Smoke! Fire!
Great idea, but I don’t have any way of producing either, not so much as a match. What I need is a couple of those things police throw into buildings to get suspects out . . . smoke bombs. Doubt very much there are a bunch of those on the helicopter.
A herd of skunks!
That’s about as realistic as smoke and fire. You’re getting stupid, Reba. Think!
As much as I think, nothing comes to mind. I could wait them out, but they have food and I don’t. There’s no doubt who would starve to death first. Besides, Matt can’t wait that long.
There’s a radio in the helicopter! That’s it!
Okay. I’ve got a plan now.
Edik and the kittens must stay together, I figure. I give them instructions over and over again, not at all sure if the young ones understand anything I say. Edik does and snarls at the kittens. They shake the snow from their coats and gather closer to him. The other three, Vadik, Yulya, and Gosha, do not seem to be bothered by the deepening snow, whether on the ground or on their backs. I brush off my own head and shoulders and then give instructions that we are going to approach the field with the big machines, and stop inside the trees. I strengthen the stay commands to Edik and the kittens, shed more tears than I have time for over Roma, brush my fingers through the hair on his head, and then head out.
I soon find what must be Sheriff Dan, and Sarge’s tracks, where they came, shot Roma, and left. The tracks are three-quarter covered over with new snow. How long does that mean it has been? Why were they out here? How did they discover Roma? What was Roma doing that he got himself shot? Lots of questions that have no importance to what I’m about to do, whatever that is.
I stop at the edge of the meadow, and so do the tracks. Without protection in the trees from the heavy snowfall, they disappear much more quickly, barely perceivable indentations in the horizontal surface of the snowfield. The helicopter and cages remind me of the parking lot at school during the Christmas break. Mounds of snow and dark silhouettes were all that could be seen of cars that were left behind, abandoned until spring, mine among them. I wonder if the snow gets deep enough here to cover the helicopter completely. I cannot imagine.
The snowfall is still heavy enough that I cannot see the other side of the meadow, where the entrance to the mountain is. That means, then, that they would not be able to see me when I step out. Still, I try to guess the correct approach so that I keep the helicopter between them and me. I sidestep to the right for a better angle, get my feet tangled in a fallen tree limb hidden beneath the snow, and fall flat on my back. I blow snow out of my face and look up at two sabre-toothed cats looking down at me. I’d swear they’re laughing. I glare back at them and then roll to my knees and look out toward the helicopter. There are no men watching my slapstick. There is nothing but pieces of helicopter poking through the near whiteout. I expect that even if someone is watching, they may not see me for my Abominable Snowman camouflage. Not such a bad idea, falling in the snow. Part of the plan, I try to convince myself. I push up to my feet, instruct the cats to stay, and then step away from the protection of the trees and into the deeper snow.
Even knowing that my chances of being spotted are very slim, I remain low, almost crawling the distance. It suddenly occurs to me to wonder what time it is. Mid to late afternoon I’d expect, as little as a couple hours until dark, as much as four. I could pull out the GPS and check, but I don’t see the point. It is what it is. I put the thought away.
What I had worried about before, and then forgot, is what if there is someone waiting inside the helicopter? It would be like the Sheriff to try and anticipate my moves. I stop and analyze the big bird. It faces away, toward the mountain, so if someone were watching, he would not be able to see me. I am approaching from absolutely the best direction.
I stop under the tail and inspect the snowfield around the machine. There are no indents in the snow, not even faint, which means there is no one in the helicopter, or they have been in there since it began snowing. I doubt the latter.
My shoulders brush snow from the skin of the helicopter as I make my way toward the side door. When I get there I realize that if someone was in there, they could not see out. The windows—at least the ones that I can see from my angle—are covered with snow. Half of my internal tension relaxes. I brush the snow from the door handle, hook it, and then pull.
It slides open a foot and I drop low in the snow. No guns go off; no one yells. It is winter quiet. I rise up and poke my head into a dark, gloomy, and empty compartment. After pushing the door open another foot, I climb in, and then stop for a few seconds to remember what I came here for.
A radio! I go forward and sit in the pilot’s seat and look at the radio. I push what looks like a power button but nothing happens, so I push a few more, and turn the dials. Still nothing. Is the battery dead? Did Sheriff Dan anticipate this and disable the radio? Do I need a key to turn it on?
I give up and sit back in the chair, and then spot the totally unexpected. Sticking out of a side pouch is the top of a plastic bag with the word, “Jerky” blazoned across it in red letters; the pilot’s snack stash. Before I can blink I’m chewing and swallowing one piece, another half dozen clutched in my gloved hand, waiting their turn. Underneath the jerky bag is a package of black licorice—only five pieces left—and a zip lock bag of Oreo cookies—two remaining. I take everything, blessing my luck and wishing there was more.
While I eat I search about the inside of the helicopter for more food, and for any ideas on how to overcome the men. Opening everything there is to open results only in disappoint in not finding more food. Then, I spot something else. After stuffing another stick of jerky into my mouth and the remainder into my pockets with the licorice and cookies, I open an orange bag with the word, Orion, on the side. From it I extract an orange and black gun with six orange cartridges attached to a black holder on the back of the gun. Aerial Signal Flares, the cartridges read. 12 gauge. It’s a flare gun. There is also a package of three orange sticks called Orion Skyblazers. Red Aerial Flares reads across the side, with launch direction printed inside an arrow on one end. I extract one from the package and read the instructions. A 450-foot launch height, it says. In two other packages are Orion Marine Red Signal Flares and Handheld Orange Smoke Signals.
Smoke and fire! Better than a herd of skunks.
I spend some time chewing on jerky and licorice while reading the instructions on everything enough times that I don’t have to think about it too hard when it’s time to fire off the plan. Next, I dig through the pilot’s flight bag for paper and pen and then spend fifteen minutes writing a detailed note and instructions. After rereading and revising it several times I put the note, along with the aerial flares, into the orange bag, and then all into my backpack. I take one more look around, I put the pack on my back, drop from the helicopter and reverse my route back to where the cats pace, impatient to get on to our mission.
“New plan,” I say to them, though there really wasn’t an old plan. Until I found the flares, I had no idea what I was going to do. Now I’m excited. I bring out the orange bag and hold it up in front of Gosha. “Take this to Sharon.” I pass him images of Sharon and where she is. I get the feeling he doesn’t understand, so I tell him to go to where Tricia lies, that Sharon is there. He does understand that. I add in instructions on what to do after that, hook the straps onto Gosha’s lower tooth, and then dispatch him. When his huge form disappears into the falling snow, I pray that the storm is not too much, that he can make his way over the top and into the secret back entrance in time. In the note I told Sharon to begin at 6:00. My GPS reads 5:05. In fifty-five minutes the fireworks begin, with or without Sharon, with or without Gosha.
Chapter 56
At 5:30 I give instructions to Vadik and Yulya. After they disappear in the snow I say a little prayer to God and my mother and head out to finish up the mess that I began.
The snow is now a fine, white shower; no longer the huge f
lakes it had been. I wish it were dark. I feel naked out in the bright of day despite my Abominable Snowman camouflage, and the shield of trees. I slowly work my way along the base of the mountain just north of the cavern entrance. At about fifty feet from where I first spotted Stinky early this morning, I stop, protected from view by a huge snow-covered bush. Although I see no one, my sense is that something’s not right, that someone is out here waiting, watching. It could be my nervousness, my fear creating what is not, or it could be my psychic senses telling me what my eyes cannot. I crouch low, peek around the bush, and analyze the carpet of snow between the entrance and me. It has been disturbed a lot, though not recently. If the men have been in and out of the cavern numerous times throughout the day, the disturbance is natural, but there doesn’t appear to be any recent tracks, recent being within the last hour or so. Still, my psychic nerve endings tingle. I trust my psychic tingle more than my eyes, so I remove my backpack, pull out the flare gun, and load in one cartridge. The remaining cartridges I stuff into pockets where the jerky, licorice, and cookies used to be. I extract the GPS and check the time. Seven minutes to go.
I sniff the air and find nothing but the brisk odor of winter. No man farts, burps, or sweat. Time stands still for one long minute after another. Finally, at 5:57, I ease around the backside of the bush and push through a group of huge pine trees that give up their snow, replenishing my snowman disguise and sending a chill down the back of my neck; my finger hovers nervously near the trigger; my psychic tingle is doing back flips up and down my spine, adding to the chill. I stop, sniff, listen, feel. Still, all I get is the sense of something close. I’m twenty yards from my intended destination; a long way when every fiber of my body says something is waiting between where I crouch now and where I intend to be when I let lose my volley of smoke and fire. I look close at each snow covered bush, tree and rock but find nothing but what they obviously are—bushes, trees and rocks.
I turn my head and reach out for Yulya and Vadik and then draw a mental line to their positions. Vadik is behind me, lying low. Yulya is forward of me, thirty yards beyond the entrance, also lying low. Although they sense less than I do concerning my feelings of a nearby, unaccounted for threat, they do pick up the smell of human food cooking inside the cavern, which I do not. They wait; their orders are to take action only upon my command . . . or upon my death.
Pushing that last thought aside, I step forward, now only yards from where I can achieve an angled view between several branches into the sheriff’s den, and then freeze to the sound of breathing. I turn my head to the right and swallow a gasp. I’m looking into the face of a man, covered in snow, almost invisible, like a Doolittle painting where the horses and Indians are lost in patterns of trees, rocks and snow. I stare at this man, a real life painting of white with subtle shadows and splashes of black and gray, and green pine needles poking out around him. His eyes are closed; one of Sheriff Dan’s trusted sentries.
What do I do with him? As soon as I fire my first flare, he’ll wake up and I’ll have to deal with him and his gun. Not a good thing.
Vadik, come!
Damn! I have to sneeze! Why now, when my life depends on silence, a sneeze decides to show itself. I put my snow-covered coat sleeve up to my face and try to fight it back. It is no use. My nose and mouth explode into the ice and snow of my coat, muffled as best as I can. I’m so sure I am successful that I pause before looking at him. When I do, he is looking at me, shocked and disoriented. It is Sarge, Lester’s buddy. And then he starts moving, remembering that somewhere on his snow-covered body is a weapon. I would think he would be slow and sluggish, his reaction compromised by the cold, but I think wrong. In the split second that I realize that Vadik is charging, but still too far away, Sarge’s weapon appears from nowhere, the barrel rapidly rising up to my chest. I have no choice.
I pull the trigger on the flare gun.
Chapter 57
There is no kick to the little gun with the huge barrel, but Sarge seems to slam against the tree behind him, and then, for a very long second, the world stops. It is in that second that he looks at the gun in my hand and comprehends what just hit him. His mouth hangs open, an image I am sure I will see in my nightmares to come, a black and red hole in a white field spotted with bits of black beard. And then he looks down at himself and at the flare burning like a red sun, drops the gun, and starts screaming. For two more seconds he screams and tears at his coat, the flare apparently trapped inside his clothing, or inside his belly—I toss away that last thought. Then Vadik hits him from the side and the screaming suddenly stops.
I turn toward the cavern entrance, expecting Sheriff Dan to come running out, but see that Sharon has already started her part of the fire and smoke attack. As per my note, she came up to the edge of the lake where it runs out of the mountain, and fired one of her flares into the passage that leads down to the sheriff’s camp. My hunch was that the flare would ricochet off the walls to land, hopefully, in the sheriff’s lap. Apparently, my hunch is close because there is a bright light and a lot of yelling and swearing coming from inside the mountain.
My turn! I load another cartridge into the gun, run thirty feet closer, and fire it into the entrance. Then I clear some ground around me, drop to my knees, and pull two smoke sticks from my pack. I cough at my own face-full of orange smoke when I light one off. I stand and throw it, light the second and throw it as well.
There are at least three flares bouncing around in there, more depending on what Sharon has fired of her four sticks. I fire in one more and reload my last flare. In the middle of all the screaming coming from in the mountain I hear, “You’re dead, Bitch!” Sheriff Dan thinks he can scare me. I toss him another smoke stick.
“Come and get me, Sheriff!” I yell back. “My cats are hungry!”
The sheriff’s response is to send one of my smoke sticks back at me. It lands uselessly in the snow behind me. Another comes sailing out, bounces off a tree limb and lands ten feet in front of me and to my left. Billows of orange smoke boil out of the snow. Okay, so the smoke part doesn’t work very well. But the flares are obviously giving them a fit. I draw Yulya in a little closer and send Vadik away from his kill to a spot where he is hidden. They now flank each side of the entrance, lying low in the snow-covered bushes. It is just Sheriff Dan, Lester, and Deputy Dog. The latter two are injured, so it appears things are almost even, except they have guns. Even one-armed, Deputy Dog can shoot, and Lester wasn’t injured all that bad.
All I have left is one flare. Save it or use it? My gut says save it. I want to stuff it into a pocket, but then I might end up fumbling to get it out when I really need it. I hold onto it and move to my right, my plan to come up beside Vadik and then fire a flare to distract the sheriff while Vadik and Yulya make their attack. I try not to think about the fact that it could mean their deaths; a good general has to accept his losses to win the battle. In this case, losing the battle is the same as losing the war and killing us all.
I calculate the distance between Vadik and me, mentally marking obstacles and barriers, and then start moving. I’m barely past two steps when suddenly Sheriff Dan and Lester come running out, their automatic weapons at the ready. They’re taking the offensive, knowing I’m about to send in the troops. Lester turns right, the sheriff left toward me. My stomach and chest tighten and I am immediately hit with visions of blood and death, pending doom for all. Sheriff Dan sees me through an opening in the trees, grins, and brings his weapon down. I can do nothing but drop into the snow and scream in my mind, “ATTACK!”
The mountain erupts; guns, men and cats scream from both inside the cavern and outside–my own little Armageddon–and I lie in the snow unable to do anything accept watch from my psychic seat as cats and men die.
And then the mountain goes quiet except for the hiss of the orange smoke signals, and the slamming of my heart. It is over in seconds; guns and cats kill very quickly. Gosha, who, after delivering the package to Sharon, jumped the creek and att
acked from inside and took out Deputy Dog in a hail of bullets. I can no longer sense Gosha and Yulya, and must assume that they are both dead. Vadik is dying; I can feel his life ebbing away. I rise to my feet, brush the snow from my face and body, and try to fight back the tears. Later, Reba. Time to grieve later. Stay focused.
Stay focused? What does that mean? What is my psychic center trying to tell me?
Stay focused, Reba. It’s not over.
It’s not over! What . . ! Suddenly a blood-covered Sheriff Dan appears from the trees; his left arm hangs uselessly at his side, his automatic weapon dangles from his right hand. His eyes lock on mine, and this time his grin is crazed. I back up, but there is no cover within reasonable distance for me to jump behind. My hands are empty, my flare gun gone. I look where I had thrown myself down in the snow. I do not see it. In my pockets are only two smoke sticks, no good at all except for rescuers to find my frozen body. But of course, there would not be a body to find. Sheriff Dan would make sure that I join my mother in the lake or he would bury me where I would never be found. He would also alter or bury all the evidence of foul play, making up some kind of story about being lost and getting separated from his men, being attacked by mountain lions. All of this passes through my mind while he is trying to bring his weapon up.
Vadik! I call, but Vadik is not responding. He is gone. I back up some more and Sheriff Dan staggers at me, still fumbling with his gun. I expect some wisecrack, like “You’re still dead, Bitch,” but he says nothing. He just pushes through the snow after me. I realize I have a chance; while he is busy trying to get his gun aimed, I can be running away, finding cover. I turn to take off, trip over something and fall flat on my face. I try to scramble to my feet only to realize I am lying on top of Sarge, his bloody, swollen face inches from mine. I had gotten tangled in his legs. I’d throw up but my survival instincts tell me now is not the time.
Sabre-Toothed Cat Trilogy Page 118