Heroes Proved

by Oliver North

  “I didn’t see anyone on the way to the Sea View. I went to Henry’s room and woke him. His PID was working, so he texted the CSG Ops Center telling them to activate the flight plan he filed when we arrived at the Myrtle Beach FBO. Don Gabbard is on duty and called Henry right back.”

  “Could you tell if they were on a secure voice circuit?” Peter asked.

  “Yes. Henry had the speaker on so I could hear and it had that garbled sound. They talked for only about fifteen seconds because Don said he was concerned about ‘shouting in a crowded room’—whatever that means.”

  “It means Don is aware others are listening. Did he pass on any news about what’s happening?”

  “Yes, but he sent it by digi-text—two messages. Henry and I read them both. I was going to forward them to the PID you gave me but Henry told me not to activate it until he got off the island. Before he left for the airport he showed me how to take digital images of the two messages off his PID screen with the night glasses. He said you and James would know how to download them to a digi-screen.”

  “Henry’s savvy,” James interjected. “He was a Night Stalker pilot in the old days.”

  Rachel pulled the PVS-42 thermal glasses from the pocket of her Windbreaker, handed them to her husband, and said, “The first message is a Global Press MESH report about General John Smith, the National Security Advisor, being murdered earlier tonight . . .”

  “We caught that from the BBC just after you left,” said James, pointing to the old radio.

  “Did the BBC report name a suspect?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, according to the MESH newswire Don forwarded, a Justice Department leaker says you are the prime suspect.”

  Sarah, long past tears, simply shook her head and hugged her husband.

  As Peter took the PVS-42 glasses from her, placed them atop the viewer plate on his desk, and touched the Proximity Download icon, Rachel said, “Skip to the second item—that should be Don’s second message. It’s a short news flash from a Swiss MESH service, but it’s very cryptic.”

  All five of them crowded around the eight-by-ten-inch plate to read what she copied. It was fuzzy but legible:

  (EIN) Alpine Rescue—Berne, Switzerland—Seven hikers presumed lost on the east slope of Mount Drümännler in Berne Canton have been found and rescued according to Swiss authorities. More than 70 Alpine Lifesaving Experts were dispatched to the site. Dr. Hans Brükke, the senior Rega Rescue authority on-scene, said the normal route off the mountain was blocked by an early winter storm. “We had to find them and get them out immediately because of the likelihood of an avalanche,” he said. The hiking party included Hansel and Trina Oldmund, their four young children, and 76-year-old Pieter Bernard Van Hooser, a well-known wilderness guide who lost a leg to frostbite during an Antarctic expedition.

  After the successful rescue, Brükke told reporters, “We would have found them sooner if they had PERTs or wilderness transceivers but they didn’t. Thankfully, we had all the right equipment and sent out a search party after dark with Recco detectors. Otherwise they might never have been found.”

  “What does it mean, Peter? Why did Don send us this?” asked Sarah.

  “It’s a coded warning—made to look like a press release. ‘Alpine Rescue’ is one of our CSG emergency signals. James devised these two years ago for our teams operating in denied areas where we couldn’t use encryption equipment. Ignore the past tense, names, and places in the message—this has nothing to do with the Swiss Alps. Here’s what it all means:

  “ ‘The seven hikers’ are the targets . . . ‘Seventy experts’ is the number of armed people coming . . . The ‘normal route’ being ‘blocked’ is a warning not to use an obvious escape path. ‘Winter storm’ and ‘avalanche’ are code words for an imminent attack. ‘Immediately’ is a signal to get out now. The names are bogus. The only husband-wife pair here with four children are James and Sarah. ‘Pieter Bernard,’ the seventy-six-year-old, one-legged ‘wilderness guide’ has to be Mack—and this means they are coming for him, too. The part about PERTs and transceivers is a warning to stay off the MESH and all other emitters.”

  “What about the ‘Recco detectors’?” asked Sarah.

  “It’s a very sophisticated search device used by ski patrols to rescue avalanche victims. In this message it means the people headed here are very well equipped. The part about ‘a search party after dark’ is a warning they are coming at night. Probably right now.”

  “Well,” said Rachel, “all that matches what I saw right after Henry left the Sea View Inn for the airport. If I pushed the right button on the glasses, it’s the next entry on what you just downloaded.”

  Peter touched the play-video icon on the screen and said, “Tell us what we’re seeing here, Rachel.”

  She nodded and said, “As soon as Henry left, I stood on the walkway at the Sea View, facing the North Causeway, and turned on the glasses . . . You can see the old chapel there . . . Those red lights are the taillights of Henry’s car, just as he passed through the security gate heading off the island. Now watch . . . Less than a minute later, all those lights . . . it’s a convoy of seven big SUVs headed onto the island . . . The lead car stops . . . five men jump out . . . grab old Mr. Bergan and drag him out of the guardhouse . . .”

  “It looks like they are beating him!” said Sarah.

  “They are,” said Rachel. “Watch . . . It’s hard to see, but they throw him into the back of the last SUV . . . and it pulls sideways to block the roadway by the security gate . . . the gate opens . . . and six of the vehicles race across the causeway and onto the island . . . Now you see one of the vans headed south on Myrtle Avenue . . . toward me at the Sea View . . .”

  The video suddenly stopped. “That’s all I could get. I didn’t want them to see me and cut me off before I could get back here. I turned on the PID you gave me, wiped it off, and dropped it on the dune as I ran back to the beach. I couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like one of the SUVs stayed at the intersection of Causeway and Myrtle—right by the police station. Just as I got back here, I could see three or four bright flashlights moving out on the pier. I didn’t want to stop and put on the night glasses because I was afraid they might shoot me.”

  Now Peter put his arm around his wife and said, “I’m glad you are safe. You did a great job, sweetheart—as good as any MARSOC Marine . . . You got just what we need so James, his family, and Mack can get off this island.”

  “But how?” Rachel asked. “It looks like they have the only exits blocked and they must be headed here. They could be here any minute.”

  “Right.” He nodded. “But while you were gone, Mack, James, and I came up with Plan B. We have to hope the person in charge of the people you saw has some kind of operational experience—meaning he’s likely to try setting up a complete cordon without alerting us. There doesn’t seem to be anyone this far north yet—and we have an advantage, we know about this . . .” He pointed to the tides table hanging on the wall beside his desk.

  Turning to his son he said, “James, your eyes are better than mine. Check the chart and see when the next mean low tide is at Midway Inlet between Pawleys and Litchfield.”

  James ran his finger down the fine print and said, “Three thirty-seven a.m.”

  Mack looked at the dive watch on his left wrist and said, “That’s eleven minutes from now. We better get going.”

  Peter touched the delete icon on the DigiVu and handed the PVS-42 glasses to his son. Then, reaching into the desk drawer, he pulled out two more pairs of the thermal optics and handed one each to Sarah and Mack, saying, “The transmit and record modes are shut off to save the batteries. They should be good for three hours or so . . . at least through sunrise. The only change in what we originally worked out is Mack will now be going all the way with you. Everyone remember the rest of the plan?”

  Sarah, James, and Mack all nodded but no one spoke. “Good,” said Peter. “Let’s ask the Good Lord to
bless this journey.”

  They linked arms in a huddle and bowed their heads as Peter said, “Lord of all, we bow before You and no other. Heavenly Father, in the Thirty-Second Psalm, David prayed You would hide, protect, and deliver him from his enemies. You guided him and showed the way he should go, counseled and watched over him. Now we beg You to do the same for James, Sarah, Seth, Josh, David, Daniel, and Mack. Please deliver them to safety, Lord. We ask this in the Name of Your Son, Jesus.”

  Rachel added, “Amen.”

  “Now,” said Peter, “Rachel, it’s time to cook a ham and some bacon. The rest of you, get under way. Godspeed.”

  Four minutes later they were gone. As they slipped silently out the beach-side door and headed up the beach toward Middle Inlet, seventy-five yards north, James and Mack each carried one of the twins. Seth wore his new backpack and Josh had on his book bag. Sarah carried the .20-gauge shotgun.

  At 3:40 a.m., the smoke and carbon monoxide alarms performed to specifications.

  * * * *

  When the first two fire trucks and an ambulance, lights flashing and sirens blaring, raced up to the North Causeway roadblock, there was a brief shouting match. Three men clad in black armor emblazoned with the words FEDERAL AGENT and toting automatic weapons refused to let the emergency vehicles pass until Midway Fire-Rescue Chief Bill Potter threatened to push the agents’ black SUV off the causeway and into the creek. Two additional engines, one each from the DeBordieu and Litchfield stations, arriving just minutes later, experienced no such delay.

  Dark, sooty smoke was pouring from a kitchen window when the first engine and a ladder truck arrived at Cair Paravel. Peter and Rachel met them at the open gate and the firefighters immediately illuminated the house and surrounding yard with a half-dozen xenon lights. Chief Potter jumped out of the lead vehicle and shouted, “Anyone left inside?”

  “No! The fire is in the kitchen!” Peter yelled over the controlled chaos of ear-piercing emergency radios, roaring diesel engines, firefighters rushing to hook hoses to a street hydrant, and ladders being raised against the porch, twenty-five feet above. As the chief shouted out orders, more sirens and flashing lights announced the approaching DeBordieu and Litchfield trucks.

  Four firefighters, their reflective yellow, flameproof jackets and helmets gleaming in the bright lights, reeled a three-inch-diameter hose out of the lead truck, pulled on SCBA face masks, and charged up the stairs. Two of them carried narrow steel cylinders on straps over their shoulders and the other pair dragged the hose up and into the house. Two minutes later one of them appeared on the porch and shouted, “Fire’s out! Bring up some fans to clear the smoke.”

  “Whew!” said the chief, checking his watch. “Four-oh-three. Twenty-three minutes from the time the alarm came in. We’ll give the boys a few minutes to blow the smoke out before we go up to assess the damage. Hope it’s not too bad.”

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” said Rachel. “I’m afraid this is all my fault, Chief. I had a ham in the oven . . . must have left it on. I guess the drippings caught fire . . . I’m getting forgetful in my old age.”

  “Don’t you fret about it, Mrs. Newman,” Potter said, removing his helmet. “We all make mistakes. Good thing your alarm worked. Smoke kills more people in their beds at night than fires. Let’s go up and check for damage and I’ll file a report for your insurance.”

  As they climbed the stairs the chief said, “We would have gotten here a few minutes sooner but some assholes, all kitted up in SWAT gear, had the causeway blocked . . . Tried to keep us from coming on the island . . . Said they were federal agents. Did they tip you off about what they’re doing, General?”

  “Not really,” Peter replied. “Did they say why they’re at Pawleys Island? This is a pretty quiet place.”

  “One of ’em said something about a federal law enforcement operation. Probably a drug bust like the one they did down in Georgetown Harbor last year to seize that boatload of cocaine coming up from Mexico.”

  When they arrived in the kitchen, the open doors, windows, and powerful fans had cleared most of the smoke from the house. A fireman with a digital camera paused from documenting the scene and introduced himself.

  “I’m Lieutenant Strickler, ma’am. Sorry about tracking sand in your house on our boots and equipment. You have some smoke and soot here in the kitchen but it looks like the only fire damage is to the oven . . . and whatever you had in there.”

  The charred oven was sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor. Rachel peered into the blackened interior and said, “Thank you for your good work, Lieutenant. How did you put it out so fast? I don’t see any water . . .”

  “We didn’t use the hose, ma’am. It’s a gas oven . . . not electric, so we used this.” He held up a steel cylinder with a long, tubular nozzle. “This is a nitrogen micro-fog bottle—we call it a NIMBLE. It sprays a fog of nitrogen gas and tiny, ionized water droplets to displace oxygen needed for combustion and cool any flammable material. The fire was out in just a few seconds. This thing eliminates the mess from water, foam, or chemicals.”

  “Well, I’m very impressed. You’re very efficient.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Strickler replied. “Just don’t try to use the range. We pulled it out to shut off the gas valve and check for any hot spots on the floor, walls, and cabinets. Since all the interior doors in the house were closed, it looks like the only room with any serious smoke damage is the kitchen . . . and of course whatever you had in the oven—that’s a total loss.”

  “Yes, it’s a shame,” Rachel said dryly. “General Newman and I are very grateful to all you first responders. I hope you’ll allow me to come to the station some evening and prepare a meal for y’all that’s less well done.”

  As the firemen packed up their gear, Peter and Rachel went back outside to make amends to neighbors awakened by the commotion. At 0445 Chief Potter handed Peter a digi-chip containing his report and vid-files from the firefighters’ helmet cams. Before boarding his truck the chief said quietly, “Take a look at the last vid-file, General. It shows a guy in SWAT gear getting out of a black SUV pulled up behind DeBordieu engine number forty-four. The SUV is gone now, but the SWAT guy asked one of my men how many people were in the house and then left. You may want to check it out.”

  Peter and Rachel waved good-bye to the firefighters and went back upstairs to close and lock the doors and windows. As they stood in the kitchen she said, “Well, it cost us one stove, a seven-pound ham, four pounds of bacon, a quart of vegetable oil, and some smoke damage. Do you think it worked?”

  The old Marine put his arm around his wife and said, “I hope so. We should know in a few hours. Let’s hope our bedroom doesn’t smell like burned bacon, and get some sleep.”

  DEA AIR WING HANGAR

  DALLAS–FORT WORTH INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT (DFW)

  SUNDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER 2032

  0710 HOURS, LOCAL

  That’s DFW, just forward of the right wing,” Mack said, pointing out the window as the King Air 450 throttled back, descending out of a cloudless, cerulean sky.

  Sarah sighed deeply, looked back in the cabin, where her four boys were nestled up against her husband on a sleeper seat, and asked, “Shall we wake up the rest of these refugees?”

  Caperton smiled at the sight, nodded, and said, “Yeah, we better get ’em into seat belts. We’ll be on the ground in a few minutes and start the next leg of this adventure.”

  She and the senator had been talking quietly since shortly after takeoff—reviewing the escape from Pawleys Island and plans for the days ahead. As Sarah slid out of her seat and tenderly nudged each of her boys awake, Caperton marveled at how a woman’s gentle demeanor could mask courage and iron resolve.

  * * * *

  The seven refugees had arrived at the Midway Inlet breakwater precisely at low tide. Mack checked his watch to confirm the time: 0337. As Peter had predicted, the waterway between Pawleys and Litchfield was practically dry.

  Jame
s, carrying Daniel on his back, led the little band across the passage, followed by Seth, then Josh, and Mack, carrying David on his back. Sarah was last in file—with the mission of helping anyone who fell, got stuck in the soft, wet sand, or strayed off course. No one did. Four minutes after leaving the Pawleys shoreline they were all high and mostly dry on Litchfield Beach as the tide shifted and Atlantic Ocean seawater began coursing back through the inlet.

  Though all three adults were wearing PVS-42 thermal optics, it took longer than expected to get to where Mack and Peter had hidden the rental car. Mack had to stop and clean the wet sand out of his prosthetic leg ankle joint. They arrived at the car, parked beneath the fifth house on Norris Drive, just as sirens and flashing lights erupted on Pawleys Island.

  Mack was feeling for the car key he taped behind the license plate the previous afternoon when Seth asked, “What’s happening back there?”

  “That, my boy, is what’s called a diversion. Let’s get in and go for a ride,” said Mack, checking his watch. It was just 0350. They had been on the run for less than half an hour. As they piled into the vehicle, Mack said, “Next stop, the FBO at Myrtle Beach airport.”

  At the intersection of Litchfield Drive and Highway 17, they saw two police cars and a Midway Fire-Rescue vehicle speeding south toward Pawleys but their drive north was fast and otherwise uneventful. They arrived at the Myrtle Beach FBO at 0430 and were greeted outside by CSG Chief Pilot Henry Simmons.

  “Good morning, Senator, Mrs. Newman, James . . . and boys,” Henry said, as if their arrival were a routine passenger pickup. “Senator, if you would, please pull the car through the gate and up to the left side of the plane. I’ve arranged for you to bypass security. The folks here at the FBO will take care of the rental car paperwork.”