The Mackinac Incident

by Len McDougall

  “Mr. McBraden,” Colyer said through the bars, “why are you here?”

  McBraden looked him in the eye and said with assumed anger, “Because some asshole pervert kidnapped me and left me half-naked on the side of the highway. I’m the fuckin’ victim here. . . .” He knew what Colyer was asking, but he was purposely being obtuse.

  “Where have you been these last couple of years, Mr. McBraden?”

  A furtive look came into McBraden’s eyes for just a moment, but he hid it with angry posturing. “I’m not tellin’ you a fuckin’ thing, G-man.”

  Colyer ignored the blustering pretense. “There’s no record of you having been in this country for the past two years. No contact with your family, no phone records, no Social Security deductions, no one remembers you, no nothing. Where have you been, Mr. McBraden?”

  McBraden looked scared now. How much did this fed know?

  Colyer picked up on the doubt in McBraden’s eyes. The agent was bluffing, but McBraden couldn’t know that. He pursued that line of questioning.

  “We know you’ve been in Canada, Mr. McBraden. Who are your friends?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. You’re a suspected domestic terrorist, son. If you don’t start talking to me, I’ll have you transferred out of here so fast you won’t have time to blink twice. You’ll be having supper tonight at Guantanamo Bay. The Marines have a little more persuasive way of getting you to talk to them there.” He winked at McBraden, as if sharing a secret.

  McBraden knew what he meant. He knew about waterboarding. His trainers at Al Qaeda had put him through simulated interrogation in Afghanistan. He knew about sleep deprivation; he knew about finding the deepest, darkest horrors in a man’s mind, and then applying them through psychological means, until even the toughest subject cracked. They broke everyone. No one went through the interrogation simulation without cracking. McBraden had broken down like a baby after three days. It was one of the most awful memories in his life, and the thought of repeating it for real scared the hell out of him.

  “I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” McBraden said. His eyes were downcast.

  He was weakening. He’d started to make excuses. This man knew all about interrogation procedures, yet he’d never served a day in the Armed Forces of the United States.

  “So what’s it gonna be, son?” Colyer pushed. “You want to talk to me, or a bunch of mean-ass Marines who actually like hurting people?”

  “Okay,” McBraden said, “I don’t need to be tortured. I’ll tell you what I know. But promise me that you’ll protect my mom and dad. You’ve got to promise me that first.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  HITCHHIKING

  Rod awoke with the whine of mosquitoes humming in his ears. He wasn’t bitten too badly—he had a knack for sleeping through bug bites, anyway. He didn’t know exactly how or when he’d acquired such an ability, but, at some point, mosquitoes had decided that he wasn’t one of their favorite meals. One theory was that a person’s body chemistry changed after relentless bug attacks, and that seemed to be as good an explanation as any. When bugs had a choice between a gnarly, old woodsman and nearly anyone else, they almost always bit the other guy.

  He’d been having a terrible dream. His shell-shocked brain refused to recall its details, but he remembered that it had been filled with blood and suffering. For a moment, he lay where he was, wondering whether the blue sky above him or the awfulness that lingered in his mind was real. An ice ball, once again, formed in the pit of his bowels when he realized that the parts of the dream that he could recall weren’t a nightmare; he’d crossed a line from which there was no turning back: He had killed a person.

  He unburied himself from the pile of leaves and loose foliage that had kept the night chill from his bones, and looked at his watch. He’d overslept. Damn this old body of his! Every injury he’d ever known was coming back to haunt him with a painful vengeance. It was already seven o’clock in the morning, and the late summer sun was high. The men he was looking for might have planted their bombs by now, and be gone. He didn’t know what to do about it, even if they had. He didn’t even know what his next move should be.

  He thought again about calling Shannon. He’d thought about calling her many times since leaving the Betsy River. But if he called her, the cops would probably track down the call, regardless of where he called from. Even he knew that it wasn’t like in the movies; tapping a phone line was as simple as throwing a switch, and authorities could get an instant lock on the source of any phone call. Especially if they were already monitoring his home phone, and he was certain that some agency or another was doing that by now. He remembered wryly, not so long ago, how the feds had crossed their hearts and promised the American people that they wouldn’t listen in on cell-phone calls.

  He scanned the bridge through his binoculars, glad for their twelve-power magnification. “Get big glass, and get the best glass you can afford,” had been the advice of the Nikon dealer who’d sold him these Monarch 12 × 42 roof-prism binoculars. It was advice that he’d never regretted.

  There were three white vans on the bridge, but none of them exactly matched the one he was looking for. One was clearly a Chevy—he could make out the emblem on its grill—but he was too far away to make out the license plate numbers of any of them. One of the other two vans could be the van he’d seen back in the woods when he’d nabbed McBraden, but both had signs on their sides. The van he’d seen there hadn’t been marked. They might’ve applied a decal, or maybe they switched vehicles. Or, maybe the men he was looking for weren’t even on the bridge. And, maybe the man he’d captured in Hiawatha National Forest had been telling him a tall tale to escape the mosquitoes.

  But even supposing the man had been telling the truth, it wasn’t Rod’s job to stop the bombers. It wasn’t even his responsibility; this country hadn’t been especially kind to him at any point in his life. Besides, he wasn’t an antiterrorism expert. And he damn sure wasn’t a hero! In fact, he was probably the villain in all this in the law’s eyes. They’d never believe him, even if he did go to them, and would doubtless prosecute him as an accomplice, anyway.

  He’d had a lot of time to ponder his situation, and there was just no way out of this for him, that he could see. Supposing he was cleared of the murders of his survival students, the hard truth remained that he’d killed a man. And he’d killed him in a grisly and undeniably gruesome manner. He’d also stolen a car at gunpoint. With his criminal record, he’d definitely be considered guilty until proven innocent, and nothing in his experience with the criminal justice system made him think that he might be found not guilty in a so-called court of law.

  But he couldn’t let these terrorists literally get away with murder; they’d made it personal. They’d murdered and tortured people who’d entrusted Rod with their lives—the guilt from that weighed heavily on his conscience, no matter how he tried to rationalize it. Then they’d tried to kill him. Twice. Now they were intending to kill thousands of innocent people, including the governor of this state, and he didn’t know why. None of this made a lick of sense to him. But then, taking any life without good reason had never made sense to him.

  No, he was no hero, but he wasn’t able to let this pass without at least making an attempt to stop it. But how to get onto the bridge? Pedestrians weren’t allowed. He knew he’d recognize the two men if he saw them, but he had to at least get close enough to see their faces; that meant getting onto the bridge on foot.

  There was a busy truck stop on highway US 2, near the on-ramp to the bridge. Lots of truckers stopped there for a good meal, while on their way north or south. Rod was hungry, anyway, and that seemed a likely place to catch a ride.

  The truck stop was filled with customers, when Rod walked in through its glass front door. The smell of fried potatoes, eggs, and bacon made his stomach growl, and the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee reminded him that he hadn’t had any for days. No wonder
he had a headache. Rod seated himself at a booth, and took a menu from the holder in the center of his table.

  He’d barely opened the menu, when a thirtyish brunette with short, permed hair and a name tag on her dress that identified her as Candy approached his booth. She held an order pad and an ink pen poised to write. She asked if he wanted coffee.

  “I sure would, Candy. Black, please. And I’d like an English muffin.” He pointed to an item on the menu.

  “English muffin and coffee,” Candy repeated, scribbling on her order pad. “Coming right up. Would you like cream cheese on the muffin?” He shook his head no.

  “By the way, Candy,” Rod asked with a smile, “are any of these truckers headed south across the bridge? I need to hitch a ride across to Mackinaw City with someone.”

  It wasn’t an uncommon request. She heard the same from lots of hitchhikers. “I’ll ask around,” she said. “There’s probably a driver in here who’ll oblige you.”

  “Thank you, Candy. I appreciate it.”

  Barely a minute had elapsed before Candy brought him his coffee in a covered Styrofoam cup and said, “See that man paying his bill at the cash register? That’s Hank, and he said that if you leave right now, he’ll give you a ride as far south as Pellston.”

  Rod glanced at the cash register, where a big-bellied, forty-something man motioned him to come along.

  “Coffee’s on the house,” Candy smiled at him through cigarette-stained teeth.

  “Thanks anyway, Candy,” he answered, picking up the coffee and sliding a $5 bill onto the table. “It’s worth it to me.”

  Rod hurried over where Hank was waiting at the door.

  “Howdy,” Hank said, extending his right hand. “Name’s Hank, and I can take you as far as Pellston.”

  “Hi Hank, I’m Rod,” he said, taking the trucker’s hand. “That’ll be fine. I sure appreciate it.”

  Rod followed Hank to a International Cabover in back of the restaurant. They climbed in, and Hank fired the powerful diesel engine. He shifted the transmission into two-high, eased out the clutch, and they started rolling across the parking lot. Hank looked both ways at the exit to the highway, then wheeled the truck into a wide, right turn and pressed down on the accelerator.

  “Where ya headed, Rod?” Hank asked idly, as he ratcheted through the gears.

  “Petoskey,” Rod lied. “I’ve got relatives there.”

  Hank guided the big rig expertly into the semi-truck tollbooth at the entrance to the Mackinac Bridge, and paid the toll. He pulled away, muttering about the increasing cost of using this thoroughfare, the rising price of diesel fuel, and unfair taxes on truckers in general.

  Before they’d reached the center of the bridge, Rod was scanning the maintenance vehicles parked at its center through his binoculars. Hank thought that was curious, but he didn’t think it was worth conversation.

  There it was, the Ford van he was looking for, and it was wearing the correct license plate. It had signs on it now, though.

  They reached the center of the bridge, a hundred yards past where the suspect van was parked, and Rod said abruptly, “Hank I’ve got to get out here.”

  Hank look surprised. “I can’t stop in the middle of the bridge,” he objected.

  “You don’t have to stop, just slow down . . . let me jump out.”

  Rod made the decision for him by opening his door and starting out.

  “Wait a minute,” Hank exclaimed, stepping on the brake. It was an automatic response, something anyone would have done if their passenger threatened to jump from a moving vehicle. Rod was counting on that, and it was all the pause that he needed. The eighteen-wheeler was still moving at about fifteen miles an hour. With his backpack in one hand, Rod leaped forward from its running board onto a pile of painter’s canvasses. He sure hoped they weren’t covering anything sharp and hard.

  They weren’t. He landed on the piled tarpaulins with enough force to knock the air from his lungs, but the impact was soft. He rolled onto his feet with an agility that he didn’t know he still possessed. Only two of the workers had actually witnessed his stunt, and they looked astonished.

  “Quick!” Rod said in an even voice that was loud enough to be heard over the racket of running machinery. “Get everyone off this bridge right now. There are two guys planting a bomb on it right now. Get off immediately.”

  As he might have guessed, the two men just gawked at him. They didn’t move. Rod snatched the hard hat off one of their heads, hoping that this might make him stand out less among the bridge workers. The hard hat was too large, it fell down over his ears. He held it in place against the perpetual wind, then he ran over to the white van he’d seen through the windshield of the truck.

  The license plate matched, all right, but the side of the van read JACKSONVILLE PAINTING now. He peeled back one corner. It came off easily. Magnetic.

  Rod asked the workers, one after another, if they’d seen anyone from Jacksonville Painting. The fifth person he asked said yes, they were under the span on chain-link fencing that was kept suspended there as a sort of scaffolding to support bridge workers. The worker said that they were down there doing some sort of inspection or something. He pointed south; one of them had gone down there.

  Rod ran to where the man had pointed, not knowing that Aziz was closer, almost beneath his feet. Rod had a fear of heights, and his stomach was filled with butterflies just standing on the roadway this high above the Straits. But his natural fear of falling to his death was countered by a fear that tens of thousands of people might die if he didn’t do something to stop these terrorists. He had to act, even if it cost him his life. He prayed fervently that it wouldn’t.

  Among the bridge workers, news of a bomb was slowly beginning to spread. His announcement hadn’t caused a sudden panic, but rather a creeping fear. Some workers were already gathering their personal property and departing in company vehicles. As some left, more followed. Bridge patrol trucks were driving back and forth, the officers in them stopping to question departing workers about what was going on. Several times, he heard someone repeat the word “bomb.”

  Nobody seemed interested in what Rod was doing when he clambered over the bridge’s guard rail. He was keenly conscious of his lack of a safety harness as he dropped onto the chain-link safety net. Rod’s stomach did somersaults when he landed on his hands and knees, staring at the straits four hundred feet below through wire mesh. When he looked up again, it was straight into the face of Peter Grigovich.

  Grigovich was preoccupied with mounting his ammo-can bomb to the inside surface of an I-beam under the bridge’s roadway, and keeping one eye on the safety boat below while he worked. The two-man crew of the safety boat typically paid no attention to the bridge workers above them, unless one hit the water. Then their job was to get the dead man or woman out of the water before someone had a chance to photograph the grotesque spectacle. Right now, the crew members were listening to a baseball game, and they’d barely glanced his way. Grigovich figured they wouldn’t be able to see the details of what he was doing clearly through the chain-link mesh below him anyway.

  Grigovich’s task was made easier when some sort of commotion happened on the roadway above. The two workers who’d been on the mesh with him, forcing him to pretend that he was busy inspecting the structure, left in a hurry after receiving a message over a walkie-talkie. Because of the din of machinery, he couldn’t hear the message that had caused them to clamber topside, but he was glad for the chance to accomplish his task unobserved.

  Then, this man with the loose-fitting safety helmet dropped onto the mesh just as he was applying the magnet to a main support. Grigovich didn’t hear him, but rather felt the impact of his landing on the chain-link under his feet. Rod’s hard hat had fallen over his eyes from the unstable force of his landing. He struggled to retain his balance while lifting the bill of the helmet from over his eyes.

  Both men stared at each other for a brief moment as recognition set in. Grigovich
was a powerfully built man, and Rod would be clearly overmatched in a hand-to-hand confrontation. With no time to strategize, Rod dove forward and tackled Grigovich at his waist. Both men tumbled off their feet and onto the mesh. Grigovich grasped Rod in a headlock; he was so strong that Rod feared he’d break his neck. Grappling with Grigovich was clearly a bad idea. Before the Bosnian could inflict serious damage, Rod grabbed his testicles and twisted. Grigovich was obviously stronger, but forty years of gripping an axe handle had left Rod with the forearm strength to crack walnuts in his bare hands.

  The nuts he was cracking now were considerably softer. Grigovich howled and punched Rod hard between the eyes before he let go. Rod saw a bright splinter of light, and he felt hot blood run from his nose onto his upper lip. Both men rolled to their knees, then rose shakily to their feet. Both realized the futility of hand-to-hand combat on such unstable footing. Grigovich unzipped his coveralls and grabbed for the Desert Eagle pistol tucked into his waistband. Simultaneously, Rod reached under his jacket for the nine-millimeter stuck in his own belt.

  There was no time to sight properly, but both men brought their guns to bear and fired instinctively from the hip—almost in unison. The bullets might have hit their marks, had it not been for the unstable mesh beneath them. The sudden motion caused both men to fire wide, and knocked Rod off his feet. The Beretta pistol slipped from his grasp when he bounced against the chain-link.

  Grigovich grinned maliciously as he carefully drew a bead on his enemy a second time. Rod rolled onto all fours; his eyes went wide with fear, and he could almost feel the thud of a bullet as he waited for it to impact his body. Rod grabbed the chain-link tightly to get leverage and rolled his body out of line with the Bosnian’s gun muzzle. His motion caused the chain-link to become a wave under Grigovich’s feet, and he, too, fell onto his back.