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For Alan
Since 1988 more than seventy thousand missing person reports have been filed by the Alaska State Troopers. Many of the missing were last seen in and around a gigantic, triangular-shaped wilderness above the 60º North Parallel latitudinal line that forms the raw, unforgiving heart of the most remote state in America.
Prologue
CHICKEN, ALASKA
Wednesday, May 15th
PAUL BRADY WOKE up with a start and went for his rifle. Sweat poured down his face, his cotton T-shirt sticking to his sleeping bag. For nearly a minute, he sat up breathing deeply, trying to figure out where he was.
He wasn’t in Ramadi.
That was nearly fourteen years ago.
He wasn’t in the Korengal.
That was twelve years ago.
Heart pounding, he fumbled with the switch on his head lamp and turned it on, illuminating the small one-person tent.
Rushing water, the rustle of leaves, and creaking trees sounded outside.
Then he remembered.
It was 2019. He was in Alaska, six miles south of the town of Chicken, camping on the bank of the Fortymile River.
He had thought coming up to Alaska would clear his mind. That the fresh air and seclusion would mitigate the stress and anxiety that had plagued him for the last four years.
Over two years ago, Paul Brady had been diagnosed at the San Diego VA with PTSD.
It explained all the nightmares. The short temper and the jumpiness. It explained the depression, anxiety, and the manic episodes.
As a former chief petty officer in SEAL Team Two, Paul Brady never thought he’d have to deal with the effects of the trauma he’d experienced in his nearly seventeen years in the Teams. He’d always thought SEALs were impervious to such symptoms. It was true that he’d seen terrible things on his deployments. War was hell, no doubt, but he’d thrived in those environments. It wasn’t until he’d left the navy and moved from Virginia to San Diego with his family that his life started to spiral out of control.
It started with the night terrors and then escalated to a point where he couldn’t hold down a job.
The VA-sponsored psychotherapy didn’t work.
Neither did the medications. He pushed everyone away, including his wife and two boys, who, after nearly two years of trying to help, finally packed up and left.
He’d lost nearly everything in the divorce: his job, the house, the kids, and most of his money.
After the divorce was settled, the former SEAL found himself left only with his Ford truck and the meager amount of money in his savings account, which was spent quickly on Bud Light and whiskey.
For three months he lived like a bum out of his truck near Mission Beach, close to Coronado where he had gone through BUD/S training, until one day he was struck with an idea.
What if I can just get away from it all?
What if I can go to some far corner of the world and just live?
It took him three days to sober up, and another five to drive to Canada’s Yukon territory, where he stayed at a quaint hotel near the Alaskan border.
The owners had been welcoming and, when hearing his plan to camp in Alaska for the summer, had given him a list of their favorite spots.
That’s how he’d found this little plot of paradise on the river.
Brady kicked out of his sleeping bag and unzipped the door to his tent. Grabbing his bear rifle, he stepped out into the cool night and stood on the sandy shore.
Small wisps of smoke rose from the dying embers of his fire pit and caught wind, blowing out over the river. It was that time of night in the great north where you could see the stars and the Milky Way, that three hours of darkness where the forest finally took a break and went to sleep.
Brady paced in circles around the camp, trying to get his mind under control. He found that the pacing helped rein in his thoughts. He’d been sober nearly eleven days—the longest he’d gone in years—but, damn, could he use a beer right about now.
Directing the beam of his head lamp over to the group of trees twenty yards behind his tent, he gazed up at his food box hanging by a rope from a tall branch and considered what was inside.
He’d bought the pint of Jack Daniels as a test for himself as he left Southern California.
A test in self-control.
For too long, he’d been self-medicating with alcohol.
And look where it got me.
I can’t go back to that.
Brady turned his head away from the swaying food box, stopped his pacing, and closed his eyes.
You’ve come here to start again. You’ve come here to recover.
It was a mantra he’d repeated to himself during his long drive north, a quasi affirmation to keep him on the straight and narrow.
For nearly ten minutes, the former SEAL stood in this meditative state and had finally started to relax, when a sharp sound snapped him out of his trance.
Instantly, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, his senses elevating. He spun to look at the dark forest behind him.
His food box continued to swing in the wind, and he primed his eyes for any sight of a potential threat.
The sharp snap had sounded like a heavy stick being broken under a great weight.
The dark shadows of the forest continued to dance in front of him and suddenly he got the eerie sensation that he was being watched. He’d had that feeling many times before, the calm before an ambush.
Brady clicked the safety off his rifle and brought the stock of the weapon into his shoulder, his eyes still scanning for any movement. His mind scoured through the list of potential predators in the Alaskan wilderness—wolves, mountain lions, and inland grizzlies.
Snap!
Brady whipped the barrel of his rifle to the left in the direction of the new sound.
Snap!
Another stick broke to his right. Brady started backpedaling sideways toward the river, cutting off the angle to potential threats when a large, hulking figure stepped out of the forest.
The figure looked like no animal he’d ever seen, it looked—
“Hey!” Brady shouted. “What the hell are you doing?”
Aiming the rifle directly at the figure, he started to apply pressure to the trigger. He was just about to shout again when a loud sound—pop!—cut through the midnight air and something thudded to a stop in the sand at his feet.
Brady squinted down at the mysterious object. In the starlight, it looked like some sort of thermos. Then, suddenly, a loud explosion rocked Brady off his feet. The brilliant flash of orange and red blinded him as he was thrown onto the sand.
Something hissed loudly. He clawed at the sand, desperately searching for his rifle. Ears ringing, he finally grasped the wooden stock of his weapon.
His world suddenly began to swim. Vibrant colors kaleidoscoped all around him.
Then Brady gasped deeply and felt a sharp burning sensation.
His body locked up and he pitched backward, darkness engulfing him.
Chapter 1
YUKON TERRITORY, CANADA
Friday, June 21st
THIRTY-TWO HOURS BEFORE Cassie Gale went missing, she was driving her green Toyota Tundra west on Yukon Route 2 through dense forests of spruce and aspen. Though it was late June, the
air was cool, and in the light rain that fell from dull gray clouds, it almost smelled like fall.
Every so often there were breaks in the trees that flanked the highway, and Cassie caught glimpses of pristine valleys and faraway peaks, and slowly grew calmer, at ease, not at all the troubled woman who’d left Montana three days before.
But just as quickly, the vista was swallowed by thick, gloomy claustrophobic woods that seemed to gnaw at her mood. On impulse Cassie reached for the center console. When she did, the regal, male German shepherd in the passenger’s seat cocked his head, and his eyes narrowed.
Cassie stopped her hand short of the console and willed it back to the wheel.
“Sorry, Maverick,” she said, reaching over and scratching the dog’s head. “I promised I wouldn’t go there today, didn’t I?”
Maverick nuzzled Cassie’s arm as she drove past a sign that read: Dawson City, Yukon 50 kilometers.
Thank God, Cassie thought, fighting a yawn. Just thirty miles.
It was past seven in the evening by then and she’d been driving nearly twelve hours. She had come all the way from Watson Lake in the southeastern corner of the territory and had sat through dozens of summer highway work delays on the route. She looked forward to a shower, food, a cold beer or two, and a clean bed in Dawson. She desperately wanted one more good night’s sleep before she pushed on into the great unknown.
That thought made her feel better. The great unknown. Adventure. Wild places. A break from the hustle and bustle of the modern world and the pain she was leaving behind. The thought made her smile and take an appraising glance at herself in the rearview mirror.
Cassie was in her early thirties, five foot five, and very fit, with short ash-blond hair, and dark sapphire eyes. She wore little makeup, and her skin was deeply tanned and sun spotted due to many years out in the extreme elements. As a result, she was more handsome than beautiful, and at this stage in her life that suited her just fine.
And so did traveling alone with Maverick. Cassie believed she and the shepherd were more than capable of handling themselves in any situation. She was just trying to enjoy the sheer newness of every turn in the road ahead.
But then, in the deep recesses of her mind, a little pang of familiar misery ran through her. She reached for the center console again, only to stop.
Returning her hand to the wheel, she rolled her shoulders back, and lifted her chin up high. It was something her dad had taught her as a young girl when she was feeling down.
Act like you are queen of the world, Cassie, stand like you’re queen of the damn world, and everything else will fade away, he used to tell her when she was young and moping about some minor tragedy.
Crossing a bridge, she glanced down to the creek below, swollen, silted, and rushing with runoff from the snowfields high above.
The frothing water triggered another memory, a bad one, and before she could stop herself—raw, stinking emotion as swollen and roiling as the creek below filled her chest and throat. Tears blurred her eyesight until she had to pull over beyond the bridge.
Throwing the truck in park, she rested her forehead on the steering wheel and sobbed. Maverick began to whine and snuffle at her cheek and ear.
“I know,” Cassie said, wiping her eyes, then hugging the dog. “I love you, too, big guy.”
Maverick’s tail wagged as he licked the tears off her face. Ordinarily, that would have been enough. Cassie would have bathed in her dog’s unconditional love and driven on. Instead, she lifted the center console lid and got out her Globalstar GPS satellite phone.
“I know you don’t like it, but I have to,” Cassie said, turning the phone on.
Against a voice in her head commanding her to stop, she dialed the moment she had a solid connection. At the other end of the line, a phone rang four times before going to a voice mail.
“This is Derrick,” the voice said. “You know what to do. In the meantime, remember, only dead fish swim with the current.”
The current, Cassie thought before the beep.
She wiped at her eyes and spoke into the phone, “Hi, I know I promised I wouldn’t call. But I was missing you, and… I’m going to Alaska, just like we said we always would. I’ll probably be there tomorrow, and I… I’m doing well, for the most part. Taking it minute by minute.” She paused, “Derrick, I need to tell you a secret. I need to say that—”
The phone chirped—she’d lost the satellite connection.
Cassie cursed and put the phone back in the center console before putting the Tundra back in drive.
Rolling west again, she turned on the radio and got the weather report on an AM station out of Haines Junction, which called for localized showers before clearing up with warmer weather for the next few days.
That’s good. It could easily have been pouring buckets.
She’d no sooner had that thought when the iron gray skies opened and lashed the highway with sheets of water so thick it forced her to slow to a crawl.
As the water pounded on the windshield, Cassie’s memories leaped back years. She saw herself at fourteen, crouched under an overhung cliff, watching a spectacular summer storm roll up an alpine wilderness valley where granite crags soared like cathedrals on all sides. A fire burned beneath the overhang, the smell of coffee wafted, and she remembered feeling safer and surer of herself than ever before.
How old was I that day? Fourteen?
Fourteen, and I already knew.
He was the one.
Chapter 2
AS QUICKLY AS it came, the squall passed, and the sun broke through the clouds. Just before eight p.m., she pulled into Dawson City. It was nestled comfortably on a narrow shelf at the confluence of the Yukon and Klondike Rivers and took Cassie by surprise.
She expected a desolate, abandoned nineteenth-century mining town. Instead, Dawson hummed with activity. Tourists milled up and down the main streets, snapping pictures of the flowing Yukon and the various historical sites.
The roads were dirt, and most buildings sported freshly painted frontier-style facades—a former ghost town now revamped and reconstructed for summers filled with tourism.
Cassie went from hotel to motel and found them booked straight till the end of the month. A friendly clerk at the last hotel took pity on her and suggested she try the Northern Breeze Lodge & Smoke House Bar just an hour west of town on Route 9.
“Last bit of civilization until you hit Alaska. It ain’t the Ritz, but the food is decent and the owners are nice,” the clerk said. “Beats sleeping in your truck.”
Cassie thanked the clerk and drove out of Dawson and waited on the ferry that took them across the Yukon River. She paid the toll and drove her truck onto the barge. When they got to the other side, she jumped on Route 9 and headed west for another thirty-seven miles, sighing with relief when she saw the lodge’s flashing green Vacancy sign. The Northern Breeze Lodge & Smoke House Bar was a two-story log cabin building with a rough-looking bar connected to its side. A dirt road flared off Route 9 and headed north behind the building.
Cassie grabbed her yellow rain jacket, opened the door, and climbed out. She tugged the jacket on, aware of Maverick watching her. Cassie whistled, and the dog bounded out of the truck and sat at her feet.
“Go pee pee, Mav.”
Maverick trotted across the parking lot to some bushes, sniffed about, did his business, and came back to Cassie’s side.
“Good boy,” Cassie said. “On me, now. Best behavior.”
The dog fell in beside her as they entered the lodge, a peeled and varnished log affair with a vaulted lobby and wings that flared out to either side. A beautiful elk antler chandelier hung over a sitting area next to the stone fireplace. A massive bull moose with paddles that jutted out five feet wide sat mounted above the hearth. The moose was so impressive that Cassie stopped for a moment to admire it.
“Big, isn’t he?”
Cassie turned away from the moose to find a plump woman with silver hair pulled up in a tight b
un, smiling at her from behind a wooden counter.
“He looks prehistoric; is he local?” Cassie asked.
“Who, Boris? No, he’s not from around here,” the woman said pleasantly. The badge pinned to her front lapel read, “Darlene.”
“Boris?” Cassie said, reaching the counter.
“Boris Badinov. My husband, Ned, insists on calling him that. Shot him on the Kamchatka Peninsula, oh, must be eleven years ago. Are you looking for a room, dear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, would you look at this big handsome fella,” Darlene said, leaning over the counter. “And so well behaved. Will he be staying with us?”
“As long as dogs are welcome.”
“He’s more than welcome, just need to put down a deposit and keep him on a leash. Insurance thing.”
Cassie handed Darlene her credit card and dug out her passport.
“You two traveling alone?” Darlene asked, opening the passport.
“Just me and Maverick.”
Darlene smiled again at the dog. “Hi, Maverick.”
The dog’s hind end wiggled, which caused Darlene to titter; she looked down at the passport. “Cassandra Ann Gale. From Lincoln, Montana. You’re a long way from home, dear.”
“We’re pushing on to Alaska in the morning.”
“Pushing on to Alaska. We get a lot of that, as you can imagine.”
Darlene put Cassie’s credit card on file and then held out a room key. “Two-oh-one, overlooking the creek. Best view in the whole lodge.”
“Is the kitchen in the bar still open?”
“Open till midnight. Food’s nothing fancy, but it’s tasty and reasonably priced.”
Cassie thanked the woman.
“My pleasure. Enjoy your stay. Oh, and breakfast’s included, eh? Starts at six, ends at nine.”
Outside, the sun was still high above the horizon when she retrieved her overnight bag, a small daypack, and Maverick’s bowls and food. She thought about unlocking the pickup’s cap to get out the steel-sided case that was buried under several duffels in the truck bed, but decided against it. Canada had certain laws that she didn’t particularly agree with, but she wasn’t going to flaunt her defiance of them and get thrown in jail out of principle. Instead, she took Maverick to room 201.
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