-five pounds in your pack,” Chase called out quietly to Henry as he began scooping rocks into his own bag.
The challenge was finding big enough rocks to fit in the bag to weigh it down before running out of room. Worse case scenario would be using the para-cord to strap on fallen logs to make up the difference. Not the best solution. Chase pictured having logs sticking out on the sides, snagging passing tree branches and throwing his already weighed down bags into a spin, ending with him being whipped to the ground.
Chase filled his pack three-quarters of the way and returned to the scale. He heaved the bag on top—78 pounds. Just over half-way. Henry stepped up and set his bag on the scale—57 pounds. The two men glanced at each other and set their bags on either side of the scale. The hunt for more weight meant shuttling rocks back and forth to where the bags were anchored on the ground, and growing heavier by the armload.
Chase came within three pounds of his goal weight first. He polished off the last of the weight with handfuls of shale while the bag rested on the scale. He heaved the 155-pound bag off the scale and to the side. The weight stretched against the bag’s straps and seams. Chase had to admit the weight of the bag was heavier than expected. He’d spent plenty of time wearing a rucksack in the Army. The rucksack normally teetered over 60 pounds but under 100 pounds. At its heaviest, his rucksack was 55 pounds shy of his current load. And that didn’t take into account having Henry’s bag draped across his chest.
Henry returned to drop a few more rocks into his bag. Chase placed the bag on the scale and the two men collected the last of the needed rock and shale to raise the weight to 120 pounds. Henry stepped in and slid the bag off the scale. He looked at his bag, then at the other bag, then at Chase.
The look of concern on Henry’s face read, “Good luck.”
Chase grabbed the loop hanging at the top of his bag, between the two shoulder straps, and dragged the bag toward the trunk of one of the larger surrounding trees. Henry attempted to do the same with his bag, but in spurts. He tugged it a foot or two, rested, and then pulled again. Henry finally pulled his bag alongside Chase’s and stood with his hands on his hips, sucking in air and trying to catch his breath.
Chase reached down and unzipped the front pocket of Henry’s bag and took the para-cord out. With the para-cord in one hand, he reached up into the branches of the tree above him to find a sturdy limb. He found one just within reach and unraveled the para-cord and tossed one end over the branch. He tied the end of the cord to the loop on his bag and then cut off a section long enough to leave several feet coiled on the ground. He did the same thing to Henry’s bag, leaving a second coil on the ground near the first.
Henry stepped over and picked up the cord attached to Chase’s bag.
“On three,” Chase said and squatted down to wrap his arms around the bag.
Henry nodded and twisted the cord around his hand several times.
“One… two… three!” Chase grunted and heaved the bag into the air.
Henry pull out the slack and leaned backwards to hold the bag in place. Chase released his grip and watched the cord go taut and stretch
under the bag's weight. He grabbed the underside of the bag and prepared for one more short lift to raise the bag to match his back and shoulders.
“One… two… three!” Chase heaved the bag another foot higher and waited for Henry to pull the slack again.
Chase released the bag and took the rope end from Henry. He walked around the tree trunk and tied off the bag.
“One down, one to go,” Henry said between gasps for air.
The bags dangled shoulder height in the air, like giant pods of camouflage fruit. Chase stared at his cargo and laughed. He pictured his deformed turtle's shell—one bag on his back, the other hanging in front of his chest. If he hit the ground, chances were he wouldn’t be able to stand back up—a real-life turtle dilemma.
Chase turned to see Henry staring at the bags.
“That’s a lot of weight,” Henry said solemnly.
“I’ve hiked with more,” Chase said.
Henry turned to him, “Really?”
“No.”
Henry laughed.
“Do me a favor and wait for me here, okay?” Chase asked.
Henry stood staring at the bags in wonderment and nodded his head.
“If all goes well, I’m going to walk across the sensors, drop the bags, grab Megan, come back and put the heavier bag on, and then we'll meet you here. Got it?”
“Got it,” Henry answered and stepped closer to the dangling bags. “And Chase…”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful, son.”
“I’ll be back before you know it and introduce you to my sister,” Chase said.
“Sounds like a deal.”
“Well, time to put on some weight,” Chase said and slipped his arms through the shoulder straps on the heavier bag.
He snapped the buckle in-between the two shoulder straps and braced his feet shoulder width apart.
“Go ahead,” he said.
Henry pulled a knife from the sheath on his belt and sawed at the cord just above Chase’s head. The last strands of the cord stretched further and snapped as Henry’s knife released the tension. The weight of the bag transferred to Chase’s shoulders, pulling him backward toward the ground. He tightened his stomach muscles and strained forward to counter-balance the bag.
“You, okay?” Henry asked.
“Dandy” Chase grunted.
Chase stepped forward and slipped his arms through the shoulder straps of the other bag and hugged it. He braced himself for a second jolt and attempted to calculate the center-point of both bag’s weight on his core. He would need to put a little more effort leaning forward than back to off-set weight.
“Ready?” Henry asked.
Chase nodded and tensed. Henry reached for the cord on the second bag and sliced through it with the same results. The bag’s weight dropped onto Chase’s shoulders and pulled him forward this time. He stumbled forward and took a stutter-step to gain control. Chase shrugged his shoulders twice to get the weight of the straps to settle and then turned to face Henry.
Henry’s look of concern was poorly hidden.
“I should’ve brought a cow elk call with me, to spice things up a little,” Chase tried to grin against the strain on his face.
“Funny man. You better get going. Good luck and be safe,” Henry added.
“Roger, that.”
Chase took his first steps with hesitation to gauge the weight of the bags. He felt like the Michelin man, not the one made of marshmallows, the one made of actual tires, if the tires were made of rock.
After a few steps he began to get his rhythm. It tempted him to speed up his pace to get to the other side of the sensors and drop the bags. His main concern was picking up too much speed and taking a tumble before reaching the other side of the sensors.
He steadied his pace and maneuvered around the brush and tree limbs. Moving closer to the edge of the sensors, Chase’s inclination was to tip-toe across the 40 foot expanse, knowing the sensors were underfoot. He mustered up a chuckle at the thought of trying to tread lightly while carting 275 pounds of rocks strapped to his shoulders. He actually needed to be every bit of the combined 500-pound elk he was emulating.
Chase walked an extra 20 feet beyond where he gauged the sensors ended. He spotted a tree with only a few lower branches between him and the tree’s trunk.
Stepping up to the tree, he grabbed both hands around the trunk and lowered himself down to a kneeling position. He released one hand off the trunk and slid his arm from the bag hanging on his chest. He repeated the action with his other arm and let the bag thud to the ground in front of him. Still holding the trunk with one hand, he reached up and released the clasp across his chest. He slipped his free arm from the shoulder strap and let the bag whip around and drop off his other shoulder and onto the ground next to him. Bending down over the first bag, Chase unzipped the top and and toppled it over. When he returned with Megan, he didn’t want to pick up the wrong bag in haste, though he hoped for more calm than haste when he got back.
He stood and stretched his shoulders, shrugging off the weight of the straps and encouraging the blood to flow. His shoulders tingled and came back to life. Chase turned around and looked toward where Henry should be waiting. The trees and bushes blocked his line of sight, though the distance and moonlight wouldn’t have helped even if he had a clear shot.
Chase turned to his left and looked in the general direction of where the cabin should be. He drew in a deep breath and took a step toward the Garden.
I’m coming, Meg.
46
The long-night ahead required clarity and possible engagement. The thought of engagement sent a tinge of excitement up his arms and the back of his neck, a welcome sensation after another numbing day of watching Adam and the girls in the Garden. Popov looked down at his watch—9:30 p.m. James’ voice cracked over his earpiece.
“James to Popov.”
“Go ahead,” Viktor answered into the mic.
“Switch to Channel Four.”
Viktor reached down and turned the dial on his walkie-talkie the familiar three clicks to the right.
“Popov here.”
“James here.”
“Martin here.”
“Thomas here.”
“Good, you have your assignments. Out of sight. Overlap on the Garden. Don’t stop any intruders unless armed. Just short of an assault, we want to let this play out. Understood?” Viktor asked.
“Roger, that,” each voice answered.
The men had been specifically chosen for a reason. He had picked James and then relied on him to pick two more for his team. The goal wasn’t to engage Harper and the old man—if and when they made an appearance—but to observe their intentions. Were they interested in Adam or one of the girls? Or were they playing hero and somehow thinking they could round up all the girls and sprint them back to safety? How they entered the property—and with what weapons—would determine Popov and his men’s level of engagement and response.
Truthfully, if their intention was to extract one of the girls, and she was willing to go with them, no great loss. It wasn’t worth the possible negative outcome and attention the contact could receive, depending on their level of intervention. Three of his men involved, there was no guaranteed way to keep things hush-hush if they went south.
Two men can keep a secret, if one was dead.
Any acts of violence, either from his team or Harper and the old man, would require an investigation and interviews. Investigation and interviews would mean police and media attention. Media attention would mean reporters. Reporters would mean perimeter issues and stories. Stories meant public attention. Public attention meant an onslaught of civilians of various capacities demanding to see what was going on at the HLC, and more specifically the Garden. And even if it was a ‘good shoot’, police would dig deeper and possibly find a few threads to pull, threads leading to unraveling the Community and Adam.
James had questioned Viktor about issuing the Sig Sauer M400s to their team fro
m the equipment room. Viktor hesitated at first, but ultimately had James issue them to the team. He trusted the team's ability to make tactical decisions, or they wouldn’t be on staff to begin with, and the briefing James had given prior to their assignments:
Best-case scenario. Muzzles down unless engaging an armed combatant. Period. Defend yourself, your team, and Adam. The girls were non-inciting. Do not engage over the girls unless an imminent threat of death or serious bodily injury is inevitable.
The team was situated just inside the perimeter, far enough to let Harper and the old man have a little breathing space. Squeezing them against the sensors of the perimeter would be the same as pushing animals against a wall or into a corner, both instances enticing rash behaviors and decision making.
Thomas was assigned just left of the Garden along the north perimeter. The rest of them were aligned along the east side of the perimeter just south of the Garden. Making a move from the north side would most likely be too congestive. Viktor wagered on Harper making a smart tactical move somewhere along the east side of the property and then up toward the Garden.
Viktor placed himself closest to the Garden, followed by Martin, then James at the end of the line.
Viktor stared east across the trees and brush. The moon glowed and played shadowy games with his mind. He rested his hands on the butt of the Sig Sauer M400. The black firearm was slung over his shoulder and resting on his chest, the cold hard-plastic of the M400’s pistol grip under his fingertips. He reached down and slipped his finger into the trigger guard and stroked the tip of his forefinger across the trigger. Between the M400’s 30-round magazine and his Glock 22’s 15-round magazine, he was confident in his ability to wage a one-man war if needed. The thought of engagement pushed his resting pulse up a few beats. His earpiece chimed and a voice came through.
“Operator to Popov.”
“Popov, go ahead Operator.”