"It will make things marginally more difficult for me," Rustman admitted, "but not for you. For reasons which I assume are obvious, this is the last time I'll be in contact with any of you until long after the mission is completed. I had intended to hold at least one more briefing before sending you into action, but this new development makes that too risky. I'm too well known in Jasper County, which is why we're meeting here in Jackson County. So, from now on, we'll be relying on the message drop site for routine communications and transfer of materials.
"In fact" — Rustman consulted his notes — "we'll use a little hole-in-the-wall post office off Brandywine Road, right next to Loggerhead Creek, as our primary mail drop point. Name of the place is the Dogsfire Inn. You'll use post office box number fourteen to receive mail, and send any to us using box fifteen." He tossed a ring of six identical keys on the table. "We'll send someone to drop off or pick up mail at 0800 and 1600 hours. You can work out your own pickup and delivery schedules, but try not to be there plus or minus fifteen of those drop times. We want to avoid as many outside connections to you as possible."
"Sir, what about the radios?" the communications specialist and only female on the team asked politely.
"You already know the team comm-net is short range, the transmitters are scrambled, and we've got mountains all around to block or confuse any inadvertent long-range transmissions, so intra-team communications shouldn't be a problem," Rustman reminded them. "But I strongly advise you to stay off the wide-area net unless it's an absolute emergency. The chances of anybody in the area picking up any of your signals and de-scrambling them are essentially nil. But even scrambled transmitters can be located, and the Fish and Wildlife Service technical agent on the opposing team is supposed to be some kind of electronics hotshot, so there's no sense in taking the risk.
"You have the overwhelming advantages of surprise, terrain, intelligence, and firepower," Rustman concluded. "You will know your targets, your locations, your timetables, and your escape routes. There shouldn't be any need to communicate with me any further once we leave here today… other than to signal three simple words," he added with a thin-lipped smile.
"Mission completed. Out."
Chapter Eleven
When congressional aide Keith Bennington returned to Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed's suite of rented offices in Jasper County, Oregon, he found Simon Whatley waiting for him.
"Did you get the congressman off okay?" Whatley asked as he ushered the young aide into his corner office and shut the door.
"Uh, yes sir," Bennington replied nervously. "His plane took off on time, no problem."
"Did he say anything to you on the way to the airport? Any comments about the trip? Anything he wants us to have ready for him when he comes back?"
"Uh, no sir. He just sat in the back, closed his eyes and kind of hummed to himself the whole trip. He didn't actually say anything at all, except 'good morning' and 'good-bye.' That was pretty much it."
"Did he look all right?"
"He did look kind of tired, like he didn't get too much sleep last night."
"I'm sure he didn't. He's a very important man," Whatley reminded the underling. "He works hard, and he plays hard. And it's our job to make sure that he uses his time to his best advantage."
"Uh, yes sir," the young aide agreed, even though he didn't have a clue as to what Whatley was talking about.
"So tell me," Whatley went on casually, "what happened yesterday?"
"You mean about the camera?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I mean." The congressional district office manager nodded his head.
"I… I guess I lost it," the young man confessed nervously.
"The camera?"
Bennington nodded silently, staring down at his lap.
"That was a very expensive camera, Keith. How in the world did you manage to lose it?"
"I dropped it," the young aide stammered, and then blurted out: "Because they shot at me. They tried to kill me!"
Simon Whatley closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.
"Keith, what am I ever going to do with you?"
"But — "
"Keith, I can assure you that nobody shot at you… and certainly nobody tried to kill you."
"But — "
Whatley put up a silencing hand.
"Keith, that entire area is one huge hunting preserve. Dozens of hunters shoot at hundreds of creatures there every day. But they don't shoot at human beings" — he smiled kindly — "and they definitely don't shoot at congressional aides. Especially congressional aides from this office," he emphasized.
"But the tree — " Bennington whispered, his eyes wide and glassy. "The bullet hit the tree right next to me, and pieces of wood hit me in the face, and I… I knew you wanted me to get those pictures, but you didn't tell me they might…" The young aide looked up accusingly.
"Might what? Shoot you for taking their pictures?" Simon Whatley interrupted with a chuckle. "Keith, those people are very good friends of Lt. Colonel Rustman and Congressman Smallsreed. I wanted to surprise the congressman with a set of candid photos. He likes to put things like that on the wall in his office."
"But-"
"But it was my fault," Whatley went on smoothly. "I should have told you to wear a bright orange hat so that no one would mistake you for a deer."
"A deer!" Keith Bennington exclaimed. "But I don't even — "
"So what you're saying," Whatley interrupted the distressed young man, "is that a stray bullet accidentally hit a tree very close to you, and you panicked, ran, dropped the camera, and then didn't go back to get it. Correct?"
"No!.. I mean, yes, of course I didn't go back, because I thought that…"
"That some of Lt. Colonel John Rustman's dear and close friends were trying to shoot you, Keith Bennington, the grandson of Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed's college roommate? Dear and close friends who are expert shots, and who certainly would not have missed if they really wanted to hit you? You do understand how foolish that sounds, don't you?" The congressional district office manager smiled benevolently.
Bennington blinked in confusion and stared down at his hands again.
"Keith, don't worry about the camera," Whatley suggested soothingly. "I'm sure the congressman would understand, if we ever need to explain it to him, and I'm equally sure we can arrange for a replacement so he doesn't even know how or why it was lost."
"Oh… okay, I guess," the young aide reluctantly agreed.
"Good. Now then," Simon Whatley immediately changed the subject, "I want you to focus on that law-enforcement inquiry. We need to get that completed as quickly as possible. Have you heard from Robert?"
Keith Bennington nodded. "I, uh, called him early this morning, before I went to pick up the congressman. He's, uh, not too happy."
"Why not?"
"I guess some of that stuff you wanted him to get is pretty sensitive."
"Of course, it's sensitive — especially to people in law enforcement who don't like the idea of powerful men like Congressman Smallsreed making inquiries into their activities." Simon Whatley shook his head sadly.
"Actually, I think Robert was more concerned about the legal issues," Bennington volunteered. "Something about the files having restricted access, and being afraid he might get caught."
"Robert apparently forgets that we went to a tremendous amount of effort to get him burrowed down into a full-time permanent position," Whatley pointedly reminded his aide.
"I know, and I told him you'd probably say something like that," Bennington replied, then hurriedly added, "since I'd heard you say that to him before."
"And what did he say?"
"He promised to FedEx everything to us tomorrow, so it'll get here Wednesday morning."
"He can't get it out until tomorrow?" Simon Whatley visibly winced.