65 Below

by Basil Sands

  I suddenly realized that this must be the same feeling you get when you defeat the kind of people you have been spending the past twelve years fighting. At that moment, I understood that the reason you couldn’t leave the Corps wasn’t because you didn’t love me—it was because you did love me, and so many other people, and that you wanted to protect us all from the bad things in the world. I think I finally understand, at least a little bit, of what you find in your Marine Corps.

  Marcus, I’m writing this letter in hopes that you will know that I still love you. I want you, and am waiting, if you are willing, to come back to you. If you will have me, and the offer is still available, I want to reconsider my answer. Please let me know once you get this letter. I am waiting to hear from you.

  Lonnie

  April 2, 1998.

  Marcus was stunned.

  Lonnie.

  He hadn’t heard from her in years, and now suddenly she was writing and acting as if almost no time had lapsed. What would he say? What could he say?

  He had never stopped loving her. He had heard bits and pieces of her life’s happenings from Linus back in Salt Jacket over the years, but had not spoken to her in nearly five years. And now, she was practically saying she wanted to marry him.

  Marcus was shocked at his own feelings. There was no anger, no resentment. When he was honest with himself, he acknowledged that in spite of the years and the hard, violent life he had led up to this day, he had been waiting for this letter the entire time.

  He had not touched another woman, had not eaten a meal alone with a woman, had not walked down a street alone with a woman, had not made eyes with, flirted with, or fantasized about another woman since 1984. Even after Lonnie had refused to marry him eight years earlier, he had continued to wait for her alone, fully expecting that someday, just such a letter would come to him.

  Now it had happened, and the only feeling that rose to the surface was explosive joy. The plane was nearly ready—there was little time, so he found a piece of paper and a pen and jotted a response to her letter.

  Lonnie,

  My dearest love,

  I have received your letter; it took more than a month to get to me. I am very happy to hear from you. I want to you know that I have never stopped loving you. If you are serious, wait to hear back from me again soon.

  Right now I’m with a contingent of British Royal Marines heading to a peacekeeping mission for a short time, and should be back in a week or two. Once I return, I’ll write more—maybe even call if I can.

  Sit tight and wait for me. I’ve waited for you to come back all these years, and have kept myself only for you. I’ll write as soon as I return.

  With all my LOVE,

  Marcus

  P.S. – A poem for you

  The flowers of late summer

  Their petals falling to the ground

  Seem to die

  Snow and ice bury them

  Beneath a chill layer

  Covers their colorful beauty

  In a hard, cold blanket

  Lifeless winter

  But those flowers

  At the rising of the sun

  And spring’s warm caress

  Again burst forth

  From beneath the ice

  And their blossom

  Blesses all who see

  Their glorious radiance

  Draws the eyes of men

  And the wonder of the flower

  Spells again

  The birth of a new summer

  Such is the awakening of love

  The reawakening of our love

  My beloved one, let our flowers blossom

  Till I return.

  Marcus always carried at least two envelops with him in the event that he needed to write something to his parents or Linus while in the field. He pulled one out, penned his return address at Plymouth on the corner of it, and copied the address Lonnie had included in her letter. He called out to one of the ground crew of the C-130 who was passing by on his way back to the hangers.

  “Hey, mate, can I ask you a favor?” Marcus said.

  “Sure, Yank, what do you need?”

  “Can you mail this for me? It’s a really important personal letter.”

  “Sure. How fast you want it there? Post or FedEx?”

  “Post is fine,” he said, and handed the RAF technician a five-pound note. “I have no idea how much the postage will be—it’s going to Alaska. But this should cover it, and get you a pint as well.”

  “Alaska?” exclaimed the RAF man. “Whoa. I’ll be sure to get it started as soon as the post office opens.”

  And that’s exactly what the RAF technician did. By 08:00, the letter was in the outgoing mail bin at the base post office, and by five that evening was being loaded on an airplane that began its journey to America’s farthest western frontier.

  As the letter made its way across the world, the Royal Marines of 2nd Troop, Mike Company, 43 Commando did likewise, albeit in a different direction. When the letter passed out of Heathrow Airport, Marcus’s C-130 crossed the bulge of northwestern Africa and banked left on a bearing along the coastlines of Senegal, Gambia, Guinea Bissau, and finally into Guinea itself. The craft made a long, wide arc to the east as the sun fell in a glowing red ball behind them. The aircraft descended gradually until at 19:00, as the last of the equatorial sun descended beneath the horizon, they were flying at less than one thousand feet just north of the border of Sierra Leone.

  Twenty minutes later, the aircraft banked hard to the south and dropped even lower, skimming just above the treetops as it followed the hilly contour of the jungle beneath. A green flash came on, flashing a constant rhythm at each end of the cargo bay, where the men sat with their equipment.

  The jumpmaster stood up near the tail of the plane and flashed two fingers to everyone. His shout was barely audible over the rumbling drone of the engines. “Two minutes!”

  The men checked their packs, straps, and weapons as the landing gear rotated down from the belly of the craft with a loud, vibrating whir. Forty-five seconds before touchdown, the rear cargo ramp of the C-130 lowered to the open air. The jungle rushed beyond the edge of the wide, flat ramp.

  The Marines stood and grasped a metal handrail above their heads. The plane suddenly decelerated and dropped the last fifty feet to the ground like a gut-busting roller coaster.

  Ten seconds later, the wheels touched the ground. Flaps and brakes rapidly slowed the plane to twenty miles per hour. The men fought the inertia that drove their bodies toward the front of the aircraft. The jumpmaster thrust his hand toward the gaping rear exit. A line of Marines ran out the back and leaped from the sides of the ramp into the dark African night. They rolled in controlled tumbles as their feet touched the fast-moving earth beneath them.

  The last man, Colours Sergeant Smoot, came out of his roll and gave a thumbs-up to the jumpmaster, who watched him through night vision goggles from the ramp of the moving aircraft. The jumpmaster shoved the gear container, with their radios and extra equipment, down the length of the ramp, then raised the ramp back up to seal the rear of the plane.

  The C-130’s engines roared as it rapidly accelerated. There was a tremendous explosion. A huge cloud of dust shot to a towering hundred feet into the dark night sky. An orange glow burst within the dust and the C-130 rocketed skyward in an almost vertical climb carried on six columns of bright yellow flame until it reached two thousand feet. The bright flame disappeared as the jet fuel in the JATO tanks burned off, leaving the Marines in utter darkness. The aircraft leveled off, and within less than one minute, the jungle was again shrouded in total silence.

  The whole landing had lasted two minutes and four seconds.

  Chapter 16

  Richardson Highway

  Salt Jacket Alaska

  18 December

  19:20 Hours

  Lonnie Wyatt had driven about five miles up the Richardson Highway when her emotions overflowed the boundaries of self-control and rai
ned down like a torrent on her. She pulled off the side of the road at a small turnout by Rectangle Lake. The lake, a popular swimming hole for local kids, was so named because it was roughly rectangular in shape. It had been dug by backhoe in the sixties as a floatplane landing strip for the homesteader who then owned it and the two hundred acres around it. In the blazing heat of the twenty-four-hour summer sun, when the short sunny season brought ninety-degree days, a two-acre beach that was later added was covered with blankets and picnic baskets.

  Tonight, the lake was frozen solid to a depth of at least four feet. Virgin snow lay smooth and white across its vast flat surface, edged by tall, dark spruce trees spires pointed skyward. Intermittent sparkles of light flickered brilliantly, like tiny diamonds, as the curved motion of the glowing moon that swam across the sky sent a flash across the flat surface of a single snowflake that briefly reflected back a lunar twinkle.

  Lonnie stared out at the expanse of snow. She had turned off the engine of the patrol car. The quiet of the wilderness wrapped her like a blanket. She rolled her windows down to let fresh air into the vehicle.

  The cold air was crisp and invigorating as it entered her lungs. She took one deep breath, then, as she exhaled, broke down in heaving sobs. Tears welled in thick pools in her eyes. They quickly flowed over and poured in streams down her flushed cheeks.

  “Yes, Marcus, you never let me down.” She wept the words. “Not once, but twice, I turned you away, then I left you for dead. I’m so sorry. Please don’t throw me away. Please, Marcus, give me another chance.”

  Lonnie Wyatt cried with all her might. She wanted to curl up in a ball and vanish from the pain she now had to confront all over again.

  A woman’s voice suddenly made her jump. “7-23, Dispatch.”

  Trooper Wyatt instantly composed herself, cleared her throat, and picked the radio handset. “Dispatch, 7-23 copy”

  “7-23, 7-4 requests immediate return to base. What is your ETA?”

  “Dispatch, I am en route. My ETA is 35 minutes at base.”

  “Copy 7-23, your ETA is 35 minutes at base. Dispatch out 1953.”

  “7-23 out.”

  Lonnie wiped the tears from her face, checked herself in the mirror, started the cruiser, and took off toward Fairbanks.

  Thirty-five minutes later, Trooper Wyatt was in Commander Stark’s office. All signs of her emotional breakdown had faded. Her appearance was again crisp and ready. Stark wore the camouflage BDU uniform of the State SERT team—Alaska’s equivalent of a SWAT team made up of troopers, local police officers, and specially trained medical personnel. He was behind his desk when she entered, adjusting the sidearm that hung in a tactical holster on his right thigh.

  “Wyatt,” said the commander. He looked up from what he was doing, “We have a break in the terrorist case. There were a couple of teenagers in the vacant lot where Nikola and Adem dropped the Blazer. They saw them go to a house about half a block away and talk to a man there, a Korean guy named Kim. The two suspects pulled out of Kim’s garage in a red Dodge Dakota and left the neighborhood. We checked into Mr. Kim and found that he only bought the house about eight months ago, with cash. He moved up here on a business visa in March, doing an import/export thing with local craftwork.”

  “Sir, you’re going on the witness of two teenagers in that field at two am? Chief, they were probably a couple of stoners. Can we rely on them?”

  “I thought of that, but these two are definitely not stoners. They’re a couple of kids who were finishing up their winter camping requirements for their Eagle Scout badges. If we can’t trust them at their word, then I don’t know who we can trust. One of them is also in the Police Explorers post and took detailed notes of what he saw, including the plate number of the Dakota. We traced the plate to another Korean guy who left the state a year ago. FPD is looking for the pickup as we speak.”

  “SERT is headed there now?” Lonnie asked.

  “Yes. I want you to deliver the warrant at the door, since you speak Korean. Did your guys in Salt Jacket verify the identities?”

  “Beyond a doubt, sir. All three of them said these were absolutely the right men. Bannock also suggested a couple of ideas we may want to check.”

  “Tell me about it later. We have a warrant to search Kim’s house, and want to hit him before he gets a chance to run,” he said as they moved out the door of the office and walked quickly down the hall.

  Fifteen minutes later, a dozen police and trooper vehicles pulled up to the curb on the road outside Kim’s house. The SERT team set up sniper positions at several points around the house. Once all avenues of approach and departure were covered, two assault teams made their way to the front and rear of the residence.

  Trooper Wyatt walked calmly up to the porch and the front door of the house, a signed warrant in her hand. The assault team got in positions on both sides of the entrance, weapons trained on the door.

  Light shone through several windows on both floors. Lonnie listened to the muffled sound of men’s voices somewhere in the back of the house.

  She keyed her radio. “Sounds like more than one in there. Here I go.”

  Lonnie reached up and rang the doorbell once. The bing-bong tone was still hanging in the air as a middle-aged Korean man answered. He looked up at her with a stone-like expression. On seeing the police officer, his nostrils flared and his mouth turned down. His already narrow eyes squeezed even smaller. “Neh?”

  The bluntness in his voice was rude, especially by Korean standards.

  “Mr. Kim, I am Trooper Wyatt with the Alaska State Troopers.” She held out the paper to him.

  “I have a warrant to search your house in connection with the shooting of a Fairbanks police officer.”

  He crunched his thick eyebrows in confusion. The corners of the lips turned further down. “Muhloh? Yango mal mot heyo.”

  “Nanun Trooper Wyatt imnida, Alaska Kyangchal,” she replied and continued in Korean, “I speak fluent Korean, so don’t try to get away with anything. We have a warrant and will be searching the house now.”

  She signaled with her hand, and the assault team, faces shrouded in black balaclavas, moved swiftly up the steps and into the house, weapons raised to shoulder-height, sweeping the muzzles from side to side and up and down as they scanned the rooms. The officers split into two groups. One group went up the stairs to the second story, while the other continued to clear the lower floor.

  The old man looked shocked. His shock quickly gave way to an overt anger. “What is the meaning of this?” he shouted in heavily accented English, “I am here legally!”

  “We know that, sir, but last night two murder suspects came to your house and then left in your vehicle, a red Dodge Dakota.”

  The old man’s expression became blank, like a wax mannequin. Only Kim’s eyes gave the appearance of something like emotion. That emotion was hatred; sparking, fuming hatred. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

  The radios suddenly sounded with a torrent of voices. “Stop! Freeze!”

  The explosion of a shotgun jolted everyone’s attention to the back door. A man cried out in pain.

  “Get the medic back here!” said a voice on the radio. “Suspect tried to flee and we shot him with a beanbag round.”

  As the backyard team managed their captive, another voice called into the radio. “7-4, 7-23 come upstairs. You need to see this.”

  Commander Stark charged up the stairs, taking two at a time. Wyatt motioned to Mr. Kim to lead her up to the second floor of the house. Kim ignored her. Wyatt put a hand on her pistol grip. “Lead the way, Mr. Kim. Now.”

  Kim grunted defiantly, then turned and walked up the stairs.

  Once they topped the steps, one of the assault team members called out from the end of the hall. “Over here, Wyatt!”

  She and Kim moved down the wide hallway to an open bedroom door. Inside the room, the assault team had placed on the bed three AK-74 assault rifles with folding stocks, two sets of night visio
n goggles, and several semi-auto pistols. On a nightstand nearby sat a pair of military-style headset radios and a satellite phone.

  One of the SERT troopers picked up an AK and looked at the fire selector/safety switch on the side. He pointed to the imprinted icon on the stamped receiver. It showed an image of three bullets stacked together. Full Automatic.

  “Well Mr. Kim?” queried Commander Stark. “Planning a hunting trip, were you?”

  “Yes, of course!” Mr. Kim snapped back. “This is Alaska—everyone hunts here.”

  “Well,” Stark replied. “We have a problem then. You see, it’s illegal to hunt with night vision equipment or with radios. Not only that, but according to your visa, you have only been here eight months, which is four months short of the time required to get a resident hunting license. According to our records, you don’t have a tourist hunting permit.”

  “You cannot arrest me for having these things. This is America. I am allowed to have them.”

  “Well, yes and no.” Stark took the rifle from the SERT officer and examined it. “Can I see your class three firearms license please?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your class three firearms license, sir,” Stark repeated. “You must have one—these are fully automatic weapons. While the US and Alaskan governments do allow almost unlimited ownership of firearms, fully automatic weapons require a special permit. If you cannot show us such a permit—well, why don’t you go get it for us?”

  “I…I appeal to the Korean Consulate.”

  “What?” Wyatt choked back a chuckle. “Mr. Kim, you are not here as a diplomat. You are here on a business visa. There is no diplomatic immunity for you.”

  Stark smiled politely at the man and said, “Take him in, Wyatt.”

  Trooper Wyatt quoted his rights. “Mr. Kim. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, the state of Alaska will supply one for you.”