“Of all people, Scotty, why on earth did you have to choose Rhee?” he asked uneasily.
The dark-eyed Kaska held Linder’s gaze for several seconds before responding.
“I not choose. Spirit guides choose. I know your thoughts. Rhee is angry man. But he is with us for reason. Perhaps we not succeed without him.”
“Maybe so,” Linder replied. “But we are not murderers. If we behave like the damned Unionists and kill to get our way, we won’t deserve to be free. What do your spirits say to that?”
“Your friend very unlucky. He will be burden to us. But our destiny flows together and we must move as one. Let the spirits decide.”
S13
All it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing. Edmund Burke
EARLY MARCH, MACKENZIE MOUNTAINS, NORTHWEST TERRITORIES
Mark Rhee and Charlie Yost returned a half hour later from the ravine where they had ditched the truck and concealed the body of the slain driver. Yost wore a somber expression while Rhee appeared chastened. Neither spoke to or looked at the other. While those who had remained behind stuffed their rucksacks with supplies from the truck, Linder turned his gaze to each of his fellow fugitives.
Sam Burt’s long fingers moved quickly and methodically among the pile at his side, selecting items he found useful and easy to carry. While deeply immersed in his task and as driven as ever to survive, there was a dark and brooding cast to his eyes. Though once a long-distance runner and fitness enthusiast, Burt had lost a disturbing amount of muscle mass since their trek from Ross River in December, and appeared wholly unfit for a thousand-mile forced march to the Montana border and beyond.
Will Browning, by contrast, looked supremely grateful for every moment of freedom he might enjoy and confident of rejoining family and farm in due time.
“Feeling lucky?” Linder asked Browning on an impulse.
“If we’ve made it this far, God will find us a way,” Browning replied. “My grandfather used to say that luck is what happens when heaven gets tired of waiting. I believe our luck has turned at last.”
Linder returned Browning’s benevolent smile as he knelt beside his own half-empty rucksack. All at once, he felt so depleted that no amount of food, warmth, and rest seemed capable of making him feel whole again. While he considered himself in marginally better physical shape than Burt or Browning, he felt completely unequal to the challenges that lay ahead.
Since the age of fourteen, when he had arrived at Exeter as a scholarship boy completely unprepared for what an elite boarding school would demand of him, Linder’s primary defense mechanism had been to live in day-tight compartments and not ask what tomorrow might bring. His motto, remembered from years of repetition in Sunday school had been: “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” It came from the Sermon on the Mount and had served him well through college, graduate school, and his years of undercover work in the CIA and in the DSS whenever he felt overwhelmed.
By living in the moment at times like these, Linder had overcome the challenges he faced, adapted to new situations, and even come to relish the curve balls thrown at him from time to time. Early in life, his goal had been to put Cleveland behind him, to learn a profession, and become master of his own fate. He had done all that. But for reasons he still did not grasp, at some point he had traded his freedom for the security of his profession. Now, for the first time since taking that wrong turn, he felt free to chart his own course again in life. By what star would he set that course? Was one direction as valid as any other, or was there a fixed standard? If God or fate existed, where would they have him go?
In that moment, Linder’s thoughts turned to the team as a whole, and to the idea that each team member had a path in life, and with it a unique and vital contribution to make. As Scotty had said, if Rhee was with them for a reason, perhaps it was because the team required the best efforts of each and every man to succeed. At that, Linder felt humbled and realized that it might not be possible to know his own contribution yet and that, in the meantime, it might be wise to open his heart and listen to his inner voice.
Linder had nearly finished packing his gear with these thoughts in mind when Yost appeared beside him.
“Come along, Linder,” the older man said. “I have something to show you.”
Linder followed to the edge of the road, where Yost turned his back to the others so that they could not hear what he had say.
“Scotty says he spoke to you about your old chain mate, Rhee,” Yost began quietly. “We all know that Rhee was wrong to kill that poor truck driver. And it’s clear that we can’t ever let him do something like that again.” At this, Yost stepped closer and gripped Linder’s elbow. “Now, I understand that two wrongs don’t make a right. But if Rhee steps out of line again, one of us is going to have to kill him. And that probably means you or me.”
Yost seemed to have expected Linder’s shocked expression.
“Listen, nobody in his right mind wants blood on his hands,” Yost continued with an intensity Linder had not seen before. “But believe me, none of the others will do it. Kicking Rhee off the team isn’t an option here. When and if the time comes, there won’t be time to hesitate.”
Linder nodded his assent. Though the prospect was abhorrent to him, he knew that what Yost said was true.
As if aware that he might be under observation, Yost made a show of redirecting Linder’s attention to some animal tracks close by. Linder knelt over the tracks and made a show of inspecting them while Yost rejoined the others.
“Now listen up,” Yost addressed the group from the center of the road. “Most escapees from camps in Alaska and the Yukon are caught heading west, toward the coast. We’re heading northeast, which ought to buy us extra time. Bracken and Holzer will have to bring in additional trackers and dogs, which will set them back a while. If we can stay ahead of the trackers for even two or three days, their theoretical search radius will be so wide they won’t know where to begin picking up our trail. That means we have to move fast, and keep moving as long as we possibly can for the next forty-eight hours.”
At hearing this, Linder and Burt exchanged glances. For someone who had joined the escape at the last minute, Yost seemed to have given considerable thought to the theory of escape, and his ideas made sense. To Linder, it seemed a godsend that someone with fresh energy and clear thinking was ready to step as team leader just as his and Burt’s energy had reached low ebb.
“We have six men and four sets of snowshoes,” Yost went on. “That means the last two men will have to do without. We’ll move single file and follow the buddy system. Scotty and Rhee will take the point, Browning and Burt will follow, and Linder and I will bring up the rear. Every half hour, as near as we can judge, the rear pair will take the lead and the other pairs will fall back. Any questions?”
No one spoke.
“Okay, then,” Yost resumed. “Browning will hand out snowshoes,” And while you’re strapping in, Scotty has a few words.”
“Trackers use dogs to find us,” Scotty announced. “If you leave your smell, dog will follow and find you--or die trying.”
The old native held up a faded orange prisoner’s hat that Rhee had discarded in favor of the dead driver’s fur-lined aviator hat.
“Old clothing, take it with you,” Scotty declared. “We burn it in campfire. Cut off piece parachute cord this long and tie around wrist and ankle to keep smell inside. Now put hood and face mask on and don’t take off until I say.”
“What if we need to piss?” Rhee interrupted with a smirk.
“Wait till all stop together,” Scotty answered. “All piss at same spot, away from trail. If you want piss now, piss on rock. This place stink from us already.”
Next, Scotty held up a fragment of a discarded and worn soldier’s sheepskin jacket attached to a length of parachute cord. He tied the other end of the cord around Yost’s wrist, dropped the sheepskin in the snow, and told Yost to drag it along behind him.
; “When we walk one-two hour, we leave sheepskin behind on trail so dogs not know whose scent they smell. It may not stop trackers from chasing, but it will buy us time. Later on, we double back and walk in circles sometimes to trick dogs even more.”
“What if the trackers find things in our bunk with our scent on it?” Burt inquired. “How do we throw them off our trail then?”
“Same thing. Once dog know our scent, not easy throw him off,” the old native answered. “Our job is stay ahead till handlers give up, because dogs never give up. And to stay ahead, we go where dogs cannot, like big rocks and cliffs.”
Without another word, Scotty strapped on his snowshoes and stood at the roadside for the others to fall in behind. Upon leaving the road, they headed south through wind and falling snow, rotating their positions roughly every half hour, and sitting down to rest about once an hour. Though at times it seemed to Linder as if they were traveling blindly and without direction in the dark, once in a while Scotty would pause to inspect some moss growing on the sheltered side of a tree and order a course correction.
At last, a few hours after a barely perceptible dawn, when a watery sun appeared through thinning cloud cover, Scotty called a halt. He led the shivering men into a shallow bowl-like depression, where a moaning wind overhead made tree limbs creak and snap. As if by animal instinct, Linder trained his ears for the barks of pursuing dogs but heard nothing more than the whispering branches and the labored breathing of his teammates.
Without a spare word or gesture, Scotty instructed his exhausted teammates in how to build a native-style shelter at the base of a large tree. First, he burrowed through the snow down to the tree’s exposed roots and hollowed out an area covering little more than a square meter. Then he piled snow into a low wall around the entrance and chopped some fir branches to cover the opening.
“Snow? Who worry about too much snow?” the native teased. “Just wrap it around you like feathers and you sleep as warm as in sleeping bag.”
Without waiting for more, each man set to work digging his burrow, much as the sled dogs had done on the way north from Ross River. Linder did not know how long they slept, although it seemed to him as if he had barely shut his eyes and his legs felt even more stiff than before with cold and fatigue. When Scotty woke them, the sun had already begun its low sideslip along the horizon. For the remaining daylight hours, they would be at heightened risk of detection from the air but could not afford to stop moving any longer than was necessary to rest. Once out of immediate danger from the dogs, the group would travel only during the long-shadow hours around dawn and dusk and at night when visibility allowed. Tonight their luck would be good, for the skies were clear and the moon was nearly full.
Upon rising, they took a few minutes to eat before moving on in single file, with Scotty and Rhee in the lead. Climbing one hill after another and crossing icebound streams in the valleys between them, the men noted no sign of pursuit, and it occurred more than once to Linder that perhaps this was because their pursuers expected them to die soon in any event. Perhaps the reason why no prisoners had fled to the east before was that it was impossible. But, as the hours went by, he and the others pressed forward anyway, battling cold, pain, and fatigue at each step. Burt and Yost seemed to suffer most. Yet, despite his age, Scotty set the pace and uttered no complaint.
Traveling without a map and trusting Scotty’s woodcraft and native lore, the men had only a vague idea of how far they must go before the mountains would end. Scotty said little in response to their questions. Linder surmised that the old man was reluctant to tell them more for fear they would lose heart. By the end of the second day, Linder questioned how much further he could force himself without rest and something warm to eat and drink. Yet, Scotty would not permit a campfire until they had found a safe place to pitch camp, and each man’s rations had been set at a mere half a meal bar or the equivalent each morning and afternoon.
Linder remembered little of the second and third days on the march, except that shortly after sunrise on the third day, Scotty spotted a cave high in the valley and led the men up to it by a serpentine route that required more than enough rock-climbing to block even the most sure-footed dog from following. Before entering the cave, the Kaska warned he must first check for bears, and borrowed the team’s sturdiest knife and Burt’s LED headlamp for the task.
“How can you be sure you’ll find the bear before he finds you?” Burt asked as he handed over the headlamp.
“Bear stink pretty bad,” Scotty replied. “I know him. But bear wake up fast, too. Fighting grizzly not so easy in small cave.”
“You mean to kill him?” Burt asked in surprise.
“We need food,” came the Kaska’s blunt reply.
Scotty entered the cave and returned in less than a minute.
“No bear inside. Cave too big,” he announced. “But good size for us. We stay, make fire inside.”
Scotty showed the men how to make sparks with a bent nail and flint, using dried tree fungus for tinder. Before long, their campfire was hot enough to melt snow in a pot for tea. Dinner consisted of military-style freeze-dried entrees found in the truck’s emergency kit and warmed in aluminum mess tins from the camp. Each item was dished out to the men as it became ready.
All of them knew from experience the enormous numbers of calories required to traverse mountainous terrain during the sub-Arctic winter and to heat each breath of frigid air they inhaled. And all were well aware that their collective food supplies, even with strict rationing, would not last more than a few days. But for the moment, the hot tea warmed their bones, the starchy food filled their stomachs, and the rest for their weary legs helped them forget their pains. Having evaded pursuit for two days and arrived at a place of temporary safety, their spirits rallied. One by one, they found a comfortable position near the banked fire, sipped their tea and waited for sleep to overtake them.
But as exhausted as their bodies might be, their minds were too agitated for sleep.
“We’ll need to post a watch,” Browning noted after a brief silence. “Who wants to go first?”
“I’ll go,” Yost offered.
“I’ll follow,” Linder added.
“Come get me next,” Burt chimed in, until the full rotation was settled and the group fell silent. Then Browning spoke again.
“A doctor who survived a German concentration camp many years ago wrote that those who have a ‘why’ to live can bear with almost any ‘how.’ I believe his point was that it’s not our circumstances that make life intolerable, but our lack of meaning and purpose.”
The other seemed to contemplate his words, yet didn’t volunteer a comment.
“It seems to me,” Browning continued, “that for a man to survive what we’re up against, he’s got to have a goal, something that makes his suffering worthwhile. Otherwise, he’s just going to give up and die like the goners back in camp. The trouble is, we can’t afford any goners here. We need every man we’ve got. So my question is, does everybody here have a goal? And would anybody like to tell us what it is?”
“Sure, I’m headed for Mexico. First bar I can find,” Rhee offered with half-closed eyes.
“Anybody else?” Browning added without rising to the bait. “Sam?”
“I’ll pass, if you don’t mind,” Burt replied. “Maybe tomorrow, if I’m still alive and can get my brain functioning again.”
“Warren?”
“I’ve got a sister back in Cleveland I’d like to see,” Linder answered cautiously. “But there’s someone in Utah I need to find first. I promised her husband I’d help her if I ever got out.”
Yost spoke next without prompting.
“Right now it looks like I’ll be following Linder and Rhee as far as Salt Lake City,” he said amiably. “I’ll be looking up the daughter of an old friend. If I find her, I’ll do my damnedest to get her and her daughter back east, where I have a shot at getting us out of the country.”
“Wow, I like the sound of that
one,” Browning whistled. “Can I tag along?”
“It’s a bit out of your way, isn’t it?” Yost teased. “I thought you were headed back to the family spread in Montana?”
“I am. But the wife and I have always wanted to visit Paris. I could pick her up in Butte and join you in Salt Lake for the trip east.”
“You’re on, buddy,” Yost replied.
“If you don’t mind my asking, Charlie, just how do you plan to get out?” Browning went on. “Last I heard, the borders were still locked down.”
“Well, now, that’s for me to know and you to find out,” Yost answered with a sly smile. “Come with me and I’ll show you.”
Linder felt gooseflesh rise when Yost gave Utah as his destination. Since both men knew Roger Kendall, the similarity of their goals was not likely a coincidence. When Yost rose to sit watch at the cave mouth, Linder followed and took a place beside the older man.
“Your destination wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with Roger Kendall, would it?” Linder asked.
Yost gave a knowing smile.
“You don’t miss much,” he answered amiably.
“I didn’t realize you and Kendall were that close,” Linder probed.
“We weren’t. But his father-in-law and I were.”
Linder gave a puzzled look. “Letting it all hang out tonight, are we?” he asked.
“You know, it’s a strange feeling to be outside the reach of Holzer and his stoolies,” Yost mused. “It’s made me want to stretch out my arms and take a deep breath. Back in camp, I didn’t dare talk about my life in Cleveland. But now that I’m free, I’ve been feeling the need to share it with someone because, frankly, it’s become more than I can handle at times.”
“And now you’ve decided to share it with me, the guy who helped put Roger and his family behind the wire?”
“Tell me, would you do it again, knowing what you do now?” Yost asked.
Exile Hunter Page 29