by Dave Edlund
“Put the gun down, Marcus,” she said in a soothing voice. It was a request, not an order.
“What are you talking about?”
“Marcus, I said—”
Peter sensed an opening. “I’ll go with you. But first promise you’ll stop at a vet clinic and drop off Diesel so he can be cared for.”
“You’re in no position to bargain.” Marcus spat out the words.
“If you kill me, that file will be released to all the major media outlets.”
“You’re bluffing,” Marcus said.
Peter grimaced as he shifted his weight, his knees objecting strenuously. “My attorney has a copy.”
“Then we’ll kill him, too. Isn’t that right, Nadya?”
She appeared to be studying Marcus. He was not the calm, calculating Mossad agent that she was. She had assumed all agents passed the same training and exhibited the same cunning and deadly skills that she possessed. But Marcus was an amateur. He was crumbling under the pressure.
“Lower your weapon, Marcus.”
“Not until he’s dead.”
Nadya saw his grip tighten on the rifle, his eye squinting. “No!” she yelled.
Boom!
Marcus dropped the rifle, his mouth hung open as he looked upon Nadya in disbelief. She pulled the trigger a second time, the bullet blasting through his chest. His eyes slid closed as he collapsed, unmoving.
Peter was stunned, still holding his hands up. Nadya swung the barrel toward him.
“Do what you will with that file. I will not be responsible for any more killing over it.”
“Then I may go?”
“Go! Before I change my mind.”
Peter lowered his hands and rose to his feet. Then he cradled Diesel in his arms. When he looked up, Nadya was almost out of sight.
She was running for the Tam McArthur Rim.
Chapter 41
Eastern Drainage of Broken Top
April 22
The sporadic gunfire had ceased at the same time Nadya released Peter. He completed a couple dozen strides, stumbling more than running, when he heard a familiar voice call out. “Peter! It’s Jim!”
The initial confusion soon gave way to a feeling of relief. With Homer by his side, Commander Jim Nicolaou stepped into the open where Peter could see him.
“I can’t begin to tell you how glad I am to see you,” Peter said, barely restraining his emotions. “Diesel’s been mauled pretty bad. We have to get him to a vet.”
Jim nodded. “We will. First, where are your weapons?”
Peter nudged his chin indicating up slope. “Near that large boulder.”
Homer took off in a jog. “It’s safe now. We captured three of the gunmen. They’re being held by the State Police and Sheriff Deputies. They had a large manhunt searching for you.”
“Figured they would.”
As Jim filled Peter in on the details, the murdered deputy, and the theory Lacey was building that there was a conspiracy involving Speaker Schuman, plus the urgent call to the Oregon Air National Guard, Homer arrived back with Peter’s rifle and riot gun.
Against the backdrop of high-performance jet engines from Green Flight, Jim re-established communication with Lacey. It was awkward, having to use Vashal’s radio and being patched through from the State Police dispatcher. His first request was to maintain the air cover as long as possible just in case another attack helicopter arrived on scene.
“Given the circumstances with the loss of Blue Leader, I don’t think there will be any reticence to provide an air cap all day,” Lacey replied. “The search and rescue helicopter is on the way to recover the pilot. The Air Guard is reporting a clean ejection. Sounds like the pilot will be fine.”
“Request the Guard dispatches a crash investigation team here ASAP. There may be some useful evidence in the wreckage of the attack helicopter.”
“Yes, sir. Were you able to identify the type of aircraft?”
Jim thought for a moment, picturing the helo hovering and firing rockets and the 20mm gun. “It was a prototype Battlehawk, armed with missile pods on both sides of the aircraft and a gun slung underneath the cockpit.”
“I’ll let the base commander know. If nothing else, they should be able to recover serial numbers from major portions of the airframe and, hopefully, the engines. That information will point to the owner. I can’t image there are many of these aircraft outside the direct control of the Army and Marine Corps.”
Jim signed off and then turned his attention to Peter. He was sitting, with Diesel lying motionless at his feet. Homer had shed his pack and was completing a preliminary medical examination.
He finished applying a hemostatic gel to Peter’s arm and legs to encourage blood clotting then turned his eyes up to his commander. “Nothing major, no bullet wounds. Bruising and lacerations. Several will need stitches.”
“Blood loss?” Jim asked.
Homer shook his head. “Should be okay.”
“We need to get Diesel off the mountain and into care,” Peter said.
Jim squatted and carefully examined Diesel, gently raising first one leg, then another. The dog’s chest and face were plastered with drying blood. He grimaced at what he saw. He looked to Homer, and nodded his head almost imperceptibly, but Homer didn’t miss the unspoken message.
Jim stood and offered a hand to help his friend to his feet. Peter was unsteady, his eyes unfocused.
When Homer stood, he had Diesel snuggled in his arms, cradling the dog’s body so that the legs and head would not flop as he marched down the slope.
Anticipating Peter’s next question, Jim offered a preemptive explanation. “The fastest way out is to hike back to the road and evac using the emergency vehicles. I’ll ask the State Police to radio for a civilian air ambulance.”
Exhaustion and dehydration were beginning to set in as the adrenaline rush wore off, and Peter suddenly felt extremely fatigued. He nodded, choosing not to waste the energy to form words.
The trio covered a couple hundred yards in silence. Even Diesel was still, the tremors having ceased as his body was slowly succumbing to shock and blood loss.
They met the law enforcement contingent, about equal numbers of Oregon State Police and Deschutes County Sheriff Deputies, who had a dozen guns trained on the three surviving assailants, hands on their heads. Their camouflage uniforms made them look like American soldiers, but Peter knew differently. He approached in silent apprehension, flanked by Jim on his left and Homer on his right.
As they closed the distance, a lone State Trooper stepped forward. He stopped right in front of Peter.
With hands on his hips, the Trooper spoke. “You must be Peter Savage.”
Three nodding heads was his reply. Peter made note of the nametag above the Troopers breast pocket. “Officer Sheffield…”
For an uncomfortable moment, neither man spoke. Peter expected to be handcuffed and taken into custody; he hoped Jim could persuade them to get Diesel into medical care first. Then, Peter would gladly cooperate with the authorities.
Captain Sheffield spoke, breaking the silence. And his words were the last thing Peter expected to hear.
“Let’s get you out of here. It’s been a helluva day.”
In another place, another time, Peter would have smiled.
Sheffield shouted over his shoulder. “Vashal! Give Mr. Savage a hand. Looks like he’s taken quite the beating. He could use some help.”
Deputy Vashal presented himself, standing to the side of Captain Sheffield. He extended his hand in greeting. Peter accepted it, still not fully understanding the situation.
“I thought you’d arrest me,” he said.
“Maybe later, we’ll have to see,” Sheffield replied. He narrowed his eyes as if he was looking into Peter’s soul. “Yesterday, any of these men would have shot you on sight. But Deputy Vashal reported the battle that transpired here. Seems you’re not the criminal mastermind we thought you to be.”
“We need a medevac,
” Jim said, his voice communicating a sense of urgency.
Hearing the words, both Vashal and Sheffield scanned Peter from head to toe again, this time noticing the degree of injuries. Then Sheffield took in Diesel for the first time.
“That your dog?” Sheffield asked.
“He’s my friend.”
The Captain’s features softened as he examined Diesel. “I’m rather partial to dogs myself. Have two, a pit bull and a Shar Pei.”
He turned to Vashal. “Get ahold of dispatch. Tell them we need an air ambulance ASAP. We’ll meet them at Mount Bachelor, the main parking lot.”
Then he addressed Jim. “Commander, I suggest we go. We have vehicles at the road.”
Vashal finished on the radio and then wrapped an arm around Peter. Jim was on the opposite side. Together, they moved as fast as possible down the slope, aiming for the gravel road to the west.
Homer was jogging, leading by only a few steps. Holding Diesel as still as possible, he sensed time was of the essence. He had no way of knowing how much of the blood covering the dog was its own. Diesel had become disconcertingly quiet and still, his breathing shallow. Hopefully, they still had time.
For his part, Peter accepted the pain that seemed to be everywhere at once—his groin, his abdomen and chest, both arms and legs. But all he thought about was Diesel. The dog had stood by him, ever loyal, guarding his front and back.
Without slowing, Peter said what was weighing on his mind. “You’ve got to get him to the helicopter.”
Jim understood who Peter was referring to. “We will. The road is just ahead. Ten minutes to the highway, and another three minutes to the parking lot. The air ambulance will be waiting there.”
The trio pressed onward rather awkwardly, trying to synchronize their steps. Peter stumbled, pulling Vashal and Jim down with him. The air expelled from his lungs with a grunt as he hit the ground. Two pair of hands grabbed hold of Peter’s clothing, attempting to pull him to his feet.
Homer heard the commotion, and stopped, turning back to his commander. He stood there, waiting for the trio to get their feet under them and moving again.
Peter glimpsed Homer and Diesel as he struggled for balance. “Go!” he shouted.
Homer shot a questioning glance to Jim. “Go ahead! Get the dog on the medevac!”
Vashal questioned Jim. “Sir, that helo is for Mr. Savage.”
Before Jim could offer a rebuttal, Peter reached out and latched a hand on Deputy Vashal’s shirt. “Diesel saved my life. Get him on that ambulance. Please!”
Vashal’s jaw dropped at the visceral response. He stood there speechless. Jim wasn’t surprised at all. He tipped his chin to Homer. “Move it soldier! That dog is your priority. Get him on the helo pronto!”
“Yes, sir!” Homer turned, pulling the 70-pound canine to his chest, and sprinted for the road.
Chapter 42
Bend, Oregon
April 22
Homer was out of breath as he ran up to the lead truck on the gravel road. A deputy was holding the passenger door open. “Captain Sheffield said I’m to get you to the air ambulance ASAP.”
Homer gently laid Diesel on the seat, and conducted a swift examination. Fresh blood was oozing from several lacerations on the dog’s neck and chest. Homer tore open another packet of hemostatic gel and spread it over the wounds. He scooped up Diesel, then sat and cradled the battered animal on his lap.
“Hand me those compresses,” he instructed the deputy. Homer applied pressure to stop the bleeding, but the lacerations were too numerous and lengthy to cover all of them.
The deputy stomped down on the accelerator, sending a plume of dust and gravel into the next vehicle in line. He kept his focus on the rutted and bumpy road, both hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. Twice, the pickup fishtailed as it came into tight turns too fast. Somehow, the deputy managed to stay on the road and avoid sliding sideways into trees or boulders.
The bumps and jostling—some severe enough that Homer hit his head on the roof liner—seemed to have no effect on Diesel. The canine appeared to be unconscious and unresponsive. Homer placed a hand on the dog’s chest, and thought he felt a heartbeat, but he couldn’t be certain. “How much farther?”
The deputy stole a quick glance sideways before returning his attention to the road. “Not far now. Maybe another five minutes.”
Homer had enough advanced first aid training to recognize that severe hypovolemic shock due to excessive blood loss had set in. Diesel’s battered body was losing the battle. His kidneys and gastrointestinal tract were likely being starved for oxygen as the limited remaining blood was shunted to his lungs and brain. Homer had rendered aid to critically injured men before. Based on his assessment of Diesel’s condition, he wasn’t sure they had five minutes. “Go as fast as you dare. We’re running out of time.”
The deputy coaxed more speed out of the truck and still managed to stay on the road. He flipped a switch and the red and blue lights came on along with the siren. They were speeding toward the Cascade Lakes Highway, just ahead. The deputy slowed enough to make the tight left turn then floored it again. Cars on both sides of the highway pulled over, allowing the emergency vehicle to pass. Homer glanced at the dashboard: the speedometer registered 100 miles per hour.
Homer was pitched forward and the tires squealed when the deputy braked for the turnoff to Mount Bachelor then raced again toward the empty parking lot. The air ambulance was already there, the rotor blades turning and the whine of the turbine engine overpowering the roar of the truck engine. Locking up the brakes and spinning the wheel, the deputy drifted the truck sideways and came to a stop near the helicopter.
Homer pushed the door open and rushed to the air ambulance, his arms folded around the pit bull. The EMT accepted the dog without a word—if there was any surprise, he didn’t show it. Captain Sheffield must have radioed ahead and made it clear that this was not going to be a routine transport. Homer climbed in and held Diesel on a gurney while the EMT secured the door. The helicopter rose, and as soon as the pilot had sufficient altitude to clear the trees, the aircraft was streaking forward toward Bend.
The EMT placed a stethoscope against Diesels chest. “Pulse is faint and rapid.” He reached into a compartment and removed an IV bag. It took some searching to find a vein that he could use, but soon saline fluid was dripping into Diesel’s body. It would help to raise his blood pressure and buy some time, even if only a few minutes.
With the movement that had occurred, Diesel’s wounds started bleeding again, the compresses were bright red and some looked to be nearly saturated. While the EMT was monitoring heart rate, Homer ripped open a packet of sterile bandages and laid several over the chest wounds. Then he gently lifted Diesel while the EMT wrapped a roll of wide gauze around the canine’s chest to secure the bandages.
Suddenly the helicopter started to slow and then hover. Looking out the side window, Homer saw they were setting down in another parking lot. Glad the parking lot isn’t packed with cars, he thought. As the air ambulance touched down with a bump, Homer noticed the sign above a wall of windows—Animal Emergency Center.
The EMT thrust open the door and Homer slid out. He once again cradled the red pit bull, laying the IV bag on top of the dog. Ducking his head until clear of the rotors, he dashed for the door, already held open by a woman wearing dark blue scrubs. “This way!” someone shouted, and Homer ran toward the voice. Three women were already in the surgical suite, waiting for him. They all wore white surgical masks and latex gloves.
One woman stepped forward. “I’m Doctor Kumar. This is Alicia and Courtney. They’ll be assisting.”
Homer nodded. “Jesper Mortensen.”
“Your captain called and told us to expect you—this dog was in a fight?”
“Yes, it was bad.” He didn’t see any reason to go into details.
“Just lay him on the table,” Doctor Kumar instructed. As Homer did so, Alicia lifted the IV bag and hooked it on a stand. Doc
tor Kumar proceeded to check the heart beat while Courtney replaced the IV with a fresh bag. Homer stood back, out of the way.
Suddenly, Kumar shouted, “Cardiac arrest!”
Both techs jumped into action. One prepared a defibrillator while the other began CPR. Doctor Kumar grabbed Diesel’s snout, gave three quick puffs, and then reached for the defibrillator pads, placing them on either side of Diesel’s chest. “Clear!”
A brief convulsion marked the electric shock. Doctor Kumar placed her stethoscope against the dog’s chest. She listened intently, moving the diaphragm as she concentrated. “Pulse is faint and rapid. Breathing is shallow. I’m not picking up any fluid in his lungs. Administer Vasopressin and insert a breathing tube; I want him on oxygen. Get his blood typed and a transfusion started. We have to get some blood back into this guy before he goes into cardiac arrest again.”
Courtney gently grasped Homer’s arm. “You should wait in the lobby, sir.”
He nodded, looked at Diesel once more, then turned and left.
s
About six miles away, Peter was wheeled on a gurney into the emergency center at St. Charles Hospital. En route down from the mountains, the Sheriff’s SUV was met by an ambulance dispatched from Bend. Sheffield, Vashal, and Commander Nicolaou escorted the gurney down the hallway to an examination room.
When the ER doctor entered, his attention was immediately drawn to the armed escort. “Would someone mind telling me what’s going on? Is this patient a threat to my staff?”
“No, sir,” answered Sheffield, his voice calm and even.
Doctor Prescott exhaled deeply, his brow knitted. “All three of you may wait in the lobby.”
Jim remained rooted in placed, his hands relaxed by his side. Sheffield and Vashal followed his cue.
“I said—”
“We heard you, Doctor Prescott,” Jim answered, pre-empting the objection about to be issued. “Mr. Savage is under our protection. We will wait at his side while you treat his injuries.”
