by Frank Hughes
After one more glance behind, I skied into the trees on my right, relaxing a little, taking the pressure off my thighs and concentrating on not colliding with a tree. Soon the conifers began to mix with aspens, and the whole slalom thing got a little tougher, but it was better than being shot at, however. I relaxed a little more.
That’s when an NFL tackle slammed into me at full speed, or so it seemed. I was lifted off the snow and thrown sideways, a blast of hot, foul air sucking the breath from my lungs. Wood splinters and chunks of earth flew around me. I fell into the snow. Debris raining down on top of me.
I raised my head to look around. A cloud of smoke rose from a black hole in the earth several yards away. What the hell? Then, over the sound of the wind, I heard a weird screaming sound that rose in intensity and ended only when the top of a tree thirty feet behind me disappeared in a ball of orange flame and black smoke. I buried my head in the snow as more pulverized lumber fell on me.
They were shelling me with that fucking howitzer! A solid citizen couldn’t buy a large Coke in New York, yet Colorado let a former East German spy have a fucking cannon.
I didn’t even pause to take inventory; I just got up and went, skiing recklessly through the trees. Within a few hundred yards, another shell screamed in, exploding just to my left. The next one struck just ahead, but I managed to keep going through the debris shower. Their aim was uncanny. They were either great guessers, or I had a ‘shoot me’ sign painted on my back. I’d ditched Boyd’s phone, so how in God’s name were they targeting me?
About one hundred feet below, I could see a break in the trees that stretched away on both sides, probably Easy Street. If I continued past it and found one of the upper trails of the public resort, I’d be safe from the artillery. The lifts closed at four o’clock, so there would be skiers out until at least four-thirty. It was barely four now. If I could get in with the tourists they could hardly shoot me, much less shell me.
The edge of the trees was only fifty feet away when the next round impacted directly in front of me. The world disappeared in flame and smoke, and I was blown backwards out of my skis.
I may have been out for a few minutes, because the next thing I remember was lying on my back, staring up at the pelting ice, trying to remember where I was and why. When I could think clearly again, I continued to lie there, waiting for the coup de grace. I remember thinking that, all things considered, I would have preferred to die on a warm, sunny day. Still, nothing happened.
“Okay,” I yelled, “what’s the hold up? Let’s get on with it!”
But, the next shell never came. I sat up slowly. My ears were plugged and ringing. My hand moving in slow motion, I automatically pinched my nose and blew into it to pop my ears. My hearing improved a little, but the ringing stayed. I listened hard for another shell, but there was only the wind and the sound of ice particles rattling against the branches.
Why did they stop? Because they’re coming for you, Nick. How? They don’t know where I am. Really? Then how’d they know where to send the shells? They were tracking me, but, how? I’d dumped Boyd’s phone. All of my clothes were new, except for Boyd’s jacket. Maybe they’d Lojacked it by replacing the avalanche reflector in the jacket sleeve. But, he wouldn’t always be wearing the jacket. More likely, it was the white card. Along with the electronics that said what doors you could open and what lift line you could use, there was probably a tracker. I was now a point of light on that big board in the howitzer building, a light that had not moved for several minutes. I might be wounded or dead. Or maybe I’d figured it out and dumped the tracker. In any case, they couldn’t use the artillery too often or somebody was going to notice. They’d send someone to investigate.
Right on cue came the sound of an approaching vehicle. On the trail below, an orange shape was making its way up the trail through the driving sleet. When it got closer, I saw it was one of the four tread Tucker Sno-Cats. This one had no grooming tools to slow it down and a cab big enough to hold several armed men.
I got into my skis and took off the parka. The cold wind cut through the wool sweater and layers of underwear. I pushed off towards the trail below, straight towards the oncoming Sno-Cat.
When I broke out of the trees, they made things easy by turning directly at me. The motor roared and thick clods of snow and ice spewed out behind the four rubber treads. From ground level the onrushing machine resembled a monstrous, jacked up tank.
Aiming between the treads, I sat back on my skis and went right under the chassis, catching the differential with both hands. I was dragged backwards for several feet, but then the Cat slowed and jerked to a halt. I tied the arms of the jacket around the differential and then slid past the rear treads and out the back. I rose to a crouch and tucked in for a straight downhill run.
From the change in sound behind me, I knew they were turning to give pursuit. I heard machine gun fire and the now familiar sound of bullets passing much too close. I concentrated on gaining speed, not daring to zig zag. A particularly long burst churned up the snow next to me, and one bullet clipped the tip of my right ski. The firing paused, and I chanced a look behind me. The Sno-Cat was closing fast, headlamps blazing. A man was half out of the cabin door, bracing one leg on the footstep as he inserted a fresh magazine. I prayed that someone up on the mountain had panicked when that blip on his screen started moving again.
Someone had. Over the roar of the engine, I heard the whining shriek of the incoming shell. The gunman heard it, too. He lowered his weapon and looked up just before the cabin of the Sno-Cat disintegrated. Shards of orange metal, mixed with human body parts, shot skyward. The shockwave rippled visibly towards me through the falling snow.
I turned away and sank into a ball, wrapping my arms around my knees, none of which mattered much. The shockwave tossed me into the snow. The remains of the Sno-Cat rolled on gamely until the fuel tanks exploded. The wreckage spewed oily smoke laced with orange flame, the steady roar of the fire augmented by a chorus of pops as the ammunition cooked off.
“Thank you, boys,” I said aloud. “Nice shooting.”
47.
By the time I picked myself up and back into the bindings, snowmobile headlights were approaching from two different directions. I headed over into the trees and carried my skis up the hill until I was parallel to the smoking wreckage. I burrowed down into the snow and watched.
There were two snowmobiles, each carrying two men. They parked about fifty yards uphill of the wreck, pointed at opposite sides of the trail, engines off and headlights on. One of the passengers had a submachine gun, the other a long gun with a rather large night scope. The rifleman switched it on and began sweeping the area. The others fanned out in a gradually widening arc, playing flashlights on the snow.
While I watched, I considered four equally unappealing options. I could head up to The Retreat. They’d probably pulled assets away to intercept me and were likely understaffed at the moment. Not a viable option, however, considering it required me to hike uphill in ski boots and then penetrate one of the three well-secured entrances without benefit of Boyd’s key card. I could continue on to the town, through the public resort, but it was closed by now and was a choke point they could cover with a few men. Alternatively, I could head directly away from the public resort, hoping to find my way out near the airfield, but the light was fading fast and if the storm didn’t break, I’d be stumbling through wilderness in total darkness. I decided to stay put and see if an opportunity presented itself.
Soon more headlamps materialized through the relentless, pelting ice. This time it was another four tread Sno-Cat, towing a big cargo sledge that skimmed above the snow on four broad skis half the size of a snowmobile. The driver circled the destroyed Cat, and headed back downhill. When he stopped, the sledge was positioned just below the wreck. Six lamps mounted to the rear of the cabin blazed on, revealing the wreck in stark detail. The upper structure was twisted and black. One of the rubber treads still burned with yellow flame.
Two bracing legs unfolded from the side of the Sno-Cat and planted themselves in the snow. Three men got out of the cabin. A fourth handed down fire extinguishers. Then he tossed black squares onto the snow, one of which unfolded and lay flat. Body bags. The sort of things an organization prepares for often says a lot about it.
After they put out the last remnants of flame everyone got together for a little meeting, where I assume they crafted a mission statement and outlined their vision for the project. After fifteen minutes, everyone had agreed on some sort of action plan. The man with the rifle returned to guard duty. The guy who got the short straw started policing up body parts. The others lowered a ramp at the rear of the sledge and attached cables to the wreck. Once they were secure, the driver winched it aboard the sledge. The last bit of business was carrying the body bags over and depositing them behind the wreck. The ramp was raised and everyone returned to their respective vehicles. The spotlights went out, and the Cat lurched forward, engine straining with the increased weight. The two snowmobiles took up escort positions in front. The whole operation had taken less than forty-five minutes.
The body bags gave me an idea. I stepped into my skis, and followed the Sno-Cat and its burden down the trail, staying just outside the tree line. Fortunately, the Sno-Cat, burdened by the heavy sledge, was moving slowly, so it was easy to keep up. When the time seemed right, I made a beeline directly at the sledge. I crashed into the rear and hung on, dragging the skis until the bindings popped. I scrambled over the body bags to hide behind the wreck.
When I was sure I hadn’t been seen, I felt around the body bags and found one that seemed to contain a complete corpse. When I unzipped it, complete turned out to be a relative term. Metal and glass had shredded the guy. There was just enough reflected light for me to see coils of intestine protruding from a jagged wound.
I was rethinking my plan when the Cat began to slow, gradually coming to a complete stop. I peered around the wreck and saw that the snowmobiles had stopped as well. Their headlights played on a man unlocking a trail gate. He walked off to the side, pushing the long metal bar in front of him. The snowmobiles moved past him, one stopping a few yards beyond the gate. The Sno-Cat began moving again.
I lay flat next to the body bags as we passed the idling snowmobile. A minute later, it roared past on the right side.
I dragged the body bag to the back of the sledge and unzipped it all the way. I was hoping he’d have some useful boots, but no such luck. His lower legs were scorched and his feet looked like marshmallows left too long in the fire. On the upside, most of his displaced parts had frozen and would go with him. I positioned the bag on the top of the ramp and tilted. He slid out like a burial at sea.
Footwear was going to be a problem. I could hardly prowl around in ski boots and they might notice the bulk when they handled the bag. At the same time, without them my feet would freeze. I compromised, losing the boots, but keeping the stiff, insulated liners. I dropped the boots behind the sledge.
I took the bag back to its original position and used a jagged sliver of metal from the debris pile to cut a couple of air holes. I was having second thoughts about my plan when the sound of the motor changed and we began to slow. I climbed into the rubber bag and zipped it closed.
48.
Several minutes later we entered a large garage or warehouse that I assumed was in the ghost town. The noise of the wind was replaced by the puttering and squealing of forklifts. The sledge came to a halt.
“Survivors?” I recognized Günter’s voice.
“No.”
“I see only three bags.”
“Their condition allowed us to economize,” said a laconic, American sounding voice.
“This is the time for humor, you are thinking?” The tone was heavy with menace.
“My apologies.”
“Is his body one of these?”
“Only our people,” said a second voice. “He’s still out there.”
“Baker Group actual.” Despite the tinny walkie-talkie speaker, I recognized Kohl’s voice. “Status report. Over.”
Günter keyed the mike. “This is actual. Negative on our visitor. We have four on the sick list. Over.”
“I am concentrating our search on the approaches to town. We will resume our sweeps when the weather clears. Over.”
“Understood. Sir, there is also the matter of our sick list, over.”
“Any waste should be added to the next shipment, over.”
“Understood,” said Günter, “but we cannot move that vehicle in this weather, over.”
“Just make sure the other shipment leaves on time. The connection is tight, over.”
“Yes, sir. Over and out. You two take these bodies over there until waste drums are provided. Then see to it they are sealed in and placed for disposal with the regular site cleanup shipment.”
“Yes, sir,” two voices replied in unison.
The tail gate of the sledge dropped and I heard a rustling sound as they lifted the first body bag. Moments later they were back for the second. Then it was my turn. I was lifted from opposite ends and carried several feet. They stopped and swung me a couple of times after which I was briefly airborne before landing on an uneven surface. My bag slid with a rubbery whisper and I went over the edge of something. I didn’t fall far, but I fell hard, hitting a cold concrete floor. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
I lay still where I landed, waiting for them to come back and put things right. No one did. I gave it nearly five minutes before inching the zipper open. The first thing I saw was the dirty floor, then the base of two black fifty gallon metal drums sitting upright on bright yellow spill containment pallets. I lifted the flap a little and saw that the drums were emblazoned with hazmat decals. Perfect, just perfect.
I eased out of the body bag and sat up. I was in a small warehouse. The air smelt of propane. Through the space between two drums I caught glimpses of forklifts whizzing and parts of two vehicles. One was an open back truck with hazmat decals on the side, the other was a beverage delivery truck whose roll up doors were decorated with pictures of a popular beer.
I rolled my empty body bag up tightly and wedged it between two of the drums. No need to remind anyone that there were originally three bodies. I crept towards the stacks of empty pallets that stood against the wall of the warehouse. There were at least ten rows, each row at least three stacks deep. Some of the piles were twenty feet high.
Just as I was about to make my move, a klaxon sounded and a red light attached to one of the rafters began to pulse and rotate. The sound of the forklifts died to a purr. The concrete floor rumbled slightly beneath me and I heard a grinding sound. In the center of the pallet stacks, some of the pallets rose straight up another ten feet.
The forklifts came alive again. One roared out of sight into the pallets, backing into view again moments later. It spun around and roared directly at my hiding place carrying another spill containment pallet with four fifty-five gallon drums. The forks hit the concrete floor with a metallic clank. The pallet scraped and skidded into my hiding place. One of my dead companions began sliding slowly off on top of me. I put both hands up to hold him in place. When the forklift backed off and sped away, I carefully pushed the body bag to a more stable position.
The second forklift backed out from the hidden elevator, only his cargo was beer kegs on a regular wooden pallet. He headed to the delivery truck and deposited the kegs in the center bay. At that point neither man was looking in my direction, so I sprinted across the ten feet between the waste drums and pallet stacks. No one yelled or shot at me. There was just enough space between the back row and the warehouse wall for me to slip behind and make my way to the other end, where I found myself very near the beer delivery truck. One of the forklifts rumbled over with another pallet of metal beer kegs, placing it in the center bay on the passenger side. The two forklifts then drove in unison over to a small office, where the drivers killed the motors and went
inside. The pallets disguising the elevator lowered back in place.
Common sense told me there was something besides beer in those kegs, and they were being delivered tonight. I wanted to be there when they made their “connection.”
I slipped from my hiding place and crossed the fifteen or so feet to the truck. The doors to the front bays were closed. I climbed into the center bay and stood on one of the kegs to look over the divider. The front bay contained a pallet of long necks. I climbed over and lowered myself onto the thick cardboard boxes.
I’d barely settled on my throne of beer, when I heard voices startlingly close. The truck lurched slightly and the open bay door on the passenger side rattled down and was latched, followed by the one on my side. The engine started and we began moving. I heard them open the main door and then we were outside.
49.
The darkness in the cargo bay was total and, although it hardly seemed possible, it was noticeably colder. The boxes of beer bumped and jumped with each mound and pothole. After ten minutes we stopped briefly, probably at the gates I’d entered a few days earlier. Once we were on the main road, our speed increased, but not by much. Conditions outside sounded bad and it was rare that I heard a vehicle pass us going the other way.
A few minutes later we made two turns in quick succession. From the echo, the last one took us into another warehouse, much bigger than the one we’d left. The truck drove a good distance inside before stopping. The cab doors opened immediately. The center bay doors flew up, and I heard shouted commands and the sound of forklifts. I was momentarily flummoxed. If they decided to unload these bottles, there was no way I could avoid discovery. The truck listed towards the passenger side as a forklift scooped out the first pallet of kegs. Then it sagged the other way when a second forklift grabbed the other pallet. The sounds of voices and forklifts faded away and the lights in the immediate area of the truck went out.