by Rhona Weaver
The plan was for the Ambassador’s jet to make the short hop to Bozeman after the tour of Yellowstone and the Cohn Monument dedication. The Ambassador’s plane would be met by a privately owned JetRanger helicopter for the twenty-minute flight to the lavish lodge. After the party, the small VIP group would fly back to Bozeman and the jet would lift off for Washington at 10:00 p.m.
A top-flight private firm had been vetted by both the Israelis and the State Department to provide security. Not only was the FBI out of the loop, but so was the Secret Service. Some honcho at the State Department actually had the nerve to tell the FBI’s Deputy Director she didn’t know what everyone was so bent out of shape about. After all, she’d said, “We are obligated to provide confidentiality and privacy for our good friends from Israel. This event has the potential to raise over ten million dollars for worthwhile causes in their country and will garner a tremendous amount of goodwill for several very influential Senators and Congressmen.”
* * *
Okay, then. They’d just gotten off the chopper’s radio with Mr. Givens, who gave the entire team the quickie version of the planned Jewish fundraiser. They were within five minutes of the lodge at that point, and the weather was going to hell on them. At least that was Win’s perspective. The turbulence had gotten even worse—he could tell the winds were high—and heavy, dark clouds were on the horizon. The pilot turned, tapped Trey’s shoulder, and pointed to the northwest. Now what?
Win craned his neck to look forward out the window. He saw a very thin trail of smoke in the distance. It was streaming horizontally over the forest in the wind. The pilot came over the radio for everyone in the chopper to hear. “We’ve got a little smoke over to our front right. . . . We’re still a few miles out from the lodge. Want me to get down lower and check it out?”
“Roger that,” Win replied.
Trey was cradling his black helmet in his lap and trying to keep his assault rifle pointing upward as the pilot banked sharply and dropped lower. Emily actually gasped, and Win closed his eyes and tried to keep from groaning out loud. At this point in the ride, he’d gladly fight twenty bad guys just to get on the ground and off the damn helicopter.
The pilot leveled off about five hundred feet above the rugged tree line and slowed the forward momentum of the powerful rotors. Win forced his stomach back out of his throat and looked down. He could clearly see the orange-brown snakelike path of the gravel Forest Service road below them through the gaps in the trees. Then he saw it: the hundred-foot metal bridge, which he’d scoped out on the aerial maps of the site before they left Mammoth, was now dozens of scattered pieces of twisted metal. It looked like someone had dropped a child’s set of silver pick-up sticks below them—the steel beams lay at random angles within the rushing creek. A single tree was smoldering on the bank, wisps of smoke rising from it. There was no more bridge, no vehicular access to the Weinberg Lodge, and the bad guys had explosives. This ain’t good.
The only positive, if there was one, was that there was no sign of any vehicles or individuals near the destroyed bridge. No casualties except for tons of government steel.
As Win looked away from the window, he caught a glimpse of Trey’s serious gray eyes. He knew they were both silently praying the same simple prayer. No casualties. Please, let it stay that way.
Chapter Forty
Win could tell Wes Givens was a little shaken when he called in the report on the bridge. There was the crackly, static sound of the radio for several seconds, but no comment from his ASAC. Win asked the pilot to hold back from the lodge—with the wind, there was a chance the bad guys hadn’t heard their chopper’s approach. Win had previously asked for permission to go in, to attempt some form of containment until HRT could hustle out here. Hustle was the operative word—any help from the good guys was at least thirty minutes out, and that was if someone got in the air this very second. That wasn’t happening. There were lives at stake here, lots of them, and Win thought his small team might at least be able to buy enough time for the cavalry to arrive . . . but it sure as hell wasn’t a slam dunk.
Finally the radio came to life again. “Win, you’ve got authorization to try containment at the lodge. Kirk Phillips is in the field with his guys. He’s going to be patching in on your satellite phone reports to us. Get with us as soon as you get on the ground and see the lay of the land. Try to recon it best you can without engaging them. We don’t need a hostage situation. Best case: They just want to fleece the jewels and leave. We’d rather have that than hostages, innocent folks shot, or your team in a firefight against overwhelming forces.” He paused. “Do you copy that?” Mr. Givens’s voice was strained.
“Roger that. FBIY-2, out.” He’d had the helicopter’s radio channel open so that everyone could hear the conversation through their headsets. He removed his headset and did a quick check of each face. Trey was his usual cool, calm self; he was casually buckling on his Kevlar helmet. Johnson pulled off his headset, yanked his too-small blue FBI cap down tighter on his head, and scowled back toward Win. He raised his shaggy eyebrows and nodded—he was in. Emily was staring straight ahead into space. Her hair was even wilder after the chopper ride. She swallowed hard, then nodded several times. They had a team, such as it was.
Discretion was the better part of valor here, so Win opted for the “fly real low up the ravine” route. The Park Service’s pilot was really good—he came in low and fast. He deposited them on a flat spot covered in sagebrush about half a mile east of the lodge. A slight ridge and a big stand of pine concealed the landing spot from the lodge complex. The pilot and copilot gave the little group a thumbs-up and lifted off; Win and the others shielded their faces from the dust storm created by the retreating rotors. The chopper made a perfect 180-degree turn ten feet above the ground and headed back to Mammoth for reinforcements.
As much as he’d hated the helicopter flight, Win felt a heavy, sinking feeling as he watched the yellow chopper disappear above the woods. But this wasn’t the time for second thoughts. They were committed to the action, as Luke Bordeaux would say. Win realized that “the action” was becoming an all-too-frequent theme in his life at Yellowstone. He sucked it up and moved behind Trey into the deep forest. The ranger had the topo maps; he guided them through the dense woods and down narrow ravines and gullies toward an area overlooking the huge lodge. Win thought there was still a reasonable chance the bad guys might not have seen or heard their arrival. Unfortunately, they couldn’t hear themselves either. None of the three agents’ handheld radios worked properly—Win’s little team couldn’t even communicate with each other.
All four of them finally slumped into a shallow gully that ran parallel to the east side of the big log building. Johnson was already limping and Emily was dragging up the rear. Neither of them would have distinguished themselves in the Bureau’s annual fitness tests. Their chosen surveillance post was an eroded ravine only five to six feet deep. They weren’t exactly close to the buildings, maybe eighty yards away, but they could clearly see the east side and parts of the front and back of the immense log lodge, with its glass expanse, long porches, and stone chimneys. The substantial stone guardhouse was over a hundred yards northeast of the lodge. Barns and stables were visible far behind the big house near a sharply rising, wooded ridge. There was almost no cover between their position and the lodge or the guardhouse. The owner’s landscaper was obviously into sweeping vistas rather than trees and shrubs. A few aesthetically placed boulders dotted the yard, but that was about it. No one could sneak up on this place very easily.
There were a number of vehicles parked to the rear, near the barns and what Win assumed was the lodge’s back door. He counted three caterer vans and an assortment of cars and pickups. He could see several dark SUVs and a sheriff’s cruiser on the far side of the guardhouse. They were on the wrong side of the lodge to see the helicopter pads or the swimming pool. The wind seemed to be dying down a little, but he heard no ot
her sound except its movement in the trees on the steep hill behind the barns. His watch said 3:15. If there was going to be a fancy shindig here in just over three hours, where was everyone? There wasn’t a soul in sight.
Trey had wiggled under a twisted log at the top of the gully and was acting as their primary spotter. Win crawled next to him and swept the area with his binoculars. Trey’s field glasses were focused on the lodge. “Blinds are all pulled on this side. . . . Where could they be?” He scanned the dense forest to the south. “Okay . . . wait . . .” He reached into his body armor for a tiny hooded flashlight and turned it on.
“What are you doing?” Win whispered. He glanced down to where Emily and Johnson were huddled in the shallow ravine. Johnson was alert, with his rifle up. He seemed to be doing a reasonable job of covering their flank. Emily just seemed to be huddling. Win wondered for a second why she’d been suspended. Did it have anything to do with her behavior toward him or this case? FBI personnel issues were like black holes in space—they existed, but no real person ever knew the what, where, or why. The feared Office of Professional Responsibility, or OPR, handled it all—their reputation within the Bureau rivaled that of the Gestapo.
He forced his attention back to Trey; the guy hadn’t responded to his question. Trey didn’t answer for another minute—he was working the small flashlight’s on-off switch. It was pointed in the direction of the woods.
“Luke is at eleven o’clock at a hundred fifty yards in the tree line. He’s signaling me that he’s coming to us,” Trey finally responded.
“Is that a good thing . . . or a bad thing?” Emily whispered from below. Win didn’t bother to answer her.
“How are y’all communicating?” Win shifted on the sandy ditch bank toward the ranger.
Trey held up the little flashlight. “Basic Morse code. Didn’t you learn that in Boy Scouts?”
“Never was a Boy Scout.” Win was embarrassed that even he could hear the regret in his voice.
“Coulda fooled me.” Trey grinned at him and pocketed the flashlight.
Win turned the bill of his Park Service cap to the back and kept most of his head behind a clump of sagebrush as he continued to watch the surroundings with his binoculars. They’d been lying there for nearly five minutes. He was beginning to have very real fears for the thirty-some-odd people who were supposed to be at the party. There had been no sounds, no sign of life anywhere on the site, not even sounds of livestock from the barn or stables.
Then, true to his usual form, Luke Bordeaux materialized from behind a low rock on the other side of the gully. He slid smoothly into their ditch and leaned into the sloping dirt wall below Trey. “Good thing they don’t have mortars. . . . They could take y’all out with one round.” Luke obviously didn’t approve of their close positioning in the ravine.
His dark eyes scanned everyone and settled on Emily; he raised a hand to the bill of his camo field cap and tipped it slightly as he nodded. “Ma’am.” Win hoped she’d keep her mouth shut at his simple act of chivalry. Win’s glance at her confirmed her fear of the man had overridden her instinct to lash out at any civil gesture. She mumbled her name to him and dropped her gaze to study the weapon resting in her clammy hands.
Luke’s eyes moved from Emily to Johnson and he nodded a greeting. Trey dropped his left hand and Luke raised his to grip it for a moment. Win caught the gleam of both their wedding rings as their left hands locked—family men; they both had plenty of reasons to make it through this deal in one piece.
Luke’s dark eyes turned to Win. “Good to see you, boy.”
Win found himself at a loss for words. There was actually too much he wanted to say to Luke, but not in front of the others. He raised his chin slightly to acknowledge the greeting and answered softly, “You too. . . . Thank you.” Then he asked the relevant questions. “What’s going on? Where is everybody?”
“They herded everyone into the lodge when they got here, little over an hour ago. I wasn’t in a spot to see whether they all stayed in the lodge or not—there was some commotion near the stables, but I couldn’t see anything. There are bad guys workin’ this job from the inside, too. Someone had to have taken out the security team, ’cause no shots were fired when Brother King’s group got here—they just walked right in the front door. Couple of King’s boys drove off in one of the Suburbans ’bout forty minutes ago, heard an explosion not long after that. Those guys drove back up and went in the guardhouse at three o’clock.”
Luke’s eyes were gleaming. “It’s a big-time robbery, Win. Big-time! King’s crew figured I was gonna be tight with ’em after I killed you this mornin’ so they told me a little ’bout the job. Before I split from them on the hike over, Billy Thayer told me the haul was over ten million dollars. I followed ’em here and hid so’s I could watch. I don’t think the regular militia guys know what’s going down.”
He shook his head like he couldn’t believe it. “Prophet Shepherd, King, and five of his men and five of the militia guys are either in the lodge or in the guardhouse. That’s twelve, if you don’t count the inside men. Right now they’re waiting fer another chopper to arrive with more guests—they’ve done that twice since I’ve been here. Everyone gets in the buildings . . . chopper comes in, lands, drops off a few folks. One of Brother King’s men, Red, is dressed as a security guard, and it looks like they might have another security guard workin’ with ’em. Those two and a sheriff’s deputy are meeting each helicopter and escorting folks into the front door. They’re even bringing champagne out to the chopper pads and carrying the folks’ luggage. . . . The arriving guests just think everything is fine until they get in the lodge. There must be another helicopter comin’ in soon. It’s been real quiet for nearly”—he glanced at his watch—“nearly seven minutes.”
“They don’t know you’re here?” Johnson asked Luke.
“No. Been laying real low, hoping Win would figure out the plan and some help would show up. . . . Was hoping a bit more help would show up.” His sharp eyes scanned the meager group. “Y’all need to know this place has security cameras hidden everywhere. And they’re flying a drone out of the guardhouse ’bout every twenty minutes to check the area. One of those things comes this way, we’re burned.” He shook his head again. “There is no way to get a call out, I lifted one of the other boys’ phones—I’ve tried.”
“They may have a cell phone jammer. Our people haven’t been able to contact anyone here, started trying to call well before two.” Win was thinking out loud. He punched in the tactical operations center number on the satellite phone. He could hear a loud roar over the wind even before the call connected. A jet helicopter was coming from the west. It was going to deposit more hostages—more diamonds—and there wasn’t a dang thing they could do about it. The fancy blue corporate chopper sat down out of their sight on the other side of the lodge. They couldn’t see it until it lifted off and turned to the north less than four minutes later. By that time, Win had already made his brief report to the ASAC; he was on the receiving end of the conversation as the chopper began its departure.
Wes Givens was still talking to Win as the high-pitched whine of the twin jet engines being throttled up filled the air. “If Bordeaux stays with you, get him deputized. I’ll get the word out to HRT that he’s in a uniform identical to the subjects.”
Then Mr. Givens gave him some encouraging news. “All eighteen of Blue Unit’s operators and a supervisor will be getting on Black Hawks and heading your way from the Gardiner landing strip. That’s just as soon as DOJ gives us the word to release them from their current positions at the church. But that won’t likely be until the brass is convinced the dedication is going off without a hitch. Their ETA should be no later than five. That puts them ninety minutes out from you. We’re also trying to get the low-altitude drone repositioned from the dedication site—there are thunderstorms between that site and you. We’re working on it.
&nb
sp; “Win, we’ll get a ground stop on all helicopter traffic and a general aviation warning out for the region. Those guests are probably flying into Idaho Falls or Bozeman and being ferried out there from one of those two airports. Those are the closest commercial airports, but there are several small airstrips in the general area that could handle private jets. Lots of really wealthy folks have vacation homes in the mountains. We’ll get on that . . .”
Win was concentrating hard to hear his boss over the chopper’s engines. “It goes without saying that the Israeli delegation is boarding their plane here in West Yellowstone as soon as they arrive from the dedication site and flying directly back to Washington. We’re trying to get a guest list for that party out of the State Department, but you’ve got at least thirty guests expected, plus numerous employees.”
“What about the security detail?” Win asked.
“Amertec Security cannot reach their team. Phones are not working—they’re not even answering their sat phones. Amertec says they have an eight-man team at your site, six at the lodge complex and two rovers. They’ve also got two sophisticated surveillance drones—all their security cameras and drones are monitored from the guardhouse. Their guys last reported in at 1:30 and everything was fine. . . .”
The roar of the expensive helicopter’s engines began to drown out Mr. Givens’s voice. “. . . not engage them . . . unless you think lives are in danger. Copy?”
