Measure of Danger

by Jay Klages

  “How’s the RV park?” Kade asked.

  “It’s just fine,” Alex said. “The people are super nice. Can’t beat this weather. It’s cold at night, though.”

  Kade smirked. “Sweater weather?” He was referring to Alex’s thick chest and back hair.

  Alex rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t that one get old?”

  “No.”

  The two had agreed it would be a bad idea for Alex to stay in the KOA campground with him, and it would’ve been a stretch for Alex to afford three weeks at a nearby motel—his business was stable but small. So Alex had borrowed a small Jayco RV trailer from a friend of his dad’s and brought it cross-country hitched to his Toyota Tacoma.

  “I saw from your e-mails you’ve already done a shitload of hikes and sightseeing,” Alex said.

  “Yeah, it’s keeping me in shape.”

  “Don’t wear yourself out, vampire.”

  “I have to do it this way. All part of the plan. I have to get through my vacation checklist early.” Kade then stopped without further explanation.

  At the end of the street, they followed a narrow path toward the beach, and as they descended the back side of the dunes, the view of the Pacific was stunning. The dark blue water formed a clear, sharp horizon while bulging clouds hustled across the sky. Seagulls and petrels streamed in the air and played at the edge of the roaring tide.

  To their right, in the distance, the forest-covered Neahkahnie Mountain jutted out into the ocean. They turned and walked up the beach toward it, the breeze in their faces carrying the scent of salt and pine. Huge pieces of dark brown driftwood lay on the beach, some looking like rough sculptures.

  “Tomorrow the real fun begins,” Kade said.

  “Are you ready?” Alex asked.

  “I have no fucking clue.”

  Alex laughed.

  “Come on, if anyone’s going to be ready, you are, man. For whatever you’re going up against. The way you’ve worked this last month—you’re back, I can tell.”

  “Thanks.”

  Other than giving Alex the locations of AgriteX headquarters and the Lost Lake Recreation Area a few miles from it, he had said nothing about the operation. When Alex had asked him if the trip had been prompted by the FBI agent’s visit, he said he couldn’t talk about it. Alex had noticed his resurgent exercise program and the stack of pistol ammo boxes in his bedroom, which he said were just for letting off some steam at the range. That was partially true.

  “I’ve told you as little as possible,” Kade said, “for your own protection, trust me.”

  “I know. Sounds like all that classified stuff you couldn’t tell me about when you were in the army.”

  “Yeah, sort of,” Kade said, even though this was completely different and more dangerous. “Just remember to keep checking your e-mails and voice mails regularly in case I can figure out a way to get you a message.”

  “I will.”

  “You still good with our code words?”

  “Yep.”

  They walked for twenty minutes until they reached the base of the mountain and turned around. They retold funny stories about teachers in high school and parties in college, and poked fun at each other. They weren’t breaking much new ground because they talked all of the time. When they returned to the path from where they’d started, Kade became serious before they parted ways.

  “Hey, if anything happens to me, you tell my aunt Whitney and Janeen that I believed in what I was doing and that I love them both very much.”

  Alex stopped in his tracks and turned, his amber eyes squinting in the sun.

  “No way, man. I’m not going to hear that.” He gripped Kade’s shoulder. “When you get back, you’re going to tell them all about this yourself.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Friday, June 7

  10:05 a.m. (PDT)

  Manzanita, Oregon

  After a late, heavy breakfast at a downtown diner, Kade returned to the campground and got ready to leave. The day was overcast with light sprinkles of rain. Looking east into the Coast Range, he could see fog hanging in the valleys with thin wisps rising into the air.

  He packed up his camping gear and stowed it in the back of the rented Jeep, followed by his fishing gear, a bucket of bait, a cooler of food, and two more coolers full of beer he intended to share as part of a group get-together.

  His itinerary for his “vacation checklist” was to go camping in the Lost Lake Recreation Area, attempting to make as many local contacts in as little time as possible. He was specifically planning to meet up with either Michele Blanford or Tanya Hollowell, and possibly some of their friends, at Lost Lake.

  The FBI had queried AgriteX tax records to compose a group of female AgriteX alumni between the ages of twenty and thirty who lived in the local area and were active on social media. Then the FBI assisted him in targeting this group through social media and striking up online correspondences. The result was these two women agreeing to visit him while he was in the area, either of whom the FBI believed would potentially refer him to a Chapter recruiter.

  He knew the FBI would be tracking his vehicle’s movement. Earlier in the week, on Tuesday, he had left the Jeep in a designated remote trailhead while he hiked Saddle Mountain, east of Cannon Beach. While he was gone, the FBI had installed a hidden GPS device in the dashboard.

  He shut the hatchback and was ready. The FBI didn’t have a “need to know” about the subcompact Glock 29 pistol and two extra clips of ten-millimeter rounds hidden inside the cargo tray cover. But Alex knew about it. Kade wasn’t assigned a weapon for this operation, but no way in hell was he going in without some kind of protection. He just checked the Glock with his baggage. Cougars were occasionally sighted near camping areas of the Coast Range, so his concern about the wildlife would be his phony reason for packing it if anybody asked.

  He pulled out of the campground parking lot and picked up Highway 101 as it looped around Nehalem Bay and crossed the Nehalem River. He was excited from adrenaline, but part of the energy spike was from intentionally skipping his carbamazepine for the last two days. Dr. Ross had given Agent Morris “reasonable assurance” of his stability and performance while on medication, and also said his performance would “most likely be satisfactory” even without it.

  But Morris and others realized during a planning meeting that he beat the IR lie detector test in the DARPA study while not taking any prescribed meds. The FBI support team concluded, and he agreed with the logic, that he’d have the best chance to beat the IR test again by replicating the study conditions and not taking any medication. He would bring the prescribed pills with him, but wait until after he was tested to take any.

  Using therapeutic techniques Dr. Ross had taught him, such as meditation and exercises, he could avoid the onset of a hypomania episode that would hurt his judgment. To this end, the Jeep’s stereo played soft acoustic guitar music from his iPod rather than his normal rotation of hardcore.

  After crossing the bridge at the Nehalem River, he turned on to the narrow, two-lane Route 53. It was called the Necanicum Highway, but it was really just a winding, back-ass country road. The route snaked through the Coast Range for twenty miles before intersecting with Route 29, the main road running west from Portland to Cannon Beach. He had driven the 53 once earlier in the week on a sunny Monday, noting it was popular with motorcycle enthusiasts. But today, as the misty sprinkle turned to drizzle, the road and forested countryside had a completely different, unfamiliar appearance in the muted daylight.

  He reviewed the last few weeks of training and the plan he’d committed to memory. The workout regimen of distance running and sprints, hiking hills, weight training, and self-defense had made him strong. Lerner had provided him with assistance from a personal trainer, a former marine who called him “Flash” and liked to razz him about his choice of army service. He appreciated the extra push and it felt good to shock his body back in shape. It was tough, but not exhausting.

  He soaked up the i
nformation from his other crash training courses just fine. Maintaining hours at Home Depot ensured that his overall “story” would be tight. Lerner took him through weapons and drug recognition classes at a subcontracted office located in Falls Church, Virginia. He had asked if they’d train him on any of the weapons that AgriteX might have on-site, and the answer was no. Again, not the level of protection he was expecting. So he decided to supplement his training by going to the private indoor firing range a few miles from his apartment. He fired his Glock and a variety of other rental pistols and rifles on the ranges three times a week. His first time at the range had been when he was twelve, with his dad, and he had become an expert marksman in the army.

  Morris provided a number of intelligence and predeployment briefings. AgriteX was located in a privately owned forest, a roughly triangular area of twenty thousand acres. State forest enclosed the area, with Kidders Butte, Sugarloaf Mountain, and South Sugarloaf Mountain the distinguishable features. Four private dirt-logging roads provided access from the east, joining public logging roads in the state forest before intersecting with Route 53. Two roads improved with gravel provided access from the west and south, with the south road for approved commercial traffic routed to the AgriteX main entrance. Armed AgriteX security patrolled their land in shifts, making sure potential trespassers stayed away.

  They discussed the profile of AgriteX, aka the Chapter, in detail. Senior leadership. Known operations. Recent activities. AgriteX was suspected of various organized and white-collar crimes. The company was known for seedlings that produced fast-growing timber for tree farms, but it was also suspected of selling genetically enhanced cannabis seed to Mexican drug cartels and laundering profits back through the business lines. The company’s tacit relationship with the Sonora cartel in particular seemed to have recently started deteriorating for some unknown reason.

  Interviews with the former AgriteX employee who went missing indicated the company was financing its own upstart militia. The FBI didn’t have any evidence that AgriteX was providing direct financial support to terrorist organizations or that it had active terror plans of its own. At least no evidence they were going to share with him. Kade wouldn’t have access to the FBI’s more highly classified intelligence and analysis either.

  Part of his briefing included law enforcement chain-of-custody procedures when dealing with evidence. The last thing the FBI wanted was for him to gather information and have it be inadmissible in court. Wearing a wire was out of the question, since he’d be inside AgriteX for weeks with no contact and no opportunity to get out. Instead, he’d use a small digital-camera-and-voice-recorder combo to collect information. The device was smaller than a matchbook and embedded inside the tongue of his left hiking boot.

  Inside the tongue of the other boot was a burst transmitter that could send a one-time signal to a more powerful relay box on Kidders Butte, a mile and a half away. The relayed signal would alert a two-agent team located in an RV just outside the tiny nearby town of Alderville that his life was in imminent danger and he needed immediate emergency support. That was the backup plan.

  The main plan was for him to self-extract, at the appropriate time, to Kidders Butte. The underside of a bogus historical marker would contain a touch-pad that unlocked a small cache of supplies. He would first use the satellite phone to contact the tactical operations center, and then Morris and Velasquez would arrange for helicopter extraction. Food, water, a first-aid kit, and a Gore-Tex jacket would also be in the cache.

  The planning was by the book, as he expected from Morris. But unlike some by-the-book officers Kade had worked for in the army, Morris was clearly taking risks with this operation, knowing he was fully responsible.

  Now that the risks were detailed, the whole plan seemed pretty damn dangerous. He’d had a conversation with Lerner on that topic right at the end of training.

  “This operation’s going to require some real courage,” Lerner said. “But I think you knew that. You know what General William Tecumseh Sherman said, don’t ya?”

  “Yeah—‘War is hell.’”

  Lerner laughed. “Yeah, Sherman said that. But I’m talking about courage. Sherman said, ‘Courage is a perfect sensibility of the measure of danger, and a mental willingness to endure it.’ I know you have the sensibility and the mental willingness. And if you believe it, you’ll do just fine.”

  Kade’s attention moved back to the windshield and the steady rain that now glistened on it as he drove to higher elevation. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a place so dark in the daytime. Today the towering firs and spruces seemed to reach even farther toward the road with their beautiful, menacing branches. He kept track of the green mile markers when he could see them and began to count down the next eleven miles.

  A kernel of worry grew somewhere in the back of his mind. It wasn’t from the measure of danger at this moment. Was he dwelling on unfinished business? Maybe he was a little afraid the FBI wouldn’t have his back if the shit hit the fan. Selfish to have signed up for a dangerous mission when his sister still needed him. He told himself to stop second-guessing his decision at this point, since there was no turning back.

  He wasn’t surprised when it began to rain harder. Buckets. The local weather was part of his operational briefing—the rain in this area was unpredictable, usually wind-blown, and often torrential. He put his wipers on the highest setting, half expecting them to fly off the windshield, and pressed on.

  After feeling the Jeep hydroplane a few times, he engaged the four-wheel drive. He glanced at the odometer after passing milepost fourteen and slowed down to make sure he didn’t miss the next turn in two miles. It looked like the few cars passing in the opposite direction had also reduced their speed.

  He finally spotted the turnoff in the distance. As he approached, he made a slow left turn and then came to a careful stop on the wide right shoulder of the dirt logging road marking the final leg of the route.

  He got out of the Jeep and confirmed it was the correct road by finding a small wooden sign that read “Little Jack Creek” near the open pole gate. His gray T-shirt and jeans were soaked in little more than a minute. He tried to scrape some of the stubborn, thick mud off his boots before getting back in the Jeep, but then gave up. A rental car cleaning surcharge was the least of his concerns.

  He reset the trip odometer and headed down the road. If you can even call it that. It was supposed to be another 2.7 winding miles to where the Lost Lake trailhead began. The rain slowed from an absolute gush to a heavy drench with sporadic strobe-like flickers of sunlight. Maybe if the storm cleared soon, he’d be able to find a place to pitch his tent that wouldn’t be a mud bog. Then his mind returned to the theme of unfinished business, and this time the face of his ex-girlfriend, Darcy, intruded. Now all of a sudden he felt like he needed some closure, a final good-bye that was never said.

  Screw it, I’ll call her and at least leave a quick message.

  He fished the phone out of his pocket but the screen read NO SERVICE. That was okay, because calling her was exactly what he was not supposed to do. Lerner had said keeping personal numbers in the phone’s call log might put someone in danger. He had left his iPhone and its contact list behind in a storage locker along with other personal effects. The support team told him to fill the new phone’s call log with routine calls in the weeks leading up to the start of the operation.

  Refocus.

  He stuck the phone in the center console cup holder and glanced at the odometer as it ticked past two miles. Minutes later, the Jeep entered a thick curtain of fog, and the windshield clouded over in an instant. He eased off the gas and fumbled for the buttons to crack the windows. No, he needed to turn on the defroster first. Maybe both. Yes, defroster on full blast and windows open. All the way down. The odometer was now at 2.5.

  He leaned forward and glanced up through a tiny patch of clearing windshield. Again he could only see fog, so he let the Jeep slow down to less than twenty miles per hou
r before putting his foot back on the pedal. He then stuck his head out the window to check for the side of the road, but now the road switched back hard to the left in the direction he was looking. Was this the trailhead turnoff?

  No, it should be another quarter mile . . . keep—

  In that split second, terror in his gut told him something was wrong. The Jeep was at the road’s outer edge in the middle of a sharp bend, and he was heading straight off it. To his front and right was a shallow mountain draw that dropped a hundred feet. No guardrail.

  “Shit!” he shouted.

  He stomped on the brake once, then on the accelerator while trying to make the sharp turn, but the tires wouldn’t grip. The side of the road was like a thick mud milk shake after the heavy rain.

  “No!” he shouted. The Jeep slid sideways off the edge of the embankment, hurtled down the slope, and rolled eight full times before the top side slammed into a large fir, bringing it to a jarring stop.

  He didn’t remember the impact, only his final thoughts before instant and complete darkness.

  You blew it. You blew it. Fuck!

  CHAPTER 6

  Saturday, June 8

  2:23 p.m. (PDT)

  Unknown location

  The cold weight of intravenous fluid creeping from both arms to his shoulders and chest woke him. Kade shuddered and a terrible, aching pain flared in his back and neck. He lifted both arms outside the thin cotton blanket covering him and saw a splint and sling on his left arm. He saw he was dressed in hospital pajamas.

  On the wall across from him hung a watercolor painting depicting a small village street lined with white houses. The trees along the streets and surrounding hills flaunted the beautiful colors of early autumn.