by Dave Edlund
As they walked along the edge of another tidal flat, they saw tracks in the soft mud from a good-sized bear. “Probably too large for a black bear,” explained Rex. They continued north along the coast for another hour, but they encountered only rocky coastline.
“We’re not likely to find any large bears in this terrain—they prefer the green grass in the mud flats. I’d suggest we head back to camp and have something to eat. Morning will come early, and if we don’t see a good bear in one of those grassy areas, we can go inland and look for some berry patches.”
Brad agreed with the strategy, and they turned and made their way back to camp. They ate a simple meal and enjoyed a shot of Wild Turkey, then crawled into their sleeping bags to get some rest.
Rex was awake at 6:00 A.M. The sun had yet to rise, and the air was cold. He dressed quickly and then stepped out of the tent. The damp air had settled during the night as a thin layer of frost and a million stars shown brightly. There was no wind—a good sign, he thought. With luck, the favorable weather would hold for the remainder of the day.
He roused Brad, who surprisingly didn’t complain about the chill. He just got out of the sleeping bag, got dressed, and began to boil water.
Rex broke the silence. “Usually my hunters don’t want to get up. Too early, too cold—I’ve heard it all.”
“Well, my daddy taught me that procrastinating doesn’t get the job done.”
Rex smiled, appreciating the down-home philosophy. “A good lesson to learn. Personally, I detest having to cajole my clients to get out of the sack and going. You know what I mean? I have a job to do, but the client has to be willing to participate.”
Brad nodded. “Yes sir. I’m here to do the job.”
“All right. As soon as we eat some food, we can get moving.”
Brad nodded, but had no comeback and the brief conversation faded. The only sound was the hiss from the two-burner camp stove, and soon the smell of white gas was replaced by the pleasing aroma of coffee. All the while, Brad had quietly stood near the stove, warming his hands from the small amount of radiated heat, eyes focused on the water boiling over the blue flames, seemingly lost in thought.
The breakfast was not fancy, but it was adequate. Boiling water was poured over oatmeal and stirred to a paste-like consistency. What it lacked in visual appeal was more than made up in taste. As a special treat, Rex plopped four slabs of Canadian bacon in a frying pan and warmed the preserved meat until it steamed. The smell, combined with the aroma of coffee and oatmeal, was delicious, and they both ate eagerly.
It took only a few minutes to get their daypacks organized, and they set out from camp as the sun was just lighting the sky in shades of red and orange. There was just barely enough light to see, which aided their hike. Rex suggested they head north again, along the same route they had walked yesterday. He was hoping they might come across the bear that left those tracks in the tidal flat.
The two men walked silently for about two hours and soon saw the beginning of the tidal flat. They stopped to carefully glass the area ahead of them. Removing their day packs and quietly setting them on the gravel-covered ground, they made their way to a small rise—mostly weathered rock that had overgrown with heather on one side. From the top of this rise, they could scan the tidal flat for at least 300 yards ahead.
Rex and Brad settled in, sitting comfortably and looking forward through their binoculars. After five minutes, Brad said he was going to step off to the side and relieve himself.
Rex continued glassing, slowly and meticulously scanning the ground for game. Two minutes later Brad returned to find Rex still scanning through his binoculars. He approached his guide quietly from behind. With a silent, fluid motion Brad removed his Buck knife from its sheath and, without any hesitation, reached out with his left hand and put it swiftly over Rex’s mouth. At the same moment he drove the blade into the base of his skull, twisting the knife as he withdrew it.
Brad dropped the dead body and watched it twitch for a few moments. Then he wiped his knife onto Rex’s jacket to remove the man’s blood. “That was too easy,” he mumbled to himself as he replaced the knife in its scabbard and removed the GPS unit from his daypack. After the GPS booted up, he retrieved the coordinates for the cabin and then shouldered his daypack and rifle.
He calculated that it would be at least eleven days, maybe twelve, before the body was found. The bush pilot was not due back for nine days. The pilot would be somewhat concerned when he arrived and found neither the guide, Rex Tremont, nor the client, Brad Smith. But he would conclude that they were still out in the field, likely field dressing recently shot game.
The pilot would radio in the news, but the police would not be alarmed for at least 24 hours… more likely 48. Then they would mount a search party. By that time, the bears would have consumed Tremont’s body, leaving nothing but a few scattered bones and scraps of clothing. The camp would be found in order, just as it was left, and the police would certainly conclude that the two hunters had been attacked and killed by a bear. By then, Brad would be long gone.
Brad moved out toward the cabin. He had about one and a half miles to cover over uneven terrain, and he wanted to cover it fast. He still had a full day’s work ahead, and was expected to report in on schedule.
By late morning, Brad was approaching the cabin through the forest. He slowed his pace to be more cautious and remain undetected. He did not know the identity of the targets—that information was restricted to a need-to-know basis. He was the advance reconnaissance and was to gather information only and remain invisible. His orders were clear. Recon the cabin and the beach landing site, determine the total number of targets, and ensure the strike team landing was unopposed and undetected.
Arriving near the cabin, Brad remained at a distance and watched as people came and went. At mid-day, everyone returned to the cabin. Through a window he saw several take seats at a large table and food was passed around—lunchtime, Brad thought. He took advantage of the opportunity to move closer to the cabin—close enough that he could use his Bionic Ear.
The Bionic Ear consisted of a small parabolic reflector that focused sound waves onto a tiny receiver. A pair of ear buds converted the electrical signal to sound. Using this compact eavesdropping device, Brad was able to discern most of the conversation the group had during their meal.
He identified individuals by their voices, concluding there were at least nine different people in the cabin. Brad took meticulous notes on a small notepad as he listened. Only one voice sounded feminine; the rest were masculine. Two persons, men, were addressed as “marshals.” One was called “professor,” and based on the questions he was asked he must be the team leader. One was called Sato-san, so he was probably Japanese. He was able to pick out a few other names—Junichi, Karen, and Harry—but did not get names for everyone he had identified by voice. Brad wondered if he could be mistaken on the count. He had to try for visual confirmation—maybe they would all leave the cabin after their meal was concluded.
Brad was well concealed with natural vegetation and his camouflaged hunting clothes. From his vantage point he could clearly see the front door to the cabin and he knew there were no other exits since he had already scouted the exterior when he had made his initial approach. After a few more minutes, it sounded as if lunch was breaking up, and the marshal named Murph said he would make the rounds. A man walked out the front door so Brad visually identified him as Marshal Murph.
Murph stood on the porch, stretched, and then began walking away from the cabin—fortunately not toward Brad’s secluded position. He noticed Murph was armed with a pistol, probably a Glock since that was standard issue, but he couldn’t be certain. He also had a shotgun in his grip.
The woman, Karen, and two other men walked out onto the porch a moment later. They wore daypacks and spoke about gathering specimens. Another man appeared. He was older, with a short gray beard and was also wearing a daypack. Together the four started hiking to the west.
About an hour later, two Asian men stepped out of the cabin. Brad concluded these were most likely Sato-san and Junichi. They sat on the front porch and spoke in a language that Brad didn’t understand but assumed was Japanese.
Brad looked up from his notepaper to see Marshal Murph return to the cabin, where he was greeted by another man who had just walked through the door. Both men laughed—must have been a joke, but Brad was unable to clearly hear it. The new man walked away from the cabin just as Murph had done earlier, and Brad could see he also carried a pistol in a side holster and had a shotgun slung over his shoulder. So this is the second marshal.
Almost like clockwork, the second marshal returned an hour later. They’re running one-man patrols, an hour in duration. They’re making this too easy. He munched down a couple of granola bars taken from his pack and sipped some warm coffee from his thermos.
Just before sunset, the group of four who had gone out in search of specimens arrived back at the cabin. The daypacks they were carrying looked full. They talked in excited voices on the front porch about the rock samples they found near the cove where they had landed the previous day.
After the sun dropped below the horizon, Brad gave up his concealed position. Both marshals were back at the cabin so they obviously did not have the ability to perform night patrols. “Sloppy,” Brad muttered to himself. He pulled a pair of night vision goggles from his pack and adjusted them on his head. He glanced at his watch and noted it was time to head to the landing beach on the north tip of the island. He used his GPS to guide his way, the coordinates for the landing beach having been preloaded into the GPS memory. The walking was easy despite the darkness, with plenty of grassy meadows between patches of forest. Placing his booted feet carefully with every step to avoid excessive noise, Brad walked along the tree line so his silhouette would not be visible—just in case someone happened to be watching. His path would take him around the east of the mountain peak north of the cabin.
He arrived at the beach in plenty of time and spent the next two hours carefully checking over the area for any other people. Although it was very unlikely that there would be other hunters on the island, it was not impossible.
Finally, convinced that the area was clear, Brad sat down on a fallen tree with his back against the roots that had once held the giant spruce to the earth. It made a pretty comfortable chair, he thought, and it was a lot warmer than sitting on bare rock. It would be another three hours before the landing party was scheduled to signal, so Brad made himself comfortable and inserted chemical warming packs into his boots and gloves, and over his kidneys inside his parka. All he had to do now was wait. He ate another couple of granola bars and downed the last of his now-cold coffee.
In the early morning hours, right on schedule, he saw the blink of light from the ocean. Ten seconds later he saw it again. He removed his flashlight from his pocket, pointed it toward the blinking light, and signaled back with three short flashes. The return signal was two short flashes followed by one long, then two short. Brad replied with one long, two short, and then one final long.
A darkly-colored Zodiac with a silenced motor arrived with six men on the beach five minutes later. The men were dressed entirely in black, including black paint on their faces and black stocking caps to ward off the cold night air. And all were wearing night vision goggles.
Silently, the men pulled the Zodiac onto the beach. They slid the inflatable boat next to a large fir tree, the low, drooping boughs providing camouflage. Brad handed the team leader his notes, and the rest of the team waited as he read them by the suffused red glow of a penlight. Speaking quietly, the leader briefed the team on what to expect. Each team member was wearing communication gear consisting of a throat mic and an ear bud. The transmission range was short—they would only be communicating amongst themselves.
It was now 4:00 A.M., and the team headed south toward the cabin. The leader removed a small radio from his load harness and keyed a short coded message, then pressed the transmit button.
They were on schedule, and no resistance had been encountered. They had the element of surprise and expected only weak opposition from the two lightly armed marshals. Maintaining strict silence and with a high degree of confidence, the team closed on Peter’s cabin.
Chapter 9
September 26
Moscow, Russian Federation
Grigory Rostov swallowed the iced vodka and placed the empty glass on his desk next to a short stack of reports he had just reviewed. Rostov Oil Corporation was doing well. The global economy had an insatiable thirst for oil, and the ever-growing demand exerted nearly constant upward pressure on the price of oil. Reserves owned by Rostov’s corporation, as well as production, were up marginally over last quarter, and substantially over the preceding year, thanks in part to the recent strikes in Kazakhstan and southern Russia. Of course, it also helped to have the full power of the Russian government on your side when negotiating with so-called partners.
The formula was simple; let the Western oil companies come in early and pay dearly to develop the new fields, and then simply nationalize the project. Oil-rich countries had been doing just that for decades. And it worked, so long as they allowed the private concerns—British Energy, Excelon Petroleum, New Holland Oil, Trident Energy Group, and others just enough revenue to report reasonable profits to their shareholders.
The cell phone in his jacket pocket vibrated to signal an incoming call. He pressed the phone to his ear and listened. He had been expecting the call, so no greeting was required.
“The strike team is in place. They should make contact with the targets in approximately one hour. Everything is proceeding according to plan.”
“Very well. Keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Grigory terminated the call and walked across his office to the wet bar built into a polished walnut cabinet covering the entire wall. A silver sink and faucet were set into an ebony-black granite surface speckled with small crystals that glistened like tiny diamonds under the recessed halogen spotlights. He retrieved a bottle of vodka nestled in a silver bucket of crushed ice and poured another glassful. Although he had a high level of confidence in the Ramirez brothers, he also knew that operations seldom went as planned.
The key to success was to always anticipate your opponent’s next moves. This meant that first he had to anticipate the outcome of his actions, whether the operation proceeded as planned or not. But Grigory enjoyed this part of the game; he was a master strategist and tactician.
Using his position of influence in political circles, Grigory had quietly approached the governments of Venezuela, Iran, Russia, and Libya with a plan that was so bold and daring that their initial reaction was nothing short of ridicule. But he persisted, arguing that the risk was disproportionately his, yet the benefit would be for all.
Although he normally kept his illegal affairs secret from government officials, for his plan to succeed he needed the combined intelligence capabilities of several national governments, not to mention sympathetic national police agencies to help with covering up official investigations that could otherwise prove troubling.
He had presented his plan two years ago, and Russia and Venezuela accepted his proposal; Iran and Libya, each still dealing with internal unrest, decided not to provoke the Western nations. Since then Grigory was directly responsible for orchestrating the murder of more than 500 men, women, and children. Mostly they were scientists working on alternative, and most inconveniently, promising theories about oil production— theories that, if fully developed and commercialized, would ruin the advantage he and his company held over the oil-consuming countries.
Initially it had
been fairly easy to make the murders appear like accidents—lab explosions, car crashes, and the like. But the real breakthrough came when he altered the modus operandi to mimic global terrorism—bombings and political assassinations. Suicide bombings were particularly effective, and the death toll began to rise rapidly.
The attack at the Hedberg conference in Caracas a few months earlier had been especially efficient, killing 45 experts in abiogenic oil formation at one time. Soon there wouldn’t be any “experts” left. Yet he still had a few targets on his list, including that professor from Oregon and his colleague from Japan. Pablo Ramirez, with planning assistance from his brother Vasquez, was the perfect operative to lead the mission.
At least for now, the Venezuelans were his allies, and he would exploit them to his maximum benefit. But logic also dictated that he have a backup plan. He pressed the number 1 on his cell phone, and the call connected immediately.
“Good evening, Grigory. Everything is going well, I trust?”
“Of course, Mr. President. The plan is proceeding on schedule.”
“Excellent. You will keep me informed?”
“I will have a final status report within ten hours. As you know, this mission is extremely important to our goals.”
“Yes. Is something troubling you, my friend?”
“I have assigned our best men to this task, but an American agent has been asking questions—he may suspect our intentions. Since I do not know the extent of his knowledge, I cannot be 100 percent confident that the mission will succeed as planned. Therefore, Mr. President, I am requesting that you authorize the secondary plan as we agreed.”
