A Noble Calling

by Rhona Weaver

  * * *

  His view of himself as a hardened warrior nearly changed less than five minutes later as Jimmy dabbed alcohol and antibiotic cream on his numerous visible wounds. “Ouch! Ouch! Whoa, Jimmy! You practicing your torture techniques here? Dang! Stop it!”

  “Quit whining!” Jimmy was smiling as he slathered on more of the stinging medication. “What wimps you FBI boys are!”

  Trey walked into the room and Win bolted free of the paramedic. “Hey, can I use your personal phone? Want to make a quick call before the video feed comes on.”

  “Yeah, sure. Johnson’s on the way over.” Trey handed over the phone and gave Win a once-over. “You make a damn good-looking park ranger. Might think about a job change when this little adventure ends.”

  “Uh-huh.” Win grinned back at him and moved to the other side of the room. He turned away from the others as he punched in the number. She didn’t answer until the seventh ring.

  “Hello?” She didn’t recognize the number on the phone.

  “Hey, Mom.” He felt a lump in his throat and he bit down on his lip just a bit.

  “Win! You’ve got a different number—is everything alright?”

  “Sure . . . sure. Everything’s fine.” No, it’s not, but it’s better now that I can hear your voice again.

  “The flowers you sent are beautiful. You boys didn’t have to go to such trouble.”

  Win grimaced. Bailed out by Blake on Mother’s Day—again.

  “You caught me on the way out the door to the church. It’s Children’s Ministries Week and I’m helping with the six-year-olds’ class.” She sounded so upbeat.

  “I know you’re lovin’ that!”

  “I just finished cutting out three dozen paper diamonds for their little musical tonight. You used to be so cute in the church musicals and plays when you were that age. You had so much fun!” I couldn’t sing, and I always felt like a dork. But if she wants to remember it that way, I’m okay with that.

  “Can’t talk but a minute. I, uh, just wanted to touch base since I missed talking to you yesterday.” Could that have just been yesterday? Time doesn’t feel the same. . . .

  “I’m so glad you called. We’re all looking forward to getting out there and seeing Yellowstone later this summer. We were just talking about it at supper last night. Will is dying to see a wild grizzly bear—he says they’re so scary.” You have no idea. He could tell she was walking as she kept talking. “Goodness! Just nearly left home without some of Malachi’s diamonds. Hold on . . . alright, got them.” He could tell she was smiling.

  Then he nearly dropped the phone. “What did you just say?” It was his FBI agent tone of voice.

  “What? The cutouts—the diamonds. They’re props for one of the songs the kids are singing at church tonight. It wasn’t popular when you were a child. You probably don’t know it.”

  “Sing it. Sing it please, Mom. I have a reason for asking.” His voice was urgent.

  “Well, okay, hmmm, the chorus goes like this:

  Noah is coming with his zoo by twos!

  Lions, donkeys, zebras—dogs and cats too!

  Malachi is coming with his diamonds in chests!

  Stores of treasure for us to invest!”

  She laughed. “I don’t know all the words. Blake’s boys just sing the chorus over and over and over. It drives us nuts, but they sure enjoy it. They have cute hand motions that go with the song. You could look it up on the internet if you need the title.” His mother was definitely puzzled.

  “It’s part of a case, Mom. I can’t really say, but why would Malachi have diamonds?”

  “Oh, it’s in the last part of the Book of Malachi. It says, ‘I will make them mine, says the Lord. On that day’—I suppose Malachi is prophesying about their day of triumph. Anyway—‘On that day, I will make them my jewels.’ Some Bibles translate jewels as diamonds. I wouldn’t know any of this except for the popularity of that silly song. I looked it up myself. Why is it important, Sweetheart?”

  “Tell you later, Mom! Got to go. Tell everyone I’m thinking of them. Tell everyone I love them!” He stopped himself from rushing off the phone. “I love you, Mom.”

  “Love you too, Win. Be careful out there.”

  He punched in Wes Givens’s phone number before he even turned around. He knew what it was now. He knew what Shepherd’s and Chandler’s code, “Malachi is coming,” meant. It had to be a robbery and it had to be jewels.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  After Win’s call to his ASAC, the video conference got pushed back for a few more minutes while Win’s bosses pushed back on their bosses, who pushed back on their bosses, all the way up the ladder at the FBI and DOJ, then over to the State Department. When the video feed was finally up and running, Win could clearly see the stress and frustration on Wes Givens’s face as he spoke. “One of the lodges is owned by the Weinberg Family Trust out of Beverly Hills, California. We’ve already tried several times to reach out to the phone numbers we’ve obtained and we’re not getting through. That lodge is almost thirteen miles from the camp where you were this morning—it’s remote, over seventeen miles by gravel road from the nearest highway, all through the Gallatin National Forest. It’s about a mile north of Yellowstone’s boundary.

  “We’ve looked at it on satellite maps—not real time, of course—but it’s not your typical cottage in the woods. It looks extensive, over twelve thousand square feet in the main lodge building. Two helicopter pads, a substantial guardhouse at the road entrance, and the usual stables, barns, and whatnot. It’s on a side ridge overlooking Mill Creek; a national forest steel bridge three miles east of the lodge spans the creek and provides road access to the lodge. We’re guessing it’s an hour drive from the Gardiner area, at least that far. We’ve got the Los Angeles office trying to reach out to the owners out there.”

  Wes raised his chin a notch. “This could be your target, Win. The Weinberg name is big in pro-Israel circles in LA, according to our National Security ASAC out there.” Wes rubbed his eyes for a moment, then glanced at someone outside the range of the video camera. “Mr. Strickland wants to get with you.”

  The SAC sat down at the monitor and laid it out. “Win, we’ve got orders not to move any assets without more to go on than a hunch. The State Department is stonewalling. The Bureau is trying to bring more pressure to bear on them, but until we have some proof there’s another target, our guys and the bulk of the rangers have to stay put.”

  He shook his head and sighed. “Having said that, your arguments are compelling. Take the Park Service chopper and check out the Weinberg Lodge. If you don’t see a problem there, fly on to the High Valley Lodge, it’s about six miles further west. We can’t reach anyone there either. All the other lodge owners have been contacted and we’ve found no issues.”

  “Yes, sir.” Win felt the adrenaline kicking back in.

  “Do not set that chopper down unless you think it’s absolutely necessary—unless you are sure someone is in danger. You pick your team. If you want Ranger Hechtner instead of a Bureau technician, I can’t argue with that. I understand that Agent Johnson is ready to go. Emily is under suspension, but if you choose I can lift the suspension if she’s willing to go. The other option is to wait until the dedication is over. Your call.”

  Win quickly scanned the maps he had in front of him. “It’s at least a twenty-minute flight from here to the Weinberg Lodge with this headwind. It’s almost two o’clock now. If the bad guys do plan on hitting a target during the time of the dedication or thereabouts, I don’t see how we can afford to wait.”

  “If you spot the militiamen, we can certainly get one of the HRT units out there . . . but again, there would have to be compelling evidence there’s imminent danger to public safety. We can track them down after the dedication if they’re just marching through the wilderness. DOJ has a pretty tight leash on us on t
his one. Be careful out there, Win.” Heard that from Mom a few minutes ago. . . .

  “Yes, sir. We’re on it.” He was already out of the chair.

  * * *

  Emily walked into the ready room just as Win stood up. She stopped near the gray metal door and took in the group gathered there. She wasn’t a tall woman, and the black body armor over her tan waterproof parka made her look dumpy. Her frizzy red hair was sticking out from under the green Kevlar helmet in every possible direction. She pushed her thin gold frame glasses up on her nose and cleared her throat. Win saw none of the arrogance she’d displayed the last time he’d seen her—when she’d bullied him in the office hallway early last night.

  “Johnson said you might need another agent to ride along. He thought they could lift my, uh, suspension.” Her high-pitched voice sounded tentative.

  Win took in the Glock on her side and the MP5 she was cradling in her arms. He wondered if she knew how to use those weapons, then immediately tried to force the sexist thought from his mind. Of course she knows how to use her weapons. Even if I can’t stand the woman, I have no business mentally insulting her, his better nature counseled.

  He regrouped and turned to her. “Are you volunteering? There’s a chance we’ll run into the bad guys. Even if we don’t, with this wind, it will be a long, bumpy chopper ride.” He was suddenly hoping she’d opt out.

  “I’m an FBI agent, Win. Running into the bad guys is what we do. So am I going or what?”

  “I’m the case agent. I’m in charge on this trip,” Win said.

  “I’ve got that.” She shifted the submachine gun to the other arm.

  Win shot a glance at Johnson. The big agent just raised his heavy eyebrows and shrugged. There weren’t any other agents at Mammoth at the moment—options were limited.

  “Alright, then. It’s Hechtner, Johnson, Emily, and me. Hechtner is designated as safety officer. Has everyone got two extra magazines for their sidearm and long gun?” Heads nodded. “We’re not a SWAT team, but we’ll be operating independently, at least for a time. Got to be prepared. Maglites, binoculars, knife, first aid kit, zip ties, cuffs, water bottle, mobile radio?” Everyone nodded.

  Johnson spoke up reluctantly. “You need to know . . . our, uh, HTs, the Handie-Talkies . . . these mobile radios are ancient. I haven’t upgraded them in years. Not gonna be reliable.” He shrugged. “We hardly ever need ’em.”

  Emily rolled her eyes and Win just sighed. Probably another one of those issues Johnson got written up for during inspections. One of those things you don’t need until you do—and then it could be critical. Win looked at Hechtner. “Do you have any extra handheld radios?”

  The ranger shook his head. Then he added, “And the one I’m wearing wouldn’t communicate with your encrypted radios even if yours were actually operational.”

  Win knew the FBI’s internal radio system was designed so they couldn’t communicate with most of the other good guys—because occasionally the supposed “good guys” were the bad guys. Well, then.

  “We go with what we’ve got.” Win nodded confidently to the little group.

  He turned to Trey, and the ranger took it from there. “No rounds in the chambers in the long guns—I want to check them.” He walked around and quickly checked all three agents’ weapons, then held out his rifle for Win to inspect.

  “No one’s gonna blow a hole in the helo on my watch! I’ve got the only satellite phone left in Mammoth with me, Win, and I’ve got extra first aid gear and water. Everyone put on these eye protectors. We’re gonna be in the wind.” He handed out what looked like Oakley sunglasses with clear lenses. Trey turned back to Win. “We’re good to go.”

  It would have sounded too corny to say, “Let’s roll!” but that’s what he was feeling. Instead, he just nodded his head toward the door and followed Trey out into the cool wind. Emily looked shaky before she even buckled into the yellow copter. Win was hoping barf bags came standard with this ride.

  The colorful buildings of Mammoth and the hundreds of tourists milling around the gleaming white-and-orange terraces came into focus below him as the pilot banked for the trip to the northwest. Win looked down and saw his stone house getting smaller by the second. He looked to the north and saw the distant switchbacks and snow-covered top of Sepulcher Mountain. He looked away quickly. At some point he would relive the events of last night, but this wasn’t the time or the place.

  Trey tapped him on the knee and signaled for him to pull on the headset and switch to an internal channel. No one else could hear them on the headsets over the roar of the rotors. With the headset on, he was more aware of the ringing in his left ear. He was surprised he could hear as well as he did when Trey’s voice came over the equipment’s internal speaker.

  “Are you really okay? You went a little pale when you were lookin’ over the mountain.”

  “Not into helicopter rides… ”

  “Aside from that?”

  “To be honest with you, I think I’m more okay today than before the ordeal started last night.”

  “Glad to hear it. . . . Have a lil come-to-Jesus meetin’?”

  “Uh-huh.” Win nodded and smiled. “I’ll tell you about it sometime, once I sort through it myself. Whoa!” The helicopter hit an air pocket and dropped a couple hundred feet. His stomach fought to stay at the higher altitude.

  Trey didn’t seem to notice the turbulence, but he did hand out airsickness bags to all three agents. Even Johnson was looking a little green around the gills. It was gonna be a long twenty minutes to that lodge.

  * * *

  They flew over seemingly endless miles of dark-green forests, soft-green meadows, and deep-gray granite ridgetops flecked with wide patches of snow and ice. The rushing mountain streams and waterfalls took on a white hue as they crashed down through narrow canyons and emptied into small teal-blue lakes that dotted the high country. Ten minutes into the flight and Win was finally beginning to forget his nausea and marvel at the beauty of Yellowstone’s backcountry from the air. He had to remind himself that he was supposed to be looking for domestic terrorists, not elk herds and mountain goats, on the sweeping vistas below them. The landscape was mesmerizing.

  It got a little less mesmerizing when they had to detour for miles around severe winds funneling off Electric Peak, a 10,969-foot mountain standing between them and the Gallatin National Forest. Flying far around the mountain rather than over it would add at least ten more minutes to the already-bumpy flight. Win tried to focus on something that wasn’t moving violently up and down.

  He got more of a reality check when Trey nudged his knee and signaled for him to change to an outside channel on the headset. He was surprised to hear Kirk Phillips’s voice.

  “HR-1 to FBIY-2. You copy, Win?” The HRT commander was coming in loud and clear.

  “Yes, sir. FBIY-2, copy.”

  “The team intercepted two men at 1435 hours within the tight security perimeter near the monument site. How the hell they got that close . . .” He paused, then, “Our boys engaged them and we have one 10-7 and a second man wounded. No one hit on our side, but they did get off a few shots and one of the rangers has a few broken bones from a bad fall.” A 10-7, the unofficial FBI code for a dead bad guy . . . who? Win glanced at this watch—it was 2:42 p.m. This had happened less than ten minutes ago.

  Phillips kept talking. “The deceased subject was their sniper, he had an M40, and he apparently had a few notes on his person—to relatives, friends. He knew he wasn’t coming back. His ID said Clay Ferguson.”

  Win drew a breath and felt tightness in his chest. He’s made it to the light. I wonder . . . Win forced his attention back to what Phillips was saying.

  “That corroborates what you said about a suicide mission. The other subject is the sniper’s spotter. He says they were tasked with taking out the Ambassador—apparently the spotter was not aware this
was a one-way mission, so he’s talking. He confirmed there’s a party of thirteen moving toward some objective to the northwest of their cave camp, as he called it. This just happened, so we haven’t really interrogated the guy and he’s a little shot up, but our boys in the field don’t think he actually knows what the target is. The subject says they were on a need-to-know basis. Does that jibe with what you heard?”

  “Ten-four. I know they were operating under need to know when they grabbed me and when they made the switch-off on Sepulcher Mountain. He’s probably telling it straight.” Win hit his mic again and asked, “The dedication is cancelled?”

  “Hell no! Can you believe that? We have a shootout less than a mile away, within our inner security ring, but the State Department and the Israelis are going forward with the monument dedication—speeches and all. Secret Service is having a fit!” Win heard the HRT commander draw a long breath. The guy still had the mic keyed on. Phillips finished the call. “The wounded guy says he thinks he and Ferguson were the only ones going into the dedication area. If that’s true, you’ve got a real serious problem out there somewhere in your sector and you’ve got no backup within a reasonable period of engagement. I’ll get back with you when I know more. Copy that?”

  “Roger that. FBIY-2 out.” Win stared out the window of the chopper for a moment, then he switched intercom channels and nudged Trey’s leg. He held up his fingers for Trey to change over to the private channel.

  “What’s up?” the ranger asked quickly.

  “What does it mean when someone says, ‘you’ve got no backup within a reasonable period of engagement’?”

  “It means you’re screwed.”

  That’s what I thought it meant.

  * * *

  At 2:49 p.m. Mountain Time, the State Department finally came clean. Yes, the Israeli Ambassador had a fundraiser planned for this evening, and yes, it was at a private lodge owned by a gentleman from Los Angeles who had ties to Hollywood, who happened to be of Jewish ancestry, and who was a staunch supporter of the State of Israel and certain very powerful members of Congress. And yes, it happened to be called the Triumph of Diamonds, and all the “gifts” to the Israelis were to be in the form of jewels, preferably diamonds. There was a very glitzy cocktail party planned for 6:30 p.m., with the Ambassador and others in his entourage flying in by helicopter for the event to thank the thirty or so well-heeled Jewish American attendees.