by Dave Edlund
Peter especially loved sunrise with its tranquility and promise for a new beginning. But this morning was different. Instead of calm, he was inexplicably filled with dread.
With the start of dawn, Peter was able to focus the spotting scope on the cabin. At 60-power magnification, he could clearly see details as small as the hinges on the door. The Leica rangefinder binoculars were more comfortable for long-term glassing, so he left the spotting scope alone after getting it set up. Every ten minutes or so he would lower the binoculars and scan more broadly while resting his eyes from the strain of focusing through his optics.
A large grassy meadow opened up in front of him. The cabin on the far side of the meadow was just inside the tree line. In the meadow were a few scattered trees, clumps of manzanita, and an occasional large boulder; sometimes granite but mostly basalt. He was in a good position to observe the approach to the cabin.
Peter was glassing the cabin through his binoculars when Brad Smith casually strolled across the grassy meadow toward the cabin. Peter immediately leaned forward, his heart beating faster. This was very odd. Only rarely had he encountered other hunters or fishermen on the island. It was simply too far away from Sand Point, and the island was too small to attract much attention. He let the binoculars hang around his neck and moved to the spotting scope so he could make out more detail.
He intently watched the blond man walk up to the front door, making no effort at all to conceal his approach. He was wearing jeans and a light jacket, but strangely, no rifle and no fishing gear. Peter turned his attention to the perimeter of the cabin. Is there anyone else? Could this be a trap? His pulse quickened and his breathing became shallow and rapid. He willed himself to take a deep breath and relax.
The door opened, and he saw Murph standing there. Through the high magnification of the spotting scope, he could see the visitor’s head moving like he was talking. Murph was looking at the man and did not seem to be concerned. Murph’s sidearm was still in its holster.
Maybe this is just a lost hunter?
Just as that thought was passing through Peter’s mind, he saw the visitor smoothly move his right hand to the small of his back. He wrapped his hand around a pistol, pushed the gun against Murph’s chest, and fired. Peter clearly saw the look of surprise and disbelief on Murph’s face in the instant before he fell to the floor. About three seconds later the muffled report of the shot reached Peter.
He was already in motion when he heard the shot. Leaving the spotting scope on the log, he jumped to his feet and was running toward the cabin, using vegetation and terrain as cover, rifle in hand. He needed to get to the cabin quickly, but his advantage lay in the element of surprise. Hopefully Davis would be reacting and have this blond nut-case down.
But Peter knew that there was more to it. And now he also knew that his discovery just a couple hours ago had ominous meaning. This was the opening move in an attack on the team of scientists—and his father.
He had covered maybe 100 yards. Breathing hard, Peter stopped behind a clump of manzanita bushes about four feet high. He pulled up his binoculars, drawing in deep breaths as he tried to slow his racing heart. It was hard to hold the binoculars steady, but he managed to see one man clad completely in black fatigues holding a gun and standing on the porch. He was moving his head from side to side—scanning for something.
Probably making sure they’re secure.
How many men were there, and did they know Peter was out in the forest?
He pressed the button on his rangefinder binoculars that fired an invisible infrared laser beam. It was aimed at the front wall of the cabin and immediately a digital number appeared superimposed on the magnified image in the binoculars—780 yards to the cabin. He had to get closer.
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 highest 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.
s
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.
s
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 an
other 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.
