by Scott Conrad
Tom awakened warm and cozy and immediately turned onto his side in the futile hope that Jessica had not noticed the rigid lump in his wool trousers.
Jessica smiled in the darkness. It was not the first time a man had reacted to her that way, and even though she really believed that her heart belonged to Charlie, she was flattered. Don’t get too cocky girl. He’s a man, and they’re all like that. You could have been a ninety year old hag and he still would have been like that when he woke up! She liked Tom, and she didn’t want to embarrass him, so she crawled out of the sleeping bag and got dressed quickly without saying a word.
They moved out almost immediately, continuing down the narrow river canyon, sticking to the banks to avoid risking another breakthrough on the icy creek. It was slower going, but there had been little additional snowfall during the night and Brad felt relieved that they were still able to follow the trail. The canyon widened as they dropped in elevation and the frozen creek got bigger as several feeder streams from small side canyons and draws fed into the main flow.
As the canyon grew wider, they encountered more and more level ground. The forest became a little denser, but there was still plenty of snow on the ground. Despite the forecasts they had received from the Weather Service and from Ben Robinson, the weather cleared and they could actually see the majestic peak of Mount Watana rising up behind them.
As they continued to follow the trail, Brad spotted a dog sled team and a lone man emerge from one of the larger side canyons, making straight for them. The man appeared alone and he didn’t look dangerous, but Brad was taking no chances. He ordered the team to move into defensive positions while he remained standing, his rifle draped over his forearm. He had no way of knowing if the man was affiliated with the men chasing Pete and Charlie, but he was going to play it safe.
“Keep an eye on him Ving,” Brad muttered, just loud enough to be heard. He put a smile on his face and waited patiently for the man to draw closer.
All of them could hear the sled driver calling out commands to his dogs, and the animals were barking loudly. Brad didn’t know if they always did that or if they were happy to see him.
The sled seemed to move almost recklessly fast as it approached, but the man obviously retained tight control over the dogs.
"Hello the camp!"
Brad could not even make a guess at the man’s age, covered as he was in shapeless but very colorful arctic clothing. Brad raised a hand in greeting, but he didn’t speak.
"Gee! Whoa!" The man stopped the dogs, who suddenly came to a complete standstill roughly fifty feet from where Brad was standing. The runners on the sled threw up a rooster tail of fine powdered snow as the musher skidded it to a stop.
There was a rifle resting in a scabbard strapped to one handle on the sled, but it was strictly a sporting rifle, not one of military design. The musher made no effort to reach for the weapon. He didn’t seem offended or surprised that Brad hadn’t spoken to him. He simply stepped off the runners of the sled and walked up to kneel by his lead dog, patting it affectionately and talking to it as if the animal was human.
Sensing no immediate threat from the peculiar stranger, Brad approached the man. The musher looked massive, Brad guessed at least seven feet tall and his shoulders had to be as wide as an axe handle. A long grizzly brown beard with touches of gray covered most of his face and the skin that was exposed resembled the leathery look of a hard living mountain man in his fifties.
Brad offered his hand. "I’m Brad Jacobs."
“You fellers from the outside” the man asked as he extended his enormous hand.
"Outside?"
The man laughed a deep, chesty laugh. "You ain’t from around these parts. Look to be from the lower forty-eight."
“That's right. We’re from Texas.”
“They call me Shooter. Franklin ‘Shooter’ Hall to put a point to it.”
“What can I do for you Shooter?”
The big, rough man gave Brad an appraising look, and then took in the tense faces of the rest of the team.
“I spotted you when I came outta Spook Canyon back there an’ I thought I’d best stop by to warn you.” Brad could detect no guile in the big man’s eyes, but he got the distinct impression that despite his country bumpkin manner, Franklin “Shooter” Hall was a very intelligent man.
“Warn us about what?”
“I'll get to that in a minute,” Shooter said, eying the ahkio. “I’m feelin’ kinda wolfish, you boys got any grub? I ain’t et since day before yesterday. Been holed up at the north end of Spook Canyon, cussin’ myself for getting surprised by that blackbird storm like some kinda durned cheechako."
Brad was in a hurry, but he sensed that whatever this man had to say was important… he couldn’t afford to ignore him. He knew a little about the mountain men who chose to live their lives away from the trappings and restrictions of civilization. In his experience they tended to fall into two categories: men who simply couldn’t abide by the restrictions and trappings of society, and men who had a problem coexisting with the law. Brad was wise enough to know that there was a third category, the men who slipped between the cracks, men who fit messily into both categories.
In either category, the men were apt to be garrulous when they crossed paths with another human being, and the coin of exchange was pleasant conversation, and of course, the sharing of food. Even the crustiest of old curmudgeons up here would share what they had with a stranger. They possessed a real appreciation of life on the jagged edge, and they never knew when they might depend on the generosity of others. It was an unwritten code based on the concept of karma that boiled down to a simple sophomoric expression. What goes around comes around.
They had broken camp in the cold predawn, munching energy bars and drinking hot instant coffee. Despite his impatience to keep after Pete and Charlie, Brad sensed that this mountain man knew something… something of vital importance to the mission. First Robinson and then Messer had clammed up about something in these mountains, something they really didn’t seem to want any outsider to know. In all likelihood, Shooter was going to tell him all about it. He turned and waved in the team, introducing them each in turn. Shooter was astonished to find that Jessica was a woman, and the mountain man seemed mightily impressed with her.
“We’re going to stop and have a little breakfast,” Brad explained, “and Shooter here will be our guest. I thought we’d break out some of the good stuff, because our friend here is feeling, as he so quaintly puts it, “wolfish.”
Jessica knew the urgency of their pursuit, and she understood her cousin well enough to know that he needed something from this older man or they wouldn’t be taking this precious time to gab with Shooter and share their food with him. She forced herself to curb her impatience and gave Shooter her most dazzling smile. She was a team player and she would use any weapon in her arsenal to get Pete and Charlie back.
“I think I can rustle something up, if Jared will help me. We don’t have much other than MREs, but I know a few tricks to make them taste a little better.”
Shooter laughed a big, booming sound that echoed through the valley. “I’ll just bet you do!”
Ving and Tom set out gathering firewood as Jessica and Jared rummaged through the ahkio for the rations and water.
"It’s gonna be a crimpy day," Shooter said, his eyes still on the golden hair Jessica had freed from the confines of her parka. "We allus git these really cold days after a blackbird storm like we had last night." He turned his eyes back to Brad and the shrewd look in them told Brad that Shooter was doing a little internal evaluation of his own. “You boys look to be pretty well prepared for this country. You got the look of some kind of soldiers… except for the lady of course. You military or ex-military?" The question was within the bounds of propriety, but Brad sensed that the time for games was over.
“Most of us are former Marines,” Brad answered. Despite his need to be candid, he was reluctant to tell this man they had been Special Oper
ators in Force Recon.
“What's your business out here?”
“We’re on a search and rescue mission for two friends of ours. Their plane crashed on the East side of the mountain day before yesterday.” Shooter frowned. “You boys are on the wrong side of the mountain?”
“I know that,” Brad said patiently. “We tracked them here along with a force of nearly a dozen men we think are pursuing them. You wouldn't happen to have any idea who they might be would you?”
“As a matter of fact, that's what I stopped to warn you about. You fellers are about to enter Aryan territory. If I was you, I’d turn around and go back the way you came.”
“We won’t be leaving without our friends,” Brad said with a look of grim determination. “What do you mean, Aryan territory?”
"Aryan Nations. They control the territory from this mountain to the West end of Fog Lakes where Fog Creek enters the Susitna River. And they don't cotton to strangers."
“I thought this was a state wilderness area.”
“Alaska’s a big place fella. Lots of oddball people living here that think they have a better claim on the land they live on than the gov’ment does. They ain’t enough Troopers to do anything about it… and the Gov’ner, well, he ain’t about to call out the National Guard unless them folks gets too far outta line.”
“How well do you know these people?”
“Well enough to stay outta their territory and mind my own bi’ness. We kinda got an agreement. I don't go any further West than this mountain and they leave me the hell alone to trap, hunt or do whatever I please. I got a feeling they’re hiding something big down in that valley and they’re the type that don’t mind a little killing if it suits their purposes. I’ve only spoken with them a few times but they definitely seem to be a paranoid bunch. If they think your friends mighta seen whatever they’re hiding from that plane before it crashed, I ‘spect they would hunt them down to protect their secret.”
“What aren’t you telling me friend?” Brad called him, the way a poker player does when he lays his hand out on the table face up.
Shooter had obviously made up his mind concerning the little group.
“From what I can tell, they’re a white supremacist neo-Nazi militant group that got run out of Idaho a couple of years ago. Call themselves the Order of Phineas or some such outlandish thing. A bunch of domestic terrorists if you ask me. They're led by a man called Lewis Hostback. He claims to be the last living ordained pastor of the Aryan Nations."
Brad's mind was reeling. His background had prepared him to expect surprises, but this was definitely a much bigger problem than he’d anticipated.
"Word is there's a bunch of ‘em living down in that valley. Nobody knows for sure exactly how many. At least nobody that lived to talk about it. But rumor is a couple hundred."
Brad recalled his conversation with Ben Robinson in Talkeetna, when he asked for the names of any local residents in the search area that might be willing to lend assistance. He had known it was a remote region, but he’d definitely felt something was amiss when Robinson said he could not recommend even a single person. Combined with the information Shooter had just given him, it was all starting to make sense.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PUSHING ON
Day 3 0830 hours AKDT
After Shooter had eaten and bid his farewell, the realization of their situation smacked Brad in the face. He was a confident and well trained man, accustomed to dealing with whatever obstacles or enemies he encountered. But this was so far beyond the scope of his capability and that of his little team’s that he was staggered. He had entered his trusted friends into a game where the opposition had morphed from a dozen or so players to an army… a well-armed, organized army with experienced soldiers of its own.
He had read about Aryan Nations and other white-supremacist groups, just as he had read up on every radical militant group the media wrote about. Despite their nutcase cause, Aryan Nations was no collection of fly-by-night lunatics. Among their ranks could be found Special Operators and disenchanted military types. Men and women who had a working knowledge of real combat, strategy, communications, demolitions, and a host of other skills required to become proficient in the arts of war.
He found himself suddenly and deeply concerned regarding the safety of his team. There was still no question that he would continue the rescue operation for Pete and Charlie. They were his responsibility, one his character would not permit him to shirk. The game had changed, he was facing a far larger and more capable force than he imagined, and the team he had brought with him was only prepared for a search and rescue. He wondered if he should send them home and continue alone.
No matter how it was handled, Brad could see only a thin sliver of possibility he might survive this mission, and the others, especially Jessica, hadn’t signed on for that. He pulls Ving aside to get some feedback from his trusted friend.
Ving had finished repacking the ahkio and was fastening the bindings on his snowshoes. Jessica, Tom, and Jared were laughing and joking quietly almost twenty-five feet away, kicking snow over the flames of the fire.
“You had any luck reaching the Troopers with the radio?”
“Nope,” Ving responded sourly. “Still jammed.”
Now that he had a better idea of what they were facing, Brad was forced to agree with Ving’s assumption that electronic signal jamming countermeasures were being employed in this desolate but beautiful part of Alaska.
“We could certainly use their support right now,” Brad said, a worried look on his face. “The storm has passed and the weather is clearing up. They should be looking for us by now.”
“Yeah, they probably are… but we’re quite a ways from the transponder coordinates. They’ve got a hell of an area to cover and unless the trail miraculously remains up there on that windswept plateau, they ain’t gonna have any idea which way we’ve gone.”
“I agree buddy. We need to back up and regroup, reconsider our plan of attack… if we even need one anymore.”
There was something Ving detected in Brad’s voice he’d never heard before, and they had waded through some seriously deep shit together many times in the past.
“Reorganize and regroup” was a military principle that was the cornerstone of Brad and Ving's success, both in the military and on their private missions since.
“We are a force of five, well-armed but with a very limited supply of ammo. We’re facing a well-armed force of around a dozen, but whom we have now learned have considerable reinforcement assets down in that valley.” Brad’s finger pointed in the direction they had been headed.
“As I see it, we have two options. We can maintain our pursuit, or pull back to the crash site where we can hopefully make contact with the State Troopers for additional support. After talking with Shooter, I’m pretty well convinced that the first option is going to send us all to a frozen and unmarked grave.” He gave Ving a frank stare. “What do you think?” Brad asked.
"My gut says we need to keep pushing on Brad, but my head says you don't want to lead your entire team into a suicide mission."
“That's my concern. We both know that the longer it takes to find Pete and Charlie the worse their chance of survival. I'm not sure we can risk wasting any time trying to get help… I’m not even sure anybody will help. From what Ben Robinson said in Talkeetna, most of their manpower out here is from volunteer search groups. Those volunteer groups will not be prepared to help us on an armed assault mission.”
"So, what’s your question?" Ving asked with a wide grin. He had no intention of abandoning the rescue effort. Leaving Pete and Charlie was not a consideration, whatever the cost, and personal danger be damned. He would walk into hell for Pete or anyone else on the team… they had done it for him.
Brad smiled. He’d known Ving’s answer before he’d asked. He’d just wanted to make sure they were both on the same page. He knew the clock was ticking and they had to reach Pete fast if he was to have any c
hance of making it out alive. While waiting for reinforcements seemed prudent, it just wasn't going to work in this situation.
His biggest concern was Jessica. The rest of his team were trained veterans who knew, or would when he explained it to them, and accepted the risks. Even though Jessica's own exploits routinely put her at risk, this was different. Brad felt responsible for her. When he agreed to let her come along, this was only supposed to be a search and rescue mission involving her boyfriend… hazardous, but not unreasonable.
Unfortunately for all of them, the search and rescue mission ballooned into something entirely different and now he was regretting his decision to bring her along, but there was no way to exclude her at this point. There was, simply, no safe place to send her to. Their chance for a successful search and rescue had been greatly compromised. Brad knew what he had to do. He didn’t like it, but there was a chance that with his teams help, there might be a way to survive this disaster.
DAY 3 1030 hours AKDT
Taking point once more, Brad set a blistering pace following the trail down the canyon. They dropped over a thousand feet in elevation and the snow gave way to large open areas of stone and soil. The terrain changed dramatically from the wide open spaces on the mountain top to a thick forest canopy.
They still traveled single file with Jessica right on Brad's heels. Because of the added concealment afforded by the forest his instincts and training forced him to consider the likelihood of an ambush.
"Tom take Jessica to the rear," Brad commanded. "Ving and Jared move up on my six."
Less than half an hour later the sound of gunfire erupted around them, forcing them all to the ground in search of cover instead of just concealment. Cover blocks bullets, concealment only hides you. The team scrambled for cover as the incoming gunfire increased in intensity from multiple vantage points.