“Has the old one sent for us?” Mah asked, hopefully.
“He has sent us to keep you company,” David Wilson said, though he felt deep down that they’d been sent to be distracted from what was really being planned.
“Will there be no fighting?” Ohan asked.
“There may be soon,” David said. “But we, the young, are barred from it.”
Both birds seemed to deflate where they stood. They became slightly shorter and narrower.
“This terrain is difficult for us,” admitted Ohan. “There is little open space for us to swoop and dive and catch the winds. Hiding is made easy by such denseness of forest, but lifting off is made difficult. All this way we came, and here we sit.”
“Humans would see you here,” Matthew said. “There are towns south of here, short flights for you.”
“They would see us,” agreed Mah. “We complain of idleness, but we know that to lay low is best.”
“Tell us where you come from,” Evie said. She sat and curled her tail around her feet, looking alert and very intrigued.
The eagles looked to one another.
Then Ohan began to speak of Alaska and the Yukon. Of the long nights, open spaces, the great silence of the north, and the freedom they enjoyed with very little contact with humans. They told of times before their days when their ancestors moved freely across the continent. Only in recent centuries had they confined themselves to the northern extremes. And that only for reasons of secrecy and safety.
“Paradise,” David said.
“You wish to see our home?” said Mah.
“If it were closer, I would see it very soon,” he said.
“Great warriors,” said Mah. “Mighty in sense and strength. Feared by all. But as you say, wolves do not travel as simply as we.”
“Do your talons kill well?” David asked.
“Well enough,” said Ohan. He spread his wings partly out for balance, then lifted one foot and flexed it. “We strike fast and hard and subdue with shock. We dive from great heights for speed. We carry the speed and use it to regain height after a strike. The winds of open spaces aid us. The roar of the wind, like thunder, and the heavy beat of our wings are for what the humans call us thunder.”
David nodded, impressed. They were magnificent creatures. Awkward on the ground, like most any bird, but capable of feats beyond even the swiftest of land animals.
“We practice our attacks on dead things,” said Mah. “Even felled trees make for good practice. Though not large trees.”
“What of humans?” Evie asked.
“We kill them only when attacked first,” Ohan said. “That is rare where we come from. Very rare.”
“Not here,” David said.
“The Snow might put them down,” Ohan said. “The elder wolf of the mountains, Wahkan, has trust in the Snow. He and his sons know him well.”
“He deals mildly with humans,” Evie said. “He only kills when all other options fail. Most humans mean us no harm.”
“Then, I see, life here is not greatly different than in our lands,” Mah said.
“Then you might visit us here more often,” Matthew said. “Your strength amazes us.”
The eagles looked at one another.
“We had not known there would be such interest,” Ohan said. “Even eagles of closer lands do not pay you visits of good will?”
“Not that I know,” Matthew said. “Though I am young. I am not the one to ask.”
“We are isolated from most of the west,” David said.
“That should not be,” Mah said. “We of the rare tribes should not compete with one another. Against threats we must all be as one, resisting together.”
“For the way of life,” Evie said.
“Yes, young Snow. I see now why your great elder is troubled. He has tried to bear his burdens alone. Such times ended for our kinds when the new men came to these lands. The times before we were born. We stand as one great tribe now in the face of trouble.”
“Truly,” agreed Ohan.
“Convince my grandfather to seek help,” Evie said. “He may appreciate it more from you than from his own family.”
“When will he speak with us again?” Mah asked.
“Later. After dark, maybe. I cannot say for sure.”
“We will wait for dark then.”
“We will,” agreed Ohan. “But then we will press him on these matters. In these new days of new humans—the bright cities we see during our night flights—none of us should stand alone against such odds. There are too few of us left in the world.”
“I hope you convince him,” said the silver-white.
“Now that I know his stance,” said Ohan, “I will choose my words carefully when next we speak. He must not be left to feel alone in this struggle.”
Mah said to the young wolves, “The story of Wahkan is known to the elder Snow. Has his story reached you?”
Evie looked to Matthew and David. Neither of them gave any indication of knowing.
“The valor of wolves against great numbers,” said Mah. “Against men with many rifles, in the days when such weapons were new to us all.”
“We have not heard,” Evie said.
“Because the Snow leads you toward peace. He bears his burdens alone. Or else shares only with other elders.”
“That sounds right,” David said.
Ohan said, “Wahkan, chief wolf of the mountains and plains, fought a great battle against men. Soldiers of the new union. Men who came for all the tribes. Long before the flying machines, the men rode horses and came to claim the land and to round up all the tribes.”
“You speak of reservations?” Evie asked.
“So they are called,” Ohan said. “But Wahkan’s tribe, smaller than most tribes of common men, refused to comply with the union. They resisted the soldiers. They hid by day and battled by night. They learned of the danger of rifles through the shedding of their own blood. They learned tactics for dealing with men bearing such weapons. And for their brave efforts, at last they prevailed. Their isolated lands have never been taken from them.”
“How did he defeat them?” David asked.
“Wahkan compelled them to follow him into a small mountain ravine,” Mah explained. “The soldiers surrounded it, believing that they had secured victory. But no, they had not. For as they entered steep terrain, they were forced to abandon their horses and move as slowly as common men on rough ground. In doing so they condemned themselves. All were slaughtered by Wahkan and his warriors. Even the women of the tribe fought, receiving the terrible wounds of rifles, until every last soldier was dead.”
Evie looked to Matthew and David. She was awed by the bravery but chilled by the idea of having to partake in such an awful battle.
“In victory,” said Ohan, “Wahkan broke all of the rifles and burned them in great fires. Only small items of the soldier’s decorations were kept for remembrance. The stories are still told to this day by the fires.”
“It is my belief,” said Mah, glancing at Ohan, “that the Snow seeks to shelter his pack from facing such a battle. He holds Wahkan in great reverence, yet he seeks to avoid the same path to victory. For these times are different times.”
“That sounds correct,” Evie said.
“What is happening here in Ludlow becomes clearer,” said Ohan. “In a way it is surrounded, though not as Wahkan was surrounded in times of old. The Snow is making his own stand, in his own way, against not soldiers but a newer enemy. The battle is long and drawn. Quieter than a war, so that other humans—those who do not offend—do not hear of it. He believes that to call for the aid of other tribes would only incite old hostilities, and an open war.”
“It makes sense,” Evie said.
“Yes, we understand,” Mah said, nodding to her. “We see now his strategy. But still we stand ready for a fierce battle, should it come to pass. Both ways are profitable. Yet the quiet ways work well here, now. We see that clearly.”
A heavy
silence hung between them. All of their great powers were of no use to them in that moment. It was a heavy sensation of limbo weighing on each of them to varying degrees.
Evie said at last, “Tell us more of your beautiful lands.” She truly enjoyed hearing of it, but also wished to divert the conversation away from battles.
The eagles looked at one another. They were amazed by the fascination expressed by these young wolves, who knew only their own back yards.
Ohan began speaking first.
25
At McCall’s Lars backed the truck into the driveway. It felt like a good idea in case he needed to leave quickly later. He brought his M4 and stepped quietly through the front door of the house. Mrs. McCall couldn’t hear a thing, but if she was awake she could feel vibrations or sense a draft of cool air passing in along with him. The last thing he needed was to be distracted by her.
He peered into the living room and saw her sleeping in her chair. He breathed a sigh of relief and went quietly up the stairs to his room.
Once settled in the room, the thought of taking a quick shower occurred to him. He changed his mind promptly, figuring he’d be dirty and sweaty again soon enough. There was no point in getting spiffed up just to get grubby again.
“Stop trying to be comfortable,” he told himself quietly. “You know better. You can be comfortable another time. Now it’s time for work.”
He placed the rifle on the bed after removing the full magazine. He sat at the little desk and plugged his phone in. Wearing surgical gloves, he commenced to wiping down all of his shells before loading them into three spare magazines, giving him a total of four full clips. The bullets were clean anyway but he did it again for the sake of his peace of mind. The top six rounds in one magazine were the special incendiary rounds with mildly explosive charges and steel tips that could damage armor. The rest were standard 5.56 NATO issue.
After dealing with ammunition he took the rifle apart and oiled everything, wiped it down, tested the safety lever, and put it through several dry fires. His rifles were never dry or lacking care but, again, he went through this process for peace of mind.
While he worked there were virtually no thoughts passing through his mind. The simple routine brought about a sharpness of clarity and a small feeling of comfort and control—not cushy comfort but the surety of preparedness. By doing as such he could take complete control of his mind, adjusting it as one adjusts the clarity of the lenses on a pair of field glasses or a camera. The corners of the lenses could be slightly blurred as long as the centers were made perfectly clear. Other ideas could wait in those blurred corners while the central task remained sharp at the center.
That was the state of mind he required. No fuss, no worry. Cold, hard clarity. Envisioning the confrontation beforehand as it would likely unfold. Seeing it in his head. Almost feeling it as he sat there in that quiet room. He saw the whole plan through from start to finish—even those parts which were not assigned to him. He saw them through carefully, in detail, until he saw the desired end result. Anyone who ever succeeded in anything looked ahead that way.
Next he gave the same maintenance treatment to his .45. Then he placed it in the holster and buckled the holster around his thigh. Four full magazines for his M4 and two for his .45. It might be overkill but it was better than being unprepared. He might not fire more than eight or ten rounds in total from the rifle. That was if all went well. One could plan for all to go well and still there could be a hitch. Better to be prepared if he had to fight his way out of some unforeseen trouble.
With that thought he made an adjustment to his plan. He commenced to filling a fifth magazine with the hot rounds. It was overkill in a big way, but to prepare as such made him feel confident. Confidence was key. Hopefully that magazine would go unused.
Now he lay back on the little bed and stretched out. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the murmur of McCall’s TV. He felt the sharp hold he had on his mind loosening but it was all right at that point. He knew that once he stood and took up his rifle, the sharpness would return to him easily now that he’d harnessed it for the day. The ability to latch onto it would remain with him until he slept again, or at least became taken in by some significant distraction. Only then would he have to start the process over again.
I hope I never get that way, he thought, in regard to McCall. Dozing in a chair while daytime TV babbles on. I’m sure she never wished to become so idle and closed in, but I hope that I can hold it off from settling in on me. I hope I can live usefully and actively as I always have, then take my leave of this world while doing something other than resting in a chair. If someone finally discovers me and tracks me down, I’d like to hit them back, even if they do get me in the end.
No one will get you that easily, he told himself. If no one has gotten you yet, it’s more likely you’ll go some other way. That black wolf might get you, but that’s better than having some old enemy get the glory for catching you off guard. If the wolves get you, no one outside will ever know. You’ll remain that elusive bastard that caught others but could not be caught himself. That’s just fine.
Then he stopped thinking altogether. He breathed shallowly and relaxed completely. His eyes rested without completely closing and everything went away. He lay there perfectly still.
After a long silence he took a deep breath and sat up. He’d been still for over an hour and now, quite suddenly, he felt as if he needed something. He wasn’t exactly hungry after the hearty breakfast, but he felt as though he might become hungry very soon. Once he was hiking through the woods the hunger would strike him.
Standing, stretching, he went to the desk and got his phone. The battery was nearly full. After pocketing it, he dropped to the floor and snapped twenty pushups. Not enough to burn but enough to get his blood moving. He stood, one leg at a time, took up his rifle and moved quietly down the stairs.
On the way out of the house he locked McCall’s front door. He did this out of some odd fear that a few Global guys might burst into the place looking for him and scare the old lady. He knew that truly they would not dare, unless Kraft had become very sloppy and careless with his selection of men. They wanted the cases and that was that. His own worries had no place among the concrete issues. But still it was easier to lock the door, slow them down a bit, than to be left with something else to worry over as he watched the road. The road where his full attention was required.
Outside he placed his rifle in the truck and then walked casually along the wide shoulder of the road to the convenience store. Someone was paying for something at the register as he entered. He went back to the coolers and grabbed two bottles of water and one iced tea. Then, near the register, he got two king Snickers bars. He made brief eye contact with the woman at the register as he dug for his wallet.
“No charge, Lars,” she said.
He looked up at her, searching for a name to place with her face. Maybe she was soon to operate one of the cars involved in blocking the road. There were too many of them to keep track of in this town. It seemed like ninety percent of them were related in some way.
“You’re sure?” he said.
“Yeah,” she nodded. “If anyone takes your money, tell my grandfather and he’ll set them straight.”
“All right,” he said, smiling thinly. “Not that I wish to cause trouble.”
She waved him off and said, “Good luck today.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Good luck to us all.”
He went out, pocketing the bottles within various pouches of his coat as he strode. He felt more like an insider now because of that one simple interaction. Whoever’s daughter she was, she hadn’t looked at him with any scorn or suspicion. She’d regarded him as someone significant, wished him luck on his significant task.
He unwrapped a Snickers and finished it by the time he reached his truck. He wanted the sugar—the glycogen that he would surely expend very soon. He could train his heart rate to stay reasonably low right up until the action
started, but from then on the rate would spike, like an engine pushed to its max, and he would be burning precious energy by the second. If things went badly and he needed to run, he didn’t want his legs cramping and burning after the burst of adrenalin began to fade. Maybe it was mostly in his head, but he wanted the extra sugar to rely on. It was a practical comfort.
Things won’t go badly, he told himself. This is a few shots to disable a car, not the defense of the pass of Thermopylae. Be careful but don’t go making it bigger than it is. This day will not go down in history and the battle will not be studied in ages to come. There will be no shouting molon labe while being surrounded by thousands.
Leaning against the truck, he shut off his mind and lit a cigar to pass the time. There was a light breeze and the smoke swirled slowly and dissipated. The air was crisp and touched with the faint smell of dying leaves. An autumn smell. He sipped the cold tea. It was good tea from a glass bottle, not the crap from a plastic bottle. He smoked and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Every time he began to feel nerves starting in he made some movement or another to distract himself.
When the cigar was gone he got the bagged lunch from the truck’s seat. He sat with his legs sticking out of the truck and ate the sandwich. It was simple turkey and cheese with a touch of some sort of ranch dressing. Not bad. It made his stomach happy without feeling so heavy as to slow him down. After that he paced as he ate the red apple that had been with it and chucked the core off into the woods. His stomach seemed to like everything he was giving it. It was a good apple. Probably local. He figured some raccoon or small critter would grab that core by nightfall.
“You’re welcome,” he said. He laughed to himself and then reigned himself in again quickly.
No thinking, he scolded himself. He crumpled the brown bag and tossed it on the trucks floor. Move and pace if you must, but no thinking of anything but what lies ahead. Got it?
Yes, sir. Got it. Now don’t touch the other Snickers until you’re in place and watching the road. Damn it, I wish he’d just call and tell me to get started. Waiting here is worse than waiting there. Maybe I should just go now. It can’t hurt.
Snow Rising (The Great North Woods Pack Book 4) Page 13