by Dave Edlund
“You heard me right!” The report of gunfire served to reinforce his request.
“Yes, now!” He read the coordinates and the other party repeated them back in acknowledgement.
“Yes. We’ll pop smoke and mark our positions.”
More words were exchanged, and Nyden felt his blood pressure rising. “Look, just get the bird armed and in the air. When you call back with the ETA, I’ll tell you how we’ll mark our locations and direct your fire to the assault team that has my squad pinned down. Once that threat is neutralized, you will take out the primary target.”
The call ended just as rounds zipped past Nyden, clipping off several small evergreen twigs near his head. “Hold them here,” he ordered his team. “Help is on the way.”
“What about Savage?” Nadya asked for the remainder of the team to hear.
“Keep him pinned down! As long as you’re blocking his retreat, he has nowhere to go.”
Nadya and Marcus had found a depression next to a split boulder. A fir tree was firmly rooted in the crack, suggesting the fissure went deep. It provided adequate cover from which to ensure Peter Savage did not escape. If he rose, they would have him dead in their sights.
s
From the United Armaments test range in Eastern Oregon, the Battlehawk was already fueled and loaded with a dozen experimental surface-to-ground missiles. The aircraft was supposed to begin a test of the new laser-guided munition, but that was suddenly pre-empted. A new crew, comprising pilot and co-pilot, rushed to the helicopter and completed the preflight check.
The pilot started the engines. It didn’t take long for the twin General Electric turbines to warm up.
The aircraft flew low to stay under radar. There was insufficient time to file a flight plan, and even if they did it was likely to be rejected on the grounds of the manhunt underway in the mountains between Todd Lake and Three Creeks Lake.
Eighteen minutes after Nyden made the call, the Battlehawk approached the target coordinates.
“Nyden,” he said, answering the call on the sat phone.
“Approaching your coordinates,” the pilot said. “I need a visual.”
Nyden had one of his men pull the pin on a white smoke grenade. Marcus was doing the same from his location with Nadya.
“Affirmative; we have visual. Will make one pass, then come in hot.”
“Roger that,” came the reply from Nyden.
The helicopter came in low, just clearing the trees. It was a menacing sight: squat and wide, with stubby appendages to both sides from which weapon pilings hung, bristling with missiles. Beneath the nose of the black machine was a targeting pod for the 20mm gun system. The gun was slaved to a holographic reticle on the pilot’s helmet. Wherever the pilot looked, the gun would point automatically.
Nyden’s eyes narrowed and his mouth drew into a tight grin. Now that’s what I’m talking about.
Chapter 35
Eastern Drainage of Broken Top
April 22
Vashal was riding his Polaris ATV about a mile north of where McGregor was investigating. He was advancing his machine at a comfortable pace, slightly faster than a brisk walk. At this speed he could comfortably scan side to side, and still pay enough attention to the path in front to avoid major obstacles.
The distant sound of gunfire alerted him. Initially single shots, it was soon followed by rapid fire. Either multiple weapons discharging or automatic fire.
“What the hell?” He stopped the ATV and radioed McGregor. “McGregor, this is Vashal, over… McGregor, you copy? McGregor, this is Vashal, come in…”
The lack of response from his partner added to his mounting concern. He called the base camp, and dispatch immediately picked up.
“Copy you, Vashal,” came the reply, loud and clear.
“I’m roughly two miles west of the gravel road, maybe four miles south of base camp. Picking up a large volume of gunfire. And McGregor is not responding to my radio calls. What’s going on?”
“Hold on, Vashal. Let me get Captain Sheffield.” After a brief pause, a new voice came over the radio speaker.
“Dispatch is trying to reach McGregor,” the captain said. “You’re hearing gunfire?”
“That’s right, Cap. Sounds like it’s coming from close by Broken Top. But don’t hold me to that. Sounds can echo off the ridges and get distorted.”
“It’s not our men. The hounds are still going at it, but the handlers think cougar urine was sprinkled on the scent trail to spook the dogs. We don’t have anything yet.”
“If you ask me, our suspect planned this pretty well.”
“Take it easy, Vashal. We don’t have all the evidence yet.”
“Come on, Captain. You have to admit that this took some planning. I mean, who wanders around with a bottle of cougar urine?”
“I understand, Vashal. But what I think at the moment is irrelevant. We all have jobs to do. We apprehend the suspect, collect evidence, and let a jury settle the matter.”
The silence felt heavy, stifling. Finally Vashal replied, “Has dispatch contacted McGregor yet?”
“No, they’re still trying. Probably something wrong with his radio. Look, why don’t you investigate the source of the gunfire. Maybe McGregor’s there already. I’ll radio in a preliminary report.”
“Roger, sir. Out.”
Vashal holstered his radio. He started the engine and accelerated in the direction the shots seemed to have originated. The ATV bounced over the uneven terrain, pulling the front wheels right and then left. With the engine revving a high-pitched, throaty whine, other sounds were masked, and at first he didn’t hear when the gunfire renewed.
He advanced his machine, seeking the best path to maintain a respectable speed. The engine noise was constantly increasing and decreasing in both pitch and intensity as he shifted gears and throttled up and down. On the flat stretches he was able to open up the engine, and then when he had to traverse a steep climb or negotiate a fallen tree or other obstacle, he would ease back.
Vashal had just reduced his speed to a crawl to navigate around some large rocks, when he heard a sonic crack and recognized he was very close to whoever was shooting. He turned off the ignition and stood on the foot pegs, looking for the shooter. He couldn’t see anyone.
More gunfire, both near and far. No doubt there were multiple shooters. He dismounted and removed the Glock from his hip holster. Holding his service weapon in both hands, he stalked forward.
The crunch from his boots on the pumice gravel seemed loud, and he tried to soften his footfalls. He was crouched, maintaining a low profile and meandering around the stunted vegetation.
The gunfire wasn’t constant, and Vashal didn’t know if that meant anything or not. He still hadn’t seen or been able to contact McGregor, and the reports he was hearing sounded like rifle shots, not from a pistol.
Ahead was a small island of green, and he moved quickly for it. He jumped as the gunfire renewed, and dropped to a kneeling position among a group of manzanita bushes and fir trees. Glancing through the greenery, he could see ahead, across a clearing, and into another patch of trees.
There, he saw movement and recognized men dressed in military uniforms. With their camouflage, they blended in well, explaining why he hadn’t seen them sooner.
He observed the two men for a long minute. Their attention was focused farther up the slope. As Vashal watched, points of light erupted—like a dozen flashbulbs going off—and punctuated the sparse foliage. The sonic crack immediately followed and he realized there were other men shooting at the two figures before him.
He advanced quickly, sprinting across the open land. Bullets struck the dirt in front and to his side so he zigged and zagged. He dove behind the closest cover, a modest chunk of igneous rock. Pushing his shoulder against it, trying to meld with the stone, he called out.
“Sheriff! Cease fire!”
Boss Man and Homer turned. The voice was close, but they didn’t see the man.
&nbs
p; He called again. “Cease fire! Put your weapons down!”
Vashal rose and placed his handgun on the boulder, sighting in the direction the shots had come from, although he still didn’t have a specific target in his sights. He squeezed off two shots.
“There,” Boss Man pointed. “Deputy! You have two U.S. military twenty meters in front of you. We are friendlies. Do not shoot!”
Boss Man and Homer were concealed from the Guardians except when they rose to fire. Right now, they were hunkered down, looking toward the Sheriff Deputy.
Jim faced Homer. “We’re gonna give him some cover fire, get him up to our position. Ready?”
They turned and popped up, firing at the Guardians, enough volume to cause the assailants to keep their heads down. The deputy jumped up and dashed forward, tumbling into Jim.
They stopped shooting and slid down behind their cover.
“Who are you?” Vashal asked.
“U.S. military.” Jim pointed to the American flag patch on his shoulder. It was in olive green and black so as not to pop out in bright color and spoil the camouflage.
Vashal noticed there was no nametag above the breast pocket of either man’s uniform. “Yeah? And what are Uncle Sam’s finest doing here in a firefight?”
“That’s a very long story,” Jim answered. “And I promise to tell you. But right now we have a problem.”
Jim made a snap decision not to tell the deputy that Peter Savage was pinned down on the ridge. It would take far too long to calm the deputy down and convince him that Peter was not a cop killer. Instead, he stuck with the training exercise cover story.
“And how do those bad guys fit into your training?”
“They don’t. Just our bad luck, I guess,” Jim said.
Vashal looked at Boss Man and then Homer. He looked right into their eyes, studied their faces, the way they held his stare. He didn’t know what to think, other than he was glad to have their rifles on his side.
“Tell me something? When did you guys start training with live ammo on public National Forest land?”
Before Jim could venture a reply, the air reverberated with a deep whump, whump: rotor blades. A helicopter.
And it was approaching fast.
Chapter 36
Sacramento, California
April 22
Lacey was beginning to feel like a conspirator in a low-budget Hollywood film. She was spending so much time in private conference with Stephens that she was certain rumors were spreading amongst her colleagues. As much as she wanted to, she was not to engage any SGIT personnel other than Stephens—Commander Nicolaou had made his orders unambiguous. The mission was classified “Need to Know,” and that applied to her colleagues as well as outsiders.
“That’s one down. We have positive ID on Jana Cooke,” Lacey said as she and Stephens reviewed the personnel records displayed on the monitor. The two had taken over one of the secure conference rooms. With no windows and a high measure of soundproofing, they were free to carry on their discussion without being overheard.
She continued reading key portions of the file. “Former Army. One of the first women to qualify for combat positions. Discharged after seven years, eight months.”
“Why?” Stephens asked. It seemed that Jana Cooke had everything going for her. She was at the leading edge of a major new transition in the U.S. military—allowing women into combat roles was a huge advancement in the bureaucratic thinking.
She scrolled further down, and then stopped. “Looks like Jana Cooke became a trouble maker when the Army failed to actually post her into combat positions.”
“Can you blame her?” Stephens said. “Another example of sexism leading to discrimination. The Pentagon says what the politicians and public want to hear, but nothing really changes.”
“Regardless, she left the military quietly, but not on favorable terms.”
“What else did MOTHER find? Where did Cooke go after her discharge?”
“Let’s see…” Lacey opened other files with reports from other government agencies—the Veterans Administration, Internal Revenue Service, U.S. Postal Service listings of address changes and postal boxes, Social Security, FBI—MOTHER even searched the databases used for background checks of a purchaser of firearms.
There were many false hits—the name matched but other essential facts such as age, race, and physical description did not. After removing those, the number of matches in the databases was very small.
“Looks like the last tax return she filed was the same year she was discharged. She listed a Seattle address.” Lacey shook her head. “Nothing else. She dropped off the network.”
“Well,” Stephens said, “at least we know who she was.”
“Yeah, a trained killing machine. There is a strong market for individuals with that skill set.”
“Okay, what about this supposed FBI man—Agent Barnes?”
“From the fingerprints lifted from the Mk-9 gun he carried, MOTHER found his Department of Defense personnel file. Like Cooke, he’s ex-military.”
“Interesting.” Stephens said. She cocked her head to the side in thought.
“It gets better. Look at this…” Lacey pointed to the name at the top of the personnel file.
Stephens read it aloud. “Richard Nyden.”
“So we know that Peter was right. Agent Barnes is not who he appears to be.”
Stephens read down the file. “He was discharged from the Marine Corps after seventeen years. Why?”
Lacey scrolled down. “Wow. That’s quite the file. Accused of murdering Afghan civilians. Not enough evidence to convict on those charges, but the Corps ran him out anyway.”
“Well, if he’s not an FBI man, then who does he work for?”
“Let’s see what his tax return says.” Lacey opened the search results. “Huh. Just like Cooke, no return filed after the year he was discharged.”
“We have two individuals with a lot in common tied to this case. Both ex-military. Both left the service under less than honorable circumstances. Both fall off the network following their discharge. What are the odds of that?”
Lacey considered the implications for a long moment before answering. “Neither Nyden nor Cooke received government support. Neither has filed a tax return in years. Neither has had any interaction with the VA. No post office box, no dealings with Social Security, no police records. For all practical purposes, neither person exists.”
“Except they do. Jana Cooke’s body is at the morgue in Bend, and Richard Nyden is still out there, somewhere.” Mona Stephens knitted her brow. “What about medical records?”
“MOTHER only has limited access due to privacy concerns.”
Stephens raised her eyebrows. “You mean it’s okay for us to access IRS databases but not medical records?”
Lacey shrugged. “Hey, I don’t make the rules.”
“Maybe Mr. Porter can search for medical billing histories? It might yield an address.”
“Maybe. But understand we never had this conversation. And if you talk to Mr. Porter, don’t share it with me.”
Stephens smiled. “Plausible deniability.”
“Two of the most powerful words in the intelligence community.”
“Got it. Never happened.”
“Back to Cooke and Nyden, and the lack of records. Other than the two not being gainfully employed, what do you make of it?”
Stephens folded her arms, her mouth scrunched in a frown. “Well, like you said. There are a lot of private security firms out there. But if it was a legit company, they’d have a presence. Tax returns at the very least. So, maybe they were both hired by an illegitimate security firm. Maybe they were, you know, mercenaries.”
“There’s no work domestically for mercs. But the first part of what you said, that rings true.”
“So what now?” Stephens asked.
“Now we have something to share with Detective Colson. Maybe the information will help break open their investigation. We’re
not getting anywhere with it.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll phone her and get a copy of the DoD personnel files and IRS returns to the detective. I think she’ll be surprised to learn that Barnes really is an alias.”
s
Unexpectedly, Detective Colson picked up on the second ring. “Colson,” she said.
“Detective, it’s Mona Stephens with SGIT. I have some news for you.”
This wasn’t Colson’s first rodeo, and she immediately suspected a setup. “Yeah? And what do you want from me?”
Stephens was taken aback by the response. She’d imagined the detective would be ecstatic that this obscure defense intelligence agency was offering to share information. “I’m not asking for anything. Simply delivering on a promise I made to you.”
“Okay, I’ll play along. What do you have?”
“IDs and some background information. The deceased female from the Pinnacle store murder, her name is Jana Cooke. She’s former Army. And Agent Barnes is an imposter.”
Colson nearly shot out of her chair. “What?”
“That’s right. His real name is Richard Nyden. He was run out of the Marine Corps after seventeen years. Accused of murdering Afghan civilians, but they couldn’t prove it.”
“Unbelievable. I didn’t see that coming. And you will email the personnel files to me?”
“Of course. Oh, you may also be interested to know that neither Cooke nor Nyden filed a tax return since they were busted out of the military.”
“Really. And what do you suppose that means?”
“Pretty simple, we think. They are both trained to kill—experienced and accomplished at their craft. After leaving the military, Jana Cooke and Richard Nyden were recruited and hired for off-the-books operations.”
“Hired killers…” Colson’s voice trailed off as if she was formulating an important idea.
“Yeah.”
