Killer View

by Ridley Pearson

  Walt wanted the straightest approach possible. He consulted a handheld aviation GPS, premarked with the lat-long identified by Crabtree. He had one shot at the snowfield a half mile behind the compound. It would be an ugly landing at best. If he missed the field entirely, there would be no second chances. It was all trees and mountains past that one field-a jewel of flat in a narrow valley situated between the tall spines of two ranges. He hadn’t told Brandon any of this, only that they were using the glider to approach silently. Eighteen deputized men were by now waiting on the far side of two different passes, some of whom had begun to advance on foot; the rest would follow by snowmobile on Walt’s command.

  The logistics of the strike were as complex as they were dangerous. A week of preparation would have been preferable to a matter of hours.

  “I think I’m going to barf,” Brandon said from the seat behind.

  “There’s a bag in the seat pocket. Just remember to remove the oxygen mask.” Walt smiled. Some things were worth the wait.

  His radio crackled and a male voice called out his tail numbers. Walt confirmed. The man introduced himself as “a friend from the east,” reminding Walt that they were on an open radio frequency that could be monitored by pilots and ground stations alike.

  FBI, Walt thought.

  “We have confirmed heat signatures,” the voice said.

  Walt processed the information: the FBI had tasked a satellite capable of infrared and had obtained a heat signature from the compound. It was active, not shuttered for the winter. People were down there.

  “Three bogies,” the voice said.

  Good odds, Walt thought.

  “Roger that,” Walt said. “Thanks.”

  “Was that what I think it was?” a distraught Brandon inquired.

  “We’re going in,” Walt said. He eased the joystick forward and the nose of the glider tilted almost imperceptibly. He had one chance at a landing.

  In the dark.

  In the mountains.

  “When I say, ‘Brace for impact,’” Walt schooled, “lean forward and clutch your chest to your thighs. Don’t attempt to look out or sit up until we’ve come to a complete stop. It’s going to be a hard landing.”

  “Why does that not sound promising?” Brandon interrupted himself with another spout of vomiting.

  “We’re going in,” Walt said.

  59

  THE ANNOYING AND ALL-TOO- FAMILIAR SOUND OF A SNOWMOBILE roused Mark Aker from a deep and unintended sleep. Even as he drew himself from his slumber, he could tell the vehicle was moving toward him, not away. His back was to the hibernating bear. The cave no longer smelled bad to him, which informed him he’d been there a long time and had slept much longer than he’d intended.

  The bear had wedged itself into the cave’s extreme recess, with little space between the rock, root, and caked mud that it was backed up against. Mark lay in front of the bear, facing the mouth of the cave. His watch face had lost its luminescence. He had no idea what time it was but was guessing evening. He was hungry and thirsty and had to relieve himself, but didn’t dare move for fear of disturbing the bear. The experience of cozying up to a hibernating bear might have once been a grad school dream of his. Now it seemed surreal. He wouldn’t have believed such a story if he’d heard it himself, and yet here he was…

  Dogs. Barking.

  The snowmobile had gone silent. What he heard now sent a chill through him, for he knew Roy Coats owned and trained hunting dogs. Scent dogs. Dogs that could follow a mountain lioness for miles- days-into the wilderness. The handler tracked and followed the dogs by radio collar to the prey, which was typically pinned up a tree. Mark was now convinced that he was the prey; he was the one pinned.

  The barking grew louder and more ferocious. The dogs were on a scent-his scent, more than likely. And whereas a human being on a snowmobile might not make anything of a dark shadow that turned out to be a cave entrance, the dogs would follow their noses straight to it.

  Mark had been around animals all his adult life. As a vet in Idaho, he’d seen cases that would have never made it into medical school textbooks and would not have been believed if they had. He was more exposed to animals in the wild, or the results of confrontations with such animals, than an average vet. And because of this, he could foresee the events of the next few minutes. They played out before his eyes on the darkened walls of the cave, as if a projector were running. And he didn’t like what he saw.

  As if reading his thoughts, the bear stirred as the barking drew closer.

  Mark had a decision to make, and neither choice was viable. If he stayed where he was, the bear would shred him when coming awake; if he fled, the dogs would either tear him to pieces or tree him.

  But if he could climb over the bear, getting away from the animal’s keen sense of smell, then the noise and the scent of the dogs might hold the waking bear’s attention. The hungover animal would be far from alert as it awakened. Bears did not see well. With the bear facing the mouth of the cave, Mark thought it just might work: what the animal first saw and heard as it awakened would become its focus.

  The barking, incredibly close now, lifted the hairs on the nape of Mark’s neck: the dogs were charging up the hill.

  Coming right for him.

  60

  THE GLIDER WAS TOO LOW, BUT THERE WAS NOTHING TO do about it now. With no source of thrust, only the wind and its forward momentum kept it aloft. The lower he flew, the darker it got. He’d circled once above the narrow field, just to the north of the small frozen river, spiraling down toward the treetops, over a sea of gray-green spires accented by the white carpet at their feet. It felt as if a cloak had been thrown over the narrow valley; the sun had left here hours before. And where the sky still glowed a pale blue, the earth beneath it was giving up on twilight.

  There was no such thing as a missed approach, no second chances at a landing. He got one chance and this was it.

  As he reached the near side of the field, Walt eased the joystick back, lifting the nose while avoiding a complete stall. For a moment, the glider seemed to stand still, its tail actually brushing the very tops of the tall pines.

  “What was that?” Brandon panicked as the sound of the contact reverberated through the frail frame.

  Walt’s focus remained on the field before him, a gray wash of indiscernible length, its surface impossible to read. If he judged this wrong…

  The beauty of the glider landing in snow was that there’s no superstructure supporting the wheels; a glider lands on a very small nosewheel recessed in the frame and an even smaller wheel below the tail, meaning it is well streamlined for a landing in snow.

  “Brace yourself,” he called out.

  Walt held the nose up as long as possible, then eased the glider down into the snow with a lunge that rapped both their heads against the Plexiglas dome. His feet automatically pushed both pedals forward, attempting to brake, but it was his right hand on the joystick controlling the flaps that served that purpose. Snow streamed over the nose, blinding him. The right wing struck something, turning the glider sharply. The glider bounced and groaned and barely slowed, Walt convinced its light frame would come apart.

  It submarined and then jumped up, actually lifting fully off the snow before smashing back down and finally grinding to a stop.

  “You okay?” Walt said.

  “Shit… shit… shit…” Brandon managed from behind him.

  Walt shut down the electronics; he had no idea how they’d ever get the glider out of there, but that was the least of his worries. He popped open the dome, checked his GPS, and hand-signaled Brandon toward the far side of the field. Brandon gave him a thumbs-up and climbed out. The two men separated without a word.

  Walt dug into his pack for the night vision headset. Though not fond of the technology, he appreciated the results: he could see far more clearly and much farther, the electronic landscape black and an eerie green but vivid. For now, he wore the contraption, not thrilled with the way
it limited peripheral vision.

  It took him a moment to distinguish what he heard: not coyote, not wolf, but a dog’s barking. Maybe two. Well away to his left-south- quite possibly across the river.

  Then another sound: snowmobile.

  Had his own guys jumped the gun and raided the cabin ahead of his signal? If Mark Aker was indeed out there, his life had just been put in great jeopardy.

  Then a second thought flashed through his mind: had Roy Coats somehow seen the glider or been warned in advance of the raid?

  Trudging on snowshoes, Walt hurried in the general direction of the cabin, ignoring the barking for now. If Mark was being held in the cabin, then the existence of the snowmobile meant one less man to guard Mark.

  He would cut around to the east of the compound, leaving Brandon to approach from the northwest. Careful not to fall, he picked up his pace, believing time was suddenly in his favor.

  61

  BRANDON MOVED CAUTIOUSLY, THE LANDSCAPE AHEAD OF him green and black through the night vision goggles. A slight glow of greenish white in the sky ahead suggested the cabin-the exhaust from a woodstove, more than likely. But judging distance accurately was difficult, and, though he’d trained with the goggles, he had no idea if that glow was a hundred feet away or five hundred yards. Worse, the forest was immature, a victim of a massive forest fire a decade earlier, resulting in a mixture of towering dead tree trunks and a dense undergrowth of twenty-foot pines, bramble, and piles of decomposing slash from the earlier fire. Finding a way through it was challenging, due to the thick undergrowth. Had it not been for the GPS, Brandon would have lost his way. Instead, he found himself forced to take a long way around to the cabin because of a spine of rocky hill that separated the cabin from the field where they’d landed the glider.

  His trailing leg felt the tension, though too late. The snowshoe had caught on something. Looking down, he saw the trip wire pull free and go slack.

  He quickly took five long strides and dove into the snow, covering his head, expecting an antipersonnel mine to blow. He waited for a count of five. Then ten.

  No explosion.

  So the trip wire was a perimeter warning device.

  He’d just officially entered the compound. And now, due to his stupidity, they knew he was here.

  He placed his glove to his throat and squeezed, initiating radio contact with the sheriff.

  “I tripped a wire,” he said. The radios were digital; there was no way any communication between the task force would be intercepted.

  “Roger that.” The sheriff’s voice, calm and collected.

  “I’ve got some highlights at tree level.”

  “Three hundred yards north-northeast of my position,” the sheriff said, confirming he’d seen them too.

  “North-northwest for me,” he said, checking the GPS, “so we’ve got good angles.”

  “Find some high ground. Or some place defensible. Let them come to you. Stay in radio com. If you hear them coming, let me know. I’ll create a diversion and bring in backup. Keep ’em guessing.”

  “Roger that.”

  “No heroics.”

  “Out,” Brandon said. He felt lousy for tripping that wire. The sheriff might feel obligated now to bring in the others. Their arrival would make Aker’s situation all the more tenuous.

  The purpose of Brandon and Walt advancing the raid was to capitalize on the element of surprise. They had to squeeze the cabin from two directions to be effective.

  There was no way he was letting up his end. He wasn’t one to go against orders, but he did so now, knowing full well the sheriff wasn’t going to wait. He wasn’t going to let him go in there alone.

  THE PREY RETURNS, the narrator’s voice said inside the head of Roy Coats as he saw the LED flash on the wall-mounted box, indicating a perimeter breach. A hunter’s patience is his greatest asset.

  He wanted this to be fun.

  He leaned forward and grabbed for the walkie-talkie. His leg stung, and he worried he’d busted open the scab again. The damn thing wouldn’t stop bleeding.

  “Newbs. Area three’s been tripped. Looks like the doc’s coming back home for some reprovisioning.”

  “I’m on it,” Newbs reported.

  “Let me know when you have him.”

  Starved and dehydrated, the prey returns to camp, driven by the uncanny will to survive. Having foraged for nearly two days, he sees the camp as his only hope and reluctantly returns to his keeper. But the hunter is aware of the return. His patience has paid off. He will be only too happy to welcome him back.

  62

  FOR ALL HIS STUDY, ALL THE READING HE’D DONE, MARK Aker was shocked to witness firsthand how a bear-even a drugged bear-could come out of hibernation so quickly. As the bear sat up, Aker slipped farther down behind it so that, had the creature lay back down, it would have crushed him.

  The bear fixed its attention on the mouth of the cave and the barking just beyond: a dog had reached the entrance, jutting its snarling snout in and out of the cave, teeth glaring, while held back by the cave’s pungent odors, the dog’s persuasive survival instincts.

  The blinding darkness prevented Aker from actually seeing the bear glance back toward him, but there was a moment’s hesitation, followed by the sound of the animal’s sniffing, when Aker knew he’d been found out. The bear had definitely smelled him, but, distracted by the dog’s ferocity, had turned in that direction.

  Then light caught the top of the cave-a flashlight-silhouetting the massive bear as it charged and swiped. The dog yipped and howled. The beam of the flashlight wavered.

  “Shit!” he heard a man shout, also incredibly close.

  A single gunshot rang out, followed by the man’s sickening wail, as the bear lunged farther from the cave. Another cry, more desperate.

  Coats, or Gearbox, had followed the dog too closely, had approached the cave too quickly, had been stunned to discover a bear instead of the escaped veterinarian.

  As the bear broke out of the cave, Aker followed closely. The man-Gearbox, judging by his size-had dropped the flashlight. It was blood-covered. The bear was lumbering off in the direction of the road, far faster than his simple movement implied, but too drugged, or wounded, to pursue with much enthusiasm.

  The dog was gored at the neck, lying in the snow. The blood surrounding the fallen flashlight was not the dog’s. The quantity of spilled blood implied the bear had gotten a fair piece of Gearbox as well.

  Weak with fatigue and hunger, and stiff from his lack of movement, Aker picked up the flashlight and trained it on the dog, then in the direction of the noises. The bear was still in pursuit of Gearbox, who was himself surprisingly fast and able on snowshoes. If Aker had any chance to get away, it was now.

  The bear might have been wounded by the gunshot, but, if so, it had only made it more angry.

  Aker looked down at the wounded dog again and found himself unable to leave it there to bleed out and die.

  He bent down, hoisted the dog over his shoulders, and, holding the animal’s legs around his neck, made his way through the close-set rocks, knowing the terrain would discourage the bear from following. All the bear wanted was some sleep.

  In a moment, the snow would get too deep for just his boots. Twenty yards from the cave, he realized he had no snowshoes, but he was not about to turn back. The bear would return at some point, the drugs contributing to its bad temper. For now, he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the cave as possible.

  He heard the sound of a snowmobile’s engine turn over. Again, and then it caught and roared like a motorcycle. He switched off his flashlight, not wanting to reveal his location. The headlight from the snowmobile swept through the woods and illuminated the side of the hill. Aker stood stone still.

  The snowmobile made a half circle and then accelerated into the darkness, its engine’s high-pitched whine receding along with it.

  63

  WALT CAME UPON THE SNOWMOBILE TRACK AT NEARLY THE same instant
he heard the single report of a powerful rifle. Adrenaline charged his system the way only gunfire can. His hand went to his pistol as he moved in the direction of the sound.

  A pair of lights flared in his goggles. A good distance away. He could not put together what was going on but hoped Brandon was not the target of that report. His fears were settled by Brandon ’s voice in his ear.

  “Your twenty?” Brandon ’s voice said.

  “On a snowmobile track, still north of the cabin. The gunfire was several hundred yards northeast of me. I’ve got a possible heat signature from the snowmobile. Hold your position.”

  “Yeah…”

  Walt knew that tone.

  “Your twenty?”

  “I didn’t exactly hold position. I should be closing in on the cabin shortly.”

  “Those were orders.”

  “I wasn’t going to hang you out to dry, Sheriff. Besides, I had to shut down any chance of a getaway. We reviewed all this stuff.”

  “That was prior to the trip wire.”

  “It is what it is. Was that shot thrown at you?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Not at me.”

  “Hear this, Deputy: HOLD YOUR POSITION! I’ll get back to you.”

  “Out.”

  Walt saw a second, hotter flare of light through the goggles, and, when coupled immediately with the sound of a snowmobile starting, he understood what had to be done. He jumped off the track, threw his pack on the ground, and unclipped the eighty-foot climbing rope from it. The rope was gray with a red twist, which required him to bury it after tossing a decent length across the track. He moved fluidly and efficiently, living for such moments, for he was briefly free of all else; no thought entered his mind that didn’t directly have to do with stopping the snowmobile. It was its own weird kind of ballet, police work; a combination of efficiency and purpose. Walt secured the bulk end of the climbing rope to a tree, punched the slack rope down into the soft snow as he crossed the track, and reached the other side charged with excitement.