by Rhona Weaver
“Okay, I want our focal point for the main hauling line right here.” Trey was still giving commands. “Agent Tyler? Rig the belay rope for Sam with a wrap-three-pull-two and a Munter hitch on that little juniper, if it has enough load-bearing strength.”
Uh-oh. Win just stood with his back glued to the wall of granite, watching the ranger point toward a small twisted tree that was seemingly growing out of solid rock.
“What?” Trey didn’t look understanding. “They didn’t teach you to rappel?”
“Well, no, not unless an agent is on a SWAT team or—”
The ranger cut him off; he had no time for explanations. “Then get with Sam when he finishes setting the bolt anchors; he’ll rig the belay ropes for you. You’re big enough to do some good.”
Okay, then . . .
Trey suddenly turned and caught Win’s eyes for a moment. Win was hating it that the guy knew he was afraid. The ranger’s glare softened just a touch and he moved closer and lowered his voice. “You in?”
Win pulled his hat down tighter and nodded. He met Trey’s serious gray eyes. “All in.”
“Alright, listen . . . it’s not such a bad thing to be a little nervous up here. Tight quarters. Near-vertical drop. High-angle rescue. Keep your knees bent, go down on your knees or your butt if you get light-headed.” He saw Win glance at the drop-off. “Don’t ever step backward without knowing where you are on the top. The height doesn’t matter—thirty feet can kill you just as easily as three hundred. . . . Stay away from the edge. Got to remember that gravity is always on.”
Win nodded. It wasn’t exactly a kumbaya moment with Trey, but it was close enough to a pep talk that it moved Win’s focus off the dizzying heights to the mission at hand. Sam was tying a safety rope around him an instant later, and he was suddenly part of the team.
Jimmy radioed that he’d swung onto a ledge about seventy feet below the trail. An adult male appeared to have severe back and leg injuries, and a young boy had a broken leg and a compound fracture of his left arm. Both had numerous lacerations, but neither had serious external bleeding. They were conscious but exhibiting signs of shock. The ledge they’d landed on was less than eight feet wide with at least a three-hundred-foot drop to the trees below. It was clear even to Win that a helicopter rescue in that location, with the wind picking up, would be extremely dangerous if not impossible.
As soon as he knew the hikers’ conditions, Hechtner was on the satellite phone, calling for the rescue helicopter from Mammoth. He announced to the group still working on the rigging: “Helo’s on a flight to the medical center in Idaho Falls with a visitor who had a heart attack. Won’t be seeing it for at least two hours.” He wiped the sweat from his face with a gray sleeve. “That would put it here around 1945 to 2015 hours—near twilight. Got to get them off that ledge to a level spot so the ship can operate in low-light conditions.”
The four rangers on the trail completed their anchor systems for the main haul line, which would bring up the loaded litters, and for Sam, who would ascend back up the cliff alongside the first litter in order to keep it stable and the patient calm. Jimmy, the most experienced paramedic of the group, immobilized the little boy with a spine board and splints while the man was lifted. As senior medic, he was the boss for the arduous task of raising the loaded litters. Even with the intricate systems of ropes and pulleys, it was strenuous work getting the two-hundred-fifty-pound man up the stone face of the cliff.
When they finally got the large man above the edge of the cliff, Trey moved quickly to check his vital signs, all the time talking to him about how they were getting his son up next, how they would soon be on their way home. Constant words of encouragement. Despite the ranger’s reserve and coolness toward him, Win was seeing another side of Trey Hechtner.
Sam took over the care of the hiker long enough for Trey to make another call on the status of the helicopter. Still well over an hour out. Raising the little boy took less than five minutes once Jimmy packaged him in the second litter. Within thirty minutes, both of the injured hikers lay safely in their aluminum litters on the trail.
When Jimmy and Trey were satisfied that their patients were as comfortable as possible, the group began the hard work of transporting the loaded litters up the trail to a level area on the ridge where the helicopter could land. Given the narrow, rock-strewn path, it was very slow going even with five of them carrying the litter holding the injured man. Win might not know their rescue lingo, but he was darn sure strong enough to make a big difference in hauling up the injured and transporting the loaded litters. He began to feel he was actually doing his share of the work.
It was nearly dark when they finally had both litters on top of the ridge and had set up camp lights for the helo—as the rangers kept calling the helicopter—to fix on. Trey was on the satellite phone with the copilot as he guided him in. In less than five minutes, they’d loaded the injured and the chopper lifted off into the fading light.
Win stood with the other men on the high, barren ridge, watching the red blinking lights of the helicopter disappear toward the mountains to the northwest. The sun had long since dipped below the far-distant range of mountains, and its orange glow sharply silhouetted dozens of purple peaks. The hue of the early evening’s high clouds transitioned from blackish blue, to lilac, to orange, and finally to a fiery red. Even as the cold wind found them, they stood transfixed by the cascade of intense colors. Win glanced at his protectors as they marveled at the sky. Gus’s words came back to him: Best damn job in the world! Was it possible he was in the wrong line of work?
* * *
He sat on a sloping gray boulder right near the edge of the cliff and watched the sun’s final attempt to paint the high clouds and sky. It had been a brilliant sunset in a land of magnificent sunrises and sunsets. The beauty made his heart glad, and he reckoned if he ever needed some beauty to lift his spirits, it would be today. It had taken hours just to clear his mind of the morning’s anxiety. He had to put it behind him; he had work to tend to. This morning he and his fifteen-man squad had held two hours of live-fire exercises with the other two squads before they’d even left the church property for the rugged terrain of the park and national forest. And it had been a long, hard day. They’d just eaten the evening ration and finished cleaning their weapons. Now his men were stretched out around him, utterly exhausted after the intense training deep in the wild country. Most were too tired to appreciate the beauty of a southwestern Montana sunset.
He pulled his camo field cap off and ran a hand through his thick black hair as he leaned back on the still-warm granite. His training contract with the church ended after today’s extensive field exercise—all thirty-six of the church’s militiamen were showcasing their skills in marksmanship, tactics, and maneuvers. They’d done amazingly well, considering some of the guys were well over forty and most hadn’t been in the field in years. Several months of training for some, just a few hard weeks for others—they weren’t a ragtag bunch of wannabes now, no sir! Even the three men King had brought in on Friday were working out well. King’s other four guys had been working with the militia for a couple of weeks now and were operating as part of the team, but none of King’s seven boys were the same breed of man as the blue-collar family men who made up the original church militia. All seven were ex-cons, and from the talk, they hadn’t been in for penny-ante stuff. They had a violent side that wouldn’t stay contained forever. Not men you’d mess with if you had any sense.
And now . . . now it was lookin’ like Ellie’d been right. She’d said King’s men were evil, and evil seemed to be playing its hand. Thank God she and the kids are safe in Oklahoma! The Feds can’t go after her now, can they?
He’d been tipping Tyler off to the dangers he saw—he’d done it to spare Ellie any blame. After the events of today, those accounts should be settled, that’s for damn sure! Ellie had let herself get sucked into talking to the Federals,
to Win Tyler. He couldn’t blame her for that—Tyler was likable. Luke pulled his rough hands into his tactical gloves. He paused for a long moment and stared off into the near-darkness. Tyler ain’t just likable, he’s educated, he’s handsome . . . he’s a gentleman. More than once she’d mentioned how nice he was. . . . He sighed. Well, hell. It wasn’t often he felt threatened by a man, much less jealous, but after today he damn sure wasn’t having anything more to do with Win Tyler. He needed to collect his pay from the Prophet tonight, go home and call Ellie, and figure out where he stood in this whole deal.
Four more miles and they’d be back in the comfort of the compound’s cabins. They’d do that part with night-vision equipment, moving in through the Federals’ surveillance lines—one last test for today. Would the Feds know they were there? Well, yeah, and for some weird reason, that was the plan. Plus they’d been sunning themselves on this high cliff in the Gallatin National Forest, far west of the church’s land, for the last half hour. The drones and aircraft the Feds were flying out of that little airport east of Livingston couldn’t help but spot them. They’d have to send up smoke signals to be any more conspicuous. Why? He didn’t know. Those decisions were above his rank. He just took his orders; he didn’t try to interpret them.
His ears picked up the raspy voice of Brother Bronte and the soft tone of the strange man that Brother King called Red. Those two men weren’t the best troopers in the group, and he knew they were probably sneaking in some drinking at night, maybe something more, but they were both tough and hard fighters. Since all of Ron King’s guys had moved out of his trailers and into Gardiner or to the church compound on Sunday, he wouldn’t have to fret over them anymore, thank goodness. He was glad to have them gone from his land, even though he’d be making a little less cash. Ellie had been uneasy around them—that was reason enough for them to go elsewhere. It was even better it was Brother King’s idea that his boys move closer to the church. Better to integrate with the brotherhood, he’d said.
The two men were slumped behind the big rock Luke was lying on. Either they didn’t know he was there or they just didn’t care, but their conversation suddenly chilled him to the bone. “Gonna be a bloodbath fore this is over.” The redheaded man sounded pleased.
“The hit this morning’s gonna stir up a hornet’s nest—force them to move too quick. Force their hand,” Bronte said.
“Why not just go in and do the job without all the damn drama? Why wave a damn red flag at a bull?”
“’Cause the Prophet don’t do nothing the simple way; got to attract some national attention. He and Ron got influence all over the country—word gets out on this and we’ll have hundreds of patriots coming to the cause,” the small man, Bronte, responded.
The redhead laughed a high-pitched, scary laugh. “Hell, you’re beginning to sound just like these backcountry fools. I ain’t in this to save the country or start up a new one. You ain’t in it for that. This here job is looking like the big payout we’ve been waiting for. Likely two down now. . . . If we have to waste two dozen more before we get the prize, I’m all for it. But tell you one thing, I’m getting real damn tired of this soldier shi—”
“Hey, you boys get your night-vision gear out. Gonna spend the night on that rock? We move out in five,” the corporal interrupted them as he rousted the troops.
Luke drew a deep breath and held it as he tried to understand the implications of what he’d just overheard. Red and Bronte obviously knew about the planned hit on Win Tyler, but they didn’t know the outcome. They appeared to assume he was dead. So what did Red mean “likely two down now”? Was someone else targeted? Had they killed someone else? What was the “prize” they referred to?
Then it occurred to him: The unusual training schedule Brother King had the militia follow today had a secret purpose. They’d been in full view of the Fed’s surveillance agents on the fringe of the church’s land from dawn until nearly mid-morning. They’d been watched by who knows how many planes and drones throughout the remainder of the day. They were seen so that everyone would be accounted for; none of these men could have been the shooter. The training today was an alibi. He remembered that Brother King and the Prophet had planned a 6:00 a.m. live video interview with some East Coast TV station about the government’s iron-handed abuses of power. Another alibi. Leaves the Feds with no solid ground for raiding the church over the sniper attempt on Tyler. He sat up on the rock, slung his pack over one shoulder, picked up his rifle, and stood. Someone else is involved and somethin’ else is fixin’ to happen. . . . Well, hell.
* * *
Getting to the warming cabin was not as difficult as Win had assumed it would be in the dark. The rescue site was less than two miles from the cabin, and most of the trail’s terrain was along rolling, open ridgelines. The ranger in front carried a high-beam light, and the horses followed along single file in the darkness with ease.
As soon as they arrived, they rubbed down, watered, and fed the horses. Everyone was exhausted, but the mood was upbeat. Win knew from their talk that these rescue missions weren’t always successful. Win had done his part and for the time being, at least, he was treated as one of the team—he was enjoying the camaraderie.
There was a bit more to the “warming cabin” than Win had expected. The complex consisted of a sprawling log house, a woodshed, a stable, and corrals, all constructed in 1930 as a permanent post for four to six rangers in the day of horse patrols. The rustic house contained a living area with a huge stone fireplace, a small kitchen, bunkrooms, and a couple of showers with solar-heated water. Coleman lanterns provided the light. Win volunteered with Jimmy in the kitchen, setting out sandwiches for supper, while most of the rangers hung out in the living area. A poker game was the norm after dinner, but Trey vetoed it since the men would be rotating guard duty. They opted instead for several serious games of darts, where Win was just happy not to embarrass himself. These rangers were competitive. He had the feeling they would bet dollars on a game of jacks if that were the only game at hand. After the chores and a shower, Win settled in front of the fireplace with an older John Grisham paperback and tried to chill, as Jim West had put it.
He read for a while, then found his bunk, but sleep wouldn’t come. After tossing and turning for half an hour, Win gave up and decided some fresh air might help. He quietly pulled on his boots and his coat and stepped out onto the porch. As soon as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see Sam Morris sitting on a bench with his assault rifle across his lap. He had on full military gear, including night-vision goggles. The getup surprised Win, and the intense cold surprised him even more.
“Didn’t mean to bother you. . . . The stars are amazing! Whoa, it’s cold!”
“No bother,” Sam answered quietly. “Yes, the stars are nearly within reach in these mountains, and yes, it’s about fifteen degrees and will get colder tonight.” The older ranger paused a long time, then asked, “Is it like this: You close your eyes and you hear the gunshot?”
“I hear the explosion when the bullet destroyed the door. I hear it over and over when I close my eyes. How can I sleep?”
“I did two tours in Iraq with the military police. What you feel, what you hear, is common. It should get better as time goes by, but it will likely come and go. May be with you awhile. . . . It’s a normal thing of war.”
“I suppose that’s what this is then, a war?”
“Someone is at war with you, Agent Tyler,” Sam replied.
Win had to change the subject. “Uh, are you Indian, sorry, I mean Native—”
Sam laughed softly. “Indian is fine to call me. Yeah, I’m Osage, grew up in Oklahoma. I’m a permanent law enforcement ranger here and do a few of the Native American programs during the summer. Most rangers have double or triple duties.”
“Seems like a rewarding job,” Win said.
“Yeah, and it’s a good group of people. You fit in real well with
the guys today.”
“Maybe . . . but I still feel like everyone’s keepin’ a little distance from me.”
“Well, the FBI hasn’t got the best reputation here. Oh, Agent Johnson’s alright—just never makes any effort to reach out to us. But the agent who was here before you caused a world of heartache.”
“What happened?”
“He was a mean-spirited young man. Trying to make a big case, trying to climb over people to get out of here, trying to move up in the FBI. That’s what I think was going on. . . . There were trumped-up charges, intimidation, threats. It was real nasty business.”
“That’s why the rangers hold me at arm’s length? Is that why Trey doesn’t like me?”
“Trey lost his best friend in that mess. Folks didn’t die or nothing, but it felt nearly as bad. Tremendous amount of distrust and bad blood still lingers. You won’t be able to build that trust back overnight.”
“You don’t have the same feelings about it?”
“Ah, well, I’m a lot older than most of these boys—lived a little more life, I suppose. I’ve watched you for who you are, not for who you work for. Gus has a high regard for you. He’s a person whose judgment I value.”
Win stared up into the Milky Way’s endless sea of stars. “I appreciate you telling me that.”
“Try to sleep; it’s not much past 10:30. One of the great benefits of this type duty is usually a good night’s sleep. We’ll be riding down the mountain to the station right after dawn, so go crawl back in your sleeping bag, Agent Tyler.” Sam stood up, flipped down the night-vision goggles, and stepped off the porch to resume his patrol.
Hearing that the reserve the rangers exhibited toward him wasn’t a personal thing somehow made it easier for Win. At some point, even amid the echoes of the gunshot in his mind, Win did drift off to a good night’s sleep.
