McAllen looked down at Sebastian. “You know, why not? Can you input an alternate program?”
“I had the alternate program ready from the time you met those pricks. You know I’ve never trusted anyone born after 1955,” Sebastian said without looking up. His fingers flew on his computer keyboard.
Bernadette watched the newscast from her fitness club in Fort McMurray. She was pounding the treadmill doing sprint and hill intervals trying to sweat out last night’s feast. She had had her ass chewed out by her chief earlier that morning. She secretly wished the chewing would affect her weight—she would not have to go to the gym as much.
She had left him a voicemail the night before stating what she had spoken to the director of security about, but of course, the chief weighed in about the lack of protocol and how she should have reached him for such a major threat.
Bernadette knew he was just spouting off so others in the detachment could hear him. He really had not wanted to be bothered last night. She had done the right thing in calling Synthetic Oil Security, as the CSIS agents were now on their way to Fort McMurray but would do nothing more than ask for reports. The real work was being done right now—Synthetic Oil technicians would be going over every inch of the plant looking for something left by Clearwater that could possibly do damage. What damage they were not sure. They only knew the idea of polywater in the system scared the hell out of everyone.
Bernadette was sweating. Every pore of her body was oozing pizza and red wine. She asked herself if she would ever learn. She knew the answer. A cute little twenty-something-year-old got on the treadmill beside her. There was not an inch of fat on her perfectly proportioned body. Bernadette tried not to secretly hate her—she hit the incline on the treadmill and tried to concentrate as her lungs exploded with the effort.
Detective Mueller only briefly saw the newscast. He had been on the phone all morning with his chief in Anchorage. He was to turn the case over to the FBI and Homeland Security when they arrived that afternoon. He was packing his bags to catch the late afternoon flight.
24
Cordele Watched The Newscast At 8:00 a.m. on his cell phone as he boarded the helicopter he had hired from Fairbanks to take him to the Arctic Oil Camp. There was little he could do about the news—it was bad—but he would have to extract his man, Frank Starko, once he had activated the polywater devices, get him back somewhere private, and dispose of him.
They would be at the Arctic Oil Camp in three hours, arriving around 11:00 am, on the older Bell 430 he had hired. The sun would provide gray light over the Arctic horizon.
The helicopter pilot he had hired was a Vietnam War vet. His weathered flight jacket was sown with patches from his past squadron. He was a tall, grizzled specimen with no discernible fat cells. His skin was so tight on his face that Cordele thought the man’s skeleton would show if you shone a light behind him.
The pilot had accepted the twenty-five thousand dollars Cordele had given him with only the raise of one bushy eyebrow. The man seemed to grow hair in place of fat. His face was a mass of fur that led from his bushy hair down to a neck that seemed to disappear into a no man’s land of gray chest hair.
The old pilot only winked when Cordele told him his mission was to pick up a friend in Prudhoe Bay and there was no need to file a flight plan. He would get a quick flight to pick up Starko, no questions asked
Starko had sent Cordele a text message telling him which direction to approach the Arctic Oil Camp from and where to pick him up. There were maintenance sheds far enough away from the camp they could land near without causing too much attention.
Cordele sat in the copilot’s seat as they sped over the dark landscape below. Moonlight flashed shadows of their progress. He felt the pressure of the Glock handgun holstered to his chest—the gun he would use to kill Starko. But where would be the question.
Starko sat in his room, knowing he was being hunted. He had avoided Detective Mueller and Troy Mercury for the past twenty-four hours. Soon, they would find him—there were few places to hide in the camp. He would have to submit to hours of questioning and work hard to keep his story straight, his breathing soft, and his expressions ones of interest but not too interested.
He had had interrogation training in the military—they had used every technique in the book, plus some of those in the margins. Water boarding was one. He still had nightmares about the feeling of drowning. Police interrogation was subtle—the calm questioning and waiting for you to slip. He preferred the water torture.
The gray light of Arctic dawn was starting to show outside his window. His watch said 10:59 a.m. He opened his metal briefcase. Encased in foam inside the case was a simple ten-inch laptop with a USB cable that ran to a small switch box.
He powered up the laptop, and the ten lights on the small switch box began to glow. There was supposed to be one light for each device that was active, which meant that none of the devices had been found.
Then he took a piece of paper from his pocket. Written on the paper was the password that the Wall Street boys from Ironstone Investments had sent him. The activation codes ensured that no one but Ironstone could release the polywater into the water systems of Prudhoe Bay.
The screen now flashed and asked for the password. Starko placed the piece of paper in front of him. With two fingers, he began to punch in the code: 1-19-19-8-15-12-5.
As he punched in each number, the number turned into a letter on the screen. The 1 became an A, the 19 was an S, the second 19 another S, and the 8 became an H. Starko had a bad feeling about this password but knew he had to continue. Once he had activated the system he could leave—not before. When he finished entering the final number, the password spelled ASSHOLE.
His bad feeling turned to mild panic. Panic was something Starko never felt, but it rose as he watched the laptop start to smoke. Suddenly, a flame burst out of the keyboard. He threw the laptop on his bed and tried to smother it with his pillow, but it was no use—the smoke turned thick and black, and the smoke alarm went off in his room. He could hear the doors in the corridor start to close— the main fire alarm for his sector had been activated. He grabbed his parka and boots and ran out the door.
Parsons opened his case in the airport parking lot in Fort McMurray. He had already checked into his flight to Calgary with a connection in Toronto. His final destination: St. John’s Newfoundland. It would be a long day of travel—he didn’t care.
He wanted nothing more of Fort McMurray. He longed for salt air and some good cod and chips washed down with enough beer and rum to make him forget this place ever existed. He vowed to himself that from now on, he would only take assignments in warm countries, but he knew he would falter on that vow the first time someone put a large amount of cash under his nose.
He had decided to activate the devices at the airport just a half hour before heading through security for his flight. He did not trust anything to do with professor McAllen after his escape from the beach, and almost getting killed by him. The brief case in front of him was supplied by McAllen; he opened it with care and trepidation.
He opened the case on the hood of a brand new F-150 truck at the farthest end of the parking lot and entered the password into his laptop. As the word ASSHOLE appeared on the screen, he could only mutter “Aw shit.”
The laptop smoked and burst into flames. Parsons grabbed the case, threw it under the truck, and looked around. No one had seen him. He walked away slowly enough to not attract attention, fast enough to get away from the fire. As he reached the inner doors of the terminal, there was a large explosion in the parking lot. The truck had blown up. He whirled around in time to see the hood of the truck leap into the air.
People started to run to the front of the terminal, and two security guards and an RCMP officer ran towards the truck that was now billowing black smoke. One of the security guards had a fire extinguisher in his hands. The RCMP officer was calling on his radio as he ran.
A man who had come outside to smoke
his cigarette asked Parsons, “What happened?”
“Damned if I know. Looks like someone got a recall on their truck,” Parsons answered. He smiled at the man. He heard his flight being called and headed for security screening. Sirens were blaring, as a fire truck roared into the parking lot. It was time for him to leave.
When he got through security, he took out his cell phone and sent a quick text to Cordele in Alaska, letting him know that McAllen had screwed them yet again.
Troy was in the main security office when the fire alarm sounded. The room where the fire alarm had originated was B220—Frank Starko’s room. Troy had been there several times trying to locate Starko.
The fire crews ran towards the room. All oil field personnel were trained in fire prevention. The most feared event at the camp outside of a whiteout from a snow storm was a fire. Oil camp fires could leave a camp without power, which meant no heat and exposure to the cold.
Troy had the security officer on the closed circuit television console play back the tape in Starko’s corridor. There he was, Starko, running from the room with his parka and boots just seconds after the fire alarm sounded. Men in oil camps run to fires with extinguishers. To Troy it was obvious—Starko was their man.
Troy called Detective Mueller’s cell phone. When Mueller answered, Troy simply said, “I think we found our rabbit.”
“What’ve you got,” Muller asked. He was packing his gun into his duffel bag.
“We have a fire alarm that just came from Starko’s room. The CCTV shows him running from the room with his boots and parka— looks like he’s making for the outside.”
“Well, well, that does look guilty as hell. Here we are looking for the guy all day and he sets off a fire alarm to let us know where he is. I love it when criminals do stupid things—it makes them look like criminals.”
“Absolutely,” Troy said. He was now staring at all the CCTV monitors. “I don’t see him now, but it looked on the last monitor like he was heading in the direction of the gym or the laundry room. The outside monitors show no signs of him.”
“Good, I’ll head for the gym. Do you see anyone there at present?”
“Negative, the place is empty. That’s why this camp is fat.”
“Thanks for the fitness update. I’ll meet you there.” Mueller grabbed his gun, shoved in a magazine, and chambered a round.
“Roger that,” Troy said. He put down this cell phone and took out his gun. He chambered a round but left the safety on. Then he turned to the three security officers in the room—all young men in their twenties. They’re all good with firearms, but will they be good under stress? Troy wondered. Targets never fired back on the range.
“Okay, Starko is our prime suspect. Pull his ID up on the console and get a good look at this guy. We don’t know if he’s armed, but you should treat him as extremely dangerous. He is the suspect in three murders, so don’t give him any breaks.” Troy looked at each of the young security officers—they looked scared.
Troy headed out the door, and the three security officers followed. He sent one officer to alert the two state troopers in the administration interview rooms. He did not have their radio frequencies or cell numbers.
When they reached the corridor of the room that Starko had fled, they found that a group of men had already extinguished the fire. A man was walking out of the room with a melted laptop. Troy instructed the two officers to check the laundry room. He knew the room was huge. There were usually ten to fifteen workers in there dealing with the mass of laundry. Starko would be obvious if he had gone there, but they had to check it out. Troy continued on to the gym. He hoped that Mueller was as slow as he looked—he did not want him tangling with Starko before he got there.
Mueller reached the gym by a stroke of luck. He had grabbed his gun, made a left out of his room, and somehow arrived at the gym. It was empty. He scanned the high ceiling and rows of treadmills, elliptical machines, and exercise bikes along one wall. A television was blaring CNN news to an empty room.
Then Mueller noticed three darkened rooms at the back of the gym. Each had a large window. He advanced towards the rooms, his gun drawn. Common sense was telling him to wait for backup from Troy and the state troopers. He was not in a common sense mood.
Mueller reached the first darkened room and could see shapes inside. Large inflated exercise balls of various sizes were stacked on top of one another. Ropes and pulleys hung from the walls. Peering hard into the room to see if any shapes were human, he wished his eyesight was better.
He opened the door slowly, his gun in his right hand, extending his left hand to turn on the light switch. Suddenly, the door closed hard on his hand, and the pain in his wrist sent a blinding light to his brain. Then the door flew open, and Starko was charging at him. He hit him low.
Mueller could only register a shiny object in Starko’s hand. He knew instinctively it was a heavy object—his brain was sending duck-and-evade signals to his body. He could see the end of his life coming and all his brain could manage was an “oh shit.” His stomach was ice. Two shots rang out. The sound in the small gym echoed in Mueller’s ears, and Starko stopped his attack. He rolled to his right, and leapt into a crouching run.
Troy was standing at the front of the gym in a wide shooter’s stance, trying to train his gun on Starko. He couldn’t get another shot off before Starko ran behind the exercise machines, hit the back exit door of the gym, and was gone.
Troy ran to Mueller. “Are you okay? You should’ve waited for me.”
“Yeah, that makes a lot of sense now.” Mueller said lying on the floor.
“Are you hurt?” Troy asked as he bent over and gave Mueller a hand up.
“Yeah, the little prick broke my wrist. Thanks for coming. I thought I was about to become another one of his espresso victims with that damn tamper he uses.”
“Are you okay to move?”
“He broke my left wrist—I shoot with my right.” Mueller felt his ribs ache. They were bruised from the frontal assault. Now he knew what a cowboy felt when a steer ran into him. He picked up his gun and looked at Troy. “Let’s get that bastard.”
They headed out the back exit door into a corridor with windows that looked outside. Troy could see Starko heading for the maintenance buildings. He could also see a helicopter starting to descend some five hundred yards at the back of the buildings.
Troy radioed his security team to meet them at the maintenance buildings, and they headed down the stairs to the outside. The cold air hit them like a vice. Troy remembered the temperature was minus fifteen degree Fahrenheit with no wind. He only had on his security guard coveralls and a fleece vest, but the cold didn’t bother him—he was on the hunt. He could see Starko some two hundred yards ahead. His Glock sidearm was effective at two hundred yards but not very accurate. He needed to close the distance if he wanted to stop Starko before he got to the helicopter.
Starko was slowing down in the deep snow. With each step, he sank deeper in the snowdrifts that had piled up behind the maintenance sheds. Then he rounded the corner of the shed and was out of sight.
The polar bear had woken up from his nap beside the maintenance shed at the sound of the helicopter. Normally he would have run away in fear, but hunger was overriding fear. The man he saw struggling slowly in the snow was prey, and he acted in an instant. His large paws had no problem with the deep snow. The bear advanced on the man and hit him quickly from behind. He struck hard. His massive jaws bit into the man’s neck, and he threw him from side to side in his jaws. The man stopped all movement.
Cordele watched the polar bear charge Starko from the helicopter. There was nothing he could do. They were just about to land. The pilot had intended to do a quick hover landing, and Cordele had been about to open the back door for Starko. He watched in fascination as the polar bear did his work for him. A small smile spread over his face as he saw the bear throw Starko like a limp doll. He knew the bear had broken his neck. He turned to the pilot and motioned
for him to takeoff
Troy rounded the maintenance shed first and was momentarily blinded by the snow from the prop wash of the helicopter taking off. He thought Starko was gone. As the snow from the helicopter dissipated, he saw the bear. It was jumping up and down on something in the snow, its front paws doing a dance on a dark object
As he approached, he could see it was Starko underneath the bear. He didn’t know if Starko was dead or alive, but his instinct was to save him. He advanced on the bear, his feet sinking into the snow, his breath making clouds of steam as he labored to get to Starko. He had only a sidearm to deal with the bear and would rather have had a high-powered hunting rifle. They say a pistol just makes a bear mad, but he had no choice.
He moved up beside the bear, which was busy with the body on the snow. As the bear put his head down to start feasting on Starko, Troy placed his gun inside the bear’s shoulder and fired three quick rounds. The bear shuddered. Troy knew he had hit the heart.
With an expulsion of air, the bear fell to the side of Starko. Troy bent down and felt Starko for a pulse. There was none. Mueller came puffing up beside him, the security guards and state troopers just behind him. They stood in silence looking at the scene. The bear’s wound seeped blood onto the snow, and Starko looked a ravaged mess. The bear had started to work on his face to ensure he wouldn’t be a threat.
“Is he dead?” Mueller asked when he finally caught his breath.
“Yeah, the bear got him, finished him off quick. Troy said. “You know, it’s kind of a shame I killed this bear. I wish I’d have known this shithead was dead. I think I’d have let the bear eat on him a little bit and then scare him off.”
“Uh . . . you know you couldn’t do that,” Mueller said. He looked at Troy to see if he was actually serious.
Polar Bear Dawn Page 14
