by Roger Weston
CHAPTER 76
Boise National Forest
When Chuck and Dean heard the gunfire and then an explosion, they stopped and turned to face each other.
“My birds, they …” Dean’s lips trailed off. “I should have freed them, I … those stinking bastards.”
Chuck nodded.
“I’ll get my revenge,” Dean said. “Those birds were worth thousands.”
“That’s a foolish reason to come.”
“You’re just as ready to kill as I am, so quit your preaching.”
“Let’s go then.”
CHAPTER 77
Jin Mountain
The Afghan sat on a rock perch that had views along both sides of the canyon. His range of vision into the canyon, however, was blocked by the leaves of a tree that was grounded fifty feet down the steep slope. But he didn’t need to see down into the canyon right now. He just needed a view of the steep hillside, and he had it.
In reality, this approach to the mountain was not likely to see any action. The only reason to enter this valley was to climb the vertical cliff above him, which would be insane. Even if it could be climbed, anyone who tried it would be exposed to sniper fire. Nobody would be so stupid. For that reason, the Afghan was put in charge of the whole valley. He was an expert at mountain ambush, and years ago had killed many Taliban fighters.
Since this was his regular watch he had already set up the man traps. Both ends of the canyon were covered. He had made them nine meters long and they held over 6000 kilos of thirty to seventy kilo rocks. They were perched on very steep slopes. By the time the rocks were a hundred and fifty meters down the hill, they’d cover an area seventy meters wide. The second traps higher up would create an even wider kill zone.
The rock fall would be triggered by two 5-centimeter limbs buried in the trail. The limbs acted as levers. If intruders survived the rock fall, he would shoot them off the mountain. But he would take a short nap. No intruder could ever make it past the first sniper, or his traps.
CHAPTER 78
Dusk, Jin Canyon
Chuck walked in front of Dean and held his M-16 at the ready, the selector switch on burst. Jin Mountain was in sight. It looked like any of a thousand other mountains in Idaho—big, tree-covered, steep slopes. Chuck could see no hint of a secret complex.
He thought about Lydia. He thought about her soft voice, about her smooth complexion and her soothing touch. And how she believed in him. He tried not to think about what she might have gone through and was still going through. He tried not to think about how she must feel. He could not think clearly if he allowed that. He rejected his emotions, shutting them out. Still, he needed to see her again, to hold her in his arms. He would do anything for that. But if they’d killed her…
It was almost dark, but not quite, and Chuck saw a mercenary through a break in the timber. The sun had already set, and Chuck saw the man’s movement in the distant shadows beneath the pine trees. He was higher up on the slope, and he motioned for Dean to take cover.
“He’s headed our way,” Chuck whispered. They waited five minutes. By then they could hear footsteps on the dry pine needles that covered the forest floor. Chuck nodded to Dean. At the same time, they swung their rifles out and fired. The shots were silenced, but dead on.
Chuck frowned and shook his head. He had tried to leave this way of life behind, but couldn’t once they took Lydia. If he had to give his life for her, then he would.
They took cover and waited to see if any others were coming, but none were. As they left the area, Chuck had the man’s sniper rifle strapped over his shoulder. They entered the big canyon at the base of Jin Mountain, and Chuck stopped to scan the area. The mountain to the left was heavily treed. They followed a trail that cut across a steep slope near the base of the mountain.
Chuck looked at the mountainside. Several hundred feet up, the sheer grade angled sharply and became vertical. The rock face was an awe-inspiring sight.
He hiked slowly up the mountain, keeping on the trail because if he didn’t, rocks would tumble down the perpendicular slope, announcing their presence and location to all sentries within a mile. For a while the trail was good—for a while.
The pebbles under Chuck’s shoe gave way. His foot plunged into an ankle-deep hole. The end of a stick rose out of the gravel at the edge of the trail, levering a good-size rock that began rolling down the hill. “Get down.”
Chuck heard the vibrating sound of a wire attached to the stone. He dove to the ground, believing that he had just tripped a claymore mine. By the time he hit the ground he realized his mistake. A mine would have already detonated. This was a sheep-eater’s rock fall. He heard the twang of the wire and knew that the other end was attached to support sticks under a platform. “Get out of here,” he said, getting up. “Back that way.”
Chuck heard a snap as the platform above collapsed. Dozens of large rocks began to roll down the steep slope toward them, spreading out as they tumbled.
Chuck read the situation and started back the way they came, but the rocks were coming too fast, and there was too much ground to cover. He ducked behind a few boulders that provided minimal cover and so did Dean.
Within seconds, big stones were flying past. Chuck could feel the ground vibrating. Rocks bigger than basketballs and moving at high speed tapped the ground with skull-crushing force. But it was all over in seconds.
“You alright?” Chuck said.
“I’m a lucky S.O.B.”
Chuck eyed the rope burn around Dean’s neck. “You sure?”
“I’m alive, ain’t I?”
“For now, but now they know we’re here.”
“No more trails,” Dean said. “That’s what they expect. We’ve got to go straight up the face.”
CHAPTER 79
Jin Mountain was a threatening monstrosity in the gloom, and Chuck looked up at the six-hundred foot vertical wall of rock. Climbing it would take close to twelve hours—if all went well—which would leave them very little time. If they got into trouble on the climb, everything would be lost.
As far as Chuck knew this mountain had never been climbed before, so he’d have to rely on visual observations in selecting the best route. That could take some time given that it was getting dark and the rock face stretched for half a mile. As Chuck began scrutinizing the crags and the outcrops, his hands began to shake and he began to sweat and feel dizzy. The only thing he hated more than knives was rock climbing. He sat down by a pine tree and buried his face in his hands.
“You alright,” Dean said quietly. “You don’t look so great.”
Chuck waved him away.
“I ain’t climbing this wall of doom with a basket case on belay.”
Chuck got up and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Don’t worry. I’m okay.”
Dean walked over and pointed at the rock face. “The first pitch starts there,” he said. He told Chuck the whole route—the six hundred foot climb divided into five pitches.
“I thought of going that way,” Chuck said. “You may have something there. It looks possible.”
“If you panic up there, we die,” Dean said.
“I’ll—” Chuck had a flashback to the funeral of his late wife. He took a deep breath and pushed the thoughts of her out of his mind. “I’ll take the lead.”
“You sure you’re up it?”
“The only question is whether you’re ready for what we find at the top.”
“Don’t worry about that, Paco.”
They hiked up to the base of the cliff and got their gear ready. Chuck didn’t want to carry too much extra gear, especially since he was hauling ammo, so he slimmed down the racks. He looked up at the vertical wall.
“On belay,” Dean said. “Climb when ready.”
Chuck began the ascent, placing his pitons and chalks in the cracks and clipping in. There was no yelling to Dean about the conditions, for voices carried out here. As he made his way up the face, he was relieved that his nerves we
re holding out.
About half way up, he came to a rock face with absolutely no hand or foot holds. It was flat and would have been a dead end if not for a narrow break that ran up the middle. He shoved his fingers into the crack and pulled himself up. Despite the finger destruction, he attacked the fracture and worked his way up the wall. Hanging from a slit a hundred feet up with one hand, his other hand placed the chocks like a fast draw. His fingers weren’t up for this, and right after he clipped in, his grip failed him, and he fell. Fortunately, his piton held, but now he was swinging in mid air. His mind replayed images of the night his wife died. Chuck groaned, and his hands were someone else’s because his own couldn’t have been shaking that much. His nerves were on fire, and he felt like he was being pricked by a thousand needles. He breathed deep, but couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen in his lungs.
“I’ve got to go down,” Chuck mumbled.
Two arms flailed in the air, and Chuck found it curious that they were his. In his mind, he kept seeing his wife’s flailing arms as she fell away.
Not gonna make it. The climb had only just begun and— Get off the rock! Now it was his shrink’s voice.
“I want to keep you under observation. I want you to know that it’s okay to share your feelings. Holding in grief and guilt can be very destructive.”
Chuck thought of Lydia.
The gunshot came from a silenced sniper’s rifle, and the slug took Chuck in the back. Pain bloomed up and down his spine. The bullet had grazed his flack jacket, and no sooner had that first shock of agony passed, when Chuck threw his weight and began swaying on his rope to make himself harder to hit. Now swinging, he unslung his own sniper’s rifle and began searching the slope with his night scope—focusing in on the one patch he hadn’t been able to see from below because it was hidden behind the branches of a large tree. From up here, he had a clear view of the spot, and he saw the sniper just as another bullet smacked the cliff behind him.
In his mind, he calculated how much lead he’d need on his target to account for the fact that he was swinging. He swung once, twice, then fired. As he swung around, he judged that he’d missed, and his enemy’s next shot verified this. The shot missed his skull, but only by inches, and it was clear that the sniper was now going for a headshot. A puppet on a string, Chuck shifted his weight. Once again he swung and fired. This time he got a hit—and judged it fatal. Amazed by his own luck, he slung his rifle back over his shoulder.
He lunged and jammed his fingers back into the crack and reached up with his other hand, repeating the action. He grit his teeth from the finger pain, but he gave it gas and his feet walked up the wall. The visions of terror tried to frustrate him, but he pushed them away with thoughts of Lydia, of summiting and finding her.
At the top of the first pitch, he secured things on his end with an anchor point to belay Dean, who was waiting to climb next. By the time Dean made it up the first pitch, the conditions had deteriorated.
“You still want to keep going?” Chuck said. He looked up the mountain for a minute and felt drops of water on his face.
“Raining,” Dean said. “Take more than that to stop me.”
“You better lead this next pitch before it gets too wet. It’s like grease.”
Dean nodded. “What happened down there anyway? After you fell, you just flailed.”
“Taking a rest,” Chuck said. “Feel better now that I shut down the sniper.”
“I can’t believe you’re alive.”
Chuck looked at him curiously for a moment. “Let’s keep moving.” He coiled his ropes, now focusing his attention on this task.
Dean mumbled something and looked at the rock face.
Chuck used to like climbing because it took all of his concentration just to keep from falling, but that was before his wife fell to her death. Standing on a ledge paying out rope, his mind drifted back to the other ledge years ago. In his mind, he saw her fall a hundred times. He pleaded with her, but she didn’t answer him. He touched her cheek, but she could no longer feel.
The sound of falling rocks snapped his attention back to the ledge that he was currently perched on. Chuck wanted to take cover, but he was on belay. A dozen rocks rained down all around him. Fortunately, they were small, but from that height, they were dangerous. He wanted to yell at Dean, but couldn’t risk making noise on this mountain. He couldn’t tell anyone that his knees were shaking. He would rather have a boulder bash his brains out than go up that face. A cold chill reached into his bones until his teeth chattered. Listen for rocks. Keep your mind on the rocks.
When Dean tugged on the rope, Chuck knew it was his turn. Logically, he didn’t think there was cause for concern. If he fell, Dean would anchor him from above, but his shaking worsened until he felt frozen with the fear. There she was again in his mind—falling and the rope snapping. Dropping right past him, their eyes locking for an instant. Here came the scream of terror. It was the scream he’d heard every day, the scream that had woken him at night again and again. It was his own bad judgment that killed her, his risk-taking compulsions. Leslie, his shrink was right. He was a danger to himself and others. He should never have taken his wife on a rock-climbing trip. It was his fault.
No! Leslie had betrayed him. She had been playing games with his mind, and he believed her. He had to hold it all together. He must not fail Lydia as he had failed his wife.
A jerk on the rope snapped him out of his delirium. It reminded him that he was unstable enough to try and climb a very difficult face at night, in the rain, with hostile forces patrolling nearby woods. But the imbalance had at least given him a chance at the ridge. He tugged on the rope and started climbing. His forearms burned, and weakness moved into his hands until his fingers felt like they belonged to a decrepit old man. He took a break and somehow went on despite his lack of strength. He climbed on in spite of a thousand thoughts assuring him that he was not stable and his choices were those of a twisted mind inhibited by the fog of evil and cobwebs of deterioration.
Another hand-hold, another foot-hold—they were all that mattered. Maybe they were the wrong ones leading him to tragedy, but one more, and another. Then poison ivy blocked his way—a whole patch of it. There was no place else to go, so he went right through it, realizing that in all likelihood he’d get himself killed before the ivy could have its revenge. He was half way through the poisoned patch when he encountered the rotten rock that Dean had gone through. Handholds broke off in his grip. Footholds crumbled. He felt like he was peeling a banana just to get at something solid. He was spilling more rock than Dean had.
Chuck came to the end of hand holds now—the face almost as smooth as pavement. To go on without any hand action would promptly result in a sky diving routine. Fortunately, the face had one weakness that he could exploit—a vertical crack.
“There’s a good jam over the bulge,” Chuck said. “If we make that we can rest.”
“And if not.” It was his wife’s voice, in his head perhaps, but he heard it as clearly as if she were with him.
“We’ll make it.”
“You may, but I’m not so sure I will.”
The bulge proved to be a wicked foe; squeezing out of Chuck what little strength he had remaining.
“I’m in trouble,” he said. “I can’t hold on anymore.”
“Can you go down?” It was Dean’s voice now.
“Not slowly.”
“Holy cow.”
“Hold on a second,” Chuck said.
“I was going to tell you that.”
Chuck managed to swing his leg up over the bulge. Finally he could hold on no longer. His grip failed and he slipped, but didn’t fall. He now hung upside-down, his back to the mountain.
“What happened?” Dean said from his spot above the outcropping.
“I found purchase in the jam.”
“With what?”
“My foot, of course.”
“Great. What am I supposed to do? Call Search and Rescue?”
> “I have a plan.”
“You’re hanging upside-down by your foot on a rock face six hundred feet up and you have a plan. If I hadn’t been dumb enough to go along with this plan, I’d be sitting by a campfire right now eating bacon and eggs.”
“Your diet is going to kill you.”
“Not before you will. Unfortunately, it’s too late for that now.”
“We’re gonna make it.”
“You’re dangling by your foot. And you say we’re gonna make it.”
“I’m just resting, my friend.”
“Resting? You’re not resting, you’re stuck.”
“Oh, yeah.” Chuck whispered a prayer. Then he crunched his stomach muscles and did a vertical sit-up. He groaned in agony. Then he thrust his fist into the jam.
CHAPTER 80
Chuck pulled himself up over the top of the cliff just after first light. He’d been climbing all night in his flak jacket and was tired. He crawled away from the edge then turned over and lay on his back. After a few minutes he gathered up their climbing equipment and stashed it in the root hole of a fallen tree, covering it with branches. Chuck clicked magazines in his MP5 and M-16. His knapsack had ammo, and he had paid for it on the way up.
“Which way?” Chuck said.
Dean shook his head. “Hard to say.”
They hiked through the trees and up a gentle slope on a bed of pine needles. The sweet forest scent filled Chuck’s nose as he inhaled. The air was alive with the birdsong of morning—a thousand of them in glorious praise—and it infuriated Chuck that in a beautiful world, there were people who would rip a mother away from her baby and imprison her far from home.
Chuck stopped and crouched down behind a tree and raised his binoculars. He looked carefully for several moments. “There’s a mine entrance up there about a quarter mile. Armed guards on duty.”
