Hunting Season: A Rhys Adler Thriller

by Alex Carlson

  For now, Manny ignored everything he learned at Camp Pendleton.

  Stealth was out of the question. He ran like a wild man. After charging up an initial incline of moderate grade, he reached the pass that ran between two rounded mountain tops and started the downhill plunge. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, upside down, as he ran at the edge of control, arms swinging wildly, hands free and loose in case he slipped. He was almost galloping, keeping his eyes two steps ahead lest he plant his foot on a rock or in a divot and twist an ankle. He had found his rhythm and just let gravity take over, feeling his boots dig in with each landing. Twice he tripped, but was able to save himself before going down.

  They had decided to ditch the radio. They literally tossed it into a gully and watched it cartwheel against the rocks until it settled somewhere out of view. There was no point in carrying it: it still couldn’t get through to the safe house and the damn thing was heavy and would have slowed Manny down. The bigger problem was that their mobile phones got no reception and the two couldn’t communicate with each other, let alone with the outside world. Rhys had joked about sending smoke signals if Manny needed him.

  Both the slope Manny now ran down and the valley it led to were barren, save for a few large rocks that dappled the ground. There were trees at higher elevations, so he had yet to break through the timberline. He wasn’t sure whether the area in which he ran had been cleared or if conditions simply prevented trees from growing there. With the gray sky above and moisture in the air, the surrounding colors were muted. In the sunshine, he imagined it would have been beautiful, maybe dramatically so. But now, everything just looked like death.

  Although he was flailing around and causing a racket, he was all but certain that he wasn’t seen or heard. RG 405 must have already turned around the ridge to his left, so he was hidden by the curve of the mountain. They’d watch their back, but they were well beyond the bend, moving along the side of the mountain while he raced down to the valley.

  Below was a classic high Alpine valley, formed by a glacier millennia ago, the moraines still visible on the sides. Mountains on both sides defined the space and the end of the valley, some indeterminate distance away, sort of closed in upon itself where the mountains folded in on each other. A brook, full of melted snow water from late spring storms, zigzagged through the valley’s floor.

  He raced downhill to it. He had to get down and across the valley before RG 405 made the same crossing further to the north.

  After a time, Manny stopped descending. The ground leveled out and stretched before him, disappearing into a cloud that had settled in the valley. The valley was about 250 yards wide and the slope on the other side was barely visible through the moisture. He looked north, where he expected the Russians to be, and anticipated their moves. Let’s hope they’re still around the bend, he said to himself.

  He stole into the valley, moving at a jog. After a minute, he reached the stream, which was wider than he had guessed from the side. He kneeled next to it, reached down, and cupped water to his lips. The bitter cold hurt his teeth, but he drank crazily, quenching a thirst that had been nagging at him for hours. He let it splash his face and run down his neck.

  Satisfied, he stood, looked back toward the slope he had just descended. The fog hid the details, but he could see the general outline of the mountains. They’d have trouble making him out from that distance. He might be clear through a sniper’s scope, but scanning an area without detail through a magnified lens was all but impossible. If a sniper did spot him, he’d be an easy target. Manny stood there, almost daring them. Come on, he thought, take me.

  But the shot didn’t come. It made him feel even more alone.

  Manny adjusted his gear and took off again, crossing the shallow river in four powerful strides and rising up the far bank and toward the incline on the far side. He looked up the slope as he ran. It went up and up until it disappeared into a bank of clouds. But before his course disappeared, he saw good news. There was a ravine, a gash that had been cut into the mountain. It was deep enough to provide cover and represented safety for his ascent. He ran to it and quickly disappeared into its folds.

  Within a couple of minutes, the ascent steepened and the ravine became rocky. Water from the incessant rains plunged down, overflowing the rut that had already existed and washed away the dirt from its sides. The climb was tough, and required both hands to keep himself upright. He dislodged rocks and they tumbled down, loosening yet more rocks below. All cascaded down and he feared the echoes they caused, but he knew the enemy was far away and wouldn’t be able to pinpoint the source of the sounds.

  The ravine split and he followed the left, northern, prong. It rose at a more manageable grade and Manny was able to quicken his pace, despite his burning thighs and shortness of breath. He made good progress. For the first time since splitting from Rhys, Manny felt optimistic.

  The mountainside eventually curled into a hump, and when he reached it, he saw that the ascent extended further to another hump, and no doubt if he were to climb further, he’d see it went to yet another. Mountains had a way of hiding their true heights to those who scaled them. It didn’t matter. The hump he was on was a ridge of sorts, and he could stay behind it, moving freely parallel to the valley that the Russians would soon descend into and walk up until they would turn east, toward him, and head directly up the slope to the safe house.

  With the last of his energy, Manny ran, knowing he’d have to cover at least a kilometer, maybe two, to find a suitable shooting position. He wanted to be in front of the Russians so that their only escape was in retreat. Hopefully they’d then consider yet another roundabout way to the safe house. If all went well, he’d also thin their ranks by another man or two.

  ADLER SQUEEZED THE front brake, feeling the downward force of the machine exponentially multiply the stopping power, and hit the corner perfectly, coming off it at the precise moment to allow him to exit the curve at full throttle. The bike leapt forward along a rare stretch of straight road. Rhys knew no cars would be coming up—the mudslide below ensured that—so he rocketed ahead, moving in harmony with his bike and the road’s curves.

  A descent and then a sudden turn. He squeezed the front brake and stepped on the rear, felt the back end of the bike slide out toward the edge of the road, the edge of death, and the edge of oblivion, for if he swung out too far, the bike would topple down the steep side of the mountain and not be found until some bird watcher with a pair of binoculars unwittingly scanned the spot where it landed. But the skid was controlled, never close to ungovernable, and he downshifted to second, let out the clutch, and the bike lurched ahead, leaving a plume of dirt spewing from his rear tire.

  He blew ahead until the next hairpin, where he found another perfect vector, and then repeated the process with a surgeon’s skill.

  The mudslide was now directly in front of him. Rhys saw Manny’s car parked beyond it, just where they had left it. He didn’t hesitate. He gunned the throttle, knowing he just had to power through it. He’d undoubtedly drop the bike before the maneuver was done, but he gambled he’d slide through it and be able to walk away. Pretty big gamble, though. If he got stuck he’d be so far in the middle of nowhere that he wouldn’t be any good to anybody.

  He juiced the throttle a final time just before he entered the mud and lowered his center of gravity by standing on the pegs. The treads immediately filled with mud and lost all traction. Rhys knew he was going down. Even then, he tried to be proactive: if you’re gonna fall, fall to the right. The AK-9 was affixed to the top of the left pannier and he didn’t want it banged up.

  He went down hard and the bike’s wheels swung forward as Rhys let go of the grips and rode the slide out behind the bike. He came to a stop, relieved that he was through the mud. His leg hurt like hell, but the pads in his pants had done their job and none of his joints had taken a hit.

  He stood and looked back at the course the wheels had taken through the mud. Two strings of tracks, co
mically intertwined until they lost all definition where his body had joined the fray. Looking at his bike, he saw that his right pannier, made of aluminum, was all banged to shit. He didn’t care. He’d send Lucinda the bill.

  He then looked down the slope and followed the course of the road below. Sure enough, in the middle of the second corner below, the access road departed from the road he was on. He knew calling it a “road” was generous. It would be shit.

  He stood up his bike, checked the rifle—it seemed fine—and started the engine. He rode carefully through the last turns and stopped at the beginning of the track.

  MANNY’S JOG HAD slowed to a trot, but he still put out maximum effort. The last stretch had seemed endless, always slightly uphill, always through thin air that labored his breathing. He was sure he was now ahead of RG 405. They’d have to be racing to keep up and that would mean a complete breakdown of military discipline. Regardless, Manny simply couldn’t go any farther. He turned toward the ridge and got down low as he approached. He assumed stealth mode only in the last few yards. He moved so slowly that no one in the valley below could detect movement above. His chest dragged along the ground. When he peered over the edge, his head was turned sideways to minimize the part that could be visible. All of this bullshit was to allow him to become part of the ground.

  An initial peek, then a longer study of the layout below. The fog had largely blown away, the rain slowed to a trickle. Visibility was decent for a few hundred yards, but then objects lost their clarity. Manny looked into the valley’s center through his Leica Geovid 8x42 binoculars and found the path that bisected the space. They’d come along it. They’d drop into the valley from the far side and approach up the middle. They’d stay on the path, knowing progress would be too slow and inefficient if they left it. Besides, these guys, despite the setback below, were brimming with confidence. They had to have thought that the team that ambushed them would be unable to keep up with their pace. Well, thought Manny, they didn’t know that it was just one man with motivation, discipline, and a rifle.

  The Leica’s built-in range finder gave him an accurate read and provided a much wider field of view than his sniper scope. The spot where the path rose over a little knoll at the far end of the valley was 1,500 yards away. At that distance, he couldn’t see much with his naked eyes, but the binoculars blew it up so he’d be able to see them at the far end and could then follow them for several minutes before they got into a suitable shooting range.

  He followed the course of the path through his binoculars. The numbers of the laser-guided range finder, lit up in red digital LED numbers in the middle of the view, descended as the path neared at an oblique. At the closest point, the path was 457 yards, but he’d shoot before that if only better to influence the reactions of RG 405. He wanted them moving back. He found a suitable—exposed—stretch of path between 600 and 700 yards, one that would allow them to go to ground but find little to hide behind. There were but a few boulders standing haphazardly, a knoll or hummock here or there, and a rise or two in the land. They might be able to dive into the stream and hide behind its bank, but that would be a cold, miserable experience. Regardless, they’d be stuck without a way forward.

  He switched to his rifle and picked the exact spot he’d squeeze the trigger. He calculated the drop and mentally practiced on boulders and discolorations in the ground. He aimed high, putting the target two lines below center. A helpful exercise, but it didn’t mean a damn thing until he had a moving human being in his scope. He considered next the wind and humidity. He’d shot in windier conditions, though mountains were notorious for gusts and changes of direction. It would have to be a last-minute adjustment.

  Satisfied that his calculations were complete, he had one final adjustment to make. He put down his rifle and pulled from his jacket pocket the SureFire muzzle brake and a sound suppressor. The former would reduce the recoil impulse and muzzle rise so that the weapon would return to target for the next shot. It also minimized the muzzle flash, which otherwise might reveal his position. The suppressor would reduce the decibel level to that of a .22, making it difficult to pinpoint his position at such a distance. It wouldn’t do a damn thing about the crack of the bullet as it broke the sound barrier, but there’d be nothing from the rifle’s muzzle to locate its position.

  If he were lucky, he’d get another thing right. The impact of the bullet on the first target would drive the body in such a direction as to reveal his general position, or at least the side from which he was shooting. Aim for the hip, he knew. It would mangle the entire skeletal structure, and there was as good a chance as not that it would collapse in such a way as to hide the bullet’s origin. That might just be enough to hit a second target as the Russians tried to figure out from which direction they were being ambushed. After that, he’d just wait and see where the battle led him.

  RHYS GUNNED HIS bike, first down a short descent that plunged him into the thick of the forest where he met, without warning, the ascent up the steep logging trail. Whereas that initial descent had been controlled, mostly powered by gravity, he was now in a battle. He stood on the foot pegs, feathering the clutch as he determined when to give more juice, when to give less. The trail just didn’t want to be climbed. The BWM rocketed upward, attacked, slid right and then left, groaned at the sudden turns, and screamed when he let out the clutch in the wrong gear. His rear tire churned dirt, spat mud, and slid side to side as it fought for traction.

  Riding a heavy 798cc adventure bike up a steep off-road track was different from riding a 125cc or 250cc dirt bike. A dirt bike is nimble, allowing the rider to focus on the front wheel and the few yards immediately in front of it. You could make micro corrections around sudden rocks or grooves. That wasn’t possible with his big BMW. Instead, Rhys directed his focus on the goal, the top of a steep stretch, picked a line, and stuck too it, maintaining an even throttle up the slope, praying that the line he chose was the correct one.

  It was exhausting. Motorcycles require physical effort. It wasn’t just sitting in the saddle and letting the motor do the work. It was a fight, one in which the bike was steered by your body trying to counterbalance five hundred pounds vulnerable to gravity and centrifugal force. His arms fought to keep the handlebars straight, his legs pushed the bike this way or that, his hips moved like a fulcrum seeking the ideal center of gravity. His GoreTex may have kept him dry from the rain, but he was nonetheless soaked from sweat.

  Rhys was well past the point of no return and knew he had no business trying to make it up this trail. It occurred to him that he had made a horrendous decision. He’d get stuck sooner or later, unable to continue up and unable to get back down. He’d wind up somewhere so far from where he was supposed to be that he might as well start walking down the mountain to some little Dorf where he’d have to make phone calls explaining his incompetence. Manny would be all on his lonesome, the Russian Special Forces would put a bullet in him and then overwhelm the hut. Stirewalt, Colin, and the future leader of Ukraine would be massacred.

  What then?

  Then he’d really have nothing left. He already had little. Add failure on top of that and he’d again be walking the streets of Berlin in a drunken stupor.

  Just give up. It had been a long shot anyway.

  No. Just make it to the next turn and then see if you can make it to the next.

  He made it to the turn and sped through it to the next. And the next. Branches, drooping under the weight of water, hit him on both sides as he powered up the hill. The whine of the bike’s engine was deafening.

  He pulled over in a wide hairpin turn where he knew he could accelerate again from a dead stop. He needed a moment. His breathing was labored, his arms ached, his whole body enervated. I just need a second, he thought.

  He looked at the sky and realized it would soon become more difficult. The first hint of nighttime darkness could be detected. The Russians had been hiking most of the day. They had to be getting close to their goal.


  He dropped the bike into first and released the clutch, spinning his wheel as the bike lurched up to the next curve.

  After a time, the slope eased slightly and he found his rhythm. It became less a battle than a dance. Rhys didn’t know a damn thing about dancing, but he figured it required grace and power. An F800GSA didn’t have much grace, but it had more power than Rhys could handle, and you couldn’t ask for more from a dance partner on this dance floor.

  The dance depended on communication, cooperation, teamwork, nuance. Rhys listened to the bike’s components and talked it through the rough patches, usually with a motivational yawp, which was probably aimed more at himself than the bike. He felt the traction of each tire, the play of the shocks and springs, and listened to the complaints of the transmission. Every once in a while an embedded rock or root in the trail would cause the bike to bottom out and a shudder would rise from the bash plate under the engine block, though his feet and legs, all the way up to make his teeth chatter. He smelled the complaints of the clutch and consoled the machine between his legs. All while reading the trail and computing the perfect lines, in and out of the curves, between the water-filled holes in the dirt. He knew which fallen logs had to be avoided and which he could hammer through. It was epic and Rhys doubted that anyone who didn’t grow up with bikes in the mountains could master such terrain.

  At last, the incline smoothed out and Rhys was able to hit fourth gear and even sit down to rest his nagging legs. The bike broke from the dense woods into the openness of the roll of the mountain. He slowed to a stop and planted both feet. He couldn’t resist patting the tank in front of him. It was an affectionate gesture, the kind you’d give a dog. Good job, Boy.