The Rogue (Planets Shaken Book 1)

by Lee Brainard

  Life had taken him on a vastly different course than the one he had anticipated—one filled with broken dreams. He had lost Anne in childbirth, and with her passing he lost his dream of having boys. He had suffered a brutal compound fracture of his left femur, which ended his special-ops career. He had been blacklisted by the intellectual elite of the astronomy world over his “heretical” rejection of relativity. And now he was forced to go on the run and lose all his worldly goods. Was there any meaning in all of this? Jack had often told him that everything happens for a reason—God allows and ordains with man’s good in mind. He wanted to believe that.

  The melancholy drive took eight-and-a-half hours. At 12:35 a.m. Woody checked into Marriott’s Grand Residences in South Lake Tahoe, carrying everything he needed for the night in a small duffel bag, and asked the desk clerk for a 6 a.m. wake-up call. When he got to his room, he went straight to bed. He hadn’t slept well the past few nights, today had been a long day, and tomorrow would be longer yet.

  In the morning he shaved and showered, then headed downstairs to the Driftwood Cafe, where he gorged himself on a hearty breakfast: pancakes, eggs, two hash browns, and three orders of bacon. It’ll be a while before I get a good breakfast again.

  At five minutes past eight, he parked his Jeep at the Echo Lake trailhead, unloaded his pack, started to lock the Jeep, then hesitated. Should he lock it or leave it unlocked? After all, he wasn’t coming back. Should he leave it conveniently unlocked for whoever had to tow it? Nope . . . have to lock it . . . everything needs to appear normal.

  Woody lifted his pack to his shoulders, cinched up the straps, then turned to bid farewell to his Jeep. They had been partners on well over a hundred fishing, hiking, and hunting trips over the past twelve years. Respects paid, he wheeled around and headed for the trail . . . no turning back now . . . the bridges are burned . . . today I start my new career as a “criminal” on the lam.

  On the trail, he set a leisurely pace—drinking in the scenery and frequently stopping for breaks—knowing that this was his last trip in the Sierras. At Heather Lake he broke out his spinning rod, which he rarely used, tossed a small spoon for an hour, and caught two fourteen-inch browns. Around 4:00 p.m. he arrived at his destination, Susie Lake, one of the crown jewels in the Sierras, nestled in a rugged, tree-lined basin. He found himself a decent campsite, pitched his tent, inflated his air mattress, and rolled out his sleeping bag.

  As he was retrieving a mini flashlight from his pack that he hung in his tent for a lantern, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Two men were walking past his site—the same two that were sitting in the parking lot when he arrived at the trailhead and that he had seen several times on the trail behind him. They continued on past his campsite and stopped about 150 yards up the trail. They dropped their packs and wandered around for several minutes, gesturing and talking—probably trying to decide where to pitch their tent.

  He pulled out his binoculars and scoped out the situation. The two men grabbed their packs, moved them about fifty feet, dropped them, pulled out their tent, and started setting up camp. He took a close look at their gear. Interesting. Their tent was a Eureka Combat Tent in Scorpion OCP, their packs were Molle Assault Packs in the same pattern, their bags looked to be Modular Sleep System inner bags with Coyote Brown bivy covers, and their boots were Coyote Brown ACUs. Everything appeared to be brand new.

  But something seemed out of place. It wasn’t that they were wearing civilian clothes while carrying military gear, for that wasn’t uncommon when soldiers went camping on a weekend off. What was it? It was . . . their haircuts. The style wasn’t military. Nor was it a style that was common in the civilian world. It was the style sported by the FBI agents he had seen at Caltech over the past two years. This seemed to confirm his suspicions. He was being trailed—the feds had assigned agents to keep tabs on him.

  He chuckled at himself. The FBI was after him and he was more indignant than nervous. Is this really the best they can do? . . . the stupidity of government bureaucrats knows no bounds . . . judging by the tactics and the agents they’re using to trail me . . . they must think that I’m dumber than a box of rocks . . . do they really think a couple of rookies who are little more than boy scouts are gonna do the job justice?

  He shrugged his shoulders and decided to ignore them. As he started to turn away, he observed one of them pulling a pair of binoculars out of his pack. Woody quickly stowed his binoculars in their proper pocket, lifted his water bottle to his lips, and took a drink. Then he went about setting up camp as if he were preparing for a comfortable stay. He set up his folding camp chair—a favorite camping luxury. He put up a clothesline. He filled his solar shower and hung it on the south face of a large pine. And he filled his bag-style water filter and hung it on the opposite side of the tree. Then he sat on a rock and changed his socks. When he was done, he rinsed his old socks in the lake, wrung them out, and hung them, dripping, on the clothesline.

  Dinner was next on the agenda. He hauled out his stove, attached a canister of IsoPro (isobutane and propane blend), and put on a quart of water. Five minutes later, when it was in a rolling boil, he whipped up a batch of macaroni and cheese with diced jalapenos and onions—his favorite meal in the mountains. When it was done, he set the kettle aside to cool, and put on a pot of coffee. Then he settled into his chair for his dinner, savoring every bite. Food always tastes better when you’re camping.

  As he finished washing his dishes, he noticed that the sun was low enough over the mountains that the trout would probably be rising within tenkara range. He picked up his rod, tackle bag, and waders, and made his way to the lake. Sure enough, a damsel-fly hatch was on and the fish were rising within easy casting distance. He perched on a rock, connected his level line to the lillian with a stopper knot, attached his tippet to the level line with a nail knot, and tied on a #14 damsel fly pattern with a classic fisherman’s knot. Though he loved the tenkara style, he mostly used American fly patterns. Then he climbed into his waders, extended his rod, waded out to a flat rock near shore, and began to cast to the cruising and rising trout. A smile crept across his face. Nothing like a wilderness setting and crystal clear trout water. He was enjoying the moment so much that he almost forgot that he was being followed. Over the next hour, he caught twenty-three small brookies which he returned to the water.

  When darkness began to settle on the basin, he returned to camp and set the coffee pot on the stove to boil water for hot cocoa. As he sipped his piping hot mug and gazed at the stars which were beginning to appear, his mind turned to the next step of his adventure. Would his plan work? It had to work. There was no backup plan. He walked himself through the steps once more, from wakeup at zero-dark-thirty to meet-up with the transporter. While not fool-proof, it was a workable plan—worth a Bravo Zulu. A smile crept across his face as he thought about how sheepish the rookies were going to feel when they found out how badly they had been duped. “You’re out of your league, boys,” he whispered. Then he tipped his cup of cocoa, drained it, and went to bed.

  63

  Desolation Wilderness

  Sunday, June 23, 2019

  At 1:30 a.m. the vibrator alarm on his watch went off. Dazed, he struggled to figure out what was going on. Whaaat? . . . huhh? . . . oohhh! . . . that’s right . . . I set my alarm. He touched the light button on the watch—it was now 1:31 a.m. Holy smokes I’m tired. He wished he could catch a few more hours of sleep. You can sleep tomorrow night soldier. Still groggy, he dragged himself out of his sleeping bag, quickly dressed in the dark, and wolfed down two chia bars, leaving the wrappers on the floor. Then he grabbed his assault pack—ready to go with everything he would normally take for a day fishing trip, plus extra food and emergency gear—set it outside the door, and crawled out of his tent.

  Sitting on a rock about a hundred feet from his tent, he opened his pack and removed a package of Kevlar-reinforced boot covers with Kevlar-webbed felt soles. He soaked the felt and the sides libera
lly with a deer-urine and animal-musk mix. Then he pulled the boot covers over his boots and laced them up. Finally, he smeared the oily mix on his pants, shirt, hat, hands, and face. This should cover my scent . . . throw the dogs off . . . wish I could see the frustration on their faces when the dogs can’t pick up my trail. He stood up, shoved the empty packaging and the scent bottle deep in his pack, threw his pack over his shoulders, and struck out on his journey.

  He left almost all of his gear behind—tent, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, bear container, clothesline, shower bag, chair, spinning rod, water purifier, stove, and battered coffee pot. If everything went as planned, the rookies and their superiors would figure that he got up early to go fishing and would be back in camp around dusk. No one would suspect that there was a problem until it was dark and he wasn’t back. By then he would be long gone.

  Once on the trail, he checked his watch. It was 1:44 a.m. Sweet. From the time his alarm had gone off until he was on the trail had only been fourteen minutes. He took a quick glance at the stars and marveled at Orion as he so often did, then headed back down the trail toward Heather Lake at a fast pace. He had a lot of ground to cover before morning. He wanted to be over Mosquito Pass and in the Rubicon drainage by dawn. That was doable if he pushed hard.

  He hadn’t even gotten his trail legs when Heather Lake appeared on his left—that went fast. The trail skirted the lake, then started climbing. He geared down a little but still maintained a brisk pace. When Lake Aloha came into view shortly afterward, he knew that he was close to the Rubicon Trail. A few minutes later he stumbled upon the cairn that marked its lonely track. By 3:00 a.m. he was winding his way up Mosquito Pass—making good time. At the top, he stopped for a brief break and marveled at the shimmering moonlight dancing on Lake Aloha, the orb itself low over the eastern mountains. He allowed himself a small drink of water, his first since he woke up. This wasn’t a matter of water conservation, but a matter of savvy. He didn’t want to pee—which would leave his scent—until he was outside the probable search parameters that would be imposed once they realized that he was missing.

  He headed down the other side, passed the Clyde Lake trail, and then crossed the Rubicon River. He smiled, how fitting . . . crossing the Rubicon . . . may I prevail in my crime as gloriously as Julius Caesar did in his. The crossing was a key landmark in his memorized trail notes. I cross the Rubicon twice more . . . then leave the trail and turn left, up the small stream that flows out of Lake Doris . . . then follow the right fork to the unnamed pothole.

  The darkness was starting to recede when he arrived at the unnamed stream where his route left the trail. He checked his watch—it was 5:32 a.m. Sunrise wasn’t too far away, though it could be an hour yet before the sun actually peeked over the mountains. He stopped for a short break, pissed in the creek—so his odor would dissipate, chugged a Gatorade, devoured a Clif Bar, and ate a Pink Lady apple, core and all. No trace. No scent. No DNA. Then he stowed the wrapper and bottle deep in his pack.

  Though he was fatigued, he forced himself to stand up—can’t afford to extend this break, climb back into his pack, and head up the creek. His plan from here on out was to stay off trail as much as possible, which would minimize the odds that he might run into other hikers. He hadn’t run into anyone yet. He hoped it stayed that way. It could be costly if folks saw him hiking and later recognized his picture in a police bulletin. The less the government knew about his direction, the better.

  When he reached the fork, he followed the rivulet on the right to the unnamed pothole. From there he headed west, angling up the slope until he rounded the shoulder of the mountain and found himself overlooking the south shore of Lake Lois. On the shore below, he observed several tents and campers milling around—glad I didn’t hike down to the lake. He continued west until he came to a streamlet babbling with fresh snowmelt from the white banks above, then followed the noisy waters upwards.

  After a few awkward moments when he nearly fell while boulder hopping up the slope, he sat down for a breather. He was exhausted—wobbly on his legs. That worried him. The next stretch was the hardest. He downed another Clif Bar and a bottle of water, stretched his legs, took a salt tablet and a vitamin C to fight the cramps, grabbed a piece of jerky for the trail, and struggled back to his feet. It was now 7:00 a.m.

  On his wasted legs, it took him an hour and a half to work his way up the streamlet, cross the saddle, and follow the stream on the other side down to Top Lake. When he finally glimpsed its waters, he collapsed at the base of a tree for a five-minute break. The five minutes stretched to seven. He had to get going again. With a facetious “hooah,” he willed himself to stand. Limping slightly, he worked his way over the small ridge on the south side of the lake, found the stream that flowed into Barrett Lake, and followed it until he figured he was about three hundred yards from the lake.

  He glanced at his watch. It was now 9:03 a.m. Since he still had fifty-seven minutes until rendezvous, he decided to hole up for fifteen minutes and give his weary body and spent legs a rest. He shucked his pack and sat down with his back against a convenient rock. Every muscle ached. Cramps were tightening up his legs. Spasms were shooting up and down his back. He felt weak . . . thought he might faint . . . and didn’t want to move. But he forced himself to open his pack, retrieve his last sports drink, and grab his food bag. Though his arms were shaking, he managed to down the beverage fairly quickly. Then he devoured a dark chocolate bar, a box of raisins, and two pieces of jerky. He sat, numb and quivering . . . slowly a little energy returned.

  At 9:18 a.m. he picked up his pack, slung it on his weary shoulders, and stumbled his way cross-country, westerly, aiming for the stream that flowed out of Barrett Lake. He figured it was about four hundred yards away. When he reached it, he followed it downstream for a few hundred yards until he could see the road. Then he stopped in a spot partially hidden from the road by brush and trees, dropped his pack, and waited for his ride. He checked his watch. It was 9:47 a.m. There were still thirteen minutes to go, which seemed like a century to him for he was more tired than he had been since his Delta days—his eyes were heavy like rocks. Not good. Hopefully, I won’t fall asleep. Have to focus somehow. He began to recite Robert Service’s poem, The Ballad of Hard Luck Henry, in a quiet voice and managed to stumble through all seven verses. But the effort only ate up six minutes.

  64

  Backcountry roads, Sierra Nevadas

  Sunday, June 23, 2019

  The next seven minutes passed in nods . . . and fears. Would he fall asleep and miss his ride? That would be ugly. Would his ride show . . . would Ghost find the rendezvous point? He hoped so. The location he had given him seemed pretty straightforward—where the stream crosses the Barrett Lake Jeep Trail about halfway between the University of California Cow Camp and Barrett Lake. It would be a long walk if the transporter didn’t show. He would be forced to spend the next two weeks in a miserable situation—walking at night, concealing himself from traffic, and hiding out during the day—with little food. Don’t even want to think about it.

  He was starting to fear the worst when he heard a truck. A dark green Ford crew cab rolled around the corner and stopped at the stream—his watch showed 9:59. Thank God! He stepped out from his hiding place, hobbled to the truck with his pack in hand, grabbed his parachute bag from the back seat, set his pack on the front floorboard, and climbed into the front seat with his bag on his lap. Ghost sat staring emotionless.

  Woody examined his bag. The two zip ties that tied his zipper to the end ring—one black and one olive drab—were still intact, so he knew that no one had opened it. Woody pulled a wad of Franklins out of his pants pocket—he had counted out one thousand dollars for his pick up and five hundred dollars for the duffel delivery while he was waiting—and handed it to Ghost. The transporter quickly counted the money, shoved it in his pocket, turned the truck around, and headed back down the jeep trail.

  As the truck bounced down the road, Woody opened his parachute ba
g and examined the contents: a small MSR stove and two IsoPro canisters, freeze-dried meals, MREs, chia bars, Clif Bars, oatmeal, toilet paper, baby wipes, clothes, Kelty tarp, ultra-light sleeping bag, air mattress, titanium cookpot, small coffee pot, pound of coffee, survival knife, hank of parachute cord, six bottles of water, a stuff sack of personal items, his Montana stuff, his mementos, and four stuff sacks with loose items. It was all there. He stowed his clothes, sleeping bag, pad, and tarp in his pack, left the rest of his gear in the bag, and strapped the bag to the bottom of his pack. Then he shoved the pack into the back seat.

  ***

  The route to Soda Springs was tiresome—six hours on back country tracks and rural roads. They worked their way back down the Barrett Lake Jeep Trail to Wright’s Lake Road, then made their way to Ice House Road. From there they worked their way over to French Meadows Road, which they followed to Soda Springs Road, which took them into Soda Springs. Woody was uneasy the entire time. He found it hard to trust a shady character whose gods were money and street cred.

  They made a brief stop at the Soda Springs General Store so Ghost could buy a couple six-packs of Samuel Adams. Before they pulled into the parking lot, Ghost told Woody to lean back in his seat and pull his hat over his face as if he were napping so the camera couldn’t catch his face. Once Ghost was back in the truck, they headed east on Donner Pass Road. When Woody noticed that they were entering Donner Lake and getting close to the drop-off point, he looked over to Ghost, questioningly. Ghost stared back with a look that was half glare and half wry smile, “We’ll burn up a few hours here. No worries. You will be dropped off after dark as planned. I always keep my word. Those that keep their word in this business make money. Those that don’t . . . disappear.”

  A few minutes later Ghost turned south on South Shore Drive and they wound along the lake. Near the middle of the south shore, he turned into the driveway of a lavish home. Barely off the street, he stopped and sent a text message. The garage door opened, he drove in, and the door closed behind him. Ghost stepped out of the truck, turned to Woody, and said, “Just paying a visit to old friends. You stay here. You can use the bathroom on the NW corner of the garage if you need to. Other than that, don’t get out of the truck. And don’t touch anything.” Then he grabbed the six-packs, stepped up onto the landing, walked into a hallway, and turned right.