Crossing Savage

by Dave Edlund

  Up again and moving fast in a low crouch, Peter continued his zigzag path using any cover he could. Every 50 to 80 yards he would stop to catch his breath and glass the cabin, ranging the distance at the same time.

  The black-clad man on the porch remained on post. Peter couldn’t tell what was going on inside the cabin. He continued to close the gap. But as he did so, the risk that he would be seen or heard increased. Peter drew on all his skills and experience as a hunter to stalk closer.

  He made it to a shallow dry creek bed that served as the overflow channel from the larger of the two fresh-water lakes in the valley. Moving along the dry creek bed in a crouch so low he had to place his left hand on the ground for balance, he continued to advance on the cabin. Only now he had to stop often because of the muscle strain from scurrying in this awkward, almost crab-like crouch.

  Peter stopped to rest for a moment. His back was burning from bending over, and his leg muscles were beginning to cramp up. He lay just below the rim of the creek bed and raised the glasses. The range read 393 yards. He could make out several people through a large window—his father’s students—sitting around the kitchen table.

  That’s a good sign.

  The dry creek bed would bring him closer to the cabin but then it angled away. He planned to follow the depression to the closest point.? He didn’t know. And then what

  Painfully, Peter resumed his crab-like scurrying, staying low, below the ridge of the dry creek bed. Carefully placing his feet and one hand on the loose rocks so as not to make an alarming noise, he kept moving, holding his rifle in his right hand. He had to get closer.

  Then Peter’s fortune took a turn for the worse.

  The creek bed widened and at the same time became shallower—much shallower. The bank was very low here, only twelve inches. If Peter was going to use this for cover, it would be risky, and he would have to crawl slowly on his belly to avoid detection. There wasn’t time for that sort of approach. Looking cautiously over the bank, he spotted a stump surrounded by several manzanita bushes in front and to the right. Not a lot, maybe five or six bushes two to three feet tall. The stump was from a small tree, probably a foot or so in diameter. It may have been one of the trees originally cut down for building the cabin.

  He ranged the distance to the cabin—318 yards. Then he ranged the distance to the stump—57 yards. If he could make it to the stump he would have cover. But then what? He looked beyond the stump and saw a large boulder and beyond that a cluster of small fir trees. Maybe he could work his way forward to the cabin using this scattered cover.

  But first Peter would have to rise from the protection of the dry creek bed and dash to the stump and manzanita bushes almost 60 yards away. Surely he would be seen as he made his dash. He glassed the cabin again with the binoculars. At this close distance he could make out a lot of detail. Now he saw that the weapon brandished by the man on the porch was a military submachine gun—bad news.

  Then the scene changed, going from bad to worse. The people sitting at the table in the kitchen stood and were led out of the cabin by four more black-clad strangers. One was holding a pistol, and he had dark skin, black hair, and a thick, black mustache. The blond man who had shot Murph also came out with them.

  Peter studied the faces of the people as they walked out and assembled in front of the cabin. Daren, Karen, Harry, Professor Sato, and Junichi. Where was his father?

  Peter felt panic beginning to rise in his throat. His mind swirled in a confusing collage of memories and then focused on one. Peter was standing before the altar, dressed in a black tuxedo, and his father was straightening his bow tie, offering sage advice, just minutes before Maggie would walk down the aisle. Oh, how proud his father was that day…

  And then he thought again of Maggie—the bittersweet memories flooded in. He had lost so much when his wife died. He couldn’t bear the thought that his father might also be dead.

  Peter had always believed that a man was the master of his own destiny—not its slave. But he couldn’t help Maggie. And what about now? How could he save his father and the others? This can’t be happening, not again.

  Now there were six men with guns all aimed at his friends. Davis had just stepped onto the porch; he appeared to have received a blow to his face. But where was his father? Questions were running through Peter’s mind faster than he could formulate answers. He feared Murph was dead, but would not entertain the thought that the same might be true for his father. Everything had changed, and Peter couldn’t control the events unfolding before his eyes.

  If he rushed the cabin, he’d be shot dead. Then what? He couldn’t help these people if he was dead. But how could he help them lying in this stupid dry creek bed? His frustration was building to a climax. He had to do something, but what?

  And then he heard a loud boom. Through the binoculars he saw everyone turn toward the cabin. The man with the thick black mustache and another man with a short beard and much taller rushed the front door. Peter reacted—no time to think—he jumped from his protected position and sprinted for the manzanita clump. He had to get there before he was seen.

  Heart pounding in his chest, breathing hard, gulping in air, he kept running. Then he was there, falling to the ground in a controlled crash. He squirmed into the manzanita and slipped his backpack off, plopping it on the stump in front of him.

  Breathe… breathe… relax, he told himself. Then he slowly laid the forestock of the rifle on the backpack and pulled up the binoculars. Taking deep breaths and trying to slow his heartbeat, he glassed the cabin, trying to figure out what had just happened. He pushed the laser button and instantly read the distance—261 yards.

  Having no plan, no clear or sensible idea what to do, Peter sat there hugging the ground and relying on his cover and camouflage clothing to keep his presence a secret. He continued to watch through the binoculars.

  Davis was violently shoved aside by the man with the mustache holding the pistol. This man, thought Peter, seemed to be the leader. He was moving about, giving orders to the others. And the way he was waving the pistol around, preferring it to the machine gun slung across his back, gave him an air of authority and confidence.

  As he watched from the distance, he saw his father dragged to the front door. Thank God, Peter thought; his eyes moistened and relief flowed through his aching body. His father looked hurt, but he was alive. He was holding his hand to the back of his head; he looked dazed, and he was not steady on his feet. But Peter couldn’t see any blood or visible wounds.

  Then his father and Davis were shoved toward the other hostages in front of the cabin. Peter could see that the leader was focusing his anger on his father, who by now had shaken off his dazed appearance.

  But suddenly, the scene unfolding in his binoculars didn’t make sense. The leader was now putting his pistol to the head of one of his own team! The leader exchanged words with the man, who was clearly frightened despite his much larger size. After a minute, he lowered the pistol, and another team member left the group for the woodshed. He entered the small shack, then reappeared moments later and continued walking around the cabin. Upon his return to the group in front of the cabin, the man spoke to the leader, then returned to guarding Peter’s father and friends.

  The leader spoke again to Peter’s father. He appeared frustrated. Peter could almost hear him yelling. Then he was standing in front of Karen. He had gripped her hair, and she appeared to be crying. Next he moved on to Junichi, but the conversation was short. Whatever he wanted or was asking for, no one seemed to be willing or able to give him.

  The leader walked away from Junichi and returned to Professor Savage. Then the blond man put a gun to Davis’s head. More words were exchanged between Peter’s father and the leader of these terrorists. The man with the short beard was sent to the root cellar, and when he returned he spoke briefly to the leader.

  Peter put down the binoculars and shifted to watching events unfold through the scope on his rifle. It was set to the h
ighest power, 20x magnification. He could clearly see the pistol pressed against Davis’s head. As he watched, still no plan came to him. He felt impotent—completely powerless to influence or change the unfolding events. There were simply too many of them.

  Peter was accustomed to manipulating materials and machines to suit his wishes. But he had no control over the events transpiring before him. He felt utterly and totally helpless, just as he had when Maggie was lying in the hospital, her body kept functioning by machines but her brain already dead. His heart was pounding in his chest and it felt like there was a huge weight resting on his back, squeezing down on his ribs.

  All Peter could do was watch through the rifle scope, hoping that somehow this terrible nightmare would end. He watched the blond man just to the right of Davis, holding the gun tight to his head. It looked like he said something and then smiled, and it was an evil, wicked smile. Peter was certain he could see the man’s grip on the pistol tighten, the trigger edging back.

  At that moment, a sense of confidence and calm overtook Peter at the innate realization that he was in control. His heart stopped pounding; his breathing returned to normal. His mind interpreted the scene clearly and without ambiguity—black and white, good and evil. He suddenly knew what needed to be done. No more questions, no more uncertainty—he knew.

  Peter squeezed the trigger, and the rifle cracked. At the exact same instant, the stock pushed smartly into his shoulder. The bullet flew true and hit its mark. The chest of the blond man exploded in blood as the bullet tore through him. He was dead even before his body hit the ground.

  Peter didn’t see the bullet strike home, but he knew it had. Reflexively he cycled the bolt and chambered another round as he recovered from the recoil. Looking through the scope he saw the blond man down and Davis turning to make a run for it.

  All of the hostages—Peter’s father and his friends—had fallen to the ground and were lying prone. The terrorists remained standing and had turned in the general direction that Davis was running.

  Davis had no idea what was going on. He just stood there for a fraction of a second. His mind had registered the sound of the gunshot, but he was still alive. How could that be? But then he instinctively responded to the unexpected opportunity, and he sprinted away from the cabin in the direction he believed his savior was hidden.

  Henri spun and tried to shoot Davis on the run. He was firing his MP5 from the hip but failed to hit his target. Davis was running hard and fast, cutting right then left. There was another rifle shot—loud, close—and the MP5 chatter stopped. Davis didn’t slow down; he didn’t turn; he just kept running faster than he thought possible.

  He made it to the cover of some scattered trees and was lost from sight. Now that he had some cover between himself and the gunmen, Davis took stock of the situation. Where exactly had the rifle shots come from? There were two shots—could it be Peter?

  Davis saw a large boulder in front and to the left, not too far away. Even though his head was throbbing, he thought he could make it, and the small trees he was currently using for cover would help to screen his movement. Did the rifle shots come from that direction? They must have, he thought. In any case, he needed to put distance between himself and the cabin before the armed men came after him. He got up and dashed for the boulder.

  Still no one was shooting at him. How come? Why did they stop shooting? Maybe Henri was picked off by the sniper—Peter—and the others were being more cautious? Then he heard a voice, soft, but it was real. “Davis! Davis! Can you hear me?”

  Davis was leaning with his back against the boulder and the sound was clearly coming from in front of him. And the only cover in front of him was a small cluster of manzanita. Davis looked closely. At first, he couldn’t see anything.

  “Davis!” He heard it again. Then he saw just a tiny flicker of movement. He rose to a kneeling position, and then pushed off the boulder and ran for the manzanita and his guardian angel.

  Peter watched as Davis made a dash for safety. As soon as the tall terrorist with the short beard aimed his machine gun toward the fleeing Davis, Peter placed the cross hairs on the terrorist’s chest and slowly squeezed the trigger. BOOM! Peter worked the action and another round was shoved into the chamber. This was the last round—if he fired this, the magazine of his Weatherby would be empty and he would have to dig additional ammunition out of his backpack, consuming critical time.

  He looked through the scope—he hadn’t missed.

  Davis was nowhere to be seen—that was good. The remaining terrorists all dove for the closest cover, even though they had no clear idea where the threat was located. The leader seemed to be issuing orders, but it didn’t look like anyone was listening.

  The muscular, clean-shaven terrorist and the guy who had searched the woodshed had each taken cover behind a tree not far from the group of hostages still lying motionless on the ground. And a thin, short guy with long, stringy, greasy hair was kneeling next to the front porch steps.

  What concerned Peter most was that the leader had been lost from view. His soldiers were casting glances toward the left corner of the deck, and Peter thought he might be there, hiding behind a stone footing supporting the log post.

  Then Davis appeared on Peter’s side of the boulder, roughly 80 yards in front of his position. He called softly, “Davis! Davis! Can you hear me?”

  He saw from the marshal’s reaction that he had heard. But Davis looked confused, uncertain where the sound was coming from.

  “Davis!” And then Peter moved his left hand slightly in the hope of catching his eye. It worked! Davis saw him, got up, and started to run for Peter. He covered half the distance to the manzanita clump when the clean-shaven guy edged his head around the side of the tree trunk, aimed his machine gun and began to fire at Davis.

  The bullets were tearing up the ground at Davis’s feet, but he kept running. Peter could see the target behind the tree, but just barely. He steadied the Leupold scope and fired. BOOM! The bullet tore a chunk of wood from the tree and the terrorist pulled back for safety.

  The leader made use of the situation to dash from his cover behind the stone footing, seeking to use the hostages as human shields. He slid to the ground and grabbed the closest person—Junichi.

  The rifle magazine was now out of ammunition, and Peter had to get into his backpack to reload. Davis came crashing into the manzanita patch and scurried around behind Peter.

  “Man, am I glad to see you! If you hadn’t shown up when you did, I’d be a dead man.”

  “Glad to be of assistance,” replied Peter. He slid the shotgun off his shoulder and gave it to Davis. “Here, take the riot gun. It’s loaded with alternating rounds of slugs and buck shot.”

  Peter opened the large front pocket on the backpack. He took four rifle cartridges and fed three into the magazine. Then, holding those down, he slipped the fourth cartridge into the chamber and slid the bolt home.

  “Two are down. Blondie and the guy who was shooting at you.”

  “That makes a total of three—your father killed one inside the cabin. Shot him with that Civil War rifle. That’s the good news. The bad news is there are four more, very much alive and pretty mad about now.”

  “I saw Blondie shoot Murph from over on the far side of the valley.” Peter pointed to where he had been watching the cabin with the spotting scope. “I was too far away to do anything. How’s Murph? I didn’t see him come out of the cabin.”

  Davis looked numb. He replied with no emotion at all. “He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry. I know he was your friend.”

  Davis simply nodded. There was nothing to say.

  Peter gathered his thoughts, trying to take stock of the situation. “Is my father okay?”

  “General Ramirez whacked him pretty hard on the head. After Professor Savage shot Jalil, he tried to club Ramirez with the rifle. Ramirez dodged the blow and struck your father on the head with the butt of his pistol. Split the scalp, but I think he’ll be a
ll right.”

  “And the others?”

  “Good so far. They haven’t hurt anyone else … yet.”

  “Ramirez… that’s the name of the guy with the mustache, the one waving the pistol around all the time?”

  “Yeah. He’s demanding the explosives—the seismic charges. Your father stalled as long as possible, but finally had to tell him. Ramirez sent Henri to the root cellar, but he reported the locker was empty. That’s when Ramirez ordered Smith—the blond guy—to kill me.”

  Peter put the binoculars to his eyes and surveyed the hostages and terrorists in front of the cabin, not liking what he saw. He handed the glasses to Davis and asked, “Well, Troy, you have the experience in this sort of thing. What do we do now?”

  Davis, looking through the binoculars, quickly assessed the situation. Seeing that Ramirez was huddled down with Junichi, he knew that their chances of success just got worse—a lot worse. He knew that he and Peter could do little to save the hostages if Ramirez and his men became suicidal.

  “We can’t stay out here. It’s only a matter of time before one or two men flank us. I’d say our best option is to maintain our momentum. If you can keep them pinned down, I’ll work my way around to the left. Maybe I can come in from behind and get close enough to take down one or two of them with the shotgun. When they return my fire, you should have an opportunity to take out one, maybe two.”

  “Okay, but we do have another problem.”

  “What’s that?” asked Davis.

  “You have eight shells in that riot gun. Here are eight more. That’s all I got. I’ve got 24 rounds for the rifle, but that will go pretty fast.”

  “You still have that hog leg strapped to your thigh.”

  “Yeah, I do,” agreed Peter. “But unless you’re a much better shot than I am, one of us will have to get in there pretty close to hit anything with it. And we can’t just go spraying the area with bullets.”

  “So, be careful and make every shot count.”