02 Avalanche Pass

by John Flanagan

  The force of the heavy slug tore the lock hasp clear of its restraints. Thankfully, the bullet ricocheted away from the ammunition locker, howling as it tumbled end over end into the clear air beyond the platform. He wrenched the lid of the locker open and found himself staring at two neat rows of projectiles, stacked nose to tail. He took one, cradling it carefully, and moved to the artillery piece. There was a crank-handle-shaped lever on the breech end and he turned it to allow the breech to swing smoothly open. The projectile slid in easily and he slammed the breech shut and locked it, dropping to his knees behind the gun, searching for the sights.

  They were simple open sights—rear sight V and front sight leaf. He swung the gun experimentally on its tripod. The movement was easy and smooth, obviously the Avalanche Patrol kept it well maintained. He had no idea of the speed or trajectory of the shell’s flight so he’d have to experiment. Figuring there’d be some drop, at least, he raised the barrel until he was sighted on the top of the giant claw holding the car to the cable, then swung to the right to lead it by about ten yards.

  A squeeze of the handgrip trigger was followed by a loud WHOOMP! as a huge burst of propellant gas was released from the breech behind him. The projectile leapt away from the barrel, arcing up and across the valley. The avalanche patrollers used tracer rounds, fortunately, and he could follow the glowing projectile easily in the dull, overcast light. By the time it was halfway, he realized he hadn’t allowed enough for drop. It was beginning to arc downwards and he knew it would never reach the cable car. The shell slid under the car by about ten feet, and about five yards behind, fountaining up a small burst of snow and smoke when it detonated on the hillside. Unlike the avalanche patrol, he hadn’t fired into a carefully plotted fault line in the snow. Nevertheless, a small avalanche slid away from the point of impact.

  Jesse turned back to the locker and carried four shells to the gun this time. He didn’t have time to keep going back for each one—the cable car was on the last quarter of its travel. He realized it was higher now, further above him than before, so he raised the aim point even further, and led the car by a greater margin.

  Another bang and another glowing tracer round curved across the valley. This time, for a few seconds, he thought he had done it. But at the last minute the shell slid behind the cable car again.

  The third shell was perfect for line but low once more. Jesse rammed the last shell into the breech. He didn’t know if he’d have time to fetch more before the cable car reached the safety of the top shelter. Getting the elevation right was incredibly difficult due to the fact that the cable car was climbing all the time. He adjusted the sight picture until he felt it was the right combination of horizontal and vertical aim off, then, in a last minute flash of indecision, he raised the barrel even further, to a point that felt wrong. He reasoned that, working by instinct alone, he had continually underestimated the elevation. So it only made sense to do what his instincts told him was wrong. Before he could argue himself out of it, he fired.

  And realized, almost immediately, that he had aimed too high.

  The shell arced across the valley, its path and that of the cable car converging with each second. He was right on line, he thought, but the projectile would miss the top of the cable car by a dozen feet or so. He cursed himself furiously, realizing that his initial setting had been correct.

  He turned desperately to the ammunition store, knowing he would be too late, when he heard the blast of an explosion across the valley. This time, it wasn’t the muffled crump as a shell buried itself in the snow and exploded below the surface. This time, it had a hard, ringing quality to it.

  The shell, missing the top of the cable car by a dozen feet, impacted instead on the steel framework support structure that attached the car to the cable. The impact fuse exploded as it slammed into one of the steel girders, blasting it and several of its smaller support pieces to atoms. The cable car sagged dangerously, swaying crazily under the impact and the loss of support on one side, then the remaining steel support arm began to buckle and the claw assembly, shattered by the force of the explosion just below it, slowly gaped open, releasing its hold on the cable.

  The cable car, seeming to move in slow motion, dropped clear of the cable, which jerked upwards like a plucked guitar string as the weight left it. Slowly toppling, the car gathered speed as it fell fifty feet to the snow-covered slope below. It hit the slope and rolled over and over, gathering speed and momentum as it tumbled down.

  Jesse watched, fascinated, as it hit a slight hump in the mountainside and bounced clear of the ground, spinning like a top, battered out of all shape, before it slammed back down again, rolling and sliding, accompanied now by its own wall of tumbling rock and snow. For a moment, he thought it would slide and tumble all the way to the bottom of the valley, but there was a major obstacle in its way.

  The number one pylon supporting the cable was made of solid steel and concrete. The cable car was lightweight aluminium and plastic. It struck the pylon almost dead center and was virtually torn in half in an instant. Bent back double over itself around the base of the pylon, it was transformed into a pile of twisted, tortured, crushed metal. It hung there, trapped against the concrete.

  Then the roaring wall of tumbling snow that it had created slammed into it and within seconds, it was hidden from sight, buried under a hundred tons of rock and ice and snow.

  The small, localized avalanche continued past the pylon for another three hundred yards, gradually petering out as the slope lessened. It rolled to a halt against the west-facing wall of Canyon Lodge, the snow, its last gasp spent, banked up against the wall a matter of a few feet.

  Jesse stood from behind the gun, his knees unsteady. Below him, he could see troops deploying from the Blackhawks on the clear ground beside Canyon Lodge.

  The fifty calibers on the roof, no longer able to bear, had fallen silent and Maloney’s troops had set two M60 machine guns to spraying the roof parapet, encouraging the men there to keep their heads down. Now the distant pop of small-arms fire could be heard, carried on the slight wind, and hearing it, he hoped dully that Tina Bowden was all right.

  FIFTY

  BLACKHAWK HELICOPTER 2

  TAIL NUMBER 348719

  SNOW EAGLES RESORT

  1223 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME

  FRIDAY, DAY 7

  Dent Colby leaned against the side of the Blackhawk and unfastened the velcro straps that held his flak jacket in place. The hotel was thirty yards away and the main force of Maloney’s marines had gone in some five minutes ago. The next few minutes would tell him whether he had acted correctly, he thought, or whether he had caused the deaths of fifty unarmed hostages.

  It would also decide whether he still had a career with the bureau, he thought dully, but that was an insignificant consideration right now. He glanced around to see Cale Lawson and Lee Torrens studying the wrecked remains of the cable car some two hundred yards up the mountain.

  “Your boy did good,” Lawson said and Lee nodded.

  “Yeah. He usually does.” They all knew that it could only have been Jesse who had taken out the cable car. Somehow, Dent figured, he must have gotten ahold of some of the Stinger missiles. Cale Lawson went to say more but the earphone on Dent’s headset chirped and he held up a hand to stop him.

  “This is Maloney. You copy, Colby?”

  “I hear you.”

  “We’ve secured the gym. Most of the hostages are okay. There were five killed and another half dozen or so wounded. My medics are attending to them now. The enemy took four casualties here, all KIAs.”

  Dent Colby felt an enormous sense of relief wash over him. Five hostages dead was bad news, he thought, but it was a damn sight better than fifty. The radio chirped again; this time another voice spoke.

  “Colonel Maloney, this is Rapper.”

  Emil Rapper was the captain leading the roof assault team. Maloney acknowledged the call.

  “Go ahead, Rap.”

  “Roof’
s secured, sir. One enemy wounded, seven KIA. We called on them to surrender, sir, but they didn’t seem interested.”

  “You gave them the chance though?”

  “Just the one, sir,” the captain’s voice was flat and unemotional. Colby guessed you didn’t give too many chances to a group of mercenaries armed with multiple fifty-caliber machine guns. Apparently, Maloney agreed.

  “Good work, Rap. Look after that prisoner. We’re going to want to know what this was all about.”

  “Affirmative, sir. Rapper out.”

  “You hear that, Colby?” Maloney spoke again.

  “I heard. Your boys do good work, Colonel.”

  “It’s what we train for. We’ve accounted for fourteen of the enemy but according to witnesses here, there may be still four or five wandering around somewhere. So keep your eyes open. In the meantime, you’d better get your boy down off the mountain.”

  “We’ll do that,” Colby told him. Then, as a thought struck him, he added, “Colonel, how’s the girl”—he thought for her name for a moment, then added—“Bowden?” There was a just discernible pause before the marine answered.

  “She was one of the five who didn’t make it. Apparently, she did a hell of a job in here.”

  Dent shook his head sadly. He’d hoped she’d be one of the survivors. She deserved to be.

  “Damn,” he said quietly. Then he continued. “Thanks, Colonel. We’d better go get Parker. He’ll be up the mountain somewhere.”

  Cale Lawson jerked his head toward the sheriff’s department Jet Ranger.

  “We’ll take my chopper,” he said. “The Blackhawks might still be needed here.”

  Painted all white and traveling low over the snow-covered terrain, the Squirrel helicopter was almost impossible to see. The pilot, hunched forward and eyes squinted against the dull light and falling snow, looked anxiously at the rising pillar of smoke from over the next ridge. He eased the cyclic forward and the Squirrel hugged the contours of the ground a little closer. He didn’t like the look of this. Not at all.

  The Squirrel’s radio had one channel dedicated to a cell-phone circuit and he hit the redial key, sending out a signal to Kormann’s phone. The headset earphone buzzed for a second, then a flat, emotionless female voice spoke.

  “The cellular phone you are calling is either out of range or switched off.”

  He thumbed the switch to cut the contact and glanced at his watch. Twenty-one minutes had elapsed since Kormann’s phone call and now the rising bulk of Eagle Ridge loomed ahead of him. Once he crossed the ridge, the horseshoe-shaped area of Snow Eagles Resort would lie spread before him. Again, he frowned at the thin column of smoke.

  He hesitated, his left hand on the collective pushed down and twisted, changing the pitch of the rotor blades and raising the RPM of the jet turbine engine.

  A slight back pressure on the cyclic raised the Squirrel’s blunt nose and the little helicopter hovered below the ridge line, close enough to the ground for its rotor downwash to send a cloud of blown powder into the air around him. That was probably what saved him from being seen. The white cloud of snow rose up around the white-painted helicopter so that it merged into the background of falling snow and snow-covered pines. Then a blue and white-painted Jet Ranger soared briefly above the ridge line, wheeled and turned to head back into the valley on the other side.

  He’d seen the gold sheriff’s star painted on the side of the fuselage and that was enough for him. Kormann wasn’t answering. There was smoke coming from somewhere in the valley and now the cops were flying over the ridge line, uncontested. His fee for the pickup was fifty thousand, half paid in advance. His fingers clenched and unclenched on the collective as he made his decision.

  Twenty-five thousand was better than nothing, he thought. Certainly better than ninety years in the pen. He wheeled the chopper through an in-place one-eighty, easing cyclic and collective as the nose came around, and headed off, nose down, hugging the terrain contours, back the way he’d come.

  In the Jet Ranger, Lawson’s deputy hurled the chopper into a tight, diving turn as they felt the unmistakable sensation of bullet strikes on the underside. The Jet Ranger wheeled and dived back down toward the valley, the occupants craning to see where the shots had come from. There was nobody visible, and Cale Lawson pressed the transmit button on the floor in front of him.

  “Colonel Maloney?” he said into the boom mike on his headset. There was a brief pause before the marine leader answered.

  “This is Maloney.”

  “This is the Wasatch County sheriff’s helicopter, Colonel. We think we’ve found your missing four bandits. They’re somewhere in the trees on top of the ridge here, shooting at us. I’d appreciate it if you’d send some of your fire eaters up here to teach them some manners.”

  “On the way, Sheriff.” the colonel replied briefly. Cale Lawson turned to Dent and Lee in the rear seat and shrugged.

  “No sense getting ourselves shot at when the marines are drawing combat pay,” he said, and Dent grinned at him in return.

  “Couldn’t agree more, Sheriff,” he said, then the grin faded as a thought struck him.

  “I just hope Jesse hasn’t run into those guys,” he said. But the older man was already pointing to the trail leading down toward the hotel, where the slope lessened and the tree line ended.

  A single figure was skiing smooth and fast out of the trees. As the chopper flashed above him, barely a hundred feet up, he looked up and waved one hand.

  “Could be that’s our friend right there,” he said. Lee was sitting on that side of the little aircraft and she took one glance at the easy grace and smooth-flowing style.

  “That’s him,” she said. Then, as the lone skier went into a tuck and began a straight run down to the flat land below, she added with a relieved grin: “We better haul ass if he isn’t going to beat us down.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  THE OVAL OFFICE

  WASHINGTON D.C.

  1114 HOURS, EASTERN TIME

  SUNDAY, DAY 9

  Linus Benjamin was ushered into the Oval Office by one of the president’s two secretaries. President Gorton was behind the desk, framed by the late morning light streaming through the French doors. Pohlsen, as ever, hovered close by. The president smiled and rose, extending his hand as the FBI director entered the room.

  “Linus! Come in, won’t you? Take a seat.”

  The handshake was brief and firm. A politician’s handshake, Benjamin thought wryly, then instantly regretted the thought as the president continued.

  “Your people did a good job on that Utah business. I want you to know I’m grateful.”

  Benjamin took one of the seats opposite the president. Gorton sat as well. Pohlsen remained standing, moving restlessly to one side of the desk and surreptitiously checking his wristwatch. The president’s day was measured in five minute blocks and his chief of staff was a jealous guardian of the timetable. Benjamin shrugged diffidently in reply to the president’s compliment.

  “Seven hostages dead,” he said bitterly. “I would like to have done better.”

  “Seven?” The president’s forehead creased in a frown. “I thought there were five casualties?”

  “Two more died subsequently. One from burns and one from severe lung problems caused by smoke inhalation. Plus the pilot of the Apache. His gunner survived, somehow. I wish we had done better,” he repeated. The president lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug.

  “You could have done a whole lot worse,” he told the director. “We all could have. We could be looking now at a figure of fifty dead. Seven is regrettable, naturally. But on balance, I don’t know that you could have done better.”

  Benjamin accepted the assessment. In his heart, he knew the president was right. They had been in a no-win situation from day one. The best they could have ever hoped for was to minimize their losses.

  “It seems Emery’s theory was correct,” he said, looking carefully at the man opposite to see what effe
ct the words would have. To his surprise, the president grinned ruefully.

  “The damned man usually is,” he said. “That’s one of the reasons why I find him so insufferable. Still, I suppose we do owe him a debt.” He dismissed the former professor by moving onto another subject. “Your man on the spot handled the situation well. Colby, was it?”

  Benjamin nodded. “That’s right, Mr. President. He had to make a tough decision on the spur of the moment and he made the right one. And thank God for that.”

  The president nodded several times. “I was thinking that some gesture on my part might be appropriate—some kind of citation perhaps?” he suggested. Benjamin grinned slightly.

  “A presidential citation in his personnel file never did any FBI agent harm, Mr. President,” he replied. Regardless of your political leanings or personal feelings about the man in the White House, a presidential citation was a certain aid to rapid promotion.

  “Then there’s the matter of the girl”—he glanced down at a legal pad on his desk—“Bowden. Tragic that she should be among the casualties.”

  Benjamin said nothing. The president had summed it up. The eyewitness accounts, particularly Nate Pell and Senator Carling, left no doubt that all the survivors were indebted to Tina Bowden for their lives. The president was shuffling a few papers on his desk until he found the one he was looking for.

  “It seems that Ms. Bowden was still on the Marine Corps reserve list,” he said. “That means it’s within my powers to recommend her for a decoration. I’ve spoken with the marine commandant and we feel the Navy Cross might be appropriate.”

  “I’m sure her family would appreciate that, Mr. President,” Benjamin replied and again, the president’s reaction caught him by surprise.

  “Not as much as they’d appreciate having their daughter still alive, I’m sure. I thought maybe a private ceremony here at the White House. No press. Just an informal presentation to her parents.”