by Dave Edlund
Jim was looking out the back window almost constantly, only occasionally turning to look forward when the truck suddenly braked to negotiate a sharp curve. The mountains rose steeply to their left, and the bank fell sharply to their right. Through breaks between the trees, Jim could just glimpse a river below.
Peter was gripping the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were aching. He was completely focused on the road and nothing else, leaning forward toward the wheel. Fortunately, he had driven this highway a hundred times, and he knew every curve so well he could anticipate them. He was just coming out of a gradual left curve and he knew that just ahead there was a sharp right curve.
He kept his speed up—60 miles per hour—and the sedan pulled in close. He was almost at the right curve now. It was a progressive curve that began gradual enough but then became tight. Twice before he had misjudged this curve, both times nearly running off the road. At the last possible microsecond, he hit the brakes hard and sharply turned to the right. The truck protested the G-force and began to slide to the left. But then the vehicle’s traction control worked its magic, and the truck straightened out and accelerated out of the turn only to immediately come into a sharp left.
Peter hit the brakes and again the truck groaned in protest before straightening out. He had lost a lot of speed—down to 35 miles per hour now. But the sedan had fallen way back. Unfortunately, it was still there and accelerating. Peter didn’t think he could use that trick again.
Peter was accelerating as fast as the Hummer’s five-cylinder engine would go. The truck was designed to pull a heavy trailer or other loads; it was geared low with good torque, so it actually accelerated well from a slow speed. But it started to bog down at higher speeds, and Peter was struggling to get the truck to accelerate above 50 miles per hour as they continued to move up the steep grade toward Tombstone Pass.
He had just come out of a gradual hairpin curve and was continuing to increase speed toward a sharp left-right S-curve followed by a sharp left hairpin-curve. He knew he would lose a lot of speed there, and with the elevation getting higher and the air thinner, his truck would not be setting any speed records coming out of those turns.
“Why didn’t I buy a Porsche?” Peter mumbled. Despite the cool air, sweat was tracing wet lines down his forehead.
He entered the S curve fast—too fast—as the truck skidded to the right. Jim looked out his window and saw the bank drop off toward the river about 100 feet below. The truck kept sliding right, losing traction as the right wheels left the pavement and made contact with the gravel shoulder. But again the traction control kicked in and straightened the Hummer. Peter resumed breathing and a silent curse slipped from his lips.
The sedan was still on their tail, holding back just a bit in the turns. They came out of the S curve and started the sharp left hairpin. Peter had to give up a lot of speed, coming out of the turn at only 30 miles per hour. The sedan was right there, gaining quickly. Suddenly there was a crack and Jim instantly realized the stakes had gone up.
Another shot, and Jim urged, “We need some distance between us.”
Peter gritted his teeth, never taking his eyes off the road. “This is a truck, not a sports car. I’m doing everything I can.”
The first two shots had been poorly aimed, but the third shot connected and the driver’s side-view mirror exploded. Peter jumped and almost lost control. He steadied the wheel, every muscle in his body tensed.
Jim unzipped his jacket and calmly removed a large semiautomatic pistol from a shoulder holster—a Paraordinance Super Hawg .45 auto. This should even up the odds.
Peter glanced over and saw the weapon. “What the hell? Where did that come from?”
“Let me introduce you to Karl—I never leave home without him.”
“You named your gun?” exclaimed Peter.
“Well, we spend a lot of time together.” Jim climbed into the back seat and opened the sliding rear window. He raised the Super Hawg and took aim, firing carefully. The report inside the cab of the truck was truly deafening, and Peter’s hearing was reduced to the ringing in his ears.
The pursuers suddenly dropped way back. Jim was pretty sure he had missed the driver, but was pleased that the show of force had pushed them back. “Keep it moving, don’t slow for anything!” he shouted
The sedan continued to hold back and Peter cleared the next hairpin-turn and entered a long stretch of mostly straight highway. The road was still climbing, maybe another three or four miles until they reached the summit of Tombstone Pass. The truck was still accelerating—fortunately nothing critical had been shot up.
The sedan began to close the gap again. “They’re coming up on us! Try to hold steady and I’ll see if I can slow them down again!”
Jim was trying to get a steady bead on the front grill of the sedan. The car was about 60 yards distant—just a little closer, Jim thought. It closed to about 40 yards and Jim was putting pressure on the trigger.
BABABAP! BABABAP!
Jim ducked at the unmistakable sound of automatic fire. He raised his head and again… BABABAP! He fired off three quick shots, not having time to aim carefully, hoping for a little luck.
Peter yelled, “What’s that? That’s not what it sounded like before!”
“They must have dug up a machine gun! We’re gonna be in a world of hurt if they get lucky or close!”
Peter was approaching a fork to the right. It wasn’t a marked road; it wasn’t even paved. But Peter knew the road—NFD245. It was one of many national forest roads that crisscrossed the mountains—a legacy of the logging industry that used to be the bread and butter of so many Northwest families. Peter slowed to make the turn.
“What are you doing? Keep going! They’re getting closer!”
“We can’t outrun them on this grade! Our only chance is to change the playing field!” Peter turned sharply right and left the paved highway.
Skinny had the MP5 submachine gun in his grip and was taking aim as he leaned out the passenger window when the truck suddenly braked and turned sharply right. The driver followed, and his maneuver almost caused Skinny to drop the gun. Skinny regained his balance, but he could no longer lean out the window because of the uneven road surface, pitted by frequent pot holes. They kept following the Hummer truck, eating the dust it kicked up from the dry gravel road.
Peter continued forward, but the rough road forced a much slower speed. Without the threat of gun fire, Jim reached for his cell phone. “I’m calling in backup—this has gotten too serious.”
He pushed a button to unlock the screen. “Crap! No signal. I guess we’re still on our own.”
“I could have told you that. Dark zone, man—no cell coverage for miles.”
“Great,” said Jim. “Okay, time for plan B.”
“I didn’t know you had a Plan A, let alone a Plan B,” said Peter.
“I do now. When you see a road to the right, take it and stop as fast as you can. That should leave me in position to take these guys out.” Jim had climbed back into the front seat.
“Up ahead… looks like I can turn off to the right. Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Peter took the turn and slammed on the brakes, spinning the Hummer around so that Jim’s side of the vehicle was facing back at the gravel road. Even before the truck had come to a complete stop Jim was leaning out his door, firing at the sedan. Unfortunately, the dust from sliding on the gravel made it almost impossible to see the sedan, and he couldn’t get off any well-aimed shots. He slammed the door shut as the gray sedan continued on down the gravel road to get past the ambush.
“Get us out of here—back to the highway! I think I might have got them, but let’s not wait to find out!”
Peter shoved the transmission into reverse and floored it. The trucked screamed backwards and then slid to a stop as Peter spun the wheel, shifted into drive, and punched the accelerator. They left a shower of gravel and dust behind as they hastily headed back to the highw
ay. Peter turned right onto Highway 20 again. He smoothly accelerated to the speed limit. Jim rammed home another full magazine into Karl—his last.
They had only covered about a mile when their pursuers appeared again, gaining quickly. “Man, these guys just won’t quit! And they’re beginning to piss me off!” hissed Jim.
Peter pushed the accelerator to the floor; the truck again picked up speed, but not as fast as the sedan. They entered a left curve and Jim couldn’t get a clear shot off. But Skinny had no problems and fired two short, controlled bursts from the MP5. He knew what he was doing, thought Jim. A cluster of bullets hit the tailgate of the truck. Then there was a different sound, a sort of a poof—“Shit! I think they hit the tires!” said Peter.
“Oh man, that’s bad.” And then a moment later Jim added, “How come we aren’t slowing?”
“I swapped out the stock tires for run-flat all-terrain rubber. Never thought I’d test them this way!”
They approached a right curve as the truck neared the summit. Peter was driving very fast, but the sedan had gotten close. Good, thought Jim. Just a little closer. Peter entered the right curve and Jim found his opening. He leaned out the right window as far as he could balance and had a clear view of the sedan. He could see Skinny raising the MP5 and getting ready to shoot.
“Hold as steady as you can… I’m going to end this right here!” He pulled the trigger. BOOM! Again and again. BOOM! BOOM! Jim fired off six aimed shots within two seconds. Skinny and the driver of the sedan were close—at twenty yards Jim could hardly miss—and he didn’t.
The H3T came out of the turn and covered the remaining 50 yards to the top of the grade—Tombstone Pass. The road made a gentle but significant sweep to the left here. Peter took the turn, not slowing for a second. The gray sedan, however, did not. It veered to the right and slid on the gravel shoulder. The driver couldn’t pull out of the slide and the car slammed sideways into a tree, coming to a stop.
Jim sighed and his shoulders slumped as he leaned his head back. He put the large Super Hawg on his lap and engaged the safety. “I think they’re done,” he said. “Saw them hit a tree sideways. That car isn’t going anywhere.”
Peter leaned back in his seat and relaxed his grip on the wheel, allowing his fingers to regain their natural color. He slowed back to the speed limit, braking as they came down the grade. It was still another hour to Sisters, the nearest city. Jim holstered his gun. “When will we have cell coverage again?”
“Not until we get to Sisters. The run-flat tires should hold until we get there, if I take it easy.”
“I don’t think we’ll have any more problems. Those guys are done, and I didn’t see a backup team. I’ll call this in when we get to civilization.” And with that Jim leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, running through the day’s events over and over, trying to put it all together, but too many pieces were still missing.
An hour later, the red Hummer drove into Sisters and stopped at Bronco Billy’s Saloon at the Sisters Hotel. Jim and Peter got out, stretched, and conducted a cursory inspection of the truck. It had absorbed almost a dozen rounds, mostly high on the back left quarter panel and tailgate. Jim figured they were very lucky indeed that no one was hit. The left rear tire was also shot. Peter lowered the spare and together they replaced the rear tire. Miraculously, none of the bullets had hit the spare or punctured the gas tank.
“The whisky is pretty good here,” said Peter. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”
“No arguments from me,” said Jim as they walked into the saloon. The Sisters Hotel was right out of the Old West, with a classic western exterior. The second floor had the hotel rooms, and the ground floor was mostly saloon and restaurant. The floor was wood, of course, and the bar just to the right of the entrance was made of highly polished mahogany with a large mirror behind the bar. A half dozen dining tables were arranged across the large open floor. In keeping with the western theme, the tables were small, designed to seat four at most, and covered with white-and-red checkered table cloths surrounded by bent-wood chairs.
They took a table, and Peter immediately ordered Buffalo Trace bourbon for himself and Jim—straight up. Before the drinks arrived, Jim had his phone open, dialing. He got up and walked to the door, stepping out onto the covered wooden porch where he could speak in relative privacy.
Peter finished his drink just as Jim walked back in. “I just briefed my boss, Colonel Pierson. He wasn’t too happy, especially about the rolling gun fight. Said he would contact the state police and take care of the paper work. I’ve been ordered back immediately—we have a lot of work to do. Seems like our suspicions were well founded.”
“Do you think we’ll learn anything from those two goons?”
“The guys in the car? No, they’re long gone; they’re pros. By the time the state police arrive at the scene, they’ll find a car that has been professionally cleaned—no personal items, wiped of finger prints.”
The waiter appeared and Peter ordered another shot. He felt the whiskey helping to calm his nerves.
“Why were they trying to kill us?” asked Peter.
“I’m not sure. I can only guess that our conversation this morning with your father is right on target—someone is trying to interfere with his work, to silence him.”
“So why the attack on us?”
“Simple—whoever is behind this is trying to eliminate loose ends. That would be us. Your father also—so he will be under 24-hour protection. I only wish we could have convinced him to cancel his field trip to Alaska.”
“Dad has always been rather stubborn.”
“And you’re going, too?”
“Yes. After all that’s happened today, I have to. If Dad needs help, I’m going to be there.”
“And where, again, is ‘there’?” asked Jim.
“Chernabura Island, in the Aleutian Island chain just south of Sandpoint. That’s where I have my cabin. If all is quiet, maybe I can spend some time hunting bear.”
Jim looked hard at Peter. All right. Like father, like son. Some of the best and bravest soldiers Jim knew were like Peter—stubborn, committed to ideals, and above all, loyal to the end. He knew he couldn’t change Peter’s mind. He knew that Peter would die trying to protect his father and his colleagues. What really annoyed Jim, though, was that he couldn’t fault Peter. He knew what logic dictated, but if the roles were reversed, he’d do exactly the same thing.
“After we finish dinner, can I talk you into dropping me off at the Bend airport? Someone will be by in the morning to take care of my rental car. They will also want to debrief you tomorrow. Here’s my card.”
Peter took the card and read it aloud. “James Mellakis, Importer & Exporter, Vexsus Trading Company. You’re joking, right?”
“In my business, you don’t advertise. The phone number will ring directly to my cell.”
Peter nodded. He thought these protocols existed only in spy novels and movies, but then he had never met anyone from the intelligence community. At least as far as he knew.
“Don’t talk to anyone who is not from my office. And ask for identification before you let anyone in. Okay? Don’t take any chances, is that clear? There will be an armed guard outside your residence by the time you get home tonight.”
“Thanks,” said Peter, not really sure what else to say.
Chapter 6
September 24
Chernabura Island, West Side
The journey to Chernabura Island began with a commercial flight from Portland to Anchorage. Except for food, almost everything else they needed—clothing, personal gear, and scientific instruments—had been checked onto the flight. But there was one critical item they needed to buy in Anchorage—explosives.
If they were to conduct an adequate geological survey, they needed seismic charges to map the underlying strata. Since it was impossible to get the explosives on board a commercial flight, they planned to arrive in Anchorage early and allow a full day to ta
ke care of any last-minute details as well as purchase the seismic charges. Professor Savage had made arrangements in advance to make sure that he could get what they would need and that it would be ready to go, packed in a locked steel chest. He also hired a bush pilot to take the team the 570 miles from Anchorage to Sand Point. The last leg of their journey would be by boat.
The professor’s careful planning did not escape notice. The sales clerk who packed the seismic charges made a brief phone call to an anonymous receiver. He was promised 1,000 dollars for simply confirming the date and time that anything was sold to a Professor Ian Savage or any academic team from Oregon State University. The clerk never questioned why the information was requested; after all, he was only confirming a sale. What harm could come from that? Besides, it was good money.
The pilot landed his float plane in the harbor at Sandpoint and taxied up to the dock. After the aircraft was tied off to two cleats, the team unloaded their gear, piling it on the dock. The weather was good with only high, thin clouds and the air temperature was cool albeit still well above freezing.
Professor Ian Savage was wearing a lightweight jacket to ward off the chill. He removed a sheet of paper from the inside pocket and read the name of the charter boat, End of the Rainbow III. The other team members were all milling about the large pile of duffle bags, backpacks, and one padlocked chest painted red.
Professor Savage approached his friend and colleague, Kenji Sato. “Why don’t you stay here? I’m going to find our boat. It can’t be too far from here.”
The professor didn’t have to go far before a deckhand washing down a fishing boat pointed him to a nearby slip. Squinting his eyes, Ian looked in the direction the deckhand was pointing. “The green and white boat?” he asked, just to be sure. The deckhand nodded, then went back to his work.
