by Scott Conrad
As with any military type mission, anything that can possibly go wrong will go wrong. In layman’s terms, Murphy’s Law. Everett Samples, at sixteen the very youngest member of the Order of Phineas, became overexcited when one of the survivors stood up with a rifle in his hands. He quickly lifted his M-16m which was slung across his chest the way he had seen the soldiers and SWAT team guys on TV do it before they had left the lower forty-eight, and let loose a long burst from the rifle.
It only takes one point seven seconds to empty a thirty round magazine, and Everett sprayed most of his into the air above the survivors’ heads. His first round struck the wooden heat reflector, but muzzle hop had thrown the rest of the burst high.
The survivor that was standing threw himself to the ground behind the logs, but the one who hadn’t stood up knelt behind the logs and shot Everett center mass, dropping him like a sack of grain. The other members of the Order began firing furiously as soon as Everett had screwed up, and Lewis was franticly signaling for them to break into two teams and flank the survivors the way he trained them to.
Two more members of the Order fell before the two teams arranged themselves and began to advance on the defensive position by fire and maneuver.
PETE AND CHARLIE
“I’ll be damned!” Charlie shouted, standing up. “Here comes the cavalry!”
Pete glanced up in the direction Charlie was staring just in time to see one of the advancing party lift the muzzle of an M-16 slung around his neck and open up on them. Instinctively he dove for his M4A1 and rolled into a kneeling position behind the reflector they’d built to keep themselves warm and returned fire. The guy firing the M-16 full auto went down, but by then the whole damned group was shooting at them.
“Grab whatever you can and let’s get the hell outta here!” he roared, frantically stuffing his feet into the bindings of his newfangled snowshoes. He had no idea who the hell these maniacs were, and no intention of sticking around to find out. These guys looked serious! Pete glanced over the reflector once more and noticed that the group separated into two fire teams.
They were doing a pretty damned reasonable facsimile of fire and maneuver, a military tactic where one team laid down a base of fire while the other team rushed a few yards and fell down into prone firing positions so they could provide covering fire for the other team to advance. It looked pretty well practiced to him. “Run!” he screamed at Charlie.
***
Lewis was coldly furious with his men for screwing up what should have been an easy capture, but the kid who screwed it up had already paid the ultimate price for his impatience. Lewis poked through the wreckage and around the still burning fire, but there was little there except for the dead body. He ordered his men onwards. “These guys aren’t amateurs,” he shouted, convinced more than ever that the survivors were from the ZOG, sent to spy on the Order of Phineas.
“Watch what you’re doing and remember your training.” He didn’t waste any more breath. Lewis knew that their very survival was dependent on keeping their existence a secret from the outside world.
Pete and Charlie ran as if all the hounds of hell were after them. They had a halfway decent head start, and they couldn’t see any sign of the pursuit. From time to time Pete raised his hand for them to halt so that he could listen, and usually he could hear a few sounds of their pursuers. The snow was deep and the going unbelievably rugged, but Charlie seemed no more winded than Pete. Pete’s respect for the younger man went up a notch. There was more to the kid than he’d suspected.
Pete looked up at the sky and saw that the weather appeared to be worsening and darkness would come early. Both those facts gave him a tactical advantage over the pursuers he fully intended to take advantage of. He patted the claymore bag strapped to his side. He needed to put a little more distance between him and Charlie and the pursuers, but as soon as he did, Pete was certain he’d be able to even the odds up a bit. Whoever these fruitcakes might be, they were about to discover that fucking with one of Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children was a damned uncomfortable tactical error. A fatal one.
What the fuck is wrong with them? Why the fuck are they trying to kill us? Pete kept too busy moving to articulate his thoughts. Charlie was keeping up and showing no signs of flagging. He didn’t even seem surprised. Does this kid know something I don’t?
CHAPTER SIX
TALKEETNA
Day 2 1500 hours AKDT
"Talkeetna. Where the road ends and life begins."
Talkeetna Alaska can be found at the convergence of three rivers, the Susitna, Chulitna and Talkeetna. In 2010 the U.S. census measured the population at a little under nine hundred souls. The local economy is based principally on tourism and the associated activities of flightseeing, rafting, mountain biking, hiking, camping, fishing and hunting. Approximately midway between Anchorage and the entrance to Denali National Park, the population of the little town grows enormously from April through July as mountain climbers assemble to prepare to scale Mount McKinley.
It had taken a good deal of arguing and a hefty bonus to get the pilot of the DeHavilland Beaver to make the flight to Talkeetna from Anchorage because the weather situation was still dicey. The man only agreed to take the flight after Brad explained the circumstances to him, and even then he only took them because his brother was a Marine Lance Corporal at Camp Pendleton. The Corps family is large and it sticks together.
All of them breathed a sigh of relief when the aircraft skittered sideways on its approach to the primitive airfield in Talkeetna and settled to the earth with a firm thump. It had been a rough one hundred odd mile flight. Brad intended to utilize their time as efficiently as possible because he was fully aware that every minute counts in a survival situation. He had no intention of leaving Pete and Charlie exposed any longer than absolutely necessary. When he exited the plane his mind had already shifted into what he called, for lack of a better description, combat mode.
He motioned for Jared to stick with the pilot and see to the offloading of their luggage and gear. Then waved Tom over to the Tamsco hangar where he spotted a pristine Bell 212 Twin painted a startling red with brilliant white trim. “That’s the only chopper I see Tom, check and verify that’s the one Hank’s laid on for us.” Tom set out at a brisk pace, almost a jog, towards the open hangar door. A small motorized luggage cart chugged towards the Beaver. Brad, Ving, and Jessica walked toward the Quonset hut that served as a terminal at the tiny airport.
"The Troopers have an office inside the terminal," Ving said. "We’re supposed to meet Lieutenant Ben Robinson in there; he’s the guy in charge of the search and rescue op."
"How many men do they have on this operation?" Brad asked.
"I couldn't get a straight answer to that question on the phone." Ving sounded aggravated, but Brad wondered if it might just have been the man’s reaction to the rough flight.
Brad grunted. “Did Hank say he had everything set for us up here?”
Ving had called the logistics expert when they’d landed in Anchorage.
“Yeah, he said the chopper’s confirmed and the package David Henderson sent from Fort Greely had been picked up by the Troopers. He said it was a crate, and that Lieutenant Robinson already signed for it. The ammo’s in the crate with the rest of the gear.” Brad nodded, continuing his walk to the Quonset hut with Jessica and Ving trailing him.
The Quonset hut was nothing more than several semicircular sections of corrugated galvanized steel assembled in a series. From outside it looked like the top half of a large piece of pipe just lying on the ground with a door and a window on one end of it. Brad was a bit surprised that the terminal was so small.
As they entered the front door, Brad felt a blast of heat hit him in the face. There were only two people inside that Brad could see. One apparently an airline employee working at a makeshift ticket counter. The other in a blue two-tone uniform of the Alaska State Troopers, remained seated in a swivel chair at a desk near the back of the building under a
state trooper emblem on the wall.
Brad was a little taken aback. He had been expecting to see some kind of command center with at least three or four troopers coordinating the search operation. Ving had told him how short-handed Robinson was, but he’d expected the man would call in reinforcements for an emergency. Apparently things were significantly different here than in the lower forty-eight.
They approached the trooper who was staring at them with frank interest… he looked to be paying particular attention to Jessica.
“I’m Brad Jacobs,” he said, holding out his hand. The Lieutenant was a large man, and he unleashed a hell of a strong grip.
“Ben Robinson. I’m surprised you got that guy to fly up here in this weather. I expected you would be stuck in Anchorage until the weather let up some.”
Brad made a non-committal gesture with his free hand. “We don’t stand down because of weather conditions.”
Robinson gave him a hard look. “I checked on you after your man Ving there called me. You’ve got a reputation as a hardass in the Corps, and Henderson up at Fort Greeley says you did really well at N.W.T.C.” The big trooper put his hands on his hips. “Except for my time in the Corps, I’ve lived up here all my life.
I’ve hunted, fished, and trapped this country since I was old enough to strap on a pair of skis. Since I got back from the big sandbox, I’ve had to read a page from the Good Book to some pretty hard men that made the Taliban look like Boy Scouts. “
“I’ve also hauled the remains of some hardheads who wouldn’t listen to reason out of the backcountry on an ahkio, too. I don’t want to have to do that with your friends and I don’t want to do that with you either.”
Brad knew he was antagonizing the only real help available in the frozen northland, but his stubborn pride wouldn’t permit him to acknowledge it.
“Can you give me an update on the rescue mission status?”
Robinson’s eyes turned stone cold. “Until this blackbird storm lets up, there’s not much I can tell you. From what I’ve seen of the latest satellite imagery from N.O.A.A (the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration operates a public access website publishing the latest satellite imagery, updated every few hours), when this one lets up we’re going to have a twenty-four hour or less window before the next one hits. I’ll have eyes in the air the minute I think it’s safe to fly.”
“That’s all?” Brad was unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.
“Easy Brad,” Ving said, touching his friend on the shoulder, trying to calm him down.
“I’m not believing this!” Brad exclaimed, shaking Ving’s hand off and giving the big trooper a hard look.
"Let me explain a few things to you Tex. Alaska is like another country, maybe even a whole other world from the one you live in. We have damned little government or regulation, and no budget to speak of. I’ve only got three other Troopers to patrol an area of over twenty-five thousand square miles of the most rugged terrain in the world. Most of our patrolling has to be done by dog sled teams or by helicopter.
Motorized vehicles including snow mobiles are prohibited in most of the wilderness areas except for emergencies or special projects. We have an Arctic Cat, that I have to get permission from the Trooper Commander down in Fairbanks before I’m allowed to take it out into the back country.
This part of Alaska is known as no man’s land. In the areas around the perimeter of Anchorage we have plenty of resources, but out here we have to rely primarily on air search by cooperative bush pilots and by volunteer groups.”
“Down here in Talkeetna the weather might be acceptable for flying, but we’re at three hundred feet in elevation. Up around Mount Watana, where we initially picked up your friends’ transponder signal, it’s over six thousand feet with blizzard conditions and the weather is much worse than it is here. There’s no way I can get air search moving up there until the weather clears."
"How many were on board the aircraft?" Brad asked. He knew the man was telling the truth, but frustration began building inside him. He felt like a pressure cooker, about to explode.
"Just your two guys and the pilot... a good man, Sam Henderson."
"We’re gonna go now," Brad said firmly.
"You’ll go by yourselves, provided you can get Tamsco to fly in this crap. It’s let up a little, but like I said, my nose tells me you’ve got twenty-four hours, probably much less, before you get socked in again. I'd advise against it."
Brad turned to face Ving, whose face showed no emotion at all. "Check with Tom and see if our charter pilot is ready to go. If he won’t fly tell Tom to get familiar with the chopper. While you’re at it, make sure the ammo Henderson sent is correct and onboard."
"On it," Ving said tightly. He didn’t like it, but he wasn’t about to upbraid Brad at this point. His friend was wrapped as tight as he’d ever seen him, and pissing him off would serve no good purpose. Ving was straight up New Orleans born and bred, and even though he’d passed the N.W.T.C. course he hated Alaska and the cold with a passion. The only reason he’d come on this mission was his loyalty to Brad and his friend Pete.
"You guys are crazy," Robinson exclaimed. "If you guys go up there you’re on your own… hell, I don't need two groups of people to find and rescue."
"Don't worry," Brad replied. "I don’t plan on getting lost."
Robinson seemed as if he had something else to say, but he bit it back and sat back down in his desk chair, fuming.
Brad realized the man was right, but he knew some things that Robinson did not. Brad and his team were expert trackers and survivalists, trained and experienced in extreme cold weather operations. Despite Robinson’s assertions about the harshness of the Alaskan wilderness, Brad and his men had fought and survived in the wild and rugged mountains of Nuristan province in Afghanistan. The team thrived in hostile environments where most men couldn’t survive… and it was Holy Writ that they never left a man behind.
"Show me on this map exactly where you picked up the transponder signal," Brad said, unfolding an acetate covered U.S. military topographical map and spreading it on top of Robinson’s desk.
"That’s another part of the problem you aren’t taking into consideration," the now surly Trooper said. "I can give you the exact coordinates of the signal we received, but I can’t be certain that the coordinates are accurate. We received only a short intermittent signal from their transponder after they dropped off of local radar. Radar works ‘line of sight.’ As soon as they dropped lower than the mountain tops, radar lost contact with them. I have no way of knowing how far they glided after we lost contact; all I can give you is their last known location and their flight bearing.”
“But the transponder should still be transmitting…”
“The transponder may have been damaged on impact. These small plane transponders are not as powerful as the big ones they use in commercial airliners. And there’s still the problem of the mountains blocking the signals. The transponder might be working just fine, but you’ll never receive the signal until there’s nothing between you but air. That’s a common problem up here and we deal with it every day."
"No radio contact?" Brad asked.
"Same problem."
"Just what type of support can I count on from you?" Brad asked. He was exasperated and reaching the ragged edge limits of his patience. He was tired of being nice and wanted answers.
"I don't have any troopers to put on the ground. Air search is ready to go as soon as the weather clears on the mountain. I’ve also alerted our two best volunteer groups to assist with the ground search and they are mobilizing as we speak. They can leave as soon as we get a break in the weather. The Alaska Mountain Rescue Group (AMRG) and the Alaska Search and Rescue Association (ASARA) should both have support up here in the next few hours... but neither one of them is going to send men up there before the weather clears."
"That's the best you can do?" Brad asked.
"Don't underestimate the capabilities of th
ese organizations, Jacobs. They’re both extremely effective at this type of search and rescue operation. They work with us on dozens of searches every year."
“What's the nearest town or village to the last transponder coordinates you got?”
“You’re standing in it.” The Trooper replied evenly, his own temper fraying. “Talkeetna is the only real town for hundreds of miles. If your friends are able to hike out, the closest place with a small airstrip and year round basic facilities is their original destination… the hunting lodge on Stephan Lake. It's roughly twenty miles of god awful rugged terrain from the area we think they went down to the lodge.”
“Any local residents living anywhere in the vicinity we might be able to contact if we need to?”
Ben Robinson started to open his mouth, but it snapped shut quickly. "None that I can recommend." His eyes told Brad it would be useless to press him further on the subject.
That seemed like an odd response to Brad, but his intuition told him he was wasting his time.
“We’re going anyway,” Brad said shortly. “We’ll maintain radio contact or call on the satellite phone every hour with an update on our status, at least as long as we can maintain satellite service. I don’t imagine the mountains will interfere with that.” Disgusted, Brad turned and headed out the front door towards the Tamsco hangar followed by Jessica.
ROBINSON
Ben Robinson leaned the back of his chair towards the wall and raised his hands, clasping them behind his head. No, the mountains won’t screw up your satellite transmissions, but mountains ain’t the only problems you’re going to run into Tex. You may not be a Cheechako (tenderfoot), but you ain’t ready for what I’m afraid those mountains are hiding. I can’t say for sure, but the old timers and the poachers and the illegal prospectors talk when they get liquored up down at the Trading Post, and I’m hearing some ugly rumors that I hope to god ain’t true.
